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Mr. Courtenay was in the library at Langton, tranquilly pursuing some part of the business which had brought him thither, when Miss Blank and her charge returned from their walk. His chief object, it is true, in this visit to the house of his fathers, had been to look after his ward; but there had been other business to do—leases to renew, timber to cut down, cottages to build; a multiplicity of small matters, which required his personal attention. These were straightforward, and did not trouble him as the others did; and the fact was that he felt much relieved by the absence of the young feminine problem, which it was so hard upon him, at his age, and with his habits, to be burdened with. He had dismissed her even out of his mind, and was getting through the less difficult matters steadily, with a grateful sense that here at least he had nothing in hand that was beyond his power. It was shady in the Langton library, cool, and very quiet; whereas outside there was one blaze of sunshine, and the day was hot. Mr. Courtenay was comfortable—perhaps for the first time since his arrival. He was satisfied with his present occupation, and for the moment had dismissed his other cares.

This was the pleasant position of affairs when Miss Blank rushed in upon him, with indignation in her countenance. There was something more than indignation—there was the flush of heat produced by her walk, and her unusual outburst of temper, and the dust, and a little dishevelment inseparable from wrath. She scarcely took time to knock at the door. She was a person who had been recommended to him as imperturbable in temper and languid in disposition—the last in the world to make any fuss; consequently he stared upon her now with absolute consternation, and even a little alarm.

‘Compose yourself, Miss Blank—take time to speak. Has anything happened to Kate?’

He was quite capable of hearing with composure anything that might have happened to Kate—anything short of positive injury, indeed, which would have freed him of her, would have been tidings of joy.

‘I have come to say, sir,’ said Miss Blank, ‘that there are some things a lady cannot be expected to put up with. I have always felt the time must come when I could not put up with Miss Courtenay. I am not an ill-tempered person, I hope–’

‘Quite the reverse, I have always heard,’ said Mr. Courtenay, politely, but with a sigh.

‘Thank you, sir. I believe I have always been considered to have a good temper; but I have said to myself, since ever I came here, “Miss Courtenay is bad enough now—she is trial enough to any lady’s feelings now.” I am sorry to have to say it if it hurts your feelings, Mr. Courtenay, but your niece s—she is—it is really almost impossible for a lady who has a respect for herself, and does not wish to be hurried into exhibitions of temper, to say what Miss Kate is.’

‘Pray compose yourself, Miss Blank. Take a seat. From my own observation,’ said Mr. Courtenay, ‘I am aware my niece must be troublesome at times.’

‘Troublesome!’ said Miss Blank—‘at times! That shows, sir, how little you know. About her troublesomeness I can’t trust myself to speak; nor is it necessary at the present moment. But I have always said to myself, “When that time comes, I will go at once.” And it appears to me, Mr. Courtenay, that though premature, that time has come.’

‘What time, for Heaven’s sake?’ said the perplexed guardian.

‘Mr. Courtenay, you know what she is as well as I do. It is not for any personal reason, though I am aware many people think her pretty; but it is not that. She is an heiress, she will have a nice property, and a great deal of money, therefore it is quite natural that it should be premature.’

‘Miss Blank, you would do me an infinite favour if you would speak plainly. What is it that is premature?’

Miss Blank had taken a seat, and she had loosed the strings of her bonnet. Her ideas of decorum had indeed been so far overcome by her excitement, that even under Mr. Courtenay’s eye she had begun to fan herself with her handkerchief. She made a pause in this occupation, and pressed her handkerchief to her face, as expressive of confusion; and from the other side of this shield she answered, ‘Oh! that I should have to speak to a gentleman of such things! If you demand a distinct answer, I must tell you. It is lovers, Mr. Courtenay.’

‘Lovers!’ he said, involuntarily, with a laugh of relief.

‘You may laugh, but it is no laughing matter,’ said Miss Blank. ‘Oh! if you had known, as I do by experience, what it is to manage girls! Do you know what a girl is, Mr. Courtenay?—the most aggravating, trying, unmanageable, untamable–’

‘My dear Miss Blank,’ said, Mr. Courtenay, seriously, ‘I presume that you were once one of these untamable creatures yourself.’

‘Ah!’ said the governess, with a long-drawn breath. It had not occurred to her, and, curiously enough, now that it was suggested, the idea seemed rather to flatter her than otherwise. She shook her head; but she was softened. ‘Perhaps I should not have said all girls,’ she resumed. ‘I was very strictly brought up, and never allowed to take such folly into my head. But to return to our subject, Mr. Courtenay. I must beg your attention to this—it has been my principle through life, I have never departed from it yet, and I cannot now—When lovers appear, I have always made it known among my friends—I go.’

‘I have no doubt it is an admirable principle,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘But in the present case let us come to particulars. Who are the lovers?’

‘One of the young gentlemen at the Rectory,’ answered Miss Blank, promptly; and then for the first time she felt that she had produced an effect.

Mr. Courtenay made no reply—he put down his pen, which he had been holding all this time in his hand; his face clouded over; he pushed his paper away from him and puckered his lips and his forehead. This time, without doubt, she had produced an effect.

‘I must beg you accordingly, Mr. Courtenay, to accept my resignation,’ said Miss Blank. ‘I have always kept up a good connection, and never suffered myself to be compromised, and I don’t mean to begin now. This day month, sir, if you please—if in the meantime you are suited with another lady in my place–’

‘Miss Blank, don’t you think this is something like forsaking your post? Is it not ungenerous to desert my niece when she has so much need of your protection? Do you not feel–’ Mr. Courtenay had commenced unawares.

‘Sir,’ said Miss Blank, with dignity, ‘when I was engaged, it was specially agreed that this was to be no matter of feelings. I have specially watched over my feelings, that they might not get any way involved. I am sure you must recollect the terms of my engagement as well as I.’

Mr. Courtenay did recollect them, and felt he had made a false step; and then the difficulties of his position rushed upon his bewildered sight. He did not know girls as Miss Blank did, who had spent many a weary year in wrestling with them; but he knew enough to understand that, if a girl in her natural state was hard to manage, a girl with a lover must be worse. And what was he to do if left alone, and unaided, to rule and quiet such an appalling creature? He drew in his lips, and contracted his forehead, until his face was about half its usual size. It gave him a little relief when the idea suddenly struck him that Miss Blank’s hypothesis might not be built on sufficient foundation. Women were always thinking of lovers—or, at least, not knowing anything precisely about women, so Mr. Courtenay had heard.

‘Let us hope, at least,’ he said, ‘that your alarming suggestion has been hastily made. Will you tell me what foundation you have for connecting Kate’s name with—with anything of the kind? She is only fifteen—she is not old enough.’

‘I thought I had said distinctly, Mr. Courtenay, that I considered it to be premature?’

‘Yes, yes, certainly—you said so—but– Perhaps, Miss Blank, you will kindly favour me with the facts–’

At this point another hurried knock came to the door. And once more, without waiting for an answer, Kate, all tears and trouble, her face flushed like Miss Blank’s, her hair astray, and an open letter in her hand, came rushing into the room. Two agitated female creatures in one hour, rushing into the private sanctuary of the most particular of bachelors! Mr. Courtenay commended her, though she was his nearest relation, to all the infernal gods.

‘What is the matter now?’ he cried, sharply. ‘Why do you burst in uninvited when I am busy? Kate, you seem to be trying every way to irritate and annoy me. What is it now?’

‘Uncle,’ cried Kate, breathlessly, ‘I have just got a letter, and I want to ask you—never mind her!—may I go to my Aunt Anderson’s? She is willing to have me, and it will save you heaps of trouble! Oh! please, Uncle Courtenay, please never mind anything else! May I go?’

‘May you go—to your Aunt Anderson? Why, here is certainly a new arrangement of the board!’ said Mr. Courtenay. He said the last words mockingly, and he fixed his eyes on Kate as if she had been a natural curiosity—which, indeed, in a great degree, she was to him.

‘Yes—to my Aunt Anderson. You spoke of her yourself—you know you did. You said she must not come here! and she does not want to come here. I don’t think she would come if she was asked! but she says I am to go to her. Uncle Courtenay, in a little while I shall be able to do what I like, and go where I like–’

‘Not for six years, my dear,’ said Mr. Courtenay, with a smile.

Kate stamped her foot in her passion.

‘If I were to write to the Lord Chancellor, I am sure he would let me!’ she cried.

‘But you are not a ward in Chancery—you are my ward,’ said Mr. Courtenay, blandly.

‘Then I will run away!’ cried Kate, once more stamping her foot. ‘I will not stay here. I hate Langton-Courtenay, and everybody that is unkind, and the people who hate me. I tell you I hate them, Uncle Courtenay! I will run away!’

‘I don’t doubt it, for one,’ said Miss Blank, quietly; ‘but with whom, Miss Kate, I should like to know? I daresay your plans are all laid.’

Mr. Courtenay did not see the blank stare of surprise with which Kate, all innocent of the meaning which was conveyed to his ear by these words, surveyed her adversary. His own better-instructed mind was moved by it to positive excitement. Even if Miss Blank had been premature in her suggestion, still there could be little doubt that lovers were a danger from which Kate could not be kept absolutely safe. And there were sons at the Rectory, one of whom, a good-looking young fellow of twenty, he had himself seen coming forward with a look of delighted recognition. Danger! Why, it was almost more than danger; it seemed a certainty of evil—if not now, why, then, next year, or the year after! Mr. Courtenay, like most old men of the world, felt an instinctive distrust of, and repugnance to, parsons. And a young parson was proverbially on the outlook for heiresses, and almost considered it a duty to provide for himself by marriage. All this ran through his disturbed mind as these two troublesome feminine personages before him waited each for her answer. ‘Confound women! They are more trouble than they are worth, a hundred times over!’ the old bachelor said to himself.