Mr. Courtenay was much too true to his instincts, however, to satisfy
these two applicants, or to commit himself by any decision on the spot.
He dismissed Miss Blank with the formal courtesy which he employed
towards his inferiors, begging her to wait until to-morrow, when he
should have reflected upon the problem she had laid before him. And he
sent away Kate with much less ceremony, bidding her hold her tongue, and
leave the room and leave things alone which she did not understand. He
would not listen to the angry response which rose to her lips; and Kate
had a melancholy night in consequence, aggravated by the miserable
sensation that she had been snubbed in presence of Miss Blank, who was
quite ready to take advantage of her discomfiture. When Kate’s guardian,
however, was left alone to think, it is probable that his own
reflections were not delightful. He was not a man apt to take himself to
task, nor give way to self-examination, but still it was sufficiently
apparent to him that his plan had not succeeded as he had hoped in
Kate’s case. What he had hoped for had been to produce a quiet, calm
girl, who would do what she was told, whose expectations and wishes
would be on a subdued scale, and who would be reasonable enough to feel
that his judgment was supreme in all matters. Almost all men at one time
or another of their lives entertain the idea of ‘moulding’ a model
woman. Mr. Courtenay’s ideal was not high--all he wanted was
submissiveness, manageableness, quiet manners, and a total absence of
the sentimental and emotional. The girl might have been permitted to be
clever, to be a good musician, or a good artist, or a great student, if
she chose, though such peculiarities always detract more or less from
the air of good society which ought to distinguish a lady; but still Mr.
Courtenay prided himself upon being tolerant, and he would not have
interfered in such a case. But that this ward of his, this
representative of his family, should choose to be an individual being
with a very strong will and marked characteristics of her own,
exasperated the old man of the world. ‘Most women have no character at
all,’ he repeated to himself, raising his eyebrows in wondering appeal
to Providence. Had the happy period when that aphorism was true,
departed along with all the other manifestations of the age of Gold?--or
was it still true, and was it the fault of Providence, to punish him for
his sins, that his share of womankind should be so perverse? This was a
question which it was difficult to make out; but he was rather inclined
to chafe at Providence, which really does interfere so unjustifiably
often, when things would go very well if they were left to themselves.
The longer he thought of it, the more disgusted did he become--at once
with Miss Blank and with her charge. What a cold-hearted wretch the
woman must be! How strange that she should not at least ‘take an
interest’ in the girl! To be sure he had made it a special point in her
engagement that she should not take an interest. He was right in doing
so, he felt sure; but, still, here was an unforeseen crisis, at which it
would have been very important to have lighted on some one who would not
be bound by a mere bargain. The girl was an unmanageable little fool,
determined to have her own way at all risks; and the law would not
permit him to shut her up, and keep her in the absolute subjection of a
prison. She must have every advantage, forsooth--freedom and society,
and Heaven knows what besides; education as much as if she were going to
earn her living as a governess; and even that crowning horror, Lovers,
when the time came. Yes, there was no law in the realm forbidding an
heiress to have lovers. Miss Blank might resign, not wishing to
compromise herself: but he, the unhappy guardian, could not resign. It
was not illegal for a young man to speak to Kate--any idle fellow, with
an introduction, might chatter to her, and drive her protectors frantic,
and yet could not be put into prison for it. And there could be little
doubt that, simply to spite her guardian, after she had worried him to
death in every other way, she would fall in love. She would do it, as
sure as fate; and even if she met with opposition she was a girl quite
capable of eloping with her lover, giving unbounded trouble, and
probably throwing some lasting stigma on herself and her name. It was
premature, as Miss Blank said; but Miss Blank was a person of
experience, learned in the ways of girls, and doubtless knew what she
was saying. She had declined to have anything further to do with Kate;
she had declared her own sway and ‘lovers’ to be quite incompatible. But
Mr. Courtenay could not give a month’s warning, and what was he to do?
If there was but anybody to be found who would ‘take an interest’ in the
girl! This idea flashed unconsciously through his mind, and he did not
even realise that in wishing for this, in perceiving its necessity, he
was stultifying all the previous exertions of his guardianship. Theories
are all very well, but it is astonishing how ready men are to drop them
in an emergency. Mr. Courtenay was in a dreadful emergency at present,
and he prayed to his gods for some one to ‘take an interest’ in this
girl. Her Aunt Anderson! The suggestion was so very convenient, it was
so delightfully ready a way of escape out of his troubles, that he felt
it necessary to pull himself up, and look at it fully. It is not to be
supposed that it was a pleasant or grateful suggestion in itself. Had he
been in no trouble about Kate, he would have at once, and sternly,
declined all invitations (he would have said interference) on the part
of her mother’s family. The late Mr. Courtenay had made a very foolish
marriage, a marriage quite beneath his position; and the sister of the
late Mrs. Courtenay had been discouraged in all her many attempts to see
anything of the orphan Kate. Fortunately she had not been much in
England, and, until the present, these attempts had all been made when
Kate was a baby. Had the young lady of Langton-Courtenay been at all
manageable, they would have been equally discouraged now. But the very
name of Mrs. Anderson, at this crisis, breathed across Mr. Courtenay’s
tribulations like the sweet south across a bed of violets. It was such a
temptation to him as he did not know how to withstand. Her mother’s
family! They had no right, certainly, to any share of the good things,
which were entirely on the Courtenay side; but certainly they had a
right to their share of the trouble. This trouble he had borne for
fifteen years, and had not murmured. Of course, in the very nature of
things, it was their turn now.
Mr. Courtenay reflected very deeply on this subject, looking at it in
all its details. Fortunately there were but few remnants of her mother’s
family. Mrs. Anderson was the widow of a Consul, who had spent almost
all his life abroad. She had a pension, a little property, and an only
daughter, a little older than Kate. There were but two of them. If they
turned out to be of that locust tribe which Mr. Courtenay so feared and
hated, they could at least be bought off cheaply, when they had served
their purpose. The daughter, no doubt, would marry, and the mother could
be bought off. Mr. Courtenay did not enter into any discussion with
himself as to the probabilities of carrying out this scheme of buying
off. At this moment he did not care to dwell upon any difficulties. In
the meantime, he had the one great difficulty, Kate herself, to get
settled somehow; and anything which might happen six years hence was so
much less pressing. By that time a great many things unforeseen might
have happened; and Mr. Courtenay did not choose to make so long an
excursion into the unknown. What was he to do with her now? Was he to be
compelled to stay in the country, to give up all his pleasures and
comforts, and the habits of his life, in order to guard and watch over
this girl?--or should she be given over, for the time, to the
guardianship of her mother’s family? This was the real question he had
to decide.
And by degrees he came to think more and more cordially of Mrs.
Anderson--more cordially, and, at the same time, contemptuously. What a
fool she must be, to offer voluntarily to take all this trouble! No
doubt she expected to make her own advantage out of it; but Mr.
Courtenay, with a grim smile upon his countenance, felt that he himself
was quite capable of taking care of that. He might employ her, but he
would take care that her devotion should be disinterested. She would be
better than a governess at this crisis of Kate’s history! She would be a
natural duenna and inspectress of morals, as well as the superintendent
of education; and it should, of course, be fully impressed upon her that
it was for her interest to discourage lovers, and keep the external
world at arm’s length. The very place of her residence was favourable.
She had settled in the Isle of Wight, a long way from Langton-Courtenay,
and happily so far from town that it would not be possible to run up and
down and appeal to him at any moment. He thought of this all night, and
it was the first subject that returned to his thoughts in the morning.
Mrs. Anderson, or unlimited worry, trouble, and annoyance--banishment to
the country, severance from all delights. Then let it be Mrs. Anderson!
he said to himself, with a sigh. It was hard upon him to have such a
decision to make, and yet it was satisfactory to feel that he had
decided for the best. He went down to breakfast with a certain solemn
composure, as of a man who was doing right and making a sacrifice. It
would be the salvation of his personal comfort, and to secure that, at
all costs, was fundamentally and eternally right; but it was a sacrifice
at once of pride and of principle, and he felt that he had a right to
the honours of martyrdom on that score.
After breakfast he called his ward into the library, with a polite
little speech of apology to Miss Blank. ‘If you will permit me the
pleasure of a few words with you at twelve o’clock, I think we may
settle that little matter,’ he said, with the greatest suavity; leaving
upon that lady’s mind the impression that Kate was to be bound hand and
foot, and delivered over into her hands--which, as Miss Blank had no
desire, could she avoid it, to leave the comfort of Langton-Courtenay,
was very satisfactory to her; and then he withdrew into the library with
the victim.
‘Now, Kate,’ he said, sitting down, ‘I am going to speak to you very
seriously.’
‘You have been doing nothing but speak to me seriously ever since you
came,’ said Kate, pouting. ‘I wish you would not give yourself so much
trouble, Uncle Courtenay. All I want is just yes or no.’
‘But a great deal depends on the yes or the no. Look here, Kate, I am
willing to let you go--oh! pray don’t clap your hands too soon!--I am
willing to let you go, on conditions, and the conditions are rather
serious. You had better not decide until you hear----’
‘I am sure I shall not mind them,’ said impetuous Kate, before whose
eyes there instantly rose up a prospect of a new world, all full of
freshness, and novelty, and interest. Mind!--she would not have minded
fire and water to get at an existence which should be altogether new.
‘Listen, however,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘My conditions are very grave. If
you go to Mrs. Anderson, Kate----’
‘Of course I shall go, if you will let me, Uncle Courtenay.’
‘If you go,’ said Mr. Courtenay, with a wave of his hand deprecating
interruption, ‘it must not be for a visit only--you must go to stay.’
‘To stay!’
Kate’s eyes, which grew round with the strain of wonder, interest, and
excitement, and which kindled, and brightened, and shone, reflecting
like a mirror the shades of feeling that passed through her mind, were a
sight to see.
‘If you go,’ he continued, ‘and if Mrs. Anderson is content to receive
you, it must be for the remainder of your minority. I have had a great
deal of trouble with your education, and now it is just that your
mother’s family should take their share. Hear me out, Kate. Your aunt,
of course, should have an allowance for your maintenance, and you could
have as many masters and governesses, and all the rest, as were
necessary; but if you go out of my hands, you go not for six weeks, but
for six years, Kate.’
Kate had been going to speak half a dozen times, but now, having
controlled herself so long, she paused with a certain mixture of
feelings. Her delight was certainly toned down. To go and come--to be
now Queen of Langton, and now her aunt’s amused and petted guest, had
been her own dream of felicity. This was a different matter, there could
be no doubt. It would be the old story--if not the monotony of Langton,
which she knew, the monotony of Shanklin, which she did not know.
Various clouds passed over the firmament which had looked so smiling.
Perhaps it was possible her Aunt Anderson and Ombra might not turn out
desirable companions for six years--perhaps she might regret her native
place, her supremacy over the cottagers, whom she sometimes exasperated.
The cloud thickened, dropped lower. ‘Should I never be allowed to come
back?--not even to _see_ Langton, Uncle Courtenay?’ she asked in a
subdued voice.
‘Langton, in that case, ought to be let or shut up.’
‘Let!--to other people!--to strangers, Uncle Courtenay!--our house!’
‘Well, you foolish child, are we such very superior clay that we cannot
let our house? Why, the best people in England do it. The Duke of
Brentford does it. You have not quite his pretensions, and he does not
mind.’
‘But I have quite his pretensions,’ cried Kate--‘more!--and so have you,
uncle. What is he more than a gentleman? and we are gentlemen, I hope.
Besides, a Duke has a vulgar sort of grandeur with his title--you know
he has--and can do what he pleases; but we must act as gentlefolks. Oh!
Uncle Courtenay, not that!’
‘Pshaw!’ was all that Mr. Courtenay replied. He was not open to
sentimental considerations, especially when money was concerned; but,
still, he had so much natural prejudice remaining in him for the race
and honour of Langton-Courtenay, that he thought no worse of his
troublesome ward for what she had said. He would of course pay no manner
of attention to it; but still, on the whole, he liked her so to speak.
‘Let us waive the question,’ he resumed. ‘No, not to
Langton-Courtenay--I don’t choose you should return here, if you quit
it. But there might be change of air, once a year or so, to other
places.’
‘Oh! might we go and travel?--might we go,’ cried Kate, looking up to
him with shining eyes and eager looks, and lips apart, like an angelic
petitioner, ‘abroad?’
She said this last word with such a fulness and roundness of sound, as
it would be impossible, even in capitals, to convey through the medium
of print.
‘Well,’ he said, with a smile, ‘probably that splendour and delight
might be permitted to be--if you could afford it off your allowance,
being always understood.’
‘Oh! of course we could afford it,’ said Kate. ‘Uncle, I consent at
once--I will write to my Aunt Anderson at once. I wish she was not
called Anderson--it sounds so common--like the groom in the village.
Uncle Courtenay, when can I start? To-morrow? Now, why should you shake
your head? I have very few things to pack; and to-morrow is just as good
as any other day.’
‘Quite as good, I have no doubt; and so is to-morrow week,’ said Mr.
Courtenay. ‘In the first place, you must take till to-morrow to decide.’
‘But when I have decided already!’ said Kate.
‘To-morrow at this time bring me your final answer. There, now run
away--not another word.’
Kate went away, somewhat indignant; and for the next twenty-four hours
did nothing but plan tours to all the beautiful places she had ever
heard or read about. Her deliberations as to the scheme in general were
all swallowed up in this. ‘I will take them to Switzerland; I will take
them to Italy. We shall travel four or five months in every year; and
see everything and hear everything, and enjoy everything,’ she said to
herself, clapping her hands, as it were, under her breath. For she was
generous in her way; she was quite clear on the point that it was she
who must ‘take’ her aunt and cousin everywhere, and make everything
agreeable for them. Perhaps there was in this a sense of superiority
which satisfied that craving for power and influence which belonged to
her nature; but still, notwithstanding her defective education, it was
never in Kate’s mind to keep any enjoyment to herself.