Poor Katharine!
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.”