Emberance meanwhile had her own troubles. Not that her thoughts took
the same line as Katharine's; she had never vexed herself about her
supposed wrongs, and was much too fond of Kate to begin to do so now.
But her love story was a trial to her, and in a _very_ unromantic way.
She was a young lively girl, with bright spirits and the readiest
interest in all the affairs of life, not raised by character or
education above the ordinary temptations of gay young girlhood. At the
same time she loved Malcolm Mackenzie honestly and truly, she looked
forward to marrying him and to quitting friends and country for his
sake, and could she have enjoyed all the little pleasures of her
engagement, have received Malcolm's letters, and have talked about him
to Kate, she would hardly have felt the strain of it. But she longed
for tidings of Malcolm, she thought about it, she was vaguely unhappy
when the sea was rough, read all the information about New Zealand that
she could find, and often felt that she never could be happy till the
silence between them was ended. And yet she was young and bright, and
everything around her was enjoyable, would have been _so_ enjoyable, if
the thought of Malcolm had not come to damp it. It seemed so hard that
she could not feel free to be happy, that for years and years there must
be a shadow on the comfortable commonplace days, filled with little
cares and little pleasures that otherwise would have satisfied her so
well.
Perhaps the trial would not have taken this form in a more elevated
nature, nor was it quite the reason for which Malcolm Mackenzie pitied
his far-off love when he thought of all the sorrows of separation; but
it was quite compatible in Emberance with a most honest affection for
him. She was to go home in time for Christmas, and at home would be
much more likely to pick up fragments of intelligence. As to
encouraging other admirers, Emberance knew her duty too well to think of
such a thing, and of course the little attentions that young men paid
were of no serious consequence; still Emberance was not unaware that
just for the purposes of a dance or a game of tennis, an idle chat or
occasional joke, she and not Kate had the superior attraction. Even
Major Clare--and here Emberance's little bit of self-sufficient fancy
was interrupted by a sudden sense of the change in Kate's ways and
manner--she had been sitting over her pretty fancy-work one morning in
the drawing-room at Kingsworth, letting her thoughts have their way
according as the tossing waves suggested one set of images or the spire
of the village church another.
Was Kate really beginning to care for the Major's dark face, with its
_nonchalant_ expression, and quaint dark eyes, and was he at all serious
in the constant attention that he was beginning to pay her? Emberance
had knowledge enough of the world to think that if so certain side words
and glances towards herself had better have been omitted. She was well
aware, too, that Katharine had other attractions beside her _beaux
yeux_. Not for any little triumph of her own vanity would she have
disturbed "anything _real_" on its way to Kate; but she was shrewd, and
had her doubts of the reality, while Kate's blushes and consciousness
attracted the more attention from her ordinary open and unsentimental
manner.
Emberance wondered as she sat and worked, whether such an idea had ever
occurred to Mrs Kingsworth. She looked up and watched her aunt as she
sat reading--Kate had been sent into another room to perform the hour's
practice which her mother still required of her--and thought that she
would try delicately to find out. "Christmas will soon be here, Aunt
Mary," she said, "I am afraid I am much too sorry to go home."
"My dear, I wish I could keep you over Christmas," said Mrs Kingsworth,
with more warmth than usual. "I don't know what Katie will do without
you. She always pined for a companion, and I am glad she is gratified
at last."
"I shall miss her very much," said Emberance. "But after all she won't
be quite solitary. There are the Clares, and she likes Minnie very
much."
"Yes, the Clares are ladylike girls, but there are difficulties in close
intimacies with strangers."
"I think," said Emberance, feeling very doubtful of her ground, "that
Kate gets on well with every one. Mr and Miss Deane like her as well
as the Clares do, and Minnie was telling me the other day that if ever
they made plans for an expedition without us, her uncle was sure to
manage for us to be included."
"Her uncle! Major Clare? Indeed!" said Mrs Kingsworth.
She made no further remark at the moment, but after a pause, during
which she turned over no leaf of her book, she said,--
"Major Clare's leave is a very long one?"
"Yes, he has some months of it yet left, I believe," returned Emberance.
"He met with an accident, you know, and that is why he came home."
Mrs Kingsworth said no more. The idea that Kate's future conduct would
be hampered by a marriage engagement was a very old one to her; but
under the immediate pressure of adjusting her conduct to the
difficulties of the situation it had passed out of her mind. Now it
returned, and gave a sudden start to her resolution. Fear of
disappointment had hitherto held her silent, fear of consequences now
urged her to speak. Kate should know all, and her mother would know of
what stuff the girl was made at last.
Without saying a word to Emberance, she rose from her seat and went in
search of her daughter.
The morning-room in which Kate was had been Mrs Kingsworth's favourite
sitting-room long ago, and was as cheerful a room as any in the house,
with white panels and a carved cornice, and long windows that looked
towards the village. Kate liked it, and would fain have sat there every
day, but it had too many associations for Mrs Kingsworth to endure it.
Kate had left off playing and was standing at the long narrow window
looking down the road. Her eyes were absent and dreamy, her figure
still; there was a look of repose about her, a content in quiet and
inaction that was a new thing. Her rosy cheeks deepened a little in
colour and her lips smiled, as much a contrast to the intense purpose in
her mother's pale, clear-cut face, as her blue dress with its girlish
fashionable cut, was to the black, soberly made garments which Mrs
Kingsworth would never lay aside.
"Katharine."
"Yes, mamma."
Kate started, and looked guilty, probably expecting to be reproved for
idling.
"I have practised for an hour," she said.
Mrs Kingsworth sat down and laid her hands together in her lap.
"I have something to say to you," she began. "I have made up my mind to
tell you certain facts which have been hitherto concealed from you."
Kate looked startled and attentive, and her mother continued.
"You will feel quite sure, Katie, that what I tell you is absolutely
true?"
"Oh, yes," said Kate, surprised at such a question.
"It will be so. I shall not think it right to soften facts because of
our relation to those concerned."
"I want to hear," said Kate, with a throbbing heart. "Your uncle
James," said Mrs Kingsworth, "was, of course, your grandfather's
natural heir. He was not a well-principled person, and displeased him
by debts and other bad habits. My husband was of a steadier nature, and
was his father's favourite. After my marriage I found that in many ways
he was James' enemy, and made the worst of him to his father, whose
preference he valued, I believe, from mercenary motives."
"Mamma!" gasped Kate, with a frightened sob, "Oh, he could not--"
"I know that he did. James married secretly, and your grandfather
conceived the idea that his choice was very discreditable."
"What--Aunt Ellen?"
"Yes. Your father, though well aware that she was respectably connected
and well-conducted, concealed the fact, so that your grandfather, under
a false impression, made his will in George's favour,--in your father's
favour. Do you understand?"
Kate's answer was unexpected.
"Mother,--how do you know?" she said abruptly, with a sort of
instinctive defiance.
"Because after your grandfather's sudden death, James accused my husband
of having received an explanatory letter to lay before his father. I
found that letter and read it."
"Did you ask him?"
"No, Kate, he and his brother were beyond the reach of questions then.
Now you know why Kingsworth is hateful to me, and why I have no pleasure
in any of the advantages it brings you."
Poor Kate was stunned and startled, conscious chiefly of the instinctive
effort to check a flood of tears.
"But Uncle James _was_ a wicked man," she said vehemently.
"How does that alter it? Let him have been ever so wicked or ever so
weak, he was wronged, he and his child, by your father."
"Emberance!"
"Emberance. You stand in her place."
Mrs Kingsworth's tones were quiet and distinct, she looked intently at
Kate, the characters of the old actors in the drama were nothing to her
compared to how her child would come out of this terrible test.
Katharine's shocked, sobbing agitation could not be pitiful to her, it
was so welcome as a sign of feeling.
"I don't believe my father meant it. Oh, mamma, _you_ shouldn't have
thought he meant it," said the girl at last.
"Kate," said Mrs Kingsworth, "love never blinded my eyes, and I cannot
sacrifice principles to persons. The facts are as I have told you.
This property is yours only through a dishonourable action. But for
that Emberance would be the heiress of Kingsworth, and you, as my
daughter, would still be far enough removed from any chance of poverty."
"Mamma, do people _know_!" sobbed Kate at last.--"Do the Clares.--Do
people know?"
"I imagine that there was an impression of some scandal: but as there
was no question of your father's _legal_ right, the neighbourhood could
only accept the facts. But Kate," Mrs Kingsworth continued, with more
hurry of manner. "I never cared much for what people think. To respect
those near to me, is to me the one thing needful. When I found of what
my husband was capable, all the charm of life was gone for me. I have
tried very hard to bring up my daughter pure from such a taint. You are
a free agent, your actions are your own, but oh, Katie! what is there to
compare to right and truth?"
The tears gathered in Mrs Kingsworth's dark eyes, she could hardly
command her voice, her whole frame trembled as she felt how inadequate
her carefully governed words were to describe the anguish that had come
to the proud high-minded girl in the discovery that she had thrown away
the love of her youth, the sense of stain and injury that had clung to
her ever since, till in her lonely musings the offence against _her_
sense of honour, _her_ conscience had shut out all pity for the
offender.
Now she loyally kept her promise to the Canon not to make any suggestion
to her daughter, but she felt as if her very life hung on the turn
Katharine's thoughts might take, on what she might say next. But Kate
had not come to the point of perceiving that any particular line of
action could be expected of her. Her vague misgivings were painfully
realised, yet having often experienced her mother's severe judgment, she
took refuge in a sort of instinctive doubt of the truth of her
impressions.
"Did--did Uncle James make friends with papa before they were drowned?"
she faltered.
"No one can tell," said Mrs Kingsworth, solemnly. "They went out in
the foggy evening, and in the morning they were found at the foot of the
rocks,--together. We must live, Kate, under the shadow of that awful
doubt. But if the sense of sharing the sin were gone, _that_ I could
bear."
"Mamma, mamma, oh, what can it mean? Oh, I cannot bear,--I cannot
bear--"
She started up to run out of the room, but the shock and the horror were
too much for her. She turned helpless and dizzy, and fell half-fainting
into her mother's arms. Mrs Kingsworth was startled into a sudden
sense of the present. She called for help, took Kate to her room, and
tended her carefully till she was better.
"My poor child," she said with unusual gentleness, "I did not mean to
startle you so much. I forgot the newness of it."
But Kate turned away from her and hid her face. "Let me alone, mamma,"
was all she said, "let me alone."
Mrs Kingsworth turned away and left the room. She experienced the sort
of relief that follows on having reached a long-dreaded crisis. The
point in her life had come, and as is often the case, neither of the
alternatives which she had expected had taken place. Kate had not shown
herself careless and indifferent, nor had she seen at once what Mrs
Kingsworth thought of supreme importance, her own share in the
responsibility. Would she take refuge in perverse disbelief?
Poor Katharine was hardly conscious of distinct thoughts at all. The
horrible tragedy at which her mother had hinted shocked and terrified
her. How fearful an ending to the two lives. Under the suspicion of
this more terrible crime she could not realise any responsibility for
her father's wrong-doing. The puzzles of her life were all explained
now. Her girlhood had passed as in an enchanted sleep, shut in from
cares and interests and responsibilities. Now she awoke with the sudden
shock, the spell of her unthinking childhood was rudely broken, and the
real Katharine came, as it were, to life.
She did not feel her inheritance a burden, nor think herself, at least
in those first moments, responsible for her father's sin. She did not
think of ridding herself of her ill-gotten riches, but as the first
shock subsided a little it did occur to her that Emberance was wronged.
"It ought to be hers," she said vaguely to herself, and then the thought
was swept away by a sense of anger with her mother, "who was so _sure_
papa had been wicked--who did not care if people knew it--oh, did Major
Clare know it?" Kate hid her face in her hands and sobbed aloud.