'O Papa! she could not; for when I said I would not write a lie, she never said it was true.'
'Was that what you said to your aunt?'
'Yes,'--and Kate hung her head--'I was in a passion.'
'Then, Kate, I do not wonder that Lady Barbara insisted on obedience, instead of condescending to argue with a child who could be so insolent.'
'But, Papa,' said Kate, abashed for a moment, then getting eager, 'she does tell fashionable falsehoods; she says she is not at home when she is, and--'
'Stay, Kate; it is not for you to judge of grown people's doings. Neither I nor Mary would like to use that form of denying ourselves; but it is usually understood to mean only not ready to receive visitors. In the same way, this previous engagement was evidently meant to make the refusal less discourteous, and you were not even certain it did not exist.'
'My Italian mistress did want to come on Monday,' faltered Kate, 'but it was not 'previous.''
'Then, Kate, who was it that went beside the mark in letting us believe that Lady Barbara locked you up to make you tell falsehoods?'
'Indeed, Papa, I did not say locked--Charlie and Sylvia said that.'
'But did you correct them?'
'O Papa, I did not mean it! But I am naughty now! I always am naughty, so much worse than I used to be at home. Indeed I am, and I never do get into a good vein now. O Papa, Papa, can't you get me out of it all? If you could only take me home again! I don't think my aunts want to keep me--they say I am so bad and horrid, and that I make Aunt Jane ill. Oh, take me back, Papa!'
He did take her on his knee, and held her close to him. 'I wish I could, my dear,' he said; 'I should like to have you again! but it cannot be. It is a different state of life that has been appointed for you; and you would not be allowed to make your home with me, with no older a person than Mary to manage for you. If your aunt had not been taken from us, then--' and Kate ventured to put her arm round his neck--'then this would have been your natural home; but as things are with us, I could not make my house such as would suit the requirements of those who arrange for you. And, my poor child, I fear we let the very faults spring up that are your sorrow now.'
'Oh no, no, Papa, you helped me! Aunt Barbara only makes me--oh! may I say?--hate her! for indeed there is no helping it! I can't be good there.'
'What is it? What do you mean, my dear? What is your difficulty? And I will try to help you.'
Poor Kate found it not at all easy to explain when she came to particulars. 'Always cross,' was the clearest idea in her mind; 'never pleased with her, never liking anything she did--not punishing, but much worse.' She had not made out her case, she knew; but she could only murmur again, 'It all went wrong, and I was very unhappy.'
Mr. Wardour sighed from the bottom of his heart; he was very sorrowful, too, for the child that was as his own. And then he went back and thought of his early college friend, and of his own wife who had so fondled the little orphan--all that was left of her sister. It was grievous to him to put that child away from him when she came clinging to him, and saying she was unhappy, and led into faults.
'It will be better when your uncle comes home,' he began.
'Oh no, Papa, indeed it will not. Uncle Giles is more stern than Aunt Barbara. Aunt Jane says it used to make her quite unhappy to see how sharp he was with poor Giles and Frank.'
'I never saw him in his own family,' said Mr. Wardour thoughtfully; 'but this I know, Kate, that your father looked up to him, young as he then was, more than to anyone; that he was the only person among them all who ever concerned himself about you or your mother; and that on the two occasions when I saw him, I thought him very like your father.'
'I had rather he was like you, Papa,' sighed Kate. 'Oh, if I was but your child!' she added, led on by a little involuntary pressure of his encircling arm.
'Don't let us talk of what is not, but of what is,' said Mr. Wardour; 'let us try to look on things in their right light. It has been the will of Heaven to call you, my little girl, to a station where you will, if you live, have many people's welfare depending on you, and your example will be of weight with many. You must go through training for it, and strict training may be the best for you. Indeed, it must be the best, or it would not have been permitted to befall you.'
'But it does not make me good, it makes me naughty.'
'No, Kate; nothing, nobody can make you naughty; nothing is strong enough to do that.'
Kate knew what he meant, and hung her head.
'My dear, I do believe that you feel forlorn and dreary, and miss the affection you have had among us; but have you ever thought of the Friend who is closest of all to us, and who is especially kind to a fatherless child?'
'I can't--I can't feel it--Papa, I can't. And then, why was it made so that I must go away from you and all?'
'You will see some day, though you cannot see now, my dear. If you use it rightly, you will feel the benefit. Meantime, you must take it on trust, just as you do my love for you, though I am going to carry you back.'
'Yes; but I can feel you loving me.'
'My dear child, it only depends on yourself to feel your Heavenly Father loving you. If you will set yourself to pray with your heart, and think of His goodness to you, and ask Him for help and solace in all your present vexatious and difficulties, never mind how small, you WILL become conscious of his tender pity and love to you.'
'Ah! but I am not good!'
'But He can make you so, Kate. Your have been wearied by religious teaching hitherto, have you not?'
'Except when it was pretty and like poetry,' whispered Kate.
'Put your heart to your prayers now, Kate. Look in the Psalms for verses to suit your loneliness; recollect that you meet us in spirit when you use the same Prayers, read the same Lessons, and think of each other. Or, better still, carry your troubles to Him; and when you HAVE felt His help, you will know what that is far better than I can tell you.'
Kate only answered with a long breath; not feeling as if she could understand such comfort, but with a resolve to try.
'And now,' said Mr. Wardour, 'I must take you home to-morrow, and I will speak for you to Lady Barbara, and try to obtain her forgiveness; but, Kate, I do not think you quite understand what a shocking proceeding this was of yours.'
'I know it was wrong to fancy THAT, and say THAT about Aunt Barbara. I'll tell her so,' said Kate, with a trembling voice.
'Yes, that will be right; but it was this--this expedition that I meant.'
'It was coming to you, Papa!'
'Yes, Kate; but did you think what an outrageous act it was? There is something particularly grievous in a little girl, or a woman of any age, casting off restraint, and setting out in the world unprotected and contrary to authority. Do you know, it frightened me so much, that till I saw more of you I did not like you to be left alone with Sylvia.'
The deep red colour flushed all over Kate's face and neck in her angry shame and confusion, burning darker and more crimson, so that Mr. Wardour was very sorry for her, and added, 'I am obliged to say this, because you ought to know that it is both very wrong in itself, and will be regarded by other people as more terrible than what you are repenting of more. So, if you do find yourself distrusted and in disgrace, you must not think it unjust and cruel, but try to submit patiently, and learn not to be reckless and imprudent. My poor child, I wish you could have so come to us that we might have been happier together. Perhaps you will some day; and in the meantime, if you have any troubles, or want to know anything, you may always write to me.'
'Writing is not speaking,' said Kate ruefully.
'No; but it comes nearer to it as people get older. Now go, my dear; I am busy, and you had better make the most of your time with your cousins.'
Kate's heart was unburthened now; and though there was much alarm, pain, and grief, in anticipation, yet she felt more comfortable in herself than she had done for months. 'Papa' had never been so tender with her, and she knew that he had forgiven her. She stept back to the drawing-room, very gentle and subdued, and tried to carry out her plans of living one of her old days, by beginning with sharing the lessons as usual, and then going out with her cousins to visit the school, and see some of the parishioners. It was very nice and pleasant; she was as quiet and
