Kate’s bright looks sank. That old married-woman sound, Lady Caergwent, seemed as if it would be a bar between her and the free childish fun she hoped for. Yet when so much had been granted, she must not call her aunt cross and unkind, though she did think it hard and proud.
Perhaps she was partly right; but after all, little people cannot judge what is right in matters of familiarity. They have only to do as they are told, and they may be sure of this, that friendship and respect depend much more on what people are in themselves than on what they call one another.
This lady was the widow of Mr. Wardour’s brother, and lived among a great clan of his family in a distant county, where Mary and her father had sometimes made visits, but the younger ones never. Kate was not likely to have been asked there, for it was thought very hard that she should be left on the hands of her aunt’s husband: and much had been said of the duty of making her grand relations provide for her, or of putting her into the “Clergy Orphan Asylum.” And there had been much displeasure when Mr. Wardour answered that he did not think it right that a child who had friends should live on the charity intended for those who had none able to help them; and soon after the decision he had placed his son Armyn in Mr. Brown’s office, instead of sending him to the University. All the Wardours were much vexed then; but they were not much better pleased when the little orphan had come to her preferment, and he made no attempt to keep her in his hands, and obtain the large sum allowed for her board—only saying that his motherless household was no place for her, and that he could not at once do his duty by her and by his parish. They could not understand the real love and uprightness that made him prefer her advantage to his own—what was right to what was convenient.
Mrs. George Wardour had not scolded her brother-in-law for his want of prudence and care for his own children’s interests; but she had agreed with those who did; and this, perhaps, made her feel all the more awkward and shy when she was told that she must go and call upon the Lady Umfravilles, whom the whole family regarded as first so neglectful and then so ungrateful, and make acquaintance with the little girl who had once been held so cheap. She was a kind, gentle person, and a careful, anxious mother, but not wishing to make great acquaintance, nor used to fine people, large or small, and above all, wrapped up in her poor little delicate Alice.
The next time Kate saw her she was walking by the side of Alice’s wheeled-chair, and Sylvia by her side, in a more plain and suitable dress. Kate set off running to greet them; but at a few paces from them was seized by a shy fit, and stood looking and feeling like a goose, drawing great C’s with the point of her parasol in the sand; Josephine looking on, and thinking how “bête” English children were. Mrs. Wardour was not much less shy; but she knew she must make a beginning, and so spoke in the middle of Kate’s second C: and there was a shaking of hands, and walking together.
They did not get on very well: nobody talked but Mrs. Wardour, and she asked little frightened questions about the Oldburgh party, as she called them, which Kate answered as shortly and shyly—the more so from the uncomfortable recollection that her aunt had told her that this was the very way to seem proud and unkind; but what could she do? She felt as if she were frozen up stiff, and could neither move nor look up like herself. At last Mrs. Wardour said that Alice would be tired, and must go in; and then Kate managed to blurt out a request that Sylvia might stay with her. Poor Sylvia looked a good deal scared, and as if she longed to follow her mamma and sister; but the door was shut upon her, and she was left alone with those two strange people—the Countess and the Frenchwoman!
However, Kate recovered the use of her limbs and tongue in a moment, and instantly took her prisoner’s hand, and ran off with her to the corner where the scenery of Loch Katrine had so often been begun, and began with great animation to explain. This—a hole that looked as if an old hen had been grubbing in it—was Loch Katrine.
“Loch Katharine—that’s yours! And which is to be Loch Sylvia?” said the child, recovering, as she began to feel by touch, motion, and voice, that she had only to do with a little girl after all.
“Loch nonsense!” said Kate, rather bluntly. “Did you never hear of the Lochs, the Lakes, in Scotland?”
“Loch Lomond, Loch Katrine, Loch Awe, Loch Ness?—But I don’t do my geography out of doors!”