“Yes, Kate; but did you think what an outrageous act it was? There is something particularly grievous in a little girl, or a woman of any age, casting off restraint, and setting out in the world unprotected and contrary to authority. Do you know, it frightened me so much, that till I saw more of you I did not like you to be left alone with Sylvia.”
The deep red colour flushed all over Kate’s face and neck in her angry shame and confusion, burning darker and more crimson, so that Mr. Wardour was very sorry for her, and added, “I am obliged to say this, because you ought to know that it is both very wrong in itself, and will be regarded by other people as more terrible than what you are repenting of more. So, if you do find yourself distrusted and in disgrace, you must not think it unjust and cruel, but try to submit patiently, and learn not to be reckless and imprudent. My poor child, I wish you could have so come to us that we might have been happier together. Perhaps you will some day; and in the meantime, if you have any troubles, or want to know anything, you may always write to me.”
“Writing is not speaking,” said Kate ruefully.
“No; but it comes nearer to it as people get older. Now go, my dear; I am busy, and you had better make the most of your time with your cousins.”
Kate’s heart was unburthened now; and though there was much alarm, pain, and grief, in anticipation, yet she felt more comfortable in herself than she had done for months. “Papa” had never been so tender with her, and she knew that he had forgiven her. She stept back to the drawing-room, very gentle and subdued, and tried to carry out her plans of living one of her old days, by beginning with sharing the lessons as usual, and then going out with her cousins to visit the school, and see some of the parishioners. It was very nice and pleasant; she was as quiet and loving as possible, and threw herself into all the dear old home matters. It was as if for a little while Katharine was driven out of Katharine, and a very sweet little maiden left instead—thinking about other things and people instead of herself, and full of affection and warmth. The improvement that the half year’s discipline had made in her bearing and manners was visible now; her uncouth abrupt ways were softened, though still she felt that the naturally gentle and graceful Sylvia would have made a better countess than she did.
They spent the evening in little tastes of all their favourite drawing-room games, just for the sake of having tried them once more; and Papa himself came in and took a share—a very rare treat;—and he always thought of such admirable things in “Twenty questions,” and made “What’s my thought like?” more full of fun than anyone.
It was a very happy evening—one of the most happy that Kate had ever passed. She knew how to enjoy her friends now, and how precious they were to her; and she was just so much tamed by the morning’s conversation, and by the dread of the future, as not to be betrayed into dangerously high spirits. That loving, pitying way of Mary’s, and her own Sylvia’s exceeding pleasure in having her, were delightful; and all through she felt the difference between the real genuine love that she could rest on, and the mere habit of fondling of the other Sylvia.
“O Sylvia,” she said, as they walked upstairs, hand in hand, pausing on every stop to make it longer, “how could I be so glad to go away before?”
“We didn’t know,” said Sylvia.
“No,” as they crept up another step; “Sylvia, will you always think of me just here on this step, as you go up to bed?”