“A—a fortnight ago—” began Kate.
“Mr. Wardour came up to London for a few hours,” said Lady Barbara, looking at Kate as if she meant to plunge her below the floor; at least, so the child imagined.
The sense that this was not the whole truth made her especially miserable; and all the rest of the evening was one misery of embarrassment, when her limbs did not seem to be her own, but as if somebody else was sitting at her little table, walking upstairs, and doing her work. Even Mrs. Umfraville’s kind ways could not restore her; she only hung her head and mumbled when she was asked to show her work, and did not so much as know what was to become of her piece of cross-stitch when it was finished.
There was some inquiry after the De la Poers; and Mrs. Umfraville asked if she had found some playfellows among their daughters.
“Yes,” faintly said Kate; and with another flush of colour, thought of having been told, that if Lady de la Poer knew what she had done, she would never be allowed to play with them again, and therefore that she never durst attempt it.
“They were very nice children,” said Mrs. Umfraville.
“Remarkably nice children,” returned Lady Barbara, in a tone that again cut Kate to the heart.
Bed-time came; and she would have been glad of it, but that all the time she was going to sleep there was the Lord Chancellor to think of, and the uncle and aunt with the statue faces dragging her before him.
Sunday was the next day, and the uncle and aunt were not seen till after the afternoon service, when they came to dinner, and much such an evening as the former one passed; but towards the end of it Mrs. Umfraville said, “Now, Barbara, I have a favour to ask. Will you let this child spend the day with me to-morrow? Giles will be out, and I shall be very glad to have her for my companion.”
Kate’s eyes glistened, and she thought of stern Proserpine.