"Faith, there is'nt wan thruer to ye on airth, than mine, as sure as yer lyin' on it. There was wan more loved ye well, besides the masther and me—if iver man loved mortial, the Captin loved the sight iv ye—an' well he might, many's the time I watched his face brighten up when he heard yer voice, an' wancest I seen him take the glove ye dropped an' kiss it, as I would the cross! and mark my words—ye'll see him yet—och, sure there's some brightness fur us ondher all this sorra! an' don't sob that away, jewil—if you don't come to me, faith I'll come to you."
This last week at Hampton Court was one of unmixed suffering to Kate. Lady Desmond was cruelly capricious in her tone and manner to her innocent cousin. At one moment Kate fancied she could perceive rapidly returning confidence and affection—the next, some stern look, or icy word, implied suspicion and dislike; nothing wounded Miss Vernon so much as the assumption of her old tenderness before any third party, and the instant return to coldness and estrangement, when that restraint was removed.
Sometimes Kate's gentle but high spirit was roused to indignation, which lent her a momentary strength; but this was soon dissolved by the compassion with which she viewed the intense and unremitting struggle, which thus clouded Lady Desmond's better judgment.
Miss Vernon was thoroughly convinced before the day of their departure arrived, that to live with Lady Desmond in her present mood, was indeed impossible; and that her only chance for preserving a hold on her cousin's heart, was absence. The approaching separation from nurse was ever present with her—from Lady Desmond, she felt, that for a while it would be a relief to part.
Meantime, Mrs. Storey wrote in most cordial terms, to express the pleasure she felt in expecting Miss Vernon as a guest; and all things progressed smoothly for the cousins' plans.
The last evening, Kate felt real alarm, at the strange brilliancy of her cousin's eyes, and the unwonted animation of her manner. She had passed the greater part of the day alone; and had once sent for Kate, who found her terribly agitated, and evidently endeavouring to make up her mind to something; after a few vague words, however, she begged Kate to leave her—that she would defer all further arrangements till they were in London; and as Miss Vernon was leaving the room, begged her to keep guard over herself, in case any unexpected arrival should startle her. "Do not betray me, Kate." Miss Vernon knew she alluded to Lord Effingham—but since the fatal day she had overheard his declaration, she had never breathed his name to her; but the evening wore on, and to Kate's infinite relief, he did not make his appearance.
Kate never quitted any place with so little regret, as Hampton Court; though, at first, she had liked it much—difficulties soon gathered round her—difficulties, such as she had never before encountered; but she was wofully depressed—Lady Desmond had put a finishing stroke to her low spirits, by enquiring if she would like to drive directly to Mrs. Storey's, or go with her to Mivart's in the first place. This readiness to get rid of her on the part of her natural protectress, threw a sad feeling of gloom and loneliness over poor Kate's heart, and it was some moments before she could reply. Her first impulse was to accede at once to the proposition, which would have relieved her cousin of her irksome presence; but an instant's thought, showed her two potent reasons for a different line of conduct—first, she must cling as long as she possibly could to nurse—secondly, she knew Mrs. Storey did not expect her till the next day, so having glanced at these motives, and swallowed a rising inclination to sob, she answered, with a certain degree of reproachful sadness—
"I do not think Mrs. Storey expects me till to-morrow; and if you can bear my presence a little longer, I should prefer waiting till then. Dear cousin, though you are weary of me, I think of our parting with grief, and regret."
"Oh, Kate, Kate," cried Lady Desmond, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes "would to God, I could blot out the last few months—I feel I am utterly neglecting my bounden duty in thus leaving you—but it is better for both of us, at least for awhile! Do you forgive me? you would if you knew the wretched sea of doubt and difficulty and suspicion in which my weary spirit is tossed! I should make you miserable if you stayed with me."
"I am most fully determined, even if you were not so inclined, to leave you; at present it is quite as much my choice, as yours—do not grieve about that—but—but, dear Georgy, do not seem so anxious to get rid of me!"