“My little Katharine, you have yet to understand that ‘the heir, so long as he is a child, differeth in nothing from a servant, but is under tutors and governors.’ You will not have any power over yourself or your property till you are twenty-one.”
“But you are my tutor and my governor, and my spiritual pastor and master,” said Kate. “I always say so whenever Mary asks us questions about our duty to our neighbour.”
“I have been so hitherto,” said Mr. Wardour, setting her on his knee; “but I see I must explain a good deal to you. It is the business of a court in London, that is called the Court of Chancery, to provide that proper care is taken of young heirs and heiresses and their estates, if no one have been appointed by their parents to do so; and it is this court that must settle what is to become of you.”
“And why won’t it settle that I may live with my own papa and brothers and sisters?”
“Because, Kate, you must be brought up in a way to fit your station; and my children must be brought up in a way to fit theirs. And besides,” he added more sadly, “nobody that could help it would leave a girl to be brought up in a household without a mother.”
Kate’s heart said directly, that as she could never again have a mother, her dear Mary must be better than a stranger; but somehow any reference to the sorrow of the household always made her anxious to get away from the subject, so she looked at her finger again, and asked, “Then am I to live up in this Court of Chances?”
“Not exactly,” said Mr. Wardour. “Your two aunts in London, Lady Barbara and Lady Jane Umfraville, are kind enough to offer to take charge of you. Here is a letter that they sent inclosed for you.”
“The Countess of Caergwent,” was written on the envelope; and Kate’s and Sylvia’s heads were together in a moment to see how it looked, before opening the letter, and reading:—“‘My dear Niece,’—dear me, how funny to say niece!—‘I deferred writing to you upon the melancholy—’ oh, what is it, Sylvia?”
“The melancholy comet!”
“No, no; nonsense.”