What she had heard afterwards from him about not making poor Mary’s task harder, and what she had heard from Mary about not paining him, had really restrained her; and she had thought such outbreaks passed by among the baby faults she had left behind, and was the more grieved and ashamed in consequence. She felt it a real exposure: she remembered her young friends’ surprised and frightened eyes, and not only had no doubt their mother would really think her too naughty to be their playfellow, but almost wished that it might be so—she could never, never bear to see them again.
She heard the street door close after them, she heard the carriage drive away; she felt half relieved; but then she hid her face in the pillow, and cried more quietly, but more bitterly.
Then some one knocked; she would not answer. Then came a voice, saying, “Katharine.” It was Aunt Barbara’s, but it was rather wavering. She would not answer, so the door was opened, and the steps, scarcely audible in the rustling of the silk, came in; and Kate felt that her aunt was looking at her, wondered whether she had better put out her head, ask pardon, and have it over, but was afraid; and presently heard the moiré antique go sweeping away again.
And then the foolish child heartily wished she had spoken, and was seized with desperate fears of the morrow, more of the shame of hearing of her tears than of any punishment. Why had she not been braver?
After a time came a light, and Josephine moving about quietly, and putting away the clothes that had been left on the floor. Kate was not afraid of her, but her caressing consolations and pity would have only added to the miserable sense of shame; so there was no sign, no symptom of being awake, though it was certain that before Josephine went away, the candle was held so as to cast a light over all that was visible of the face. Kate could not help hearing the low muttering of the Frenchwoman, who was always apt to talk to herself: “Asleep! Ah, yes! She sleeps profoundly. How ugly la petite has made herself! What cries! Ah, she is like Miladi her aunt! a demon of a temper!”
Kate restrained herself till the door was shut again, and then rolled over and over, till she had made a strange entanglement of her bed-clothes, and brought her passion to an end by making a mummy of herself, bound hand and foot, snapping with her month all the time, as if she longed to bite.
“O you horrible Frenchwoman! You are a flatterer, a base flatterer; such as always haunt the great! I hate it all. I a demon of a temper? I like Aunt Barbara? Oh, you wretch! I’ll tell Aunt Barbara a to-morrow, and get you sent away!”
Those were some of Kate’s fierce angry thoughts in her first vexation; but with all her faults, she was not a child who ever nourished rancour or malice; and though she had been extremely wounded at first, yet she quickly forgave.
By the time she had smoothed out her sheet, and settled matters between it and her blanket, she had begun to think more coolly. “No, no, I won’t. It would be horribly dishonourable and all that to tell Aunt Barbara. Josephine was only thinking out loud; and she can’t help what she thinks. I was very naughty; no wonder she thought so. Only next time she pets me, I will say to her, ‘You cannot deceive me, Josephine; I like the plain truth better than honeyed words.’”
And now that Kate had arrived at the composition of a fine speech that would never be made, it was plain that her mind was pretty well composed. That little bit of forgiveness, though it had not even cost an effort, had been softening, soothing, refreshing; it had brought peacefulness; and Kate lay, not absolutely asleep, but half dreaming, in the summer twilight, in the soft undefined fancies of one tired out with agitation.