‘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.