It may be doubted whether Countess Kate ever did in her childhood discover what her Aunt Barbara meant by the natural consequences of her folly, but she suffered from them nevertheless. When the summer was getting past its height of beauty, and the streets were all sun and misty heat, and the grass in the parks looked brown, and the rooms were so close that even Aunt Jane had one window open, Kate grew giddy in the head almost every morning, and so weary and dull all day that she had hardly spirit to do anything but read story-books. And Mrs. Lacy was quite poorly too, though not saying much about it; was never quite without a head-ache, and was several times obliged to send Kate out for her evening walk with Josephine.

It was high time to be going out of town; and Mrs. Lacy was to go and be with her son in his vacation.

This was the time when Kate and the Wardours had hoped to be together. But “the natural consequence” of the nonsense Kate had talked, about being “always allowed” to do rude and careless things, and her wild rhodomontade about romping games with the boys, had persuaded her aunts that they were very improper people for her to be with, and that it would be wrong to consent to her going to Oldburgh.

That was one natural consequence of her folly. Another was that when the De la Poers begged that she might spend the holidays with them, and from father and mother downwards were full of kind schemes for her happiness and good, Lady Barbara said to her sister that it was quite impossible; these good friends did not know what they were asking, and that the child would again expose herself in some way that would never be forgotten, unless she were kept in their own sight till she had been properly tamed and reduced to order.

It was self-denying in Lady Barbara to refuse that invitation, for she and her sister would have been infinitely more comfortable together without their troublesome countess—above all when they had no governess to relieve them of her. The going out of town was sad enough to them, for they had always paid a long visit at Caergwent Castle, which had felt like their home through the lifetime of their brother and nephew; but now it was shut up, and their grief for their young nephew came back all the more freshly at the time of year when they were used to be kindly entertained by him in their native home.

But as they could not go there, they went to Bournemouth and the first run Kate took upon the sands took away all the giddiness from her head, and put an end to the tired feeling in her limbs! It really was a run! Aunt Barbara gave her leave to go out with Josephine; and though Josephine said it was very sombre and savage, between the pine-woods and the sea, Kate had not felt her heart leap with such fulness of enjoyment since she had made snow-balls last winter at home. She ran down to the waves, and watched them sweep in and curl over and break, as if she could never have enough of them; and she gazed at the grey outline of the Isle of Wight opposite, feeling as if there was something very great in really seeing an island.

When she came in, there was so much glow on her brown check, and her eyelids looked so much less heavy, that both the aunts gazed at her with pleasure, smiled to one another, and Lady Jane kissed her, while Lady Barbara said, “This was the right thing.”

She was to be out as much as possible, so her aunt made a set of new rules for the day. There was to be a walk before breakfast; then breakfast; then Lady Barbara heard her read her chapter in the Bible, and go through her music. And really the music was not half as bad as might have been expected with Aunt Barbara. Kate was too much afraid of her to give the half attention she had paid to poor Mrs. Lacy—fright and her aunt’s decision of manner forced her to mind what she was about; and though Aunt Barbara found her really very dull and unmusical, she did get on better than before, and learnt something, though more like a machine than a musician.

Then she went out again till the hottest part of the day, during which a bit of French and of English reading was expected from her, and half an hour of needle-work; then her dinner; and then out again—with her aunts this time, Aunt Jane in a wheeled-chair, and Aunt Barbara walking with her—this was rather dreary; but when they went in she was allowed to stay out with Josephine, with only one interval in the house for tea, till it grew dark, and she was so sleepy with the salt wind, that she was ready for bed, and had no time to think of the Lord Chancellor.

At first, watching those wonderful and beautiful waves was pleasure enough; and then she was allowed, to her wonder and delight, to have a holland dress, and dig in the sand, making castles and moats, or rocks and shipwrecks, with beautiful stories about them; and sometimes she hunted for the few shells and sea-weeds there, or she sat down and read some of her favourite books, especially poetry—it suited the sea so well; and she was trying to make Ellen’s Isle and all the places of the “Lady of the Lake” in sand, only she never had time to finish them, and they always were either thrown down or washed away before she could return to them.

But among all these amusements, she was watching the families of children who played together, happy creatures! The little sturdy boys, that dabbled about so merrily, and minded so little the “Now Masters” of their indignant nurses; the little girls in brown hats, with their baskets full; the big boys, that even took off shoes, and dabbled in the shallow water; the great sieges of large castles, where whole parties attacked and defended—it was a sort of melancholy glimpse of fairy-land to her, for she had only been allowed to walk on the beach with Josephine on condition she never spoke to the other children.

Would the Lord Chancellor be after her if she did? Her heart quite yearned for those games, or even to be able to talk to one of those little damsels; and one day when a bright-faced girl ran after her with a piece of weed that she had dropped, she could hardly say “thank you” for her longing to say more; and many were the harangues she composed within herself to warn the others not to wish to change places with her, for to be a countess was very poor fun indeed.

However, one morning at the end of the first week, Kate looked up from a letter from Sylvia, and said with great glee, “Aunt Barbara! O Aunt Barbara! Alice and the other Sylvia—Sylvia Joanna—are coming! I may play with them, mayn’t I?”

“Who are they?” said her aunt gravely.

“Uncle Wardour’s nieces,” said Kate; “Sylvia’s cousins, you know, only we never saw them; but they are just my age; and it will be such fun—only Alice is ill, I believe. Pray—please—let me play with them!” and Kate had tears in her eyes.

“I shall see about it when they come.”

“Oh, but—but I can’t have them there—Sylvia’s own, own cousins—and not play with them! Please, Aunt Barbara!”

“You ought to know that this impetuosity never disposes me favourably, Katharine; I will inquire and consider.”

Kate had learnt wisdom enough not to say any more just then; but the thought of sociability, the notion of chattering freely to young companions, and of a real game at play, and the terror of having all this withheld, and of being thought too proud and haughty for the Wardours, put her into such an agony, that she did not know what she was about, made mistakes even in reading, and blundered her music more than she had over done under Lady Barbara’s teaching; and then, when her aunt reproved her, she could not help laying down her head and bursting into a fit of crying. However, she had not forgotten the terrible tea-drinking, and was resolved not to be as bad as at that time, and she tried to stop herself, exclaiming between her sobs, “O Aunt Bar—bar—a,—I—can—not—help it!” And Lady Barbara did not scold or look stern. Perhaps she saw that the little girl was really trying to chock herself, for she said quite kindly, “Don’t, my dear.”

And just then, to Kate’s great wonder, in came Lady Jane, though it was full half an hour earlier than she usually left her room; and Lady Barbara looked up to her, and said, quite as if excusing herself, “Indeed, Jane, I have not been angry with her.”

And Kate, somehow, understanding that she might, flung herself down by Aunt Jane, and hid her face in her lap, not crying any more, though the sobs were not over, and feeling the fondling hands on her hair very tender and comforting, though she wondered to hear them talk as if she were asleep or deaf—or perhaps they thought their voices too low, or their words too long and fine for her to understand; nor perhaps did she, though she gathered their drift well enough, and that kind Aunt Jane was quite pleading for herself in having come to the rescue.

“I could not help it, indeed—you remember Lady de la Poer, Dr. Woodman, both—excitable, nervous temperament—almost hysterical.”

“This unfortunate intelligence—untoward coincidence—” said Lady Barbara. “But I have been trying to make her feel I am not in anger, and I hope there really was a struggle for self-control.”

Kate took her head up again at this, a little encouraged; and Lady Jane kissed her forehead, and repeated, “Aunt Barbara was not angry with you, my dear.”

“No, for I think you have tried to conquer yourself,” said Lady Barbara. She did not think it wise to tell Kate that she thought she could not help it, though oddly enough, the very thing had just been said over the child’s head, and Kate ventured on it to get up, and say quietly, “Yes, it was not Aunt Barbara’s speaking to me that made me cry, but I am so unhappy about Alice and Sylvia Joanna;” and a soft caress from Aunt Jane made her venture to go on. “It is not only the playing with them, though I do wish for that very very much indeed; but it would be so unkind, and so proud and ungrateful, to despise my own cousin’s cousins!”

This was more like the speeches Kate made in her own head than anything she had ever said to her aunts; and it was quite just besides, and not spoken in naughtiness, and Lady Barbara did not think it wrong to show that she attended to it. “You are right, Katharine,” she said; “no one wishes you to be either proud or ungrateful. I would not wish entirely to prevent you from seeing the children of the family, but it must not be till there is some acquaintance between myself and their mother, and I cannot tell whether you can be intimate with them till I know what sort of children they are. Much, too, must depend on yourself, and whether you will behave well with them.”

Kate gave a long sigh, and looked up relieved; and for some time she and her aunt were not nearly so much at war as hitherto, but seemed to be coming to a somewhat better understanding.

Yet it rather puzzled Kate. She seemed to herself to have got this favour for crying for it; and it was a belief at home, not only that nothing was got by crying, but that if by some strange chance it were, it never came to good; and she began the more to fear some disappointment about the expected Wardours.

For two or three days she was scanning every group on the sands with all her might, in hopes of some likeness to Sylvia, but at last she was taken by surprise: just as she was dressed, and Aunt Barbara was waiting in the drawing-room for Aunt Jane, there came a knock at the door, and “Mrs. Wardour” was announced.

In came a small, quiet-looking lady in mourning, and with her a girl of about Kate’s own age; there was some curtseying and greeting between the two ladies, and her aunt said, “Here is my niece.—Come and speak to Mrs. Wardour, my dear,” and motioned her forwards.

Now to be motioned forwards by Aunt Barbara always made Kate shrink back into herself, and the presence of a little girl before elders likewise rendered her shy and bashful, so she came forth as if intensely disgusted, put out her hand as if she were going to poke, and muttered her favourite “—do” so awkwardly and coldly, that Lady Barbara felt how proud and ungracious it looked, and to make up said, “My niece has been very eager for your coming.” And then the two little girls drew off into the window, and looked at each other under their eyelashes in silence.

Sylvia Joanna Wardour was not like her namesake at home, Sylvia Katharine. She was a thin, slight, quiet-looking child, with so little to note about her face, that Kate was soon wondering at her dress being so much smarter than her own was at present. She herself had on a holland suit with a deep cape, which, except that they were adorned with labyrinths of white braid, were much what she had worn at home, also a round brown hat, shading her face from the sun; whereas Sylvia’s face was exposed by a little turban hat so deeply edged with blue velvet, that the white straw was hardly seen; had a little watered-silk jacket, and a little flounced frock of a dark silk figured with blue, that looked slightly fuzzed out; and perhaps she was not at ease in this fine dress, for she stood with her head down, and one hand on the window-sill, pretending to look out of window, but really looking at Kate.

Meanwhile the two grown-up ladies were almost as stiff and shy, though they could not keep dead silence like the children. Mrs. Wardour had heard before that Lady Barbara Umfraville was a formidable person, and was very much afraid of her; and Lady Barbara was not a person to set anyone at ease.

So there was a little said about taking the liberty of calling, for her brother-in-law was so anxious to hear of Lady Caergwent: and Lady Barbara said her niece was very well and healthy, and had only needed change of air.

And then came something in return about Mrs. Wardour’s other little girl, a sad invalid, she said, on whose account they were come to Bournemouth; and there was a little more said of bathing, and walking, and whether the place was full; and then Mrs. Wardour jumped up and said she was detaining Lady Barbara, and took leave; Kate, though she had not spoken a word to Sylvia Wardour, looking at her wistfully with all her eyes, and feeling more than usually silly.

And when the guests were gone her aunt told her how foolish her want of manner was, and how she had taken the very means to make them think she was not glad to see them. She hung down her head, and pinched the ends of her gloves; she knew it very well, but that did not make it a bit more possible to find a word to say to a stranger before the elders, unless the beginning were made for her as by the De la Poers.

However, she knew it would be very different out of doors, and her heart bounded when her aunt added, “They seem to be quiet, lady-like, inoffensive people, and I have no objection to your associating with the little girl in your walks, as long as I do not see that it makes you thoughtless and ungovernable.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Aunt Barbara!” cried Kate, with a bouncing bound that did not promise much for her thought or her governableness; but perhaps Lady Barbara recollected what her own childhood would have been without Jane, for she was not much discomposed, only she said,

“It is very odd you should be so uncivil to the child in her presence, and so ecstatic now! However, take care you do not get too familiar. Remember, these Wardours are no relations, and I will not have you letting them call you by your Christian name.”

Kate’s bright looks sank. That old married-woman sound, Lady Caergwent, seemed as if it would be a bar between her and the free childish fun she hoped for. Yet when so much had been granted, she must not call her aunt cross and unkind, though she did think it hard and proud.

Perhaps she was partly right; but after all, little people cannot judge what is right in matters of familiarity. They have only to do as they are told, and they may be sure of this, that friendship and respect depend much more on what people are in themselves than on what they call one another.

This lady was the widow of Mr. Wardour’s brother, and lived among a great clan of his family in a distant county, where Mary and her father had sometimes made visits, but the younger ones never. Kate was not likely to have been asked there, for it was thought very hard that she should be left on the hands of her aunt’s husband: and much had been said of the duty of making her grand relations provide for her, or of putting her into the “Clergy Orphan Asylum.” And there had been much displeasure when Mr. Wardour answered that he did not think it right that a child who had friends should live on the charity intended for those who had none able to help them; and soon after the decision he had placed his son Armyn in Mr. Brown’s office, instead of sending him to the University. All the Wardours were much vexed then; but they were not much better pleased when the little orphan had come to her preferment, and he made no attempt to keep her in his hands, and obtain the large sum allowed for her board—only saying that his motherless household was no place for her, and that he could not at once do his duty by her and by his parish. They could not understand the real love and uprightness that made him prefer her advantage to his own—what was right to what was convenient.

Mrs. George Wardour had not scolded her brother-in-law for his want of prudence and care for his own children’s interests; but she had agreed with those who did; and this, perhaps, made her feel all the more awkward and shy when she was told that she must go and call upon the Lady Umfravilles, whom the whole family regarded as first so neglectful and then so ungrateful, and make acquaintance with the little girl who had once been held so cheap. She was a kind, gentle person, and a careful, anxious mother, but not wishing to make great acquaintance, nor used to fine people, large or small, and above all, wrapped up in her poor little delicate Alice.

The next time Kate saw her she was walking by the side of Alice’s wheeled-chair, and Sylvia by her side, in a more plain and suitable dress. Kate set off running to greet them; but at a few paces from them was seized by a shy fit, and stood looking and feeling like a goose, drawing great C’s with the point of her parasol in the sand; Josephine looking on, and thinking how “bÊte” English children were. Mrs. Wardour was not much less shy; but she knew she must make a beginning, and so spoke in the middle of Kate’s second C: and there was a shaking of hands, and walking together.

They did not get on very well: nobody talked but Mrs. Wardour, and she asked little frightened questions about the Oldburgh party, as she called them, which Kate answered as shortly and shyly—the more so from the uncomfortable recollection that her aunt had told her that this was the very way to seem proud and unkind; but what could she do? She felt as if she were frozen up stiff, and could neither move nor look up like herself. At last Mrs. Wardour said that Alice would be tired, and must go in; and then Kate managed to blurt out a request that Sylvia might stay with her. Poor Sylvia looked a good deal scared, and as if she longed to follow her mamma and sister; but the door was shut upon her, and she was left alone with those two strange people—the Countess and the Frenchwoman!

However, Kate recovered the use of her limbs and tongue in a moment, and instantly took her prisoner’s hand, and ran off with her to the corner where the scenery of Loch Katrine had so often been begun, and began with great animation to explain. This—a hole that looked as if an old hen had been grubbing in it—was Loch Katrine.

“Loch Katharine—that’s yours! And which is to be Loch Sylvia?” said the child, recovering, as she began to feel by touch, motion, and voice, that she had only to do with a little girl after all.

“Loch nonsense!” said Kate, rather bluntly. “Did you never hear of the Lochs, the Lakes, in Scotland?”

“Loch Lomond, Loch Katrine, Loch Awe, Loch Ness?—But I don’t do my geography out of doors!”

“’Tisn’t geography; ’tis the ‘The Lady of the Lake.’”

“Is that a new game?”

“Dear me! did you never read ‘The Lady of the Lake?’—Sir Walter Scott’s poem—

‘The summer dawn’s reflected hue—’”

“Oh! I’ve learnt that in my extracts; but I never did my poetry task out of doors!”

“’Tisn’t a task—’tis beautiful poetry! Don’t you like poetry better than anything?”

“I like it better than all my other lessons, when it is not very long and hard.”

Kate felt that her last speech would have brought Armyn and Charlie down on her for affectation, and that it was not strictly true that she liked poetry better than anything, for a game at romps, and a very amusing story, were still better things; so she did not exclaim at the other Sylvia’s misunderstanding, but only said, “‘The Lady of the Lake’ is story and poetry too, and we will play at it.”

“And how?”

“I’ll tell you as we go on. I’m the King—that is, the Knight of Snowdon—James Fitzjames, for I’m in disguise, you know; and you’re Ellen.”

“Must I be Ellen? We had a horrid nurse once, who used to slap us, and was called Ellen.”

“But it was her name. She was Ellen Douglas, and was in banishment on an island with her father. You are Ellen, and Josephine is your old harper—Allan Bane; she talks French, you know, and that will do for Highland: Gallic and Gaelic sound alike, you know. There! Then I’m going out hunting, and my dear gallant grey will drop down dead with fatigue, and I shall lose my way; and when you hear me wind my horn too-too, you get upon your hoop—that will be your boat, you know—and answer ‘Father!’ and when I too-too again, answer ‘Malcolm!’ and then put up your hand behind your ear, and stand listening

“With locks thrown back and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art;”

and then I’ll tell you what to do.”

Away scudded the delighted Kate; and after having lamented her gallant grey, and admired the Trosachs, came up too-tooing through her hand with all her might, but found poor Ellen, very unlike a monument of Grecian art, absolutely crying, and Allan Bane using his best English and kindest tones to console her.

“Miladi l’a stupÉfaite—la pauvre petite!” began Josephine; and Kate in consternation asking what was the matter, and Josephine encouraging her, it was all sobbed out. She did not like to be called Ellen—and she thought it unkind to send her into banishment—and she had fancied she was to get astride on her hoop, which she justly thought highly improper—and above all, she could not bear to say ‘Father’—because—

“I never thought you would mind that,” said Kate, rather abashed. “I never did; and I never saw my papa or mamma either.”

“No—so you didn’t care.”

“Well then,” said Kate gravely, “we won’t play at that. Let’s have ‘Marmion’ instead; and I’ll be killed.”

“But I don’t like you to be killed.”

“It is only in play.”

“Please—please, let us have a nice play!”

“Well, what do you call a nice play?”

“Alice and I used to drive hoops.”

“That’s tiresome! My hoop always tumbles down: think of something else.”

“Alice and I used to play at ball; but there’s no ball here!”

“Then I’ll stuff my pocket-handkerchief with seaweed, and make one;” and Kate spread out her delicate cambric one—not quite so fit for such a purpose as the little cheap cotton ones at home, that Mary tried in vain to save from cruel misuse.

“Here’s a famous piece! Look, it is all wriggled; it is a mermaid’s old stay-lace that she has used and thrown away. Perhaps she broke it in a passion because her grandmother made her wear so many oyster-shells on her tail!”

“There are no such creatures as mermaids,” said Sylvia, looking at her solemnly.

This was not a promising beginning; Sylvia Joanna was not a bit like Sylvia Katharine, nor like Adelaide and Grace de la Poer; yet by seeing each other every day, she and Kate began to shake together, and become friends.

There was no fear of her exciting Kate to run wild; she was a little pussy-cat in her dread of wet, and guarded her clothes as if they could feel—indeed, her happiest moments were spent in the public walks by Alice’s chair, studying how the people were dressed; but still she thought it a fine thing to be the only child in Bournemouth who might play with the little Countess, and was so silly as to think the others envied her when she was dragged and ordered about, bewildered by Kate’s loud rapid talk about all kinds of odd things in books, and distressed at being called on to tear through the pine-woods, or grub in wet sand. But it was not all silly vanity: she was a gentle, loving little girl, very good-natured, and sure to get fond of all who were kind to her; and she liked Kate’s bright ways and amusing manner—perhaps really liking her more than if she had understood her better; and Kate liked her, and rushed after her on every occasion, as the one creature with whom it was possible to play and to chatter.

No, not quite the one; for poor sick Alice was better for talk and quiet play than her sister. She read a great deal; and there was an exchange of story-books, and much conversation over them, between her and Kate—indeed, the spirit and animation of this new friend quite made her light up, and brighten out of her languor whenever the shrill laughing voice came near. And Kate, after having got over her first awe at coming near a child so unlike herself, grew very fond of her, and felt how good and sweet and patient she was. She never ran off to play till Alice was taken in-doors; and spent all her spare time in-doors in drawing picture stories, which were daily explained to the two sisters at some seat in the pine-woods.

There was one very grand one, that lasted all the latter part of the stay at Bournemouth—as the evenings grew longer, and Kate had more time for preparing it, at the rate of four or five scenes a day, drawn and painted—being the career of a very good little girl, whose parents were killed in a railway accident, (a most fearful picture was that—all blunders being filled up by spots of vermilion blood and orange-coloured flame!) and then came all the wonderful exertions by which she maintained her brothers and sisters, taught them, and kept them in order.

They all had names; and there was a naughty little Alexander, whose monkey tricks made even Sylvia laugh. Sylvia was very anxious that the admirable heroine, Hilda, should be rewarded by turning into a countess; and could not enter into Kate’s first objection—founded on fact—that it could not be without killing all the brothers. “Why couldn’t it be done in play, like so many other things?” To which Kate answered, “There is a sort of true in play;” but as Sylvia could not understand her, nor she herself get at her own idea, she went on to her other objection, a still more startling one—that “She couldn’t wish Hilda anything so nasty!”

And this very ignoble word was long a puzzle to Alice and Sylvia.

Thus the time at the sea-side was very happy—quite the happiest since Kate’s change of fortune. The one flaw in those times on the sands was when she was alone with Sylvia and Josephine; not in Sylvia’s dulness—that she had ceased to care about—but in a little want of plain dealing. Sylvia was never wild or rude, but she was not strictly obedient when out of sight; and when Kate was shocked would call it very unkind, and caress and beseech her not to tell.

They were such tiny things, that they would hardly bear mention; but one will do as a specimen. Sylvia was one of those very caressing children who can never be happy without clinging to their friends, kissing them constantly, and always calling them dear, love, and darling.

Now, Mrs. Wardour knew it was not becoming to see all this embracing in public, and was sure besides that Lady Barbara would not like to see the Countess hung upon in Sylvia’s favourite way; so she forbade all such demonstrations except the parting and meeting kiss. It was a terrible grievance to Sylvia—it seemed as if her heart could not love without her touch; but instead of training herself in a little self-control and obedience, she thought it “cross;” and Mamma was no sooner out of sight than her arm was around Kate’s waist. Kate struggled at first—it did not suit her honourable conscientiousness; but then Sylvia would begin to cry at the unkindness, say Kate did not love her, that she would not be proud if she was a countess: and Kate gave in, liked the love—of which, poor child! she got so little—and let Sylvia do as she pleased, but never without a sense of disobedience and dread of being caught.

So, too, about her title. Sylvia called her darling, duck, and love, and she called Sylvia by plenty of such names; but she had been obliged to tell of her aunt’s desire—that Katharine and Kate should never be used.

Sylvia’s ready tears fell; but the next day she came back cheerful, with the great discovery that darling Lady Caergwent might be called K, her initial, and the first syllable of her title. It was the cleverest invention Sylvia had ever made; and she was vexed when Kate demurred, honestly thinking that her aunts would like it worse than even Kate, and that therefore she ought not to consent.

But when Sylvia coaxingly uttered, “My own dear duck of a K,” and the soft warm arm squeezed her, and the eyes would have been weeping, and the tongue reproaching in another moment, she allowed it to go on—it was so precious and sweet to be loved; and she told Sylvia she was a star in the dark night.

No one ever found out those, and one or two other, instances of small disobedience. They were not mischievous, Josephine willingly overlooked them, and there was nothing to bring them to light. It would have been better for Sylvia if her faults had been of a sort that brought attention on them more easily!

Meanwhile, Lady Barbara had almost found in her a model child—except for her foolish shy silence before her elders, before whom she always whispered—and freely let the girls be constantly together. The aunt little knew that this meek well-behaved maiden was giving the first warp to that upright truth that had been the one sterling point of Kate’s character!