did not even think it worth his while to watch over its progress. Of course it would come all right. Why should he trouble himself about the details?—to keep fast to this principle gave him quite enough trouble. Circumstances, however, had occurred which made it expedient for him to visit Langton-Courtenay when Kate completed her fifteenth year. New people had appeared on the scene, who threatened to be a greater trouble to him, and a greater danger for Kate, than even the governesses; and his sense of duty was strong enough to move him, in thus far, at least, to personal interference on his ward’s behalf.
At fifteen Kate Courtenay was the very impersonation of youthful beauty, vigour, and impetuous life. She seemed to dance as she walked, to be eloquent and rhetorical when she spoke, out of the mere exuberance of her being. Her hair, which was full of colour, chestnut-brown, still fell in negligent abundance about her shoulders; not in stiff curls, after the old mode, nor crêpé, according to the new, but in one undulating, careless flow. Though she was still dressed in the sackcloth of the school-room, there was an air of authoritative independence about her, more imposing a great deal than was that garb of complete womanhood, the ‘long dress,’ to which she looked forward with awe and hope. Her figure was full for her age, yet so light, so well-formed, so free and rapid in movement, that it had all the graceful effect of the most girlish slenderness. Her voice was slightly high-pitched—not soft and low, as is the ideal woman’s—and she talked for three people, pouring forth her experiences, her recollections, her questions and remarks, in a flood. It was not quite ladylike, more than one unhappy instructress of Kate’s youth had suggested; but there seemed no reason in the world why she should pay any attention to such a suggestion. ‘If it is natural for me to talk so, why should I try to talk otherwise? Why should I care what people think? You may, Miss Blank, because they will find fault with you, and take away your pupils, and that sort of thing; but nobody can do anything to me.’ This was Kate’s vindication of her voice, which rang through all Langton-Courtenay clear as a bell, and sweet enough to hear, but imperative, decisive, high-pitched, and unceasing. When her uncle saw her, his first sensation was one of pleasure. She was waiting for him on the step before the front door, the sunshine surrounding her with a golden halo, made out of the stray golden luminous threads in her hair.
‘How do you do, uncle?’ she called out to him as soon as he appeared. ‘I am so glad you have made up your mind to come at last. It is always a change to have you here, and there are so many things I want to talk of. You have taken the fly from the station, I see, though the carriage went for you half-an-hour ago. That is what I am always telling you, Giles, you are continually half-an-hour too late. Uncle, mind how you get down. That fly-horse is the most vicious thing! She’ll go off when you have one foot to the ground, if you don’t mind. I told old Mrs. Sayer to sell her, but these people never will do what they are told. I am glad to see you, Uncle Courtenay. How do you do?’
‘A little bewildered with my journey, Kate—and to find you a young lady receiving your guests, instead of a shy little girl running off when you were spoken to.’
‘Was I ever shy?’ said Kate, with unfeigned wonder. ‘What a very odd thing! I don’t remember it. I thought I had always been as I am now. Tell Mrs. Sayers, Tom, that I have heard something I don’t like about one of the people at Glenhouse, and that I am coming to speak to her to-morrow. Uncle, will you have some tea, or wine, or anything, or shall I take you to your room! Dinner is to be at seven. I am so glad you have come to make a change. I hate dinner at two. It suits Miss Blank’s digestion, but I am sure I hate it, and now it shall be changed. Don’t you think I am quite grown up, Uncle Courtenay? I am as tall as you.’
He was little, dried-up, shrivelled—a small old man; and she a young Diana, with a bloom which had still all the freshness of childhood. Uncle Courtenay felt irritated when she measured her elastic figure beside the stooping form of his old age.
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ he said, pettishly. ‘Grown up, indeed! I should think you were. But stop this stream of talk, for heaven’s sake, and moderate your voice, and take me in somewhere. I don’t want to have your height discussed among your servants, nor anything else I may have to say.’
‘Oh! for that matter, I do not mind who hears me talk,’ said Kate. ‘Why should I? Nobody, of course, ever interferes with me. Come into the library, uncle. It is nice and cool this hot day. Did you see anyone in the village as you came up? Did you notice if there was anyone at the Rectory? They are curious people at the Rectory, and don’t take the trouble to make themselves at all agreeable. Miss Blank thinks it very strange, considering that I am the Lady of the Manor, and have a right to their respect, and ought to be considered and obeyed. Don’t you think, uncle–’
‘Obeyed!’ he said, with a laugh which was half amusement, and half consternation. ‘A baby of fifteen is no more the Lady of the Manor than Miss Blank is. You silly child, what do you mean?’
‘I am not a child,’ said Kate, haughtily. ‘I am quite aware of my position. I may not be of age yet, but that does not make much difference. However, if you are tired, uncle, as I think you are by your face, I won’t bore you with that, though it is one of my grievances. Should you like to be left alone till dinner? If you would let me advise you, I should say lie down, and have some eau-de-Cologne on a handkerchief, and perhaps a cup of tea. It is the best thing for worry and headache.’
‘In heaven’s name, how do you know?’
‘Perfectly well,’ said Kate, calmly. ‘I have made people do it a hundred times, and it has always succeeded. Perfect quiet, uncle, and a wet handkerchief on your forehead, and a cup of my special tea. I will tell Giles to bring you one, and a bottle of eau-de-Cologne; and if you don’t move till the dressing bell rings, you will find yourself quite refreshed and restored. Why, I have made people do it over and over again, and I have never known it to fail.’
CHAPTER II
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.
