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CHAPTER VII

"DOES it look all right, Mary?" said Ethel Hume.

"Does what look all right?" was the reply.

"Why the room--her room; does it look as it ought to look? I have been taking such immense pains with it."

"You fuss too much about things, Ethel. Why should the mere fact of Kitty Bouverie coming here upset everything? You talk of no one but Kitty, and now you make such a fuss about her room."

"I wish you would look round it. I have brought you here on purpose, and you have not said a single word."

"It looks charming." Mary glanced round the spacious apartment as she spoke. It was quite a modern room, and newly decorated. There was a high dado round the walls; the dado was painted white. Above was a rich flock-paper of china-blue. The room had several windows, right down to the ground, which opened with French doors. Most of the windows stood open now, and the bright spring sunshine and the delightful spring breeze came in and filled the pretty room.

"What is the idea of this?" said Mary suddenly. She walked over to the mantelpiece and looked at a crayon drawing of a little girl which Ethel had placed there. "Where did you unearth that thing?" she asked.

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"I knew such a picture existed, and I made a tour up to the attics this morning and discovered it," replied Ethel. "Isn't it good? Wasn't she a dear little creature when that was done?"

"So she was. What a pretty dimple she had in her left cheek, and what rosy cheeks they were, and pretty eyes; but that is a long time ago. I suppose she will be immensely altered."

"Father says she is. He said in some ways he would scarcely know her; but Ralph is infatuated, and that's the main thing."

"I trust she won't be disagreeable. However, it will be fun going to town with her and helping her to get her trousseau; won't it, Ethel?"

"I suppose so," replied Ethel. "You do seriously think the room all right, Mary?"

"Seriously, my dear, good Ethel, it is a room fit for a princess. Now do let us come downstairs and attend to other matters. The Jervises are going to drive over to tea, and the Macdonalds want us to get up a tennis tournament to-morrow. There are a great many other people and things in the world beside Kate Bouverie; try to remember that, Ethel."

"I cannot just at present. I feel wonderfully excited. I am very glad she is coming back; I used to be so fond of the little Kitty of long ago."

"I hear the sound of wheels," said Mary. "Let us go out on the drive and be ready to welcome them."

The two girls went and stood on the steps of the old house. The Grange was a house with many modern additions; but the centre part was a couple of centuries old. There were modern wings, however, both to left and right, in which were numerous bright bed-rooms and pleasant sitting-rooms; and the | | 52 grounds were spacious and exquisitely kept. The entire place was an ideal English home. With the westerly sun shining now in long slanting bars across the glass and the trees bowing slightly to the breeze the place looked its best.

A carriage drove rapidly up the avenue and stopped at the front entrance. The two girls ran down the steps and held out eager hands of welcome. A girl stepped out and kissed Ethel on her cheek.

"You are Ethel?" she said.

"Yes, of course, I am Ethel. Dear me, Kate, how altered you are! I always called you Kitty in my heart; but somehow you look more like Kate now."

"I feel more like Kate; do call me Kate in the future. Oh, what fun it is to see you again! How is Aunt Susannah? Is she well?"

"Mother is never well, Kitty; you ought to remember that," said Mary in a grave tone. "She suffers from her back, and is lying down; but she will be very glad to see you and welcome you. Come this way, please."

Mary had a grave, reproving kind of tone, and Kate cast a laughing glance at Ethel, who slipped her arm round her waist.

"Although you look different, you are in reality just the same," she cried. "It was only at first I thought you changed. You have still got that delightful dimple in your cheek and that wayward sort of caressing manner. Oh, I am delighted to welcome you back again. I have loved you all these years, and you have been such a good girl to correspond with me."

"I wonder what I said," thought Kate to herself. "There was no mention of my letters to Ethel Hume | | 53 in Kitty's diary. What did I say? It would be awkward to be catechised."

"Take me to see Aunt Susannah," she said aloud.

The girls crossed the hall quickly, opened a door, and entered a room partly shaded. At the far end, on a sofa, a lady with a placid face and grey, colourless complexion lay.

"So this is Kitty come home again," she said. She held out her two thin hands and drew Kate down to kiss her, first on the brow and then on her lips, and then pushed her a little away to gaze hard at her.

"My dear child," she said, "you are altered. I feared you would be."

"I suppose I am, Aunt Susannah. I was only a little girl when you saw me last. I am grown up now; but all the same, I am Kitty."

"Of course you are; who ever thought you were anything else?" said Mary. "But mother is right; you are changed. You used to be a soft kind of little thing, but now--"

"Draw up that blind, dear," said Mrs. Hume, turning to her eldest daughter; "I want the light to fall upon Kitty's face. My dear Kitty, you were always like your mother--my dearest, dearest friend. Yes, you are like her still; but let me see you close, love."

Kate knelt down; she submitted to a rigid examination.

"The same eyes and brows," said Mrs. Hume. "But the mouth is different, and in some ways the eyes are different too."

"Oh, please do not stare at me any more; it makes me so nervous," pleaded Kate.

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"You are well educated, dear, are you not? You realise the great responsibilities which await you?"

"I am afraid I don't," said Kate, laughing.

Mary looked shocked, but Ethel smiled.

"Don't you remember, mother," she said, "our dear little Kitty of old, how she always would shirk anything disagreeable. She does not want to talk about her great responsibilities the first minute she comes home. Do you, Kitty?"

"That is just it," answered Kate. "I realise them, but at the present moment I am too happy to think about them."

"And yet, my love, you come back to us without your dear, dear father."

"Oh, of course, I sorrowed for father very much; but I am happy to be back again in England. And then remember, Aunt Susannah, I am engaged to Ralph, and I love him--oh, so deeply."

"He is a splendid fellow, dear; and I am glad you are happy. It would be selfish of us old people if our young friends grieved for us too long. It is the way of the world, my dear--the way of the world. Mary, you may drop that Venetian blind again; the light hurts my eyes. Ah, yes, Kate, I am a sad invalid--but glad to see you, very glad. Now go to your room and get ready for dinner."

"Ralph says he will be down to-night, and I wonder if my boxes have come?" said Kate, eagerly turning to her two cousins.

The three left the room together. Mrs. Hume lay on the sofa and thought.

"Pretty--but not exactly what I expected," she thought. "There used to be a look about the face of the child Kate--a sort of spiritual look which the | | 55 girl has lost. I suppose years do change people; and the child and the girl are seldom the same. But how I had hoped and longed for that look! Somehow I always imagined Kitty would be above the ordinary. Now, this Kate won't be above the ordinary; there is a great deal of the world in her face. I cannot help being disappointed."

She stirred restlessly on her sofa, and just at that moment Mr. Hume came in.

"Well, Susan, glad to see me back--eh? Better, I hope, my love?"

"Much the same, Robert; no worse, of course. Yes, I am very pleased to have you back."

"And you have seen our heiress?"

"I have just had an interview with her."

"Do you find her more changed than you expected?"

"In feature, she is what she promised to be," replied Mrs. Hume slowly.

"But you speak as if there were an alteration."

"There would naturally be an alteration, Robert. When we saw her last she was a little girl. In mind, she is not what I expected. She has not fulfilled her early promise, that is all."

"My dear Susannah, for goodness' sake don't get fanciful. The girl is a fine girl--a capital girl. She has plenty of spirit. I am truly thankful she has not grown up nervous and full of fads. She will make Ralph a splendid wife; he just wants some one of that sort to pull him together. Now, Susan, the wedding is to take place towards the end of June. I should like you to take a foremost place on the occasion--to be a mother to Kate."

"I will do my best, love."

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The lawyer bent down and kissed his wife.

"You look quite faded, Susannah, in this dark room. Cannot you manage to let in a little more sunlight?"

"The light hurts my eyes."

"I wish you would not imagine that," he said impatiently. "The room is terribly dark. Won't you join us at dinner to-night? Ralph will be down immediately afterwards, and there is a great deal to talk over."

"I will try to, Robert."

Mr. Hume bustled away, and Mrs. Hume lay still. Tears rose slowly to her eyes; they rolled down her thin cheeks. She stretched out her hand, touched an electric bell, and a maid appeared.

"Thompson," said the lady, "take my keys and open that drawer to the left in my secretary."

The girl did so.

"You will see a packet tied with a faded blue ribbon. Give it to me."

"This is it, is it not, ma'am?"

"Yes. You can leave me now, Thompson, for half-an-hour, but come back then, as I wish to dress for dinner to-night, and you can help to move me into the dining-room. Bring with you my Venetian point collar and my gold bracelets. But I will not change this dress; I am too tired."

"Very well, ma'am."

"And, in the meantime, go to the young ladies and see if you can help in any way. Miss Bouverie will be tired after her journey, and will probably like you to unpack her boxes."

"I understood Miss Bouverie to say, ma'am, that she has brought her own maid with her, and that she will follow by the next train."

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"In any case, you may be able to give her a little help for the present, Thompson. Go and do your best." The servant left the room.

When she found herself alone Mrs. Hume slowly unfolded the tissue-paper in which several old photographs lay. There were two or three of a brilliant, dark-eyed girl with a wonderfully pretty face and eyes with a clear light shining through them. Mrs. Hume looked long at this face. After a time she laid it down with a sigh.

"The girl who came here to-night is like that picture far more than most children are like their mothers. And yet there is a difference. She will never have that light in her eyes, and her mouth will never have that tender expression. But all the same there is a likeness. Yes, I ought to love her; and I will. The first disappointment will soon be got over. I shall certainly do my best to love her."

Beside this photograph of the girl, who after all did not look any older than Kate Bouverie herself, there were several pictures of a child--a child of two years old, the same child again at five, the same child at ten. Mrs. Hume glanced from one picture to the other.

"Very like--very like," she muttered. "It is the same face, but something has gone out of it. I am sorry that the something which I prized so much has died away."

Meanwhile the new Kate Bouverie was admiring her room and making friends with her supposed cousins. She was playing her part well, and was in high spirits. Suddenly Ethel, who had planted herself on her cousin's bed and was looking with rapturous eyes at Kate, spoke.

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"We are dying to hear you sing," she said.

"To hear me sing?" answered Kate. She coloured and then turned pale. She went over to the window and looked out.

"To hear me sing?" she repeated.

"Yes, Kate; Uncle Christopher was always writing home about your wonderful voice. He was always telling us what your masters said. Oh, it will be splendid to hear you. And, you know, Kate, you look like a musician."

"I am devoted to music," said Kate. She seated herself quietly on the nearest chair.

"Your voice is a great deep contralto, is it not?"

"Yes, a deep contralto."

"And your master praised it?"

"He said I had a good voice," replied Kate, in a modest tone. "But I have not sung for some time," she added.

"What a dreadful pity! Voices go off so when they are not kept up by daily practice," said Mary, in a practical tone. "Ralph is mad about music. You used to sing like a bird when you were a little thing, Kitty. It will be delightful to hear you and Ralph singing duets together. You will both sing for us this evening, won't you?"

"I am sorry, but I cannot."

"Oh, Kitty; not even one little song? And we have been so looking forward to it. You are not tired, and you have not got a cold."

"There is something wrong with my throat," said Kate hastily. "It has troubled me a good deal for some time. I must see a specialist."

"Indeed, you must, and without any delay. It would be most serious if anything happened to injure | | 59 your splendid voice. Well, if you won't sing you will play for us? Uncle Christopher was almost as proud of your playing as of your singing."

"I cannot say," replied Kate, putting on a cross tone on purpose. "I am very tired now. Won't your maid come and help to unpack some of my things? Marryat will not be here until after dinner."

"How stupid of us!" said Ethel, jumping up eagerly. "We will send Thompson to you at once."

She and her sister left the room. The moment they did so Kate Bouverie clasped her hands tightly together, then a frown came between her dark brows. "What am I to do?" she muttered. "I never knew until this moment that she had a magnificent voice and played superbly. Now, I have not a single note in my voice, and I play very indifferently. This is awkward; but I am not the Kate Bouverie I believe myself to be if I don't master it."

Thompson came in, and Kate superintended the unpacking of her trunks.

At dinner she wore the softest white with black ribbons, and looked lovely.

Towards the end of dinner Mr. Hume bent towards Kate and spoke.

"By the way," he said, "I have not asked you yet where you put the diamond which the Maharaja of Ruapore gave your father."

"It is in my jewel-case," replied Kate quickly. She was completely on her guard, and did not even change colour.

"You must show it to me to-morrow; it is a most valuable stone."

"We are all dying to see the Maharaja's diamond," | | 60 said Ethel. "Kitty, won't you show it to us after dinner?"

"My jewel-case is at the bottom of one of my trunks. I am afraid you must control your impatience until to-morrow, Ethel," replied Kate, with a bright smile.

"Oh, father, what do you think?" said Mary, bending forward at that moment. "Kitty says that her voice is quite out of order; she cannot sing a note at present. There is something wrong with her throat. She must go immediately to a specialist."