Chapter Ten.
Under the Rocks.
Walter Kingsworth was speedily enlightened by his hosts as to the present state of affairs in the reigning branch of the Kingsworth family, how the wrong young lady was the heiress, how the change of succession had been made, with a hint of the scandal that had accompanied it, and of the tragedy that had followed it. The whole history interested Walter extremely. He belonged to a prosperous and prosaic family, and had led a very prosperous and prosaic existence, with no doubts as to his future, and no particular discontents as to his present. His father was very well off, and held a very good position in the north-country town, round which his business was situated, but beyond being perfectly well aware of the fact, that his family was as good as that of any of his clients, he had not troubled himself much about his far-away kinsfolk in the south. Walter, however, was not insensible to the charms of a connection with an old tower and a family seat, and although he had ridiculed the “disinherited” view of his position, it was not quite with a stranger’s feeling that he set forth soon after the ball, to see the neighbourhood, and call at Kingsworth.
He had three or four miles to walk, through russet hedges, thick with hips and haws, and then over bleak and open downs till he came to the little fishing village running back into the shore in its green cove. It had a poverty-stricken look, and he was just reflecting that the Church and the little old school-house stood much in need of modern improvements, when he was joined by the Vicar, who was glad to tell a few of his grievances, and to express his hope that the young heiress might grow up to take an interest in the people who were all her tenants, and for whose welfare she was more or less responsible. He took Walter into the Church and showed him the monument of one of the last common ancestors of himself and Katharine,—a worthy in a full-bottomed wig, leaning on a funeral urn. After which there was a gap in the Kingsworth memorials, till they came to a tablet recording the death of Walter Kingsworth, and then one on which was written, “Found drowned, James and George Kingsworth. Aged 28 and 26 years. November 15th, 18—.”
“Ah,” said the Vicar, “that was a terrible tragedy,—and the shadow of it hangs over them still. I do not know a more joyless face than Mrs Kingsworth’s, and there is a stern unwillingness to identify herself with the place, which is very noticeable.”
“Yes, she is not gracious,” said Walter. “Poor thing! I do not wonder that she shrinks from the place. Where did the—accident happen?”
“The bodies were found at the foot of the rocks in that little cove below Kingsworth Park.”
“I think I’ll walk round that way and see it,” said Walter Kingsworth with an odd sort of interest. And having parted from Mr Clare, he took his way round the point that divided the village from the tiny cove above which Kingsworth house was built.
The tide was low, and there was a wide expanse of sand between him and the rippling sunlit waves, indeed it was only in very high tides that the water covered the rocks at all, and in the cove there was generally a strip of white sand, warm and bright in the sunshine, while the grass stretched away towards the house above. The air was soft and pleasant; great woolly clouds floated over the sky and cast long shadows on the down and on the sand. Walter Kingsworth, musing on the wild story of past sin and sorrow with which the place was connected, positively started as he saw Katharine tripping down the narrow pathway that led into the cove. She looked wonderfully fresh and full of life, with her brightly coloured hair and cheeks, and the gay smile with which she came forward to greet him.
Walter was a person whose ideas were apt to be absorbing, and he could hardly free himself from the strong impression that was on him. No words about the ball or his intended call came into his head, and he said abruptly,—
“Are you fond of this place, Miss Kingsworth,—this cove I mean?” he added.
“I don’t know,” said Kate. “I think I am rather fond of coming here. I like the sea. I never saw it till we came to Kingsworth,—but I like to look out far away, and see it glitter.”
“I suppose most people like the sea,” said Walter.
“Do they? My mother does not. She never walks on the shore. But then—well, you are my cousin, are you not? I suppose it would not be wrong to talk to you about anything belonging to the family, would it?” Katharine spoke abruptly and eagerly. And Walter replied warmly,—
“Indeed I am proud to be your cousin, and you may talk quite safely to me.”
This eager, round-eyed girl, with her sweet voice and abrupt manner gave him quite a new sensation.
Katharine stood a little apart from him, making holes with her parasol in the sand. “When we lived at Applehurst,” she said, “I never used to think about anything except how dull it was. But since we came here—I feel puzzled. Emberance doesn’t like to talk about the family. But it was here, wasn’t it—that my father and hers were drowned?”
“So I have been told,” said the young man with a gravity and reverence that impressed Kate, for she lowered her own voice and said,—
“It is because I want to know what really happened that I talk to you.”
“But I cannot tell you more than you know,” said Walter, “how your father and your uncle were found drowned together. No one was there—so no one can know how it was.”
“That was after my grandfather died?” said Kate, as if pondering.
“Yes,—I suppose so.”
Kate was silent for a minute,—then she said, as if slightly disappointed, “Of course, if I come to think of it, you are not likely to be able to tell me anything about it. Perhaps I ought not to have asked you. Shall we come up to the house?”
Walter assented, he could not fathom what was passing in her mind; but her quick changes of mood interested him.
He paid rather a stiff visit at Kingsworth. Mrs Kingsworth had an unreadiness of manner that was embarrassing. In truth her mind was never with the matter in hand, and just now she was full of speculation as to what would have been her feelings if this fine young man had been her son, and his disinheritance the sacrifice she contemplated. Kate, too, was silent, and Emberance had to bear the burden of the conversation, till Walter took his leave, saying that he hoped circumstances might again bring him into the neighbourhood, and that the two branches of the family might not again be so entirely separated.
“Mamma,” said Kate, when he was gone, “we have some girl-cousins too at Silthorpe. Couldn’t we ask them to stay here some time?”
“It is a great stretch to call them cousins, Katie,” said Mrs Kingsworth. “I don’t see quite how we could do so.”
Kate pouted a little, thinking to herself that her mother always opposed her wishes, and finding that Emberance was deep in a piece of fancy-work and unwilling to leave it, set off to finish her walk by herself.
There was no absolute embargo on solitary rambles, and though Kate well knew that her mother did not like her to walk alone in the village, in her present mood she did not feel inclined to regard an unspoken prohibition.
She turned away from the path towards the Vicarage; with a shy unwillingness to be met there by herself; yet her thoughts as she walked along were not wrapped in the sunny haze proper to a young maiden just awaking to a sense of preference given and received. Kate did not dream, she thought and speculated on her own life. Only her thoughts were confused and formless. “What was wrong? Why did no one answer her questions? And what questions after all did she want to ask?”
She had turned down a lane that led away from the sea; and having no special object in pursuing her walk, was about to turn back, when she was overtaken by one of the fisher-women who sold fish about the neighbourhood. There was nothing very characteristic or picturesque about the class, they wore the ordinary dress of labouring women, except that their petticoats were very short, and they were generally as rough and ignorant as might be expected of the inhabitants of a place which had enjoyed so few advantages as Kingsworth.
This one was a handsome woman, with a keen intelligent face, and bright eyes looking out from under her flattened bonnet.
“Good morning to you, my lady,” she said.
“Good morning,” said Kate graciously,—she had grasped enough of her rôle to know that graciousness was her people’s due.
“Fine weather, miss, for the time of year. Is it Miss Katharine then that I’m talking to?”
“Yes,” said Kate. “And what is your name? I don’t know any one, as I was never here till last September.”
“Alice Taylor’s my name, if you please, miss. But begging your pardon, Miss Katharine, you was here eighteen years ago, as I ought to know, as I was your nursemaid.”
“Were you?” said Kate warmly. “Did you live with my mother? Where do you live now? I am sure then I might come and see you.”
“Well, you see, miss, there’s evil tongues everywhere, and poor servants even have their enemies. But I was as innocent as the babe unborn, of what I was accused of, and perhaps there were some that had reason to be sorry for what they did,” she concluded spitefully with a glance at Kate.
“Were you accused of doing wrong?” said Kate.
“Ah, never mind, my dear young lady, it’s all too long ago to go back to. And so Mr James’s daughter is staying here. She’s a fine young lady. Who would have thought when Mr James came of age how things would be?”
“What did they do when he came of age?” said Kate, with an odd sense of fascinated curiosity.
“Dear me, miss, there was such rejoicings! Dinner for all the place, and compliments to your great-grandfather who won the place back again to the family, and Mr James so handsome and condescending like. Mr George, he was always a quiet one.”
“That was my father?”
“Yes, miss, but he being the younger wasn’t thought so much of—you’ll excuse my saying so.”
There was something in the tone which Katharine instinctively felt to be an impertinence, and as they came to a turn of the road she said,—
“Well, good morning, Mrs Taylor. I believe I ought to go home. I’ll ask mamma if I may come and see you.”
“Thank you, miss; good morning,” said Mrs Taylor civilly enough.
Katharine hurried home, full of her new subject. “Oh, mamma,” she cried, “I have met a woman who says she was my nurse! Alice was her name—and now she is Mrs Taylor. She says she was suspected of doing something wrong; but that it was not true. Do you remember her?”
“Your nurse,” said Mrs Kingsworth briefly, “turned out dishonest. She took a pair of my gold earrings, and was dismissed.”
“But, mamma, she says that she was accused falsely. Won’t you go and hear what she has to say?”
“My dear, after all these years it would be impossible to renew the subject. Besides, she did take the earrings. I forget the details now; but there was no doubt of it at the time. She was not a desirable person.”
“I think she was angry with us about it,” said Kate.
“Possibly. She had no right to speak to you at all.” Kate did not feel inclined to repeat all Alice Taylor’s remarks, and indeed was more easily silenced than usual; but the incident added its quota to the weight on her mind. She felt quite sure that Alice Taylor believed her to be the wrong woman in the wrong place.