Читать книгу Kingsworth; or, The Aim of a Life - Christabel R. Coleridge - Страница 6

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.