“Well, one would think not, but you may see for yourself!” replied Kitty, showing her the sheet.
The fair head and the dark were bent over it. “I must say, it does seem to be Henry VIII,” admitted Meg. “Perhaps she is likening Uncle Matthew to him! He was very disagreeable too, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, so he was! He had rages, and cut off people’s heads. No doubt that is it! But who can this {Catherine be?”
“Katherine of Aragon!” said Meg brilliantly.
“No, I am sure it’s not Aragon. Besides, how absurd! They must have been obliged to turn one of the maids off, and hire a new one. Perhaps Uncle Matthew has taken a dislike to her. He usually does.”
“I cannot conceive why Miss Fishguard should beg you to go home only because she has engaged a new servant.”
“Oh, no, and it seems not to be that at all, for I can distinctly make out unable to write it, and, a little farther on something about my generosity. Then there is a word which looks like treason, so it can have nothing to do with this Katherine. It must be Henry VIII again, and yet—You know, Meg, I think I shall be obliged to post down to Arnside, if Freddy will be so good as to take me, when he comes back to town, for there can be no doubt that poor Fish is in great distress!”
Meg agreed to it, though rather reluctantly. She said that she feared that Kitty would be persuaded to remain at Arnside; and Kitty, once more stricken by the warm kindliness of the Standens, forbore to tell her that the day was rapidly approaching when she must for ever lose her young chaperon. The only salve Kitty could find to apply to her unquiet conscience was the knowledge that she had really been of use to Meg.
Soon after breakfast, Meg, arrayed in a blue velvet pelisse, and the only one of her hats which she thought likely to escape the criticism of the censorious, went off to pay a dutiful call on her husband’s Aunt Maria, with whom she had untruthfully announced her intention of dining, on the night of the masquerade. Kitty offered to accompany her, but Meg thought that it would be better if Aunt Maria did not set eyes on her. Having contrived to convey to the formidable lady, who, mercifully, disapproved so strongly of frivolity that she rarely went into society, the impression that Freddy’s betrothed was a very sober girl, of strict upbringing and rigid principles, it would clearly be an act of madness to present to her a dashing young female, ravishingly attired in a morning dress of twilled French silk, and with her hair cut and curled in the very latest mode. “Besides, Aunt Maria would be bound to say you were fast, because she thinks all pretty females must be.”
“I?” gasped Kitty. “Pretty?”