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Chapter Five
Speculations
That hot autumn day was destined, little as she knew it, to be a crisis in Katharine Kingsworth’s life. She was very far from expecting that anything should happen to her, as she sauntered along by the garden wall, eating her peaches, and wondering what to do when she had finished them. She was accustomed to have her time pretty well filled up with her studies; but the absence of object and of emulation had made these of late very wearisome to her, and her mother had half unconsciously relaxed the rein, having indeed nearly come to the end of her own powers. Carefully as she learned and taught, the want of contact with other minds deprived her own of its freshness. Katharine at nineteen was sick of reading history and doing sums, and of talking French one day and German the next. She did not like drawing, and her musical taste was of a commonplace kind, and could not flourish “itself its own delight.”
She loved her mother; but she was afraid of her, and conscious of failing to satisfy her, and the impatient desire of Change hid from her all the pleasure of association and long habit.
“I wonder if mamma means this to go on for ever,” she thought. “Am I to live here till I am as old as she is? Surely other girls have more variety. I don’t know much about it – but I begin to think our lives are odd as well as disagreeable. Surely we could go again and see Uncle Kingsworth – or go and stay somewhere else? We could– why don’t we? Are we rich, I wonder?”
The childishness of a mind which had never had anything to measure itself with, and the unvarying ascendancy of a most resolute will, had so acted that Katharine had never distinctly put these questions to herself before. Often as she had murmured, she had never resisted, nor realised the possibility of resistance. Often as she had declared that her life was hateful to her, she had no more expected that it would change than that the sun would come out because she complained when it was raining.
Katharine was impetuous; but if she had any of her mother’s strength of purpose it was as yet undeveloped. Yet all sorts of impulses and desires were awakening within her, and gradually driving her to a settled purpose – namely, to question her mother as to her reasons for living at Applehurst, and her intentions for the future.
It would be difficult to realise how tremendous a step this seemed to Katharine. To have an opinion of her own and grumble about it, was one thing – to act upon it, quite another – still she got up from her knees by the lavender bush, which she had been cutting while indulging in these meditations, and walked slowly into the house. Katharine never remembered coming into her mother’s presence in her life without a certain sense of awe and of expectation of criticism, and now as she opened the drawing-room door, her heart beat fast, and her colour, always bright enough, burnt all over her forehead and neck.
It was a pretty pleasant drawing-room; with an unmistakable air of refinement and cultivation; plenty of books and tokens of occupation, while all the furniture was handsome and in good order.
Mrs Kingsworth was sitting at a davenport, writing a letter. She was a tall woman, with a figure slender and élancé as that of a girl, delicate, regular features, and a small head adorned with an abundance of smooth, dark hair. Spite of her quiet black dress and cap, she had lost little of her youthfulness, and her eyes were bright, keen, and full of life. Otherwise it was a still set face, with little variety of expression, and spite of some likeness of form and colouring most unlike in character to the changing flushing countenance of the girl beside her.
“Isn’t it time you found some occupation, Katharine?” she said.
There was no displeasure in her tone, but as Katharine stood silent, she said quietly, “Go and practise for an hour, I don’t like to see you doing nothing.”
“What can it matter what I do?” said Katharine impetuously, her quickly roused temper diverting her in a moment from her purpose.
“Only as rational occupation is rather a better thing than idleness,” said Mrs Kingsworth with a touch of satire in her voice.
“I mean – Mamma, I want to know whether we are to live at Applehurst for ever and ever?” cried Katharine, suddenly and without any warning.
“What makes you ask me such a question?” said her mother quickly.
“Because I want an answer to it, mother! because I – I want to go away. I want to know why we never have any change. I should like to go to the sea-side – to have some friends. I hate Applehurst!”
Katharine was so frightened that there were tears in her voice as she spoke. She stood behind her mother’s chair, and twitched her hands together nervously. Mrs Kingsworth looked down at her letter.
“I thought, Katie,” she said, “that I had taught you to look for better things than change and amusement. It would grieve me very much if you had a turn for constant excitement. That is a kind of character which I despise.”
“I think it is very dull here,” said Katharine; “I want to know people. I want to do something different.”
She was fairly crying by this time, and after a minute’s silence her mother went on speaking.
“Do you know, Katharine, what I consider to be more worth living for than anything else?”
“What?” said Katharine surprised.
“The opportunity of doing a noble action,” said Mrs Kingsworth, in a low tone; “so to live and so to think and believe that if a great choice came to one, one would do the right thing, let the consequences be what they might.”
She laid down her pen that her daughter might not see her hand tremble. It was quite as critical a moment to her as to Katharine.
“Yes, but I don’t see what all that has to do with our being shut up in Applehurst!”
“Perhaps not – but you can recognise the principle that life has better aims than amusement. Believe me, no good is worth having which is bought at the expense of the slightest self-reproach.”
“I don’t mean to be cross, mamma,” said Katharine, entirely mistaking her drift, “but if we could go away sometimes – you know I am grown up.”
“Are you?” said Mrs Kingsworth. “Sometimes you are so childish that I can hardly believe it. If I could see that you had more fixed principle, that you really cared for your duty, I might think it more possible to expose you to temptations of which you now know nothing.”
“But, mamma, I don’t want to do anything wrong.”
“I think you do not see the beauty of caring for the highest right.”
Katharine pouted. She was too well trained to be flippant; but her mother’s tone irritated her; so that contrary to the principle in which she had been trained that nothing was ever gained by crying for it, she burst into tears. Mrs Kingsworth looked round at her as she stood sobbing in a vehement girlish fashion, and rubbing her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief.
“Well,” she said, “you will have a little change. Uncle Kingsworth has written to propose a visit, and I am telling him that we shall expect him here on Monday. If you like,” she added after a pause, “you can tell him your troubles.”
“He might ask us to go again to stay with him,” said Katharine, brightening up.
Her mother made no answer, and the girl slipped away into the garden and sat down on the grass. She felt ruffled and vexed, with an impression that her mother was very unsympathising, and that the sentiments which she had uttered were tiresome, matter-of-course truisms, not worth enforcing. But Uncle Kingsworth was coming, and that was something to look forward to. And before many minutes had passed Mrs Kingsworth heard Katharine run up stairs, humming a tune.
She sat still herself, oppressed with a sense of failure. How could she ever rely on this impatient childish girl to carry out the act of restitution on which her heart was set?
“If she fails I should despise her!” said Mrs Kingsworth to herself with slower tears than Katharine’s rising in her eyes, “yet I suppose her wishes are natural.”
She loved her daughter as much as ever daughter was loved; but she cared infinitely more that Katharine should be good than that she should be happy, and this principle carried out logically in small matters made her the very opposite of a spoiling mother.
Still she was enough disturbed by what had passed to resolve almost for the first time in her life on consulting Canon Kingsworth. Her clear high purpose had crystallised itself in her mind, and had been sufficient for itself – every other influence had been a disturbance from it.
Canon Kingsworth’s rare visits were always a pleasant excitement at Applehurst. The later dinner, the different dress, the turning out of the spare bedroom gave an unwonted feeling of “company” in itself cheerful. Not that there was ever anything to complain of in the household; for though Mrs Kingsworth was not a woman who found pleasure in domestic details, she was accustomed as a matter of course to have everything kept up to a certain mark of propriety and comfort.
But the sound of a man’s voice in the house, the conversation on general topics, the bright sense of outside life was enchanting to Katharine. The Canon was a fine old gentleman – still in full vigour, with abundant white hair and eyes and features of a type which his great-niece inherited. He had a certain respect for her mother and great pity, though not much liking; while she, vigorous and independent as she was, could not help a certain leaning to the only person who still called her “Mary.”
Conversation was general on the evening of the Canon’s arrival, and he took much pains to cultivate Katharine and to draw her out. On former occasions she had been full of eager talk of her lessons or her pets, or of inquiries for things and people seen in her never-to-be-forgotten visit to Fanchester; but to-day she was quiet and demure, so that the next morning after breakfast when she went to practise and Canon Kingsworth was left alone with her mother, he said, —
“Katharine is a very pretty girl; but she wants manner.”
“I am uneasy about Katharine. I do not know how to act for the best,” said Mrs Kingsworth abruptly.
“I suppose she begins to desire a little society,” said the Canon.
“Yes, almost to demand it.”
“Well, Mary, you know what I have always thought, that with the best intentions you did Katharine injustice in keeping her in ignorance of her true position.”
“Her true position!” said Mrs Kingsworth under her breath.
“Yes, however obtained, she is the owner of Kingsworth, and in two years’ time her duty will be to do her best for the welfare of the place and the people.”
“Do you not really know, Uncle Kingsworth, what my one aim has been in educating Katharine?” said Mrs Kingsworth, looking up steadily at him.
“I have always supposed that you have educated her in the way which you conscientiously think the best; though as you know, I have not always agreed with your view.”
“I shall tell you the whole truth,” said Mrs Kingsworth with sudden resolution. “I cannot conceive that any one can take another view of the matter. You know that I believe – that I am sure this property was obtained by an act of the greatest possible injustice. An act of meanness! I am bound to say the truth, whoever was the actor.”
“Indeed, Mary, I think those sad suspicions are far better laid to sleep,” said the Canon gravely.
“I do not agree with you,” said Mrs Kingsworth. “The only reparation is to undo the wrong. Katharine and I cannot have masses said for my husband’s soul; but we can refuse to profit by the sin that he committed. We need not share it. I wish Katharine on the day she comes of age to give up the estate to the rightful heiress, her cousin Emberance. I have tried to show her in all my training the beauty of self-sacrifice, to make the right thing so good in her eyes that she should be ready to prefer it to selfish pleasure. I never meet with a response! I cannot trust in her carrying out my purpose.”
Mrs Kingsworth’s voice had faltered as she went on, and now broke down completely; while the eyes, which she had raised with a certain childlike directness, filled with tears.
Canon Kingsworth took two turns up and down the room before he answered her, and then said slowly and deliberately, —
“I do not consider that Katharine is called upon to make such a renunciation.”
“Not legally, I know,” said Mrs Kingsworth.
“Nor, I think, on any principle. Let us be plain with each other. You think that but for George’s reticence the property would have gone to James. There is no doubt that had my brother been aware that his sons would only leave a girl apiece, he would have left the bulk of it to Walter Kingsworth, his cousin. I think that had he known all the circumstances of James’ marriage, he would not have wholly disinherited him; but I think that enough had passed to prevent him from making an eldest son of him. Indeed the place would have been ruined if he had. James deserved his punishment. Moreover, Mary, no living man will ever know what lies between their memories.”
“James’ deserts do not affect the question. Better give up all than retain part, even unfairly. My husband deceived his father, his daughter shall not enjoy the reward of that deception.”
“But the scandal, the publicity – ”
“I do not care for the scandal. The real shame lies in the fact, not in the knowledge of it. Let every one know the part my husband played; sin must bring shame. They will know too that his daughter has no part in the matter.”
“And how could James’ memory come out?”
“I do not care to clear James’ memory, but my own hands and Katharine’s. I do not care what becomes of Kingsworth. Let it go to ruin, – what is that to me?”
“It certainly ought to be something to Katharine, – a Kingsworth herself,” said the Canon, somewhat affronted.
“So,” pursued Mrs Kingsworth, unheeding, “I thought she should have a ready-made life independent of Kingsworth, that her affections should not cling to it. When her hands are free, then I should wish her to have the chance of marrying like other girls, though I hope she will remain single.”
“You would be very much blamed, Mary, if you did not give the child an opportunity of judging for herself.”
“Well, – possibly. You think I ought to take her to Kingsworth now?”
“Yes, and I entreat you to avoid influencing her decision.”
“Well, I promise to leave her to work it out for herself.”
“That is right, Mary. And at any rate show her something of the ordinary life and interests of young ladies. I allow that the circumstances are very unusual, and I think she does owe much consideration towards Emberance. Ask her to stay with you at Kingsworth, she is a charming girl.”
“I have no wish to know anything of Emberance,” said Mrs Kingsworth, hastily, “it is not for her sake I act, but, – well, if you think it might incline Katharine to what I wish.”
“I think the two cousins ought to know each other. Now the question is how far Kate should be told of past events. I should say as little as possible.”
“I shall tell her one day; she is not fit to understand it now,” said Mrs Kingsworth.
“I should like to talk to her,” said the Canon, and accordingly he sought Katharine in the little breakfast room. She was sitting on the music-stool, with one hand on the keys, but the notes were silent, till as she heard footsteps, she started and struck a chord. Her uncle came and stood beside her.
“Katharine,” he said, “I hear that you are tired of Applehurst. Do you know that you have another home?”
“Kingsworth? I know my father lived there. Oh, I should like to see it.”
“Your grandfather left that property by will to you, and your mother now consents to take you there.”
“Oh, uncle,” cried Katharine, flying at him and throwing her arms round his neck, “to go away, to see a new place! Dear, dear uncle, thank you, thank you.”
“Wait a bit, my child, it is not all sunshine. There are some very sad circumstances in our family history which make Kingsworth a mournful place to your mother and to me. Your inheritance is the result of events not only sorrowful but such as we cannot look back on without a feeling of shame. When you go there, there will be something for you to retrieve.”
Katharine looked grave, but with the dutiful solemnity of a child, inwardly every pulse was dancing, and when her uncle left her she stood for a minute, then with a spring and a cry that she could hardly repress, went dancing down the garden-path, clapping her hands together. Canon Kingsworth thought that he could understand her mother’s dissatisfaction.
Chapter Six
The Other Party
At the garden-gate of a pretty little house in one of the suburbs of Fanchester, on a sunny evening a few days after Canon Kingsworth’s visit to Applehurst, stood the disinherited heiress, Emberance Kingsworth. Unlike Katharine, she was fully instructed in her rights and in her wrongs; so fully that they were an old story to her, and had lost much of their interest. For life was pleasant enough, pleasanter since her mother and aunts had left off school-keeping; for Emberance did not like teaching, and preferred the various interests of domestic life.
She was very pretty, tall and lithe, with fair fresh colouring, and abundant light-brown hair, well-opened eyes of deep grey, and a certain air of candour and simplicity, serene and single-hearted.
She stood looking down the long suburban road, with its edge of lime trees, its little villas with fanciful gates, breaking the shrubberies of mountain-ash and acacia, lilac and hawthorn, that fronted the road. She made a pretty picture, with the flickering shadows of an acacia tree on her white dress and straw hat, and looked less like an injured heiress brooding over her wrongs, than a happy girl watching wistfully for a possible meeting.
Perhaps her uncle, the Canon, was not exactly the figure that she had expected to see, but as he came in sight down the road, she ran forward to meet him with ready affection.
“Well, my dear,” he said as he kissed her, “I am glad to see you here, for I wanted to have a little chat with you.”
“Did you, uncle?” said Emberance, blushing under her hat, and believing that she guessed the subject of his intended discourse.
“Yes, you are old enough, Emberance, and I hope sensible enough to have some power of judging of your own circumstances.”
“Yes, uncle,” said Emberance. “I think I ought to be allowed to judge a little for myself. Indeed, I could never wish for anything different under any circumstances, and I can’t see what circumstances are likely to arise in my life that could alter matters for me.”
“No,” said the Canon. “I am glad you have not been taught to look far away.”
“Mamma says that I ought to choose from a different circle, but I cannot now. And of course we know that we must wait,” said the girl, timidly, but with firmness.
“Choose? we? wait? hullo!” said the Canon, “what does this mean I should like to know?”
“Oh, uncle,” cried poor Emberance in dismay, “I thought you knew, – I thought you came about it! I thought he told you!”
“I came about something quite different. What is it, my dear? Or must I not pry into young ladies’ secrets?”
Emberance was very fond of her uncle, and after she had recovered her breath and her courage, she began her little story with great straightforwardness.
“It is Malcolm Mackenzie, uncle, and he is going to New Zealand. He has some cousins there, who have a good deal of land. He has a little money, but they say he must come out first and look about him before investing it. He has no one belonging to him to keep him in England. It’s not a bad prospect – for these days, uncle,” said Emberance, with a sort of imploring simplicity, “and his family is just as good as mine. Mother says, however, that there is no knowing how things might change, and that I should never have cared for him if I had seen more people. But I should, – no one can know that but I. It only happened yesterday, uncle, and I told mamma last night. But she says she will not consent to acknowledge an engagement nor to any correspondence. I should be a great deal happier if she would.”
“Well, Emberance, I will hear what your mother has to say about it. You will hardly have any attention to spare for the real object of my visit.”
“Oh, yes, uncle, I shall,” said Emberance, readily.
“You, I believe, have not been kept in ignorance of the circumstances by which your father lost his inheritance?”
“I know that my uncle made my grandfather believe what was not true about him.”
“So we have feared,” said the Canon, “but, my dear, it is right that you should also know that there was very much that was quite true to cause your grandfather anger.”
Emberance coloured as she said in a low voice, —
“Yes, I thought so. But – but that which came after?”
“As to that,” said her uncle solemnly, “there is only One Who knows the truth.”
“Mother says she is sure that – that – he was killed,” said Emberance, faintly.
“She cannot be sure. We know nothing, and have no right to a guess. But, Emberance, my dear, I have always felt that the two who were left orphans on that fatal night, have a special claim on me, – you and your cousin Kate.”
“I do not think we ought to blame Katharine or her mother,” said Emberance with emphasis.
“Her mother, no indeed, Katharine has never been told anything. Her mother has kept her away from Kingsworth, taking grudgingly the least advantage from her inheritance. But they must go there now, and they wish to take you with them. Kate is an odd girl and needs a young companion. Am I doing right in asking you to go for a month or two?”
“I will go,” said Emberance, “if mother will let me. I think, uncle, that though all that dreadful past is a very sad thing in our lives, it would be much better to make a fresh start and forget about it. After all, Kate and I are only girls, it does not matter so much which is the eldest.”
This view, though coinciding with the Canon’s own, surprised him a little as coming from Emberance’s lips; and perhaps she perceived this, for she added a little pleadingly, “One’s wrongs get so tiresome, uncle, and I am very happy as I am.”
The Canon smiled, and left her in the garden as he went in to speak to her mother. Emberance sat down on a bench. Kingsworth and Katharine held but a secondary place in her thoughts just then, and were, as she had said, a very old story.
The old wrong, which had weighed ever since on the mind of the one widow, had been equally fresh in the memory of the other; but instead of a constant remorse, it had been a constant resentment, and in a more commonplace mind had become intensely personal.
Mrs James Kingsworth was not a bad sort of woman; but her loyalty to her dead husband took the form of forgetting and ignoring all his failings, and of laying the utmost stress on all his grievances. Nothing would induce her to believe that Mrs George Kingsworth had not been a party to the old concealment, and she entertained a personal dislike to the girl who stood in her daughter’s place.
She had worked hard and done her best to bring up Emberance well, and as much as possible in accordance with her birth, discouraging the girl from helping and working in the narrow household, sacrificing her own appearance to buy clothes for her, and doing her best to make her a helpless fine lady. But Emberance, like Katharine, was a failure from her mother’s point of view. Her best point was a certain active kindliness, an inveterate sociability and readiness of intercourse and friendliness: which made dependence and exclusiveness utterly alien to her. Another less praiseworthy characteristic was an innate determination to “gang her ain gait.” She liked, too, what was sunshiny and commonplace, and the tragic side of her history bored her. All straits of poverty had long since been over, through a legacy left to her mother and unmarried aunt, and Emberance had had a very prosperous girlhood.
Canon Kingsworth when he left Emberance crossed the little garden and entered by a French window into a pleasant little drawing-room, where sat Mrs Kingsworth, and her sister Miss Bury.
The widow was a pretty woman, fair and fresh like her daughter, but with more regularity of feature; her voice and manner too were bright and pleasant. Miss Bury was a gentler, plainer person, and somewhat of an invalid; but she was the more cultivated person of the two, and had been the mainstay of the former school.
Both ladies rose with alacrity to receive the Canon, the best chair was put forward for him, a cup of tea was sent for, and everything done to honour his visit.
His suggestions were not quite so welcome, at least to Mrs Kingsworth, and it needed all her respect for him to induce her to acquiesce in his proposal that Emberance should visit “her father’s house when in the possession of her enemies.”
“My dear Ellen,” said Miss Bury gently, “I think that is an unwise expression.”
“It is one which is not to the point,” said the Canon gravely.
“Well, uncle,” said Mrs Kingsworth, “I give in to your wish. I think you ought to be consulted about Emberance; but I do consider those who keep my child out of her birthright as her enemies. And now the evil of it is seen. I really think I must confide in you, Uncle Kingsworth.”
“Emberance I believe has done so already. What are the objections to this young gentleman? His personal character?”
“Oh, no,” said Miss Bury; “that is, I might say, irreproachable.”
Mrs Kingsworth admitted as much, and that even the prospect in New Zealand was fair, but after many words her objections resolved themselves into a determination not to allow Emberance to be bound at her age, “when no one knew what might happen.” And to this she held firm, nor, truth to tell, did the Canon greatly care to shake her resolution.
Emberance meanwhile had met her lover in the garden as he came to learn the final decision. He was a tall grave young Scot, manly and decided-looking, and though he was but three years her elder, there was something of awe mingled in the affection with which Emberance looked up in his face and listened to his words.
He was not at all the sort of person that she had ever pictured to herself as a likely choice, for she had been brought up among commonplace influences, and her dreams of the future had been exceedingly commonplace too, and had turned on lovers in quite an ordinary manner. She liked attention, and, as a pretty half-grown girl, had met with a good deal; but she did not intend finally to yield except to an ideal youth, the colour of whose hair, and the expression of whose eyes had been accurately decided upon, while his admiration of herself was to be evident from their first meeting.
Malcolm Mackenzie was rather awkward, and very silent; and Emberance had no idea for a long time that he distinguished her in any way, except by arguing with her and making her feel her observations unaccountably foolish. Nor could he by any stretch of the imagination be called handsome.
Emberance did not know how much pains she took to avoid being considered foolish, till one day Mr Mackenzie overtook her when she was out walking, and with the earnestness and sincerity of the declaration of his feelings which he made, drove the ideal hero for ever out of the remotest corners of Emberance’s memory.
With quite a new humility she forgot all the claims of her pretty face and attractive ways, her little vanities lost their force as she murmured that she was afraid she was very silly, and not nearly good enough to be any one’s choice, certainly not his, – she should be very disappointing to him.
Malcolm Mackenzie had replied that she herself could never disappoint him. If she could only love him as he loved her, only make up her mind to waiting patiently, only be constant and true.
Only! Emberance gave her promise with a little gasp of awe, even when she hoped that a regular engagement might be permitted to guard her constancy, and save her from the temptations that might assail it. She did not hesitate, nor feel any doubt as to her own decision, even her tears at the thought of parting were cheeked in his presence.
“I shall not say that I have done wrong in telling you that I love you,” he said, “because to know your feelings is such a joy to me that I cannot think it can be pain to you. I shall be happy even if I do not hear from you. I shall never doubt you, never fear that you could change. Nor need you.”
“But – things may happen,” murmured Emberance, hardly prepared to emulate this courage, and almost terrified at such entire trust, “and I shall so want to hear of you.”
“Ah, yes,” he said more softly, “letters would be very sweet; but still – we know we love each other, and that is so much to me, that nothing can ever put me out of heart.” Poor Emberance! she felt that this was stern teaching, – a promise, a letter, or a ring, some outward pledge, some little sweetness to soften the long parting would have made all the difference in her eyes. Did she love less, or did she know better than the lad whose utter trust in himself and in her, scorned outward ties and symbols?
Moreover, she had still the hope that her mother would yield, and permit the engagement; but Mrs Kingsworth was firm, and without pledge or promise, beyond the confession of their mutual love, the pair were parted, never to hear from each other again till Emberance was twenty-one, or till Malcolm Mackenzie had a home to offer her. Nor was the affair to be mentioned to any one.
“Because you know, Emmy,” said her mother, “you are not bound in any way.”
Emberance said nothing, but she felt in her secret soul that all the worth of her future life depended on her making good her lover’s trust. It was not bright and easy to have a lover so far out of reach; but even while her tears flowed she felt that Malcolm had left a little of his courage behind him. While he perhaps discovered that silence and separation were hard even to the most high-minded affection.
