"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.