‘It does not follow that young ladies who are fond of Italy should care about a dull old place in the heart of England,’ said this wily old man. ‘Grieve tells me it is going to rack and ruin, which is not pleasant news. He says it is wicked and shameful to leave it so long without inhabitants; that the village is discontented, and dirty, and wretched, with no one to look after it. In short, ladies, if I look miserable, you must forgive me, for I have not got over Grieve’s letter.’
‘Who is Grieve, uncle?’
‘The new estate-agent, Kate. Didn’t you know? Ah! you must begin to take an interest in the estate. My time is drawing to a close, and I shall be glad, very glad, to be rid of it. If I could go down and live there, I might do something; but as that is impossible, I suppose things must continue going to the bad till you come of age.’
Kate sat upright in her chair; her cheeks began to glow, and her eyes to shine.
‘Why should things go to the bad?’ she said. ‘I would rather they did not, for my part.’
‘How can they do otherwise,’ said Mr. Courtenay, ‘while the house is shut up, and there is no one to see to anything? Grieve is a good fellow, but I can’t give him Langton to live in, or make him into a Courtenay.’
‘I should hope not,’ said Kate, setting her small white teeth. By this time her whole countenance began to gleam with excitement and resolution, and that charm to which she always responded with such delight and readiness, the charm of novelty. Then she made a pause, and drew in her breath. ‘Uncle,’ she said, ‘I am not a child any longer. Why shouldn’t I go home, and open the house, and live as I ought? I want something to do. I want duty, such as other people have. It is my business to look after Langton. Let me go home.’
‘You foolish child!’ he said; which was a proof, though Kate did not see it, that everything was working as he wished. ‘You foolish child! How could you, at nineteen, go and live in that house alone?’
She looked up. Her crimson cheek grew white, her eyes went in one wistful, imploring look from her aunt to Ombra, from Ombra back again to Mrs. Anderson. Her lips parted in her eagerness, her eyes shone out like lights. She was as if about to speak—but stopped short, and referred to them, as it were, for the answer. Mr. Courtenay looked at them too, not without a little anxiety; but the interest in his face was of a very different kind from that shown by Kate.
‘If you mean,’ said Mrs. Anderson, faltering, and, for her part, consulting Ombra with her eyes, ‘that you would like me to go with you—Kate, my darling, thank you for wishing it—oh! thank you, I have not deserved—— But most likely your uncle would not like it, Kate.’