Miss Courtenay, of Langton-Courtenay, had scarcely ever in her life been
promoted before to the glories of a late dinner. She had received no
visitors, and the house was still under school-room sway, as became her
age, consequently this was a great era to Kate. She placed herself at
the head of the table, with a pride and delight which neither her
cynical old uncle nor her passive governess had the least notion of. The
occurrence was trifling to them, but to her its importance was immense.
Miss Blank, who was troubled by fears of being in the way--fears which
her charge made no effort to enlighten--and whose digestion, besides,
was feeble, preferred to have the usual two o’clock dinner, and to leave
Kate alone to entertain her uncle. This dinner had been the subject of
Kate’s thoughts for some days. She had insisted on the production of all
the plate which the little household at Langton had been permitted to
retain; she had the table decked with a profusion of flowers. She had
not yet discretion enough to know that a small table would have been in
better taste than the large one, seated at opposite ends of which her
guardian and herself were as if miles apart. They could not see each
other for the flowers; they could scarcely hear each other for the
distance; but Kate was happy. There was a certain grown-up grandeur,
even in the discomfort. As for Mr. Courtenay, he was extremely
impatient. ‘What a fool the girl must be!’ he said to himself; and went
on to comment bitterly upon the popular fallacy which credits women with
intuitive good taste and social sense, at least. When he made a remark
upon the long distance that separated them, Kate cheerfully suggested
that he should come up beside her. She took away his breath by her
boldness; she deafened him with her talk. Behind that veil of flowers
which concealed her young, bright figure, she poured forth the monologue
of a rural gossip, never pausing to inquire if he knew or cared anything
about the objects of it. And of course Mr. Courtenay neither knew nor
cared. His own acquaintance with the house of his father had ended long
before she was born, before her father had succeeded to the property;
and he never had been interested in the common people who formed Kate’s
world. Then it was very apparent to Kate’s uncle that the man who waited
(and waited very badly) grinned without concealment at his young
mistress’s talk; and that Kate herself was not indifferent to the _fond_
of appreciation thus secured to her. It would be impossible to put into
words the consternation which filled him as he ate an indifferent
dinner, and listened to all this. He had succeeded so far that no one
governess nor maid had secured dominion over the mind of the future
sovereign of Langton; but at what a cost had he secured it! ‘You seem to
interest yourself a great deal about all these people,’ he said at
length.
‘Yes, Uncle Courtenay, of course I do. I have nobody else to take an
interest in,’ said Kate. ‘But the people at the Rectory are very
disagreeable. If the living should fall vacant in my time, it certainly
shall never go to one of them. The second son, Herbert, whom they call
Bertie, is going in for the Church, and I suppose they think he will
succeed his father; but I am sure he never shall, if that happens in my
time. There are two daughters, Edith and Minnie; and I don’t think Mrs.
Hardwick can be a good manager, for the girls are always so badly
dressed; and you know, Uncle Courtenay, it is a very good living. I have
felt tempted a dozen times to say, “Why don’t you clothe the girls
better?” If they had been farmers, or anything of that sort, I should at
once----’
‘And how do the farmers like your interference, Kate?’
‘My interference, Uncle Courtenay! Why, of course one must speak if one
sees things going wrong. But to return to the Hardwicks. I did write,
you know, about the candles on the altar----’
‘Why, Kate, I did not know how universal you were,’ said her uncle,
half-amused--‘theological, too?’
‘I don’t know about theology; but burning candles in daylight, when
there was not a bit of darkness--not a fog, even--what is the good of
it? I thought I had a right to let Mr. Hardwick know. It is my
parish and my tenantry, and I do not mean to give them up. Isn’t
the Queen the head of the Church?--then, of course, I am the head of
Langton-Courtenay, and it is flat rebellion on the Rector’s part. What
do you mean, Uncle Courtenay?--are you laughing at me?’
‘Why, Kate, your theories take away my breath,’ said Mr. Courtenay.
‘Don’t you think this is going a little too far? You cannot be head of
the Church in Langton-Courtenay without interfering with Her Majesty’s
prerogative. She is over all the country, you know. You don’t claim the
power of the sword, I hope, as well----’
‘What is the power of the sword, uncle? I should claim anything that I
thought belonged to me,’ cried Kate.
‘But you would not hold a court, I hope, and erect a gallows in the
courtyard,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘I suppose our ancestor, Sir Bernard had
the right, but I would not advise you to claim it, my dear. Kate, now
that the man is gone, I must tell you that I think you have been very
impertinent to the Rector, and nothing but the fact that you are a baby,
and don’t know what you’re doing----’
‘A baby!--and impertinent!--uncle!--I!’
‘Yes, you--though you think yourself such a great personage, you must
learn to remember that you are a child, my dear. I will make a point of
calling on the Rector to-morrow, and I hope he will look over your
nonsense. But remember there must be no more of it, Kate.’
‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ she said, half weeping. ‘I will not be so
spoken to. Uncle, you are only my guardian, and it is I who am the
mistress here.’
‘You little fool!’ he said, under his breath; and then a sudden twinge
came over him--a doubt whether he had been as wise as he thought he had
been in the training of this girl. He was not the sort of man, so common
in the world, to whom cynicism in every other respect is compatible with
enthusiasm in respect to himself. He was a universal cynic. He
distrusted himself as well as other people, and consequently he did not
shut his eyes to the fact that a mistake had been made. While Kate dried
her eyes hastily, and tried her best to maintain her dignity, and
overcome those temptations towards the hysterical which prevented her
from making an immediate reply, her uncle was so candid as to stop
short, as it were, in his own course, and review a decision he had just
made. He had not known Kate when he made it; now that he saw her in all
her force and untamableness, with all those wonderful ideas of her
position, and determination to interfere with every one, he could not
but think that it might be wise to reconsider the question. What should
he do with this unmanageable girl?--good heavens! what could he do with
her? Whereas, here was a new influence offering itself, which perhaps
might do all that was wanted. Mr. Courtenay pondered while Kate
recovered some appearance of calm. She had never (she said to herself)
been so spoken to in her life. She did not understand it--she would not
submit to it! And when the hot mist of tears dried up from her eyes,
Kate looked from behind the flowers at Mr. Courtenay, with her heart
beating high for the conflict, and yet felt daunted--she could not tell
how--and did not know what to do. She would have liked to rush out of
the room, slamming the door behind her; but in that case she would have
lost at once her dignity and the strawberries, which are tempting at
fifteen. She would not let him see that he had beaten her; and yet--how
could she begin the struggle?--what could she say? She sat and
peeped at him from behind the vase of flowers which stood in the
centre of the table, and was silent for five whole minutes in her
bewilderment--perhaps longer than she ever had been silent before in her
life. Finally, it was Mr. Courtenay who broke the silence--a fact which
of itself gave him a vast advantage over her.
‘Kate,’ he said, ‘I have listened to you for a long time. I want you now
to listen to me for a little. You have heard of your aunt Anderson? She
is your mother’s only sister. She has been--I suppose you know?--for a
long time abroad.’
‘I don’t know anything about her,’ said Kate, pouting. This was not
entirely true, for she had heard just so much of this unknown relation
as a few rare letters received from her could tell--letters which left
no particular impression on Kate’s mind, except the fact that her
correspondent signed herself ‘Your affectionate Aunt,’ and which had
ceased for years. Kate’s mother had not been born on the
Langton-Courtenay level. She had been the daughter of a solicitor, whose
introduction into the up-to-that-moment spotless pedigree of the
Courtenays lay very heavy on the heart of the family. Kate knew this
fact very well, and it galled her. She might have forgiven her mother,
but she felt a visionary grudge against her aunt, and why should she
care to know anything about her? This sense of inferiority on the part
of her relation kept her silent, as well as the warm and lively force of
temper which dissuaded her from showing any interest in a matter
suggested by her uncle. If she could but have kept up so philosophical a
way of thinking! But the fact was, that no sooner had she answered than
her usual curiosity and human interest in her fellow-creatures began to
tug at Kate’s heart. What was he going to tell her about her aunt
Anderson? Who was she? What was she? What manner of woman? Was she poor,
and so capable of being made Kate’s vassal; or well off, and likely to
meet her niece on equal terms? She had to shut up her lips very tight,
lest some of these many questions should burst from them. And if Uncle
Courtenay had but known his advantage, and kept silent a little, she
would have almost gone on her knees to him for further information. But
Mr. Courtenay did not understand his advantage, and went on talking.
‘Her husband was British Consul somewhere or other in Italy. They have
been all over the Continent, in one place and another; but he died a
year ago, and now they have come home. She wishes to see you, Kate. I
have got a letter from her--with a great deal of nonsense in it--but
that by the way. There is a great deal of nonsense in all women’s
letters! She wants to come here, I suppose; but I don’t choose that she
should come here.’
‘Why, Uncle Courtenay?’ said Kate, forgetting her wrath in the
excitement of this novelty.
‘It is unnecessary to enter into my reasons. When you are of age you can
have whom you please; but in the meantime I don’t intend that this house
should be a centre of meddling and gossip for the whole neighbourhood.
So the aunt shan’t come. But you can go and visit her for a few weeks,
if you choose, Kate.’
‘Why shouldn’t my aunt come if I wish it?’ cried Kate, furious. ‘Uncle
Courtenay, I tell you again you are only my guardian, and
Langton-Courtenay belongs to _me_!’
‘And I reply, my dear, that you are fifteen, and nothing belongs to
you,’ said the old man, with a smile. ‘It is hard to repress so much
noble independence, but still that is the truth.’
‘You are a tyrant--you are a monster, Uncle Courtenay! I won’t submit to
it! I will appeal to some one. I will take it into my own hands.’
‘The most sensible thing you can do, in the meantime, is to retire to
your own room, and try to bring yourself back to common sense,’ said Mr.
Courtenay, contemptuously. ‘Not another word, Kate. Where is your
governess, or your nurse, or whoever has charge of you? Little fool! do
you think, because you rule over a pack of obsequious servants, that you
can manage me.’
‘I will not be your slave! I will never, never be your slave!’ cried
Kate, springing to her feet, and raising her flushed face over the
flowers. Her eyes blazed, her little rosy hand was clenched so tight
that the soft knuckles were white. Her lips were apart, her breath
burned, her soul was on fire. Quite ready for a fight, ready to meet any
enemy that might come against her--breathing fire and flame!
‘Pho! pho! child, don’t be a fool!’ said Mr. Courtenay; and he calmly
rang the bell, and ordered Giles to remove the wine to a small table
which stood in the window, where he removed himself presently, without
taking the least notice of her.
Kate stood for a moment, like a young goddess of war, thunder-stricken
by the calm of her adversary; and then rushed out, flinging down her
napkin, and dragging a corner of the table-cloth, so as to upset the
great dish of ruby strawberries which she had not tasted. They fell on
the floor like a heavy shower, scattering over all the carpet; and Kate
closed the door after her with a _thud_ which ran through the whole
house. She paused a moment in the hall, irresolute. Poor untrained,
unfriended child, she had no one to go to, to seek comfort from. She
knew how Miss Blank would receive her passion; and she was too proud to
acknowledge to her maid, Maryanne, how she had been beaten. She caught
the broad-brimmed garden-hat which hung in the hall, and a shawl to wrap
herself in, and rushed out, a forlorn, solitary young creature, into the
noble park that was her own. There was not a child in the village but
had some one to fly to when it had received a blow; but Kate had no
one--she had to calm herself down, and bear her passion and its
consequences alone. She rushed across the park, forgetting even that her
uncle Courtenay could see her from the window, and unconscious of the
chuckle with which he perceived her discomfiture. ‘Little passionate
idiot!’ he said to himself, as he sipped his wine. But yet perhaps had
he known what was to come of it, Mr. Courtenay would not have been quite
so contented with himself. He had forgotten all about the feelings and
sufferings of her age, if indeed he had ever known them. He did not care
a jot for the mortification and painful rage with which he had filled
her. ‘Serve her right!’ he would have said. He was old himself, and far
beyond the reach of such tempests; and he had no pity for them. But all
the more he thought with a sense of comfort of this Mrs. Anderson, with
her plebeian name, and sentimental anxiety about ‘the only child of a
beloved sister.’ The beloved sister herself had not been very welcome in
Langton-Courtenay. The Consul’s widow should never be allowed to enter
here, that was very certain; but, still, use might be made of her to
train this ungovernable child.