she could hide somewhere when he was coming! But there was one real good bright pleasure near, that would come before her misfortunes; and that was the birthday to be spent at the Wardours'. As to the present, Josephine had had the album in her pocket, and had never restored it, and Kate had begun to feel a distaste to the whole performance, to recollect its faults, and to be ashamed of the entire affair; but that was no reason she should not be very happy with her friends, who had promised to take her to the Zoological Gardens.
She had not seen them since her return to London; they were at Westbourne Road, too far off for her to walk thither even if she had had anyone to go with her, and though they had called, no one had seen them; but she had had two or three notes, and had sent some 'story pictures' by the post. And the thoughts of that day of freedom and enjoyment of talking to Alice, being petted by Mrs. Wardour and caressed by Sylvia, seemed to bear her through all the dull morning walks, in which she was not only attended by Bartley, but by the man-servant; all the lessons with her aunt, and the still more dreary exercise which Lady Barbara took with her in some of the parks in the afternoon. She counted the days to the 21st whenever she woke in the morning; and at last Saturday was come, and it would be Monday.
'Katharine,' said Lady Barbara at breakfast, 'you had better finish your drawing to-day; here is a note from Madame to say it will suit her best to come on Monday instead of Tuesday.'
'Oh! but, Aunt Barbara, I am going to Westbourne Road on Monday.'
'Indeed! I was not aware of it.'
'Oh, it is Sylvia's birthday! and I am going to the Zoological Gardens with them.'
'And pray how came you to make this engagement without consulting me?'
'It was all settled at Bournemouth. I thought you knew! Did not Mrs. Wardour ask your leave for me?'
'Mrs. Wardour said something about hoping to see you in London, but I made no decided answer. I should not have allowed the intimacy there if I had expected that the family would be living in London; and there is no reason that it should continue. Constant intercourse would not be at all desirable.'
'But may I not go on Monday?' said Kate, her eyes opening wide with consternation.
'No, certainly not. You have not deserved that I should trust you; I do not know whom you might meet there: and I cannot have you going about with any chance person.'
'O Aunt Barbara! Aunt Barbara! I have promised!'
'Your promise can be of no effect without my consent.'
'But they will expect me. They will be so disappointed!'
'I cannot help that. They ought to have applied to me for my consent.'
'Perhaps,' said Kate hopefully, 'Mrs. Wardour will write to-day. If she does, will you let me go?'
'No, Katharine. While you are under my charge, I am accountable for you, and I will not send you into society I know nothing about. Let me hear no more of this, but write a note excusing yourself, and we will let the coachman take it to the post.'
Kate was thoroughly enraged, and forgot even her fears. 'I sha'n't excuse myself,' she said; 'I shall say you will not let me go.'
'You will write a proper and gentlewoman-like note,' said Lady Barbara quietly, 'so as not to give needless offence.'
'I shall say,' exclaimed Kate more loudly, 'that I can't go because you won't let me go near old friends.'
'Go into the schoolroom, and write a proper note, Katharine; I shall come presently, and see what you have said,' repeated Lady Barbara, commanding her own temper with some difficulty.
Kate flung away into the schoolroom, muttering, and in a tumult of exceeding disappointment, anger, and despair, too furious even to cry, and dashing about the room, calling Aunt Barbara after every horrible heroine she could think of, and pitying herself and her friends, till the thought of Sylvia's disappointment stung her beyond all bearing. She was still rushing hither and thither, inflaming her passion, when her aunt opened the door.
'Where is the note?' she said quietly.
'I have not done it.'
'Sit down then this instant, and write,' said Lady Barbara, with her Diana face and cool way, the most terrible of all.
Kate sulkily obeyed, but as she seated herself, muttered, 'I shall say you won't let me go near them.'
'Write as I tell you.--My dear Mrs. Wardour--'
'There.'
'I fear you may be expecting to see me on Monday--'
'I don't fear; I know she is.'
'Write--I fear you may be expecting me on Monday, as something passed on the subject at Bournemouth; and in order to prevent inconvenience, I write to say that it will not be in my power to call on that day, as my aunt had made a previous engagement for me.'
'I am sure I sha'n't say that!' cried Kate, breaking out of all bounds in her indignation.
'Recollect yourself, Lady Caergwent,' said Lady Barbara calmly.
'It is not true!' cried Kate passionately, jumping up from her seat. 'You had not made an engagement for me! I won't write it! I won't write lies, and you sha'n't make me.'
'I do not allow such words or such a manner in speaking to me,' said Lady Barbara, not in the least above her usual low voice; and her calmness made Kate the more furious, and jump and dance round with passion, repeating, 'I'll never write lies, nor tell lies, for you or anyone; you may kill me, but I won't!'
'That is enough exposure of yourself, Lady Caergwent,' said her aunt. 'When you have come to your senses, and choose to apologize for insulting me, and show me the letter written as I desire, you may come to me.'
And away walked Lady Barbara, as cool and unmoved apparently as if she had been made of cast iron; though within she was as sorry, and hardly less angry, than the poor frantic child she left.
Kate did not fly about now. She was very indignant, but she was proud of herself too; she had spoken as if she had been in a book, and she believed herself persecuted for adhering to old friends, and refusing to adopt fashionable falsehoods, such as she had read of. She was a heroine in her own eyes, and that made her inclined to magnify all the persecution and cruelty. They wanted to shut her up from the friends of her childhood, to force her to be false and fashionable; they had made her naughtier and naughtier ever since she came there; they were teaching her to tell falsehoods now, and to give up the Wardours. She would never never do it! Helpless girl as she was, she would be as brave as the knights and earls her ancestors, and stand up for the truth. But what would they do at her! Oh! could she bear Aunt Barbara's dreadful set Diana face again, and not write as she was told!
The poor weak little heart shrank with terror as she only looked at Aunt Barbara's chair--not much like the Sir Giles de Umfraville she had thought of just now. 'And I'm naughty now; I did betray my trust: I'm much naughtier than I was. Oh, if Papa was but here!' And then a light darted into Kate's eye, and a smile came on her lip. 'Why should not I go home? Papa would have me again; I know he would! He would die rather than leave his child Kate to be made wicked, and forced to tell lies! Perhaps he'll hide me! Oh, if I could go to school with the children at home in disguise, and let Uncle Giles be Earl of Caergwent if he likes! I've had enough of grandeur! I'll come as Cardinal Wolsey did, when he said he was come to lay his bones among them--and Sylvia and Mary, and Charlie and Armyn--oh, I must go where someone will be kind to me again! Can I really, though? Why not?' and her heart beat violently. 'Yes, yes; nothing would happen to me; I know how to manage! If I can only get there, they will hide me from Aunt Barbara and the Lord Chancellor; and even if I had to go back, I should have had one kiss of them all. Perhaps if I don't go now I shall never see them again!'
With thoughts something like these, Kate, moving dreamily, as if she were not sure that it was herself or not, opened her little writing- case, took out her purse, and counted the money. There was a sovereign and some silver; more than enough, as she well knew. Then she took out of a chiffoniere her worked travelling bag, and threw in a few favourite books; then stood and gasped, and opened the door to peep out. The coachman was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for orders, so she drew in her head, looked at her watch, and considered whether her room would be clear of the housemaids. If she could once get safely out of the house she would not be missed till her dinner time, and perhaps then might be supposed sullen, and left alone. She was in a state of great fright, starting violently at every sound; but the scheme having once occurred to her, it seemed as if St. James's Parsonage was pulling her harder and harder every minute; she wondered if there were really such things as heart-strings; if there were, hers must be fastened very tight round Sylvia.
At last she ventured out, and flew up to her own room more swiftly than ever she had darted before! She moved about quietly, and perceived by the sounds in the next room that Mrs. Bartley was dressing Aunt Jane, and
