Countess Kate Part 17

"Mrs. Wardour said something about hoping to see you in London, but I made no decided answer. I should not have allowed the intimacy there if I had expected that the family would be living in London; and there is no reason that it should continue. Constant intercourse would not be at all desirable."

"But may I not go on Monday?" said Kate, her eyes opening wide with consternation.

"No, certainly not. You have not deserved that I should trust you; I do not know whom you might meet there: and I cannot have you going about with any chance person."

"O Aunt Barbara! Aunt Barbara! I have promised!"

"Your promise can be of no effect without my consent."

"But they will expect me. They will be so disappointed!"

"I cannot help that. They ought to have applied to me for my consent."

"Perhaps," said Kate hopefully, "Mrs. Wardour will write to-day. If she does, will you let me go?"

"No, Katharine. While you are under my charge, I am accountable for you, and I will not send you into society I know nothing about. Let me hear no more of this, but write a note excusing yourself, and we will let the coachman take it to the post."

Kate was thoroughly enraged, and forgot even her fears. "I sha'n't excuse myself," she said; "I shall say you will not let me go."

"You will write a proper and gentlewoman-like note," said Lady Barbara quietly, "so as not to give needless offence."

"I shall say," exclaimed Kate more loudly, "that I can't go because you won't let me go near old friends."

"Go into the schoolroom, and write a proper note, Katharine; I shall come presently, and see what you have said," repeated Lady Barbara, commanding her own temper with some difficulty.

Kate flung away into the schoolroom, muttering, and in a tumult of exceeding disappointment, anger, and despair, too furious even to cry, and das.h.i.+ng about the room, calling Aunt Barbara after every horrible heroine she could think of, and pitying herself and her friends, till the thought of Sylvia's disappointment stung her beyond all bearing. She was still rus.h.i.+ng hither and thither, inflaming her pa.s.sion, when her aunt opened the door.

"Where is the note?" she said quietly.

"I have not done it."

"Sit down then this instant, and write," said Lady Barbara, with her Diana face and cool way, the most terrible of all.

Kate sulkily obeyed, but as she seated herself, muttered, "I shall say you won't let me go near them."

"Write as I tell you.--My dear Mrs. Wardour--"

"There."

"I fear you may be expecting to see me on Monday--"

"I don't fear; I know she is."

"Write--I fear you may be expecting me on Monday, as something pa.s.sed on the subject at Bournemouth; and in order to prevent inconvenience, I write to say that it will not be in my power to call on that day, as my aunt had made a previous engagement for me."

"I am sure I sha'n't say that!" cried Kate, breaking out of all bounds in her indignation.

"Recollect yourself, Lady Caergwent," said Lady Barbara calmly.

"It is not true!" cried Kate pa.s.sionately, jumping up from her seat.

"You had not made an engagement for me! I won't write it! I won't write lies, and you sha'n't make me."

"I do not allow such words or such a manner in speaking to me," said Lady Barbara, not in the least above her usual low voice; and her calmness made Kate the more furious, and jump and dance round with pa.s.sion, repeating, "I'll never write lies, nor tell lies, for you or anyone; you may kill me, but I won't!"

"That is enough exposure of yourself, Lady Caergwent," said her aunt.

"When you have come to your senses, and choose to apologize for insulting me, and show me the letter written as I desire, you may come to me."

And away walked Lady Barbara, as cool and unmoved apparently as if she had been made of cast iron; though within she was as sorry, and hardly less angry, than the poor frantic child she left.

Kate did not fly about now. She was very indignant, but she was proud of herself too; she had spoken as if she had been in a book, and she believed herself persecuted for adhering to old friends, and refusing to adopt fas.h.i.+onable falsehoods, such as she had read of.

She was a heroine in her own eyes, and that made her inclined to magnify all the persecution and cruelty. They wanted to shut her up from the friends of her childhood, to force her to be false and fas.h.i.+onable; they had made her naughtier and naughtier ever since she came there; they were teaching her to tell falsehoods now, and to give up the Wardours. She would never never do it! Helpless girl as she was, she would be as brave as the knights and earls her ancestors, and stand up for the truth. But what would they do at her! Oh! could she bear Aunt Barbara's dreadful set Diana face again, and not write as she was told!

The poor weak little heart shrank with terror as she only looked at Aunt Barbara's chair--not much like the Sir Giles de Umfraville she had thought of just now. "And I'm naughty now; I did betray my trust: I'm much naughtier than I was. Oh, if Papa was but here!"

And then a light darted into Kate's eye, and a smile came on her lip.

"Why should not I go home? Papa would have me again; I know he would! He would die rather than leave his child Kate to be made wicked, and forced to tell lies! Perhaps he'll hide me! Oh, if I could go to school with the children at home in disguise, and let Uncle Giles be Earl of Caergwent if he likes! I've had enough of grandeur! I'll come as Cardinal Wolsey did, when he said he was come to lay his bones among them--and Sylvia and Mary, and Charlie and Armyn--oh, I must go where someone will be kind to me again! Can I really, though? Why not?" and her heart beat violently. "Yes, yes; nothing would happen to me; I know how to manage! If I can only get there, they will hide me from Aunt Barbara and the Lord Chancellor; and even if I had to go back, I should have had one kiss of them all.

Perhaps if I don't go now I shall never see them again!"

With thoughts something like these, Kate, moving dreamily, as if she were not sure that it was herself or not, opened her little writing- case, took out her purse, and counted the money. There was a sovereign and some silver; more than enough, as she well knew. Then she took out of a chiffoniere her worked travelling bag, and threw in a few favourite books; then stood and gasped, and opened the door to peep out. The coachman was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for orders, so she drew in her head, looked at her watch, and considered whether her room would be clear of the housemaids. If she could once get safely out of the house she would not be missed till her dinner time, and perhaps then might be supposed sullen, and left alone. She was in a state of great fright, starting violently at every sound; but the scheme having once occurred to her, it seemed as if St.

James's Parsonage was pulling her harder and harder every minute; she wondered if there were really such things as heart-strings; if there were, hers must be fastened very tight round Sylvia.

At last she ventured out, and flew up to her own room more swiftly than ever she had darted before! She moved about quietly, and perceived by the sounds in the next room that Mrs. Bartley was dressing Aunt Jane, and Aunt Barbara reading a letter to her. This was surely a good moment; but she knew she must dress herself neatly, and not look scared, if she did not mean to be suspected and stopped; and she managed to get quietly into her little s.h.a.ggy coat, her black hat and feather and warm gloves--even her boots were remembered--and then whispering to herself, "It can't be wrong to get away from being made to tell stories! I'm going to Papa!" she softly opened the door, went on tip-toe past Lady's Jane's door; then after the first flight of stairs, rushed like the wind, unseen by anyone, got the street door open, pulled it by its outside handle, and heard it shut!

It was done now! She was on the wide world--in the street! She could not have got in again without knocking, ringing, and making her attempt known; and she was far more terrified at the thought of Lady Barbara's stern face and horror at her proceedings than even at the long journey alone.

Every step was a little bit nearer Sylvia, Mary, and Papa--it made her heart bound in the midst of its frightened throbs--every step was farther away from Aunt Barbara, and she could hardly help setting off in a run. It was a foggy day, when it was not so easy to see far, but she longed to be out of Bruton Street, where she might be known; yet when beyond the quiet familiar houses, the sense of being alone, left to herself, began to get very alarming, and she could hardly control herself to walk like a rational person to the cab-stand in Davies Street.

n.o.body remarked her; she was a tall girl for her age, and in her sober dark dress, with her little bag, might be taken for a tradesman's daughter going to school, even if anyone had been out who had time to look at her. Trembling, she saw a cabman make a sign to her, and stood waiting for him, jumped in as he opened his door, and felt as if she had found a refuge for the time upon the dirty red plush cus.h.i.+ons and the straw. "To the Waterloo Station," said she, with as much indifference and self-possession as she could manage.

The man touched his hat, and rattled off: he perhaps wondering if this were a young runaway, and if he should get anything by telling where she was gone; she working herself into a terrible fright for fear he should be going to drive round and round London, get her into some horrible den of iniquity, and murder her for the sake of her money, her watch, and her clothes. Did not cabmen always do such things? She had quite decided how she would call a policeman, and either die like an Umfraville or offer a ransom of "untold gold," and had gone through all possible catastrophes long before she found herself really safe at the railway station, and the man letting her out, and looking for his money.

The knowledge that all depended on herself, and that any signs of alarm would bring on inquiry, made her able to speak and act so reasonably, that she felt like one in a dream. With better fortune than she could have hoped for, a train was going to start in a quarter of an hour; and the station clerk was much too busy and too much hurried to remark how scared were her eyes, and how trembling her voice, as she asked at his pigeon-hole for "A first-cla.s.s ticket to Oldburgh, if you please," offered the sovereign in payment, swept up the change, and crept out to the platform.

A carriage had "Oldburgh" marked on it; she tried to open the door, but could not reach the handle; then fancied a stout porter who came up with his key must be some messenger of the Lord Chancellor come to catch her, and was very much relieved when he only said, "Where for, Miss?" and on her answer, "Oldburgh," opened the door for her, and held her bag while she tripped up the steps. "Any luggage, Miss?"

"No, thank you." He shot one inquiring glance after her, but hastened away; and she settled herself in the very farthest corner of the carriage, and lived in an agony for the train to set off before her flight should be detected.

Once off, she did not care; she should be sure of at least seeing Sylvia, and telling her uncle her troubles. She had one great start, when the door was opened, and a gentleman peered in; but it was merely to see if there was room, for she heard him say, "Only a child," and in came a lady and two gentlemen, who at least filled up the window so that n.o.body could see her, while they talked a great deal to someone on the platform. And then after some bell-ringing, whistling, sailing backwards and forwards, and stopping, they were fairly off--getting away from the roofs of London--seeing the sky clear of smoke and fog--getting nearer home every moment; and Countess Kate relaxed her shy, frightened, drawn-up att.i.tude, gave a long breath, felt that the deed was done, and began to dwell on the delight with which she should be greeted at home, and think how to surprise them all!

There was plenty of time for thinking and planning and dreaming, some few possible things, but a great many more most impossible ones.

Perhaps the queerest notion of all was her plan for being disguised like a school-child all day, and always noticed for her distinguished appearance by ladies who came to see the school, or overheard talking French to Sylvia; and then in the midst of her exceeding anxiety not to be detected, she could not help looking at her travelling companions, and wondering if they guessed with what a grand personage they had the honour to be travelling! Only a child, indeed! What would they think if they knew? And the little goose held her pocket- handkerchief in her hand, feeling as if it would be like a story if they happened to wonder at the coronet embroidered in the corner; and when she took out a story-book, she would have liked that the fly- leaf should just carelessly reveal the Caergwent written upon it.

She did not know that selfishness had thrown out the branch of self- consequence.

However, nothing came of it; they had a great deal too much to say to each other to notice the little figure in the corner; and she had time to read a good deal, settle a great many fine speeches, get into many a fright lest there should be an accident, and finally grow very impatient, alarmed, and agitated before the last station but one was pa.s.sed, and she began to know the cut of the hedgerow-trees, and the shape of the hills--to feel as if the cattle and sheep in the fields were old friends, and to feel herself at home.

Oldburgh Station! They were stopping at last, and she was on her feet, pressing to the window between the strangers. One of the gentlemen kindly made signs to the porter to let her out, and asked if she had any baggage, or anyone to meet her. She thanked him by a smile and shake of the head; she could not speak for the beating of her heart; she felt almost as much upon the world as when the door in Bruton Street had shut behind her; and besides, a terrible wild fancy had seized her--suppose, just suppose, they were all gone away, or ill, or someone dead! Perhaps she felt it would serve her right, and that was the reason she was in such terror.

CHAPTER XII.