Mrs George Kingsworth had reigned for a year over Kingsworth House, her
father-in-law had grown very fond of her, and the estate had prospered
under George's management. But James scarcely ever came home, and was
no nearer than before to his father's favour. Mr Kingsworth, though
not old, was much broken in health, and it was not surprising that he
should lean much on the son who was close at hand.
So mused the young wife as she sat in a little breakfast room in the
second autumn after her marriage; her little four months old daughter on
her knee. Her face had grown much graver and sterner since her wedding
day, and she was only half attending to her lively cooing baby, as if
her thoughts were not free to take pleasure in it.
"_I_ don't think George need have shown that angry letter to his
father," she thought, "what good could it do any one? I suppose such
faults as James's do seem intolerable to a person like George. They
_are_ horrible." As these thoughts passed through her mind, her husband
came into the room. He looked serious, said something about the
weather, touched the baby's cheek with his finger, and at length
observed, "Well, I am afraid poor James has done for himself at last!"
"How, what has happened?" said Mary, in alarm.
"They say a man is never ruined till he is married!"
"Married? Has he written to say so? Did you know anything about it?"
"He has not written, but my uncle has picked up a report, which he heard
from Mr Hatton, that James has been married for some time. Of course
if he had made a particularly creditable choice there would be no
occasion for secrecy. We have heard less than usual of him lately."
"Do you know, can you guess at all who it is, George?"
"Well, I'm not sure, I think I can form a notion."
"Is it so very bad?"
"Quite a low connection, they say, not at all what my father would like,
of course. But I can't undertake to answer for James, I don't _know_
anything about it."
"What shall you do? Oh, George, don't you think it might be made a
turning point? If James would write to your father and tell him all."
"I shall write and advise him to make a clean breast of it; but he has
offended my father over and over again: and at last, people must take
the consequences of their actions."
Mrs George heard nothing more of the correspondence that ensued, she
was not in the habit of hearing much of the family affairs; and being
clever, and with strong clear opinions as to what was right and good,
she would have liked to receive a little more confidence, and to have
known the meaning of the lawyer's visits which just at that time were
frequent. She could not forget these matters in the fact that her
little Katharine had cut two teeth, or leave them in utter trust to her
husband's judgment.
Whatever playful companionship or constant caresses the baby missed in
her mother, was supplied by a young nursemaid named Alice Taylor, a
merry, laughing, black-eyed girl, who was devoted to the baby, and so
thought well of by her mistress, but who was not approved of by the
other servants, among whom she had made no secret of her preference for
the lively complimentary Mr James over the very grave and silent young
master now in command.
The old housekeeper put forth a hint that Alice was "flighty," and her
mistress was meditating a little improving conversation, when this as
well as all other considerations were put out of her mind by the
dangerous illness of her father-in-law.
The illness was very sudden and very short, and before his son and his
brother could reach Kingsworth all was over. This brother was a
clergyman of some reputation, and had recently been appointed to a
canonry of Fanchester, the cathedral town of the county in which
Kingsworth was situated. His presence was a great comfort and help,
especially to Mrs Kingsworth, who was very fond of him. James did not
arrive till the day before the funeral; the letter had followed him
abroad, he said, and had been delayed. He was shocked and subdued, and
George was very busy, so that there was not much opportunity of
conversation between them; but late in the evening as Mary was sitting
in the drawing-room by herself, James came in and said with hesitation,
"Mary, you have always been a very kind sister to me: I wonder if you
will be equally kind to--my wife?"
"Oh, James, I hope so!" she said, with sudden colour. "But won't you
tell me something about her?"
"Hasn't George told you? Didn't you know I was married?" he said
quickly.
"Yes, but--"
Poor Mrs Kingsworth stammered and hesitated, but James went on in a
half joking tone which yet had an under current of appeal in it.
"I don't see why my father should object. I assure you it's a chance
for me! But ah, I forgot. _Was_ he very violent, Mary, when he
understood all about it?"
"I don't know, George did not tell me. I should like to hear all about
her."
"I have written to George. Of course it's not a good match, but she is
very respectably connected. Her mother keeps a school and she was a
governess. I knew nothing that I did would be well received at home,
and so I said nothing about my marriage."
"What is her name?" asked Mary.
"Ellen; her name was Ellen Bury. But you know, Mary, it's much too late
to make a fuss about it all, because I was married soon after you were,
and my baby is nearly as old as yours."
"Oh, James, how could you keep the secret for such a long time?"
"Well, there seemed no favourable opportunity, and I thought if the
child had been a boy I would have spoken then. Besides I think George
must have guessed about it. He had heard of Ellen before."
"It is a little girl then?"
"Yes; Emberance, a family name, you know. She's a very jolly little
thing. One puts off things, no doubt it was wrong. I wish I _had_ told
my poor father myself. But now you see, Mary, when my wife comes here
it will make all the difference to her to have a friend in the family.
I don't want anything to be said till after to-morrow, but I thought I
would talk to you."
"I am sorry you kept it secret," she said, "that was not fair on your
wife. But I will always be friendly to her. I think she ought to come
here, and that everything should be explained as soon as possible."
"Yes, but don't say anything to George, to-night. I want to talk it all
over with him myself. Here's my uncle!" Mrs Kingsworth was a good
deal impressed with the softening of James' tone and manner. She pitied
him greatly for not having been able to receive his father's
forgiveness; and never having expected a very elevated line of conduct
from him, she was less shocked at the concealment than might have been
supposed.
In her own mind she passed a resolution that however uncongenial James'
wife might prove to her, she would always give her her due, and act
towards her with kindness and consideration.
Some thoughts she gave to the fact that Kingsworth was her home no
longer; but they were hardly thoughts of regret, she had never loved it,
and she felt glad that she and her husband were free now to form a home
for themselves. There would be no lack of means, she knew that George
would not be left unprovided for by his father, and she herself was
rich. She would not say even to herself how her heart leapt at the
thought of freedom from the toils, tangles, and temptations of
Kingsworth.
The funeral took place early in the day, quietly, for the Kingsworths
were not people given to much display. The weather was dark and dreary,
a thick sea-mist blotting everything out of sight, and adding to the
mournfulness of the occasion.
When they came back from church, Mrs Kingsworth ran hastily up to the
nursery to find some cheering in the sight of her child. She opened the
door on a scene that she little expected. Instead of decorous silence,
or subdued comments, a confusion of angry voices met her ear, and the
head nurse, a very grand personage, of whose experience her mistress
herself stood somewhat in awe, turned round at her entrance.
"Indeed, ma'am, you will be surprised and grieved at what you see. It
is disgraceful at such a time as this. Nor should I have spoken till
to-morrow, if you hadn't happened to open the door."
"But what is it? what is the matter?" said Mrs Kingsworth, perceiving
the pretty Alice sobbing and protesting, while two or three other
servants were standing round.
"Your earrings, ma'am, that were missing the other day. When I came
back not five minutes ago, I found Alice looking in her workbox, she
dropped it when I opened the door, and out rolled the earrings on the
floor. It's not the first time I've suspected her."
"I never touched the earrings," sobbed Alice, "never. I believe she put
'em in my box herself! she's always been against me."
"Alice!" said her mistress, "that is not the way to speak. It is
impossible to inquire into the matter now. It must wait till
to-morrow."
"I won't stay here to be suspected, I'll go away this moment," said
Alice.
"That's not for you to choose," said the nurse. "Suppose my mistress
sends for the police."
"No, no," said Mrs Kingsworth, "not that. But I am grieved that you
should attempt to deny what seems so plain a fact. I will pay you your
wages and you had better go at once. It is not fitting to have a
discussion now. I will come and see you."
Perhaps Mrs Kingsworth hardly knew how stern her sad face and voice
sounded. In truth, though she had forgotten her earrings in the shock
of her father-in-law's illness, she had been much perplexed at their
loss, and various circumstances had seemed to point suspicion at Alice.
The scene ended by such an outburst of violent and unrestrained passion
from the girl, as prejudiced every one still further against her, and
Mrs Kingsworth withdrew with her sobs and declarations that she would
make them all suffer for falsely accusing her, still ringing in her
ears. Mrs Kingsworth went down into the library, and before she left
the room she had forgotten Alice and the earrings as completely as if
they had never existed: for she heard her father-in-law's will read, and
in the reading of that will the whole face of life was changed to her.
Neither brother looked at ease as they prepared to listen. James was
oppressed with the weight of his secret, and perhaps with the sense of
his many sins against his father. George changed colour and manifestly
listened with eagerness.
The will was accompanied by a statement written in Mr Kingsworth's own
hand. After speaking of his father's purchase of the old house, and of
his own pride in coming into possession of it, and his desire to
reestablish the family fortunes, there was a very stern and unsoftened
repetition of all James' misdemeanours, and of their frequent
forgiveness, of the sums of money that had been paid for him, and of how
they had impoverished the estate. He had long known that the object of
himself and his father would be undone by his son, had long hesitated as
to the disposition of his property, but now understanding, that in
addition to all these causes of displeasure James had contracted
secretly a marriage of a discreditable kind, he must take the
consequences of his actions, and see his father's estate left to one who
in every way deserved it.
Accordingly the will, executed only a fortnight before Mr Kingsworth's
death, left his whole property to his second son, and disinherited James
altogether.
There was a moment's blank silence, then James started up.
"But my letter--my letter that I wrote to you, George? I sent you a
full explanation to lay before my father. Where is it? Why did he not
receive it?"
"I did not find an opportunity," said George slowly. "While he was
unfavourably disposed, it would have been useless."
"You did not find--you did not make one," cried James passionately; "I
deserved something of this, but my father never would have acted with
such cruelty, had he read that letter. You told me it was better to
make _you_ the channel of approach--besides, you must have known--you
could have guessed at first the rights of the story."
"It is natural that you should be angry--" began George.
"Natural! yes indeed! Did you not tell me that you endeavoured to
soften my father's anger. Didn't you promise that he should know the
efforts I was making?"
"Hush, James!" interposed the Canon; "you must allow George to speak.
This thing is done and cannot be undone, for there is no question either
of my brother's ability or of his right to make his will, when this
statement was written."
There was a moment's pause, then George said, "I have nothing to say.
It is impossible to reply to my brother's insinuations."
"You had better produce James' letter now," said the Canon, "that there
may be no further misunderstanding."
"I--I was about to say," said George, "that most unfortunately, the
letter is mislaid; otherwise I might have found an opportunity--Mary,
you do not recollect seeing such a letter?"
"No, George, you never showed it to me, nor told me you had received
it," she said, in a hard clear voice that startled them all.
"I think," said the Canon, with decision, "that we had better separate;
no good can be attained by further discussion now. If you will come
with me, James, I shall be glad to hear all the particulars of your
marriage."
James had not perhaps so fully realised the situation as to feel the
full force of his anger against his brother. He followed his uncle, and
the family solicitor, who had been present at the reading of the will,
took leave, saying that he should call again on the next day, when
matters were more ripe for discussion.
The door closed behind him, and the husband and wife were left alone.
She had remained in her seat by the fire, silent except when appealed
to, through the whole interview. Now she sprang up and ran to him,
laying her hands on his, and looking right into his eyes, with a
passionate appeal in her own.
"George, we can give it back to him," she said, breathlessly.
"My dear Mary," said George, turning his head away, "don't be so
unreasonable: James has forfeited it over and over again. This is
better for him and for all of us."
"But the letter--"
"Surely, Mary, you do not mean to join with those who insult me by such
a suspicion," cried George, angrily.
She looked right into his face, then turned away and burst into an agony
of weeping, and George, anxious to think the matter well over, left her
alone to recover herself.