Since their father’s death, the two sisters had lived their quiet life together. They were just rich enough to live in the way they thought the duty of persons in their rank, keeping their carriage for Lady Jane’s daily drive, and spending two months every year by the sea, and one at Caergwent Castle with their eldest brother. They always had a spare room for any old friend who wanted to come up to town; and they did many acts of kindness, and gave a great deal to be spent on the poor of their parish. They did the same quiet things every day: one liked what the other liked; and Lady Barbara thought, morning, noon, and night, what would be good for her sister’s health; while Lady Jane rested on Barbara’s care, and was always pleased with whatever came in her way.
And so the two sisters had gone on year after year, and were very happy in their own way, till the great grief came of losing their eldest brother; and not long after him, his son, the nephew who had been their great pride and delight, and for whom they had so many plans and hopes.
And with his death, there came what they felt to be the duty and necessity of trying to fit the poor little heiress for her station. They were not fond of any children; and it upset all their ways very much to have to make room for a little girl, her maid, and her governess; but still, if she had been such a little girl as they had been, and always like the well-behaved children whom they saw in drawing-rooms, they would have known what kind of creature had come into their hands.
But was it not very hard on them that their niece should turn out a little wild harum-scarum creature, such as they had never dreamt of—really unable to move without noises that startled Lady Jane’s nerves, and threw Lady Barbara into despair at the harm they would do—a child whose untutored movements were a constant eye-sore and distress to them; and though she could sometimes be bright and fairy-like if unconstrained, always grew abrupt and uncouth when under restraint—a child very far from silly, but apt to say the silliest things—learning quickly all that was mere head-work, but hopelessly or obstinately dull at what was to be done by the fingers—a child whose ways could not be called vulgar, but would have been completely tom-boyish, except for a certain timidity that deprived them of the one merit of courage, and a certain frightened consciousness that was in truth modesty, though it did not look like it? To have such a being to endure, and more than that, to break into the habits of civilized life, and the dignity of a lady of rank, was no small burden for them; but they thought it right, and made up their minds to bear it.
Of course it would have been better if they had taken home the little orphan when she was destitute and an additional weight to Mr. Wardour; and had she been actually in poverty or distress, with no one to take care of her, Lady Barbara would have thought it a duty to provide for her: but knowing her to be in good hands, it had not then seemed needful to inflict the child on her sister, or to conquer her own distaste to all connected with her unhappy brother James. No one had ever thought of the little Katharine Aileve Umfraville becoming the head of the family; for then young Lord Umfraville was in his full health and strength.
And why did Lady Barbara only now feel the charge of the child a duty? Perhaps it was because, without knowing it, she had been brought up to make an idol of the state and consequence of the earldom, since she thought breeding up the girl for a countess incumbent on her, when she had not felt tender compassion for the brother’s orphan grandchild. So somewhat of the pomps of this world may have come in to blind her eyes; but whatever she did was because she thought it right to do, and when Kate thought of her as cross, it was a great mistake. Lady Barbara had great control of temper, and did everything by rule, keeping herself as strictly as she did everyone else except Lady Jane; and though she could not like such a troublesome little incomprehensible wild cat as Katharine, she was always trying to do her strict justice, and give her whatever in her view was good or useful.
But Kate esteemed it a great holiday, when, as sometimes happened, Aunt Barbara went out to spend the evening with some friends; and she, under promise of being very good, used to be Aunt Jane’s companion.
Those were the times when her tongue took a holiday, and it must be confessed, rather to the astonishment and confusion of Lady Jane.
“Aunt Jane, do tell me about yourself when you were a little girl?”
“Ah! my dear, that does not seem so very long ago. Time passes very quickly. To think of such a great girl as you being poor James’s grandchild!”
“Was my grandpapa much older than you, Aunt Jane?”
“Only three years older, my dear.”
“Then do tell me how you played with him?”
“I never did, my dear; I played with your Aunt Barbara.”
“Dear me how stupid! One can’t do things without boys.”
“No, my dear; boys always spoil girls’ play, they are so rough.”
“Oh! no, no, Aunt Jane; there’s no fun unless one is rough—I mean, not rough exactly; but it’s no use playing unless one makes a jolly good noise.”
“My dear,” said Lady Jane, greatly shocked, “I can’t bear to hear you talk so, nor to use such words.”
“Dear me, Aunt Jane, we say ‘Jolly’ twenty times a day at St. James’s, and nobody minds.”
“Ah! yes, you see you played with boys.”
“But our boys are not rough, Aunt Jane,” persisted Kate, who liked hearing herself talk much better than anyone else. “Mary says Charlie is a great deal less riotous than I am, especially since he went to school; and Armyn is too big to be riotous. Oh dear, I wish Mr. Brown would send Armyn to London; he said he would be sure to come and see me, and he is the jolliest, most delightful fellow in the world!”
“My dear child,” said Lady Jane in her soft, distressed voice, “indeed that is not the way young ladies talk of—of—boys.”
“Armyn is not a boy, Aunt Jane; he’s a man. He is a clerk, you know, and will get a salary in another year.”
“A clerk!”
“Yes; in Mr. Brown’s office, you know. Aunt Jane, did you ever go out to tea?”
“Yes, my dear; sometimes we drank tea with our little friends in the dolls’ tea-cups.”
“Oh! you can’t think what fun we have when Mrs. Brown asks us to tea. She has got the nicest garden in the world, and a greenhouse, and a great squirt-syringe, I mean, to water it; and we always used to get it, till once, without meaning it, I squirted right through the drawing-room window, and made such a puddle; and Mrs. Brown thought it was Charlie, only I ran in and told of myself, and Mrs. Brown said it was very generous, and gave me a Venetian weight with a little hermit in a snow-storm; only it is worn out now, and won’t snow, so I gave it to little Lily when we had the whooping-cough.”
By this time Lady Jane was utterly ignorant what the gabble was about, except that Katharine had been in very odd company, and done very strange things with those boys, and she gave a melancholy little sound in the pause; but Kate, taking breath, ran on again—
“It is because Mrs. Brown is not used to educating children, you know, that she fancies one wants a reward for telling the truth; I told