“Yes, his aunt was telling me the other day that he found it a bad speculation,—more capital was required than he could ever hope for.”
Emberance said nothing. She believed that the report was made the worst of for her benefit, and she did not think her Malcolm would give in so easily; but it cost her some hot stinging tears.
Oh, why—why did things go so ill with her? She wished most heartily that she was by Malcolm’s side, scrubbing the floor and cooking the dinner, while he felled trees and drove up cattle. She knew that she could have borne anything cheerfully then, but to wait and have her life spoiled, and no hope of sharing his—Emberance cried and chafed, and, for the first time, wished that she was heiress of Kingsworth. What good was the place to Kitty?
Emberance however rebuked herself for these thoughts by reflecting how wicked Malcolm would have thought them. Nor had she nearly so much time as Kate to indulge in sorrowful musings; for besides all her ordinary business, the Canon had her a good deal at his house, and, as her mother expressed it, “took very gratifying notice of her.”
She had originally met Malcolm Mackenzie at the house of his uncle, who was the principal doctor in Fanchester, and scraps of intelligence of a kind that was not very reassuring reached her from this source. Malcolm had arrived, and had written, but could not say that he saw his way much yet. He was afraid his little capital would not go very far,—still it was early days to despond, and he hoped for the best. If one thing failed, he should try another. Emberance knew that these discouraging facts were purposely brought to the hearing of the penniless girl with whom Malcolm had foolishly entangled himself. She felt miserable, and tried to distract her mind by enjoying to the utmost all her little gaieties; with the result of causing Mrs Mackenzie to write to her nephew that “Emberance Kingsworth was looking particularly well, and was much admired. She was a bit of a fine lady, and more than a bit of a flirt. It is very well for you, my dear boy, that there is no real engagement,—a most unfit girl for a settler’s wife.” And this assurance in more complimentary forms met Emberance very often.
She had been out one day for a walk with some of her girl friends, and coming back with them just at dusk, with the intention of giving them a cup of tea, she found the household in rather an unusual state of excitement.
“Well, Emmy,” her mother said, “it is a great pity that you were out. A friend of yours has been here to see you.”
“A friend of mine?” said Emberance, as she inquired into the state of the teapot. “Oh, Lily Wood, I suppose, she was coming to stay with her aunt.”
“No, my dear,” said Miss Bury, “one of your friends from Kingsworth.”
“Not Katie come already? I can’t guess, mamma; I hate guessing.”