Kingsworth; or, The Aim of a Life

Chapter Twelve.

Responsibility.

The stir and the running up and down stairs caused by Katharine’s illness at length attracted Emberance’s attention, and she came out of the drawing-room to see what was the matter just as Mrs Kingsworth came down stairs.

“Kate has not been quite well,” she said. “I have been talking to her on very painful subjects, and she has been greatly upset.”

“May I go to her?” said Emberance eagerly.

“Oh, yes; she may be more willing to express her own view of the matter to you than to me. But she showed real feeling.”

Emberance ran up stairs into her cousin’s room. Kate was lying on her back, with her hands twisted together and pressed against her forehead. She was sobbing and overcome with a passion of misery quite beyond her control.

“Oh, Katie, my darling, what is it? Don’t cry so terribly. Tell me what it all means,” cried Emberance, with warm kisses.

Kate threw her arms round her, and buried her face in her neck, till the violent agitation subsided a little, and Kate murmured, “Oh, Emmy, is it true about the drowning? Have you known it—always?”

“We don’t know anything, you know, Katie,” said Emberance gently, “only that there was an accident.”

“But mamma thinks—oh, I don’t know what she thinks.”

“Uncle Kingsworth told me once that it was better not to think about it at all. He said that we had no right to entertain dreadful suspicions of either.”

Emberance spoke very gravely: but with a matter-of-course quietness that was the greatest possible contrast to Kate’s excited horror.

“I shall never forget it! never get it out of my mind! Emmy, does every one know?”

“I suppose they know as much as we do,” said Emberance.

Katharine was silent for a moment, then burst out again. “But Uncle James was wicked—ah, I forgot he is your father—oh it is all dreadful, every way.”

“You see, Kate,” said Emberance, “the way I have got to look on it is this. I expect that neither my father nor yours were exactly—good. Of course it would be much better and happier if we could look back on them as other girls do; but as we can’t, and as it isn’t our fault in any way, why should we let it spoil our lives altogether? We have got our mothers and—and other people to care about, and it’s not our fault.”

“But—mother says that you ought to have all the money, that it ought not to be mine. How could I help that?”

“As to that,” said Emberance resolutely, “I was always determined that all those fancies should not spoil my life. I got quite tired of the subject long ago. Grandfather Kingsworth had a perfect right to do what he liked with the place; and if my father had had it, why Kitty, I don’t think there would have been much left now, and that’s the truth. I am very happy, and so may you be. Don’t think about it at all.”

Emberance’s common sense sounded flat to Katharine’s excited spirits; but the words were consolatory, for she had by no means realised that she could alter the past arrangement by any act of hers. She turned away, and while she coloured to her ears, whispered, “But Emmy, would any one—ever—like girls, with such a story belonging to them?”

“Yes!” cried Emberance, “they would! They do, Kitty. It didn’t make any difference.”

Kate looked up surprised and curious, and Emberance blushed in her turn and laughed. “I mustn’t tell,” she said, “but there wasn’t any occasion to be an heiress, it all came right, and so it will—would—for you.”

“I know now why you don’t mind. I shouldn’t either,” said Kate slowly, after a pause.

She did not ask any more questions, and her agitation subsided; while to her mother’s intense disappointment, she said nothing more of what had passed. She was, however, much altered, and was meek and quiet, clinging much to Emberance during the next few days, and evidently needing her caressing kindness. For Kate had no idea that she had any character for independence to keep up; and as her brusquerie had been perfectly natural, so, with her changed mood was her increased softness.

It so happened that both Major Clare and his nieces were away for a few days; so that the Kingsworths were left much to themselves, and Kate formed and acted on a resolution. She was hardly conscious that she did not fully trust her mother’s views of the past; but she proved that she had some idea of independent judgment and action by writing to her uncle Canon Kingsworth a little letter that much surprised the kind old man. She said,—

“My dear Uncle,—
“Mamma has told me lately all that passed about this property, and also all that she believes about the death of my father and uncle. I think I ought to know all that really happened, that I may know what to think. Will you please tell me?
“I am your loving and dutiful niece,” (Kate had been brought up to old-fashioned respectfulness.)
“Katharine Kingsworth.”

This letter cost the Canon much consideration, and at first he thought that he would answer it in person; but finally decided that the safest way was to leave Kate’s mind to work the matter out for itself, without exposing himself to questions that he might not know how to answer. So after a day or two of suspense, Katharine received the following answer.

“My dear Katharine,—
“I feel deeply for the pain which you are now suffering, and which I am afraid I can in no way lessen; for sin brings sorrow in its train even upon one so innocent as yourself. Your mother has told you doubtless the actual facts, and I earnestly recommend you to draw from them no further inferences; but for your satisfaction I will repeat what passed.
“Your uncle James was a great trial to your grandfather, and I know that he had long considered him unworthy of the position of his eldest son. But so far as we know, he finally decided on disinheriting him from a misconception of your Aunt Ellen’s character and circumstances, and this misconception your father failed to remove when it lay in his power to do so. But remember, the time was so short that he may have been only waiting for a favourable opportunity. On the day of your grandfather’s funeral there was a painful dispute between your uncle and your father, and they left the house separately and in deep anger. As you know, they were found close together at the foot of the cliff, and it is your duty as a daughter to imagine no more than you know. They died together, and may God in His mercy pardon the sins of both! This terrible sorrow has been less painful to your mother than the sense of the wrong committed. With regard to your own position and heirship it is perfectly safe and legal, and at the present moment it is your duty so to train yourself that when you come of age you may fitly perform the duties to which you are called, whatever you then find that they may be. I mean that you are called upon in an especial manner to be just and unselfish, and to regard the position of owner of Kingsworth as a trust for the welfare of those dependent on the place, to keep your heart from worldliness, and to consider the trials from which your mother has suffered. You have been, perhaps, more than usually childish for your years; it behoves you now to learn to use your own judgment, and to act according to the dictates of your own conscience. May God bless you, my dear little girl, and give you that loyalty of spirit and charity of judgment which you so sorely need. So prays your loving uncle,—
“George Kingsworth.”

Katharine read this letter alone in her own room, and its solemn call to self-reliance and self-discipline fell on her heart with a dreadful weight. She did not understand it. She had failed to grasp the meaning of the wistful looks her mother cast on her out of the dark stern eyes from which she had always shrunk, she did not realise even yet that a great restoration was or would be in her power. If she had she would have been ready enough to fling away the burden and to forget the pain. Is that all? she might have said, if any one had told her so to atone for her father’s sins, if that would have given back the freedom of her spirit. Comfort and competence and all the little pleasures that were so sweet to her would be as much within her power as ever, and that sacrifice if she could have realised the possibility of it, would have seemed just then no sacrifice at all, a fact of which the old Canon had perhaps had some suspicion.

She read her letter over again, and her mind fastened on the sentence in which he seemed to suggest the possibility of her father’s intentions having been all straightforward. “Mother might believe that,” she thought. “If it were so why should she trouble?”

“I won’t. I’ll forget it!” said Kate suddenly to herself, and she put the Canon’s letter into her pocket, and running down stairs, began to chatter eagerly to Emberance about the trimming of a new dress. Emberance was very glad to have her cheerful, and as she could not see the use of fretting for Kate any more than for herself, seconded her with great readiness.

Mrs Kingsworth heard her laughing, and marvelled. Nothing but her solemn promise to the Canon would have induced her to abstain from influencing Kate, or at least from stating her own view of the matter, but she would have suffered any evil sooner than break her word, so she contented herself by influencing Kate in another way, by praying for her. She never cast her prayers but in one form, that Kate might give up the estate to Emberance, and into that petition she threw her whole soul; but it surely might be that her earnest desire for her child’s honour and honesty would work its own fulfilment, if not precisely in the way she believed to be the only possible one.

Walter Kingsworth meanwhile had returned to Silthorpe with his head full of his family history. He described Kingsworth to his father and mother, discovered a likeness in his favourite sister Eva to Katharine, and declared that he thought the complete separation of the two branches of the family to be a great mistake.

“Mrs George Kingsworth has lived in such complete retirement ever since her husband’s death that no intercourse would have been possible,” said his mother.

“When the place was in the market,” said his father, “our branch of the family were not in circumstances to be able to buy it, though it went very cheap. And indeed it is not much of a property, and a very poor house. There is scarcely any land beyond the village.”

“You have seen it then, father?” said Walter.

“Oh, yes. I went over there when it was standing empty eighteen years ago, and when the story of the drowning of the brothers was fresh. I made a few inquiries.”

“And did you discover anything?”

“No, there was nothing to discover. I think the family were too ready to take up an attitude of mystery about it. Mrs George is a peculiar woman.”

“She is very handsome, and distinguished-looking,” said Walter.

“Ah, I never saw her. The long minority must have greatly improved the estate, which had suffered from James debts; but the land is poor, and the cottages on it much out of order.”

Walter was a good deal struck by his father’s knowledge of the circumstances of the family when he had himself supposed that the old relationship was entirely forgotten. But then Mr Kingsworth’s opinions and affairs were often a source of surprise, as he was extremely reserved, and practised quiet shrewd habits of observation which often bore unexpected fruit. Walter’s visit revived the subject in the minds of the family, and his sisters Eva and Maud and the little Emberance were full of curiosity about the south-country cousins. They were lively, clever girls, highly educated and full of schemes and occupations, and they thought Walter had made very little use of his opportunities of observation in not discovering whether Kate was literary or artistic, parochial or strong-minded.

“You can only say that she has round eyes,” said Eva, one morning at breakfast, when the subject came up again, some weeks after Walter’s visit to the south.

“I only saw her twice,” said Walter. “I shouldn’t think her ‘line’ was strongly developed as yet.”

“Walter may have another opportunity of judging if he likes,” said his father. “That Horton business, Walter—some one is required to be on the spot. Should you care to find yourself at Blackchurch?—it is only a few miles from Kingsworth.”

“I shall be very glad to go if you think it necessary,” said Walter, indifferently.

And he went, though somehow his sisters could extract no more enthusiasm from him on the subject of the south-country cousins. But when he came to Blackchurch he speedily made his arrival known to Mrs Deane, and received from her an invitation to a dinner party, to which Mrs Kingsworth had consented to take the girls, though she wondered at Katharine’s willingness to go to it. Mrs Kingsworth dressed as for a necessary and wearisome duty, Kate with an eager effort to escape from present pain, and Emberance with a certain lingering pleasure in an amount of luxury and amusement which the narrower circle and more pressing duties of home would soon render impossible to her.

To their great surprise their first sight on entering Mrs Deane’s drawing-room was Walter Kingsworth’s bright eyes and kind frank face.

“My father had some business in this neighbourhood, and kindly discovered that my presence was essential to the proper performance of it,” he said gaily, as he shook hands with them. “I did not at all object to the arrangement.”

Kate was very glad to see him, the sense of kinship was strong within her, and as she was both too much preoccupied and too simple to have any consciousness with regard to him, she was openly glad that he took her in to dinner, and was soon talking freely to him about his home and his sisters.

It struck Emberance, as she sat opposite, that there was a little more than cousinly eagerness in Walter’s manner, the dawning of an interest in the bright friendly open-faced girl, which might grow and deepen.

In truth, Walter was aware of liking Kate exceedingly, and was thinking that she had grown prettier and more interesting since his last visit, with feeling and expression that made her brown eyes less like a bird’s and more like a woman’s. He speculated too upon the blush with which she answered some question about Major Clare’s absence, and decided within himself that that blasé man of the world was entirely unworthy of a fresh-hearted innocent girl like Katharine. He remembered her confidence down on the rocks, and felt that he would like much to obtain a renewal of it. As he was not now staying with the Deanes his movements were free; and on Sunday he came to Church at Kingsworth, observing with pleasure that Major Clare’s place in the vicarage pew was still vacant. As he had walked four or five miles, it occurred even to Mrs Kingsworth to ask him to lunch, and while in the brightness of a mild winter Sunday they walked home across the park, Kate too remembered her childish impulse of confiding her fears to her “relation,” and felt how much more difficult words would be now on a subject that had grown so extremely serious. Yet she should like to know how the situation would strike Walter. The Canon did not, she thought, write freely to her; she could not, except under great stress of feeling, discuss the matter with Emberance, and of her mother’s stern, clear view she had an instinctive dread.

Emberance had promised to take Miss Clare’s class at the Sunday school in the afternoon—a piece of usefulness forbidden to Kate, and when she was gone silence and stiffness fell on the little party. Natural disposition and the long habit of seclusion alike made entertaining a stranger almost intolerable to Mrs Kingsworth, and all her rigid views of chaperonage did not prevent her from going to dress for afternoon service, some ten minutes before there was any occasion to do so.

Both Kate and Walter were full of the same thought, and they had not been alone five minutes before something was said of the rocks, where they met before, then a conscious silence, then an impetuous speech from Kate.

“I know all about it now!”

“Then,” said Walter, “you see that I could not answer your questions. I have been afraid so often since that you thought me cold and unfeeling.”

“No; I didn’t think about that at all. But I was puzzled and ashamed.”

“No—no,” he said eagerly, “you must not feel as if you were guilty. What chance have you had, a child—and kept ignorant of it all—of feeling the wrong or doing anything to rectify it?”

“Rectify it? How could I? It is all done.”

Walter could have bitten his tongue out for his imprudence.

“Oh, I did not mean to make a suggestion,” he said hurriedly.

“Every one means something they will not say. What? do you mean that I could give it back to Emberance?”

“No—no—I meant nothing. I have no right to say anything of the kind to you.”

“But you can tell me what you would do in my place. Could you give it up? would you give it up?”

“I don’t know. How can I tell how I should act under such a trial?” said Walter, feeling himself in a great scrape.

“But do you think a good person would give it up? Would that make it all right again? Walter, I will know if you think it would be right.”

“Well, yes, for myself—for a perfectly independent agent—I think I should not find much satisfaction in keeping it—I hope not. But a lady—that is perhaps different.”

“Why!” said Kate, to his great surprise, as her mother’s step sounded, “that would be very easy! I did not know that I could!”