Текст книги "Beyond The Blue Mountains"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Текущая страница: 32 (всего у книги 36 страниц)

She stood up and stretched herself; she was tired of resting. There were hours and hours before dark. So she mounted her horse and rode on. Her thoughts were mixed, flitting from subject to subject. Miss Kelly and her brother; Margery exciting Margery who had been transported for marrying too many men. What an exciting thing to be transported for! She thought of Poll and her baby, and Amy and her highwayman; of Mamma and Papa and the First Wife, and the room which “had been the First Wife’s bedroom that room at night with a moon peeping through the windows… showing what?

She was near enough now to see the outline of the mountains clearly. Beautiful they were, shrouded in blue mystery. She wondered what the time was. She had no idea except that she was getting thirsty. She was not supposed to go too far from home. She had set out. she knew, with some ridiculous idea of trying to make a way through the mountains; but with her thirst growing every minute, and her throat hot and parched, she realized that to dream in one’s bedroom is one thing, and to make those dreams a reality another. The wise thing to do was to go home. She turned her horse away from the mountains. Around ha were miles of bush, clumps of hills on which stood the tall eucalyptus trees. The brush was thicker here; there were few distinguishing features. A sudden fear came to her. Riding beside Papa, she knew now, she had always felt so safe because she had not even thought of safety. Margery said: “By golly, I wouldn’t be the one for staying out after dark in this place. Felons can stay felons even though they may well be free men.”

Loneliness! Alone in a world of bush and scrub and eucalyptus trees; somewhere before one, a mighty ocean; somewhere behind one, the vast impenetrable Blue Mountains. She could not really be lost. She was full of fancies today. She began to canter across the scrub. She had not noticed how rough it had been coming; perhaps it had not been so rough; perhaps she was not going back the way that she had come.

After an hour or so there was no sign of the settlement, and her horse was lagging. There were the mountains, seeming nearer than when she had been going towards them. She seemed to see queer shapes behind that blue curtain; evil spirits who beckoned and laughed to contemplate what they would do to her if she dared set foot in their mountains.

She turned her back on them and rode on. She was hot and tired, and very dirty, and the changelessness of the scene was dispiriting. On and on she went without getting anywhere she recognized. She would be very late home, and Mamma would be cross.

She slipped off her mare, tied her to a tree and lay down under it. She must try to think which way she had come, to work out the way home. She thought now of the people Papa talked of -Bass and Flinders, Torres, Magellan, Dampier. Captain Cook -that glorious band, said Papa, through whose courage our land was founded. She had heard of them, she had read of their exploits; she had imagined herself sailing with them, and she had longed to; but this was different. This was loneliness; this was being lost. If only Papa were here, being lost might be quite an adventure. But that could not be, foe the moment Papa appeared you would cease to be lost.

Lying on the ground, her ear close to the earth, she thought she heard the thump, thump of horses’ hooves far, fat away. She listened again. No doubt at all, but miles away, for they were so faint, and in the bush, so Papa said, you can hear for miles. She stood up and looked around her. There was no sign of a rider, only the interminable scrub and blinding sun. and the quivering curtain of blue on the mountains.

She put her hands to her mouth and called: “Coo-eeeI Coo-ccc!”

She laid her ear to the ground; she could still heat the thud-thud of hoofs. Did they sound louder, of was that just hope?

“Coo-ccc!” she called again, and it seemed to her that, over the scrub, came an answering shout.

“Coo-ccc! Coo-ccc!” she called again, and the voice called back. It was like a duet; she called, and the voice answered, and it went on like that for the best part of an hour. Once there was a frightening gap between her call and the answer, and she began to sob and laugh with relief when she heard the call again.

She watched the speck on the horizon until her eyes ached. It disappeared, and she thought she had imagined it. It came again. It did not grow any larger. It could not be a horse and rider. Then what was it?”

“Coo… eel’ she called, and the voice called back; the speck grew a little bigger, and hope swelled up again.

It was a horse and rider, and she was astonished, as they came nearer and nearer, to see that the rider was a boy not much older than herself. He looked startled to see her, but he said casually enough, as though he spent his life answering Coo-ees in the bush: “Hello! You lost?”

“Well,” she said, “I’m found now!”

He was attending to his horse, loosening the girths, removing the bit for the horse to graze. She felt irritated because he was more concerned for his mount than he was for her. Country manners, she thought haughtily, for she knew at once that he did not come from Sydney. She told him she did, hoping to command his respect.

He whistled.

“That’s a goodish way to come!” His cool blue eyes took in each detail of her well-cut clothes.

“What made them let you out alone?”

“I often come out alone.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Ever heard of bushrangers?” he asked.

“Yes, I have then!”

“Well’ he said mocking.

“Well, what would you say if I told you I was one?”

“I shouldn’t believe you.”

“Oh, and why not?”

“Because you’re only a boy.”

“There are boy bushrangers…”

“Well, if you were one, you’d have cut my throat by now or put a bullet through my heart.”

“Look here,” he said, crestfallen, ‘who’s lost?”

“Nobody now. I was, but I’m found.”

“You’re city smart, ain’t you!” His skin was bronzed with the sun; through slits, brilliant blue eyes peeped out at her.

“Your mother shouldn’t let you out,” he said.

“She didn’t.”

“Suppose I was to kidnap you, and not let you go home?”

“What would you do with me?”

“Take you back to the station and make you work.”

“You live on a station then? I tell you what if you kidnapped me, you would be clapped in jail. My Papa would see to that!”

“Don’t you be too sure. Who is your Papa?”

“Mr. Masterman.”

The boy laughed at her dignity.

“He’s very important,” she persisted.

“And a very clever man!”

“I bet he’s not half as important as his daughter!”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean I don’t care … that’ he snapped his fingers with a fine display of indifference ‘for your father. And I’ll tell you something else I’m no bushranger. If you like, I’ll take you back to the station and give you something to eat. We don’t get many visitors.”

“Ate you a convict?” she asked.

“No. But Father was, and my mother was.”

“Are they desperate?”

“Very desperate!” he said mockingly. He was a very fascinating, but very arrogant young person. He didn’t mean half he said though, and that made it exciting because you had to separate the things he did mean from the things he didn’t.

“Please take me there,” she said, “I am hungry and thirsty.” Which meant of course that she didn’t care how desperate his family was.

“It’s a long ride,” he said.

“Feel fit for it? But I can promise something good to eat at the end of it. They’re killing a fat calf today, and there’s plenty of meat.”

“What is your name?” she asked him. He told her it was Henry Jedborough, but he wouldn’t tell her how old he was. That was his own grim secret. She had told him she was ten, and he seemed to think that was very little to be. He was only about her height, but broader, more sturdy; he looked strong, and his skin was almost as brown as a native’s.

He told her that yesterday they had had a very successful muster. He loved a muster. As he talked she could almost see him, cracking his stock-whip, riding magnificently, darting here and there amongst the straying herds bullocks and calves and heifers going where he insisted they should.

She told him that she had longed to cross the mountains.

“But no one ever has,” she said.

“They will..” he said.

“There are evil spirits in the mountains,” she told him.

“And they have decreed that no one shall pass.”

He laughed shrilly, mockingly, and his laughter both angered and humiliated her.

“You are a silly girl! You’ve been listening to natives.”

“I did talk to Wando.”

“And you believe that?”

“Not’ she lied, blushing to the red roots of her hair.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said.

“There are no evil spirits in the mountains; it is the dangerous ravines that make it so hard to get across. But one day men will get across … My father will be one of them.”

“Your father… the convict?”

“Ex-convict!” he reminded her.

“He went on an expedition; it failed, but he says one day someone will find the way across, and then … and then…”

“Yes?” said Katharine breathlessly.

“We shall see what is on the other side.”

“Do you think it will be very wonderful on the other side?”

“Of course! My father says we are shut off here, confined to a small space. He wants to find new land. My father always wants to find new places.”

“He sounds nice.”

“Nice!” He was scornful again. What could a little town girl know of the magnificence of his father!

She caught his excitement; she wanted to meet this man, the ex-convict who not only wanted to find new lands but set out with an expedition to do so.

She was a little disappointed in him when she saw him. He was lying in a hammock on a veranda; his shirt was open, showing a chest the colour of mahogany. His dark hair waved slightly, and his blue eyes peered out through even narrower slits than Henry’s, and there were masses of wrinkles round them. They were very merry eyes, and it was a very merry face. But she had expected a giant, from Henry’s talk.

Henry said: “Father, this is a girl I found. She was lost in the bush.”

He rolled himself out of the hammock.

“Well, well!” he said, and looked at her as though he knew a lot about her. Then he said: “This is an honour. We don’t often get visitors on our lonely station. Go and tell your mother to have an extra place laid for our guest. Henry.”

Henry went in, and she and the man stood looking at each other, she smiling shyly.

“What is your name, little girl?” he asked.

“Katharine Masterman.”

Something queer happened to his face then; his eyes seemed to open a bit wider.

“Of Sydney?” he asked in a voice that didn’t tell her anything.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Ah!” he said mysteriously.

“You have a look of Katharine Masterman of Sydney.”

“What do you mean?”

“It did not surprise me to hear you are Katharine Masterman of Sydney. Just that.”

“Then perhaps you know my Papa?”

“No, I cannot claim that honour. I once knew your mother.”

“She did not tell me.”

“Did she not? That was a little remiss of her, I fear. You are astonishingly like her.”

“Margery says that.” % “Ah! Margery.”

“You knew Margery too?”

“Well, yes, I knew Margery.” She clapped her hands. This was indeed coming among friends.

“Though,” he went on, ‘it is many years since I set eyes on her.”

“She did not tell me she knew you.”

“Dear me! They do not appear to have done me justice in the Masterman household. How is your mother?”

“She is well, thank you.”

“And what brothers and sisters have you?”

“James and Martin. There is Edward too, but he is only a baby.”

“Hardly reached the status of brother yet then.”

“What?” said Katharine.

“Come here and let me look at you.”

He held out a hand and took hers; his merry eyes searched her face.

“You are doubtless hungry?” he asked.

“It seems a long time since I ate,” she told him.

“I’ll warrant it does. They are cooking some veal in there.”

“I can smell it.”

“And the smell pleases you?”

She lifted her eyes ecstatically, which made him laugh.

Henry appeared, and said: “It won’t be ready for half an hour.”

“Get a glass of something for our guest, Henry.” said his father.

“And bring me a drink too.”

Henry disappeared, and when he came back carrying a tray, he was not alone; there was a woman, a pale, thin woman with an unhappy face and beautiful hair that curled and rioted about her face as if in defiance of its unhappiness.

“Esther,” said the man and he talked as though it was a great joke ‘this is Miss Katharine Masterman, Carolan’s girl.”

Katharine wondered why the woman seemed to mind so much that she was Katharine Masterman, Carolan’s girl. Katharine stood up and curtsied. The woman said: “How… how did she get here?”

“Henry brought her. She was lost in the bush.” Katharine thought it was due to her to explain.

“I rode out and I didn’t realize how far I had come. And then I coo-eed and… Henry found me.”

“Your mother will be anxious.” The woman looked at the man.

“You could take her back now. If you did, you could get her there before dark.”

“Why, Esther,” said the man, “Miss Masterman is very hungry. It would be churlish to send her away without food.”

“Carolan will be frantic!”

“I wonder,” he said, and he looked quite cruel then.

Katharine had not thought of that. She stood up.

“I must go. Mamma will be worried.”

The man stood up. He seemed to have thrown off his laziness now, and his eyes smouldered.

He said to Katharine: “Do not worry. It is too late for you to go now. You must stay the night here. In the morning I or my son will take you back. It would be possible though to get a message to your parents that you were safe.”

She smiled. How clever of him. And how kind! For, much as she did not want Mamma worried, she did want to continue this adventure. There was more in it than being lost and found, than being hungry and smelling the good smell of roasting meat; there was more in it than meeting new people. There was something about these people that was exciting, mysterious; she sensed that as soon as the man began to talk, and more so when the woman came in. She was his wife, and Henry’s mother; he was her husband; they were like Mamma and Papa, but very different too. Papa looked at Mamma when she was in the room, as though he saw no one else; and Mamma smiled at Papa, and said that he was a very clever, busy man. But these two tried not to look at each other, and when they did look it was different somehow. Then of course there was Henry quite the most exciting of the three. The man and the woman went out and left her with Henry on the veranda.

“Have you any brothers and sisters?” she asked.

“Not real brothers and sisters.”

“How can you have not real ones?”

“You can. You can have half-brothers and sisters. They have your father, but not your mother.”

It sounded very complicated.

“I’ve got a half-sister here. She is two years old and her name is Elizabeth. She lives here; she is the daughter of the servant.”

Katharine was puzzled. The boy looked wise, and she thought he must be clever, and as she did not like to display her ignorance in front of him she asked no more questions.

The man came back, and stretched himself out in the hammock.

“She wants to go over the Blue Mountains.” said Henry.

“She believed that there are evil spirits there.” Katharine blushed, and hotly denied it. That’s just a native story,” said the man kindly.

“I know!” said Katharine.

“She didn’t… till I told her.”

“Do not be so unmannerly, Henry,” said the man.

“I am sure she knew.”

“Is it unmannerly to tell the truth?”

“Very often, my boy.”

“You’re a convict, aren’t you?” said Katharine.

“I was.”

“Were you very wicked?”

“Very!”

Katharine laughed, because it was very comical to hear a grown man say he was very wicked.

“What did you do?” she asked.

He was a wonderful talker better than Margery and his eyes danced with merriment as he talked. Never had the Old Country become so real for her. She began to see it as Marcus had seen it nearly twenty years ago. She saw clearly the cobbled streets of London, red brick buildings and old inns with their signs creaking in the wind and blistered by the sun; she saw nearby meadows and the clustering villages of Brentford and Chiswick, Chelsea and Kensington. Link boys, crossing sweepers, barefooted and hungry, and the great, riding by in their carriages; cock-fighting and the baiting of bulls and bears out at Tothill Fields; drunken people clustered round the gin shops; the bucks so gorgeously attired, the beggars with their sores and rags; pickpockets and fools; street criers; here and there a sedan chair. The London of which he talked was an exciting one, filled with exciting people. There was Mr. Sheridan and Charles James Fox in league with the profligate Prince against the half-crazy king. There was the wild Princess of Wales. It was like something out of a story book, and yet wonderfully real. He made Katharine wonder whether even Papa was such an important man compared with these gorgeously apparelled and most amazing people of London Town.

Even when they were seated round the table he went on talking. He set out to charm Carolan’s daughter, and he did so as successfully as he had charmed Carolan herself.

The meat was good and fresh, and Katharine was hungry, but it was not the food she remembered from that meal, but the talk and the lazy merry eyes of the man and the softness of his voice and the flow of his words. He could, in one sentence, make a picture full of detail. He did not hint by a word, a look or a gesture, that he was talking to a child; he made her feel important, convinced her that he enjoyed talking as much as she enjoyed listening, and he gave pleasure as naturally as he took it. His conversation was peppered with wonderful names that she was to repeat over and over to herself and remember for years to come. Seven Dials. Cripplegate. The Temple. Brooks’s and Almack’s. The Fleet. Coffee Houses. Chocolate Houses. The Blue Lion in Newgate Street. Islington. Chancery Lane. Covent Garden. The King’s Theatre. Haymarket. St. Martin’s. Turnbull Street. Chick Lane. Jack Ketch’s Warren. The Charlies. Drury Lane. Bawdy Houses. Gambling Houses. London, London, London! The Old Country.

Besides this man, his wife, Esther, and Henry, there came to the table a man named Blake, his wife May and their two children a boy and a girl; there was also Elizabeth, the little girl of two, who, Henry had said, was his half-sister, and who, when they had finished eating, sat on Marcus’s knee and watched his mouth while he talked and talked.

Esther, Katharine did not greatly care for, because she tried to stop him all the time, tried to remind him that he was talking to children, which she did not seem to realize was just what they loved to forget. She kept saying “Marcus!” in a shocked voice which seemed to irritate Henry and certainly irritated Katharine almost beyond endurance.

But he took no notice of her and went on to describe the wicked things he had done in London, how he was one of the rogues who preyed upon those ladies and gentlemen in their fine clothes and carriages; and he told it so that you were on his side against the fine ladies and gentlemen, and somehow would always be on his side, whatever he did.

“You, my dear Miss Masterman, can have no conception of the extravagances of our pleasure gardens.” Then he talked of Ranelagh and Vauxhall, and she saw the pleasure gardens and she walked in the avenues with him, she watched the fireworks and she was at the concert, and it was the most exciting time she had ever known. She drank hot punch and syllabub and shared oysters with this man, and Mr. Handel’s music and Mr. Mozart’s music was the background of the scene, for now and then he would burst into song.

He drank a good deal, and he told her then of how on out occasion at Vauxhall he had stolen the purse of a fine lady who had gone there to meet her lover. She dared not raise a hue and cry because it must not be known that she had gone there to meet her lover.

When he told that story, which was no more shocking than others he had told, Esther got up from the table.

“You are devilish I’ she said, and burst into tears. And he just looked at her, cruelly, without saying anything, but Katharine could see he hated her and she hated him. She ran out of tie room, crying, which made Katharine very uncomfortable at first, but the other children hardly seemed to notice, and guessing that the reason they did not was because they had seen it happen many times before, she did not care either; for after all, she would care only on their account, and if they did not, where was the sense in her doing so? She was rather glad Esther had gone; she had tried to spoil the fun anyway. They could be more rollickingly gay without her.

When the meal was over, they sat on, talking. Darkness had come and lamps were lighted. Then Elizabeth’s mother came in and took the child away; she was a comely girl with a fat, stupid face, and the man Marcus kissed the little girl tenderly and the servant girl lightly, which seemed a very extraordinary thing to do, but none of the others appeared to think so. She tried to imagine Papa’s kissing Poll or Amy. It was quite impossible!

They gathered round the table when it had been cleared of the food; two tame dingoes stretched themselves out on the floor.

Then Marcus took a map and spread it on the table, and she and Henry pored over it with him. There was Sydney, a big black dot, and there was the coast and the sea, and Port Jackson and Botany Bay … and then, all furry looking, like a great caterpillar, wound the Blue Mountains. And beyond the Blue Mountains was a blank space.

Oh, it was wonderful to lean over that table and to see his face with its wrinkled skin and merry blue eyes in the lamplight, to be there ..” one of them … to listen to him as he talked and pointed with his finger at the places, now and then throwing out a word for her alone.

“What do you think, Miss Masterman?”

“Do you not think so?” As though she were not only a grownup but an explorer. She knew now why Henry adored him; she was not disappointed in him now. Once she cut into the most exciting conversation to say: “May I come here again? May I come often?” And he did not reprove her for interrupting; he seemed glad that she had interrupted, for he stretched out a hand quickly and gripped hers so that it hurt. He said: “Come as often as you like, Miss Masterman. Or perhaps I may call you Katharine…”

He talked of how he and others had tried to cross the mountains; how they had hacked away at the brushwood, how they had camped in deep gullies, how they had followed what they had thought might prove to be a way over the mountains, only to be disappointed. He told of dwindling stores, of the necessity for return, of weariness, and cold and heat, and sleeplessness.

They adored him because at one moment he was a child with them, delighting in the things that delight children, and the next he was a man, and they man and woman with him.

The woman spoilt it all by putting her curly head round the door and saying: “It is time Henry went to bed; it is time she did too.”

And strangely enough he did not protest, but folded up the map, and the lovely evening was over.

Katharine had a little room with a narrow bed in it, a basin and jug and a washstand and chest of drawers. The woman lent her a nightgown, and when she brought it in, Katharine could see that she had been crying. But Katharine was too tired to think much of her, and was soon asleep; and when she awakened in the morning, remembered where she was with a delicious sense of excitement. She washed hastily and went downstairs to find Marcus on the veranda, where the fat servant brought her bread and milk.

Marcus said: “We will ride back to Sydney as soon as you are ready.” He seemed less happy than he had been last night, wistful and very sorry that she was going. When she had finished her bread and milk, and Had eaten newly baked cakes, and drunk coffee, he said very earnestly: “I hope you will come again. It is not such a long ride out from Sydney, if you know the direct way to come. You must watch as we ride back, and take note of best way to come.”

“Thank you very much!”

“You are not sorry you were lost?”

“No, I am glad. I have loved it. I shall certainly come again..” often. May I come often ?”

“It could not be too often for me.”

“I am glad you like me.”

“Does that mean you like me?”

“You are different from other people.”

“Different from your father?”

“Oh, yes! Very different from him.”

“Yet you do not dislike me? You must be very fond of him.”

“Why, yes. He is very clever, you know. And very important.”

“And he amuses you… as I did last night?”

“Oh … Papa is not like that. He does not talk… very mud Except about the First Fleet and Mr. Bass and Mr. Flinders… and then only a little. He does not talk like you do.”

“And you liked the way I talked, did you not?” She was puzzled. She did not know what he wanted her to say, but had stopped thinking solely about him because her thoughts had switched to Papa and Mamma. She hoped they had not been frightened.

She said: “He is the best father in the world.”

“How do you know?” he said, just like Martin might have said Mamma says so.”

Then he dropped the subject, and she was glad.

She said goodbye to Henry, who intimated very definitely that she must come again. She said goodbye to Esther and Mr. Blake ‘ and all the children. Then she rode back with Marcus.

He talked fascinatingly as they rode, pointing out landmarks; he explained the difference in the grasses and the trees, and compared them with those of the Old Country. He sang songs he had known in the Old Country, and she was sorry when they came into Sydney.

Mamma came out into the yard. She was very white, and there were dark shadows under her eyes, and she stared at them as though they were ghosts.

“Hello, Mamma!” she called uneasily.

“I was lost.”

“Katharine!” said Carolan stonily, looking at the man. Katharine slipped off her horse; she stood there holding the bridle nervously.

Marcus said: “Carolan, your little daughter was rescued by my son. Do you not think that a rather charming sequel to … everything?”

Mamma called to one of the men to take Katharine’s horse. Mamma was white and haughty. Margery appeared; she had been crying. She screamed out when she saw Katharine: “Oh, my little love! My own little love!” And Katherine, frightened for some reason of which she was only partly aware, ran to Margery as if for protection, and Margery knelt on the stones of the yard and put her arms about her.

“Scared out of me wits, lovey. Why, you scared me out of me natural… Why, whatever was you up to?”

“I was lost, and Henry found me. and…” Margery’s body had gone taut; she was no longer thinking of Katharine; she was staring over Katharine’s head at Marcus.

Papa appeared. His face shone with sudden joy when he saw Katharine, and Katharine knew then that they had had no message, and had been very frightened.

She ran to Papa; he lifted her up; she kissed him and went on kissing to try to explain by kisses that she would rather have given up her exciting evening than that he and Mamma should be worried like this.

Then Mamma turned her head and said: “It is all right now. She was lost. This… gentleman brought her home.”

Papa hugged Katharine and said: “Bring him in! Bring him in!”

They went into the house, and when they were inside. Mamma took Katharine from Papa’s arms, and her eyes were cold and very angry.

“Go to your room at once, Katharine!” she said, and her voice was like ice, and sharp like the edge of a knife; and Katharine went in shame because she knew she ought to have insisted on coming home, and that Esther had been right; that that jaunty, exciting, lovely man Marcus had not kept his word about sending a message.

She went to her room and waited there, feeling that something awful was going to happen. It was not very long before she heard Marcus ride away. She hoped they had been nice to him, for he had been very nice to her. She hoped they had given him refreshment; it would be awful if Mamma were not nice to him just because he had forgotten to send that message.

James and Martin came in.

“Where have you been?” demanded James.

“I was lost.” What a glorious account of her adventure she had imagined herself giving James. And now she had nothing to say except “I was lost.” which they knew already.

“We had a search party I’ cried James excitedly.

“Lanthorns and flaming torches!” screeched Martin.

“We thought you’d been murdered, you see,” said James cheerfully.

“I might have been,” she said.

“Yes,” said James with unnecessary melancholy, ‘but you weren’t.”

Miss Kelly came in.

“I wonder you’re not ashamed,” she said.

“I never saw such a fuss. I think what you deserve is a thorough good whipping.”

Miss Kelly bustled the boys out and turned the key in the lock.

It was some time before Mamma came in. Katharine threw herself against her.

“Mammal Why am I locked up here? It wasn’t my fault; I was lost … Anybody might get lost… And then I heard Henry’s horse. It was exciting; I coo-eed and he coo-eed, and then he came and took me to his home.”

“Yes?” said Mamma in an odd, stony voice.

“And then it was such fun, Mamma. Oh, he has been everywhere. And he told us, Mamma. He told us all about it. All about London and the Old Country. He talks differently from anyone else different from Margery or Papa, or even you. He tells you things, and you see them, and oh. Mamma, don’t you like him?

Can he come here? He would like to. It’s nicer here than there … and I think they quarrel a lot. She looks at him as if she hates him. and he doesn’t care a bit when she cries, and he kisses the servant, and there’s an Elizabeth. Henry says he’s got half-brothers and sisters. Henry’s nice. Oh. Mamma, can they come?”

“Really, Katharine, I haven’t the faintest notion of what you’re saying. You are most incoherent. And it was very, very naughty of you to go off like that; and I am going to punish you for being so thoughtless. Your father and I were very worried.”

“Oh, but Mamma, the man came. She said you would be worried; he said he would send a man to tell you where I was.”