Then came tea; and then Kate was pronounced, to her great delight, well enough for Evening Service. The Evening Service she always thought a treat, with the lighted church, and the choicest singing—the only singing that had ever taken hold of Kate’s tuneless ear, and that seemed to come home to her. At least, to-night it came home as it had never done before; it seemed to touch some tender spot in her heart, and when she thought how dear it was, and how little she had cared about it, and how glad she had been to go away, she found the candles dancing in a green mist, and great drops came down upon the Prayer-book in her hand.
Then it could not be true that she had no feeling. She was crying—the first time she had ever known herself cry except for pain or at reproof; and she was really so far pleased, that she made no attempt to stop the great tears that came trickling down at each familiar note, at each thought how long it had been since she had heard them. She cried all church time; for whenever she tried to attend to the prayers, the very sound of the voice she loved so well set her off again; and Sylvia, tenderly laying a hand on her by way of sympathy, made her weep the more, though still so softly and gently that it was like a strange sort of happiness—almost better than joy and merriment. And then the sermon—upon the text, “Peace, be still,”—was on the same thought on which her uncle had talked to the children: not that she followed it much; the very words “peace” and “be still,” seemed to be enough to touch, soften, and dissolve her into those sweet comfortable tears.
Perhaps they partly came from the weakening of the morning’s indisposition; at any rate, when she moved, after the Blessing, holding the pitying Sylvia’s hand, she found that she was very much tired, her eyelids were swollen and aching, and in fact she was fit for nothing but bed, where Mary and Sylvia laid her; and she slept, and slept in dreamless soundness, till she was waked by Mary’s getting up in the morning, and found herself perfectly well.
“And now, Sylvia,” she said, as they went downstairs hand-in-hand, “let us put it all out of our heads, and try and think all day that it is just one of our old times, and that I am your old Kate. Let me do my lessons and go into school, and have some fun, and quite forget all that is horrid.”
But there was something to come before this happy return to old times. As soon as breakfast was over Mr Wardour said, “Now, Kate, I want you.” And then she knew what was coming; and somehow, she did not feel exactly the same about her exploit and its causes by broad daylight, now that she was cool. Perhaps she would have been glad to hang back; yet on the whole, she had a great deal to say to “Papa,” and it was a relief, though rather terrific, to find herself alone with him in the study.
“Now, Kate,” said he again, with his arm round her, as she stood by him, “will you tell me what led you to this very sad and strange proceeding?”
Kate hung her head, and ran her fingers along the mouldings of his chair.
“Why was it, my dear?” asked Mr. Wardour.
“It was—” and she grew bolder at the sound of her own voice, and more confident in the goodness of her cause—“it was because Aunt Barbara said I must write what was not true, and—and I’ll never tell a falsehood—never, for no one!” and her eyes flashed.
“Gently, Kate,” he said, laying his hand upon hers; “I don’t want to know what you never will do, only what you have done. What was this falsehood?”