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
