“I don’t want it for myself; I want something to get ready for Sylvia’s birthday—the Sylvia that is come to London, I mean.”
“I do not approve of a habit of making presents.”
“Oh! but, Aunt Barbara, I am to drink tea with her on her birthday, and spend the day, and go to the Zoological Gardens, and I have all ready but my presents! and it will not be in time if you won’t let me go to-day.”
“I never grant anything to pertinacity,” answered Lady Barbara. “I have told you that I cannot go with you to-day, and you ought to submit.”
“But the birthday, Aunt Barbara!”
“I have answered you once, Katharine; you ought to know better than to persist.”
Kate pouted, and the tears swelled in her eyes at the cruelty of depriving her of the pleasure of making her purchase, and at having her beautiful fanciful production thus ruined by her aunt’s unkindness. As she sat over her geography lesson, out of sight of her own bad writing, her broken-backed illuminated capitals, her lumpy campanulas, crooked-winged fairies, queer perspective, and dabs of blue paint, she saw her performance not as it was, but as it was meant to be, heard her own lines without their awkward rhymes and bits like prose, and thought of the wonder and admiration of all the Wardour family, and of the charms of having it secretly lent about as a dear simple sweet effusion of the talented young countess, who longed for rural retirement. And down came a great tear into the red trimming of British North America, and Kate unadvisedly trying to wipe it up with her handkerchief, made a red smear all across to Cape Verd! Formerly she would have exclaimed at once; now she only held up the other side of the book that her aunt might not see, and felt very shabby all the time. But Lady Barbara was reading over a letter, and did not look. If Kate had not been wrapt up in herself, she would have seen that anxious distressed face.
There came a knock to the schoolroom door. It was Mr. Mercer, the doctor, who always came to see Lady Jane twice a week, and startled and alarmed, Lady Barbara sprang up. “Do you want me, Mr. Mercer? I’ll come.”
“No, thank you,” said the doctor, coming in. “It was only that I promised I would look at this little lady, just to satisfy Lady Jane, who does not think her quite well.”
Kate’s love of being important always made her ready to be looked at by Mr. Mercer, who was a kind, fatherly old gentleman, not greatly apt to give physic, very good-natured, and from his long attendance more intimate with the two sisters than perhaps any other person was. Lady Barbara gave an odd sort of smile, and said, “Oh! very well!” and the old gentleman laughed as the two bright clear eyes met his, and said, “No great weight there, I think! Only a geography fever, eh? Any more giddy heads lately, eh? Or only when you make cheeses?”