‘There is not very much to tell,’ said Kate, ‘if you mean facts; but if it is me you want to know about, then there is a little more. Which would you like best?’
‘I thought you were a fact.’
‘I suppose I am,’ said Kate, with a laugh. ‘I never thought of that. But then, of course, between the facts that have happened to me and this fact, Kate Courtenay, there is a good deal of difference. Which would you like best? Me? But, then, where must I begin?’
‘As early as you can remember,’ said the inquisitor; ‘and, recollect, I should most likely have sought you out, and known all about you long before this, if you had stayed at Langton—so you may be perfectly frank with me.’
To tell the truth, all the little scene had been got up on purpose for this confidential talk; the apparently chance choice of Kate as a companion, and even Lady Caryisfort’s cold, were means to an end. Kate was of her own county, she was of her own class, she was thrown into a position which Lady Caryisfort thought was not the one she ought to have filled, and with all the fervour of a lively fancy and benevolent meaning she had thrown herself into this little ambush. The last words were just as near a mistake as it was possible for words to be, for Kate had no notion of being anything but frank; and the little assurance that she might be so safely almost put her on her guard.
‘You would not have been allowed to seek me out,’ said Kate. ‘Uncle Courtenay had made up his mind I was to know nobody—I am sure I don’t know why. He used to send me a new governess every year. It was the greatest chance that I was allowed to keep even Maryanne. He thought servants ought to be changed; and I am afraid,’ said Kate, with humility, ‘that I was not at all nice when I was at home.’
‘My poor child! I don’t believe you were ever anything but nice.’
‘No,’ said Kate, taking hold of the caressing hand which was laid on her arm; ‘you can’t think how disagreeable I was till I was fifteen; then my dear aunt—my good aunt, whom you don’t like so much as you might——’
‘How do you know that, you little witch?’
‘Oh, I know very well! She came home to England, after being years away, and she wrote to my uncle, asking if she might see me, and he was horribly worried with me at the time,’ said Kate. ‘I had worried him so that he could not eat his dinner even in peace—and Uncle Courtenay likes his dinner—so he wrote and said she might have me altogether if she pleased; and though he gave the very worst account of me, and said all the harm he could, auntie started off directly and took me home.’