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 _elance_ 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.