“No, no,” he said, hurriedly. “I do not think that.”
“Of course,” said Kate, “it is all wrong any way. Sir Walter and all our ancestors would be dreadfully grieved that it should not be inherited by the rightful heir.”
“If Emberance—”
“But I don’t mean Emberance,” interposed Kate. “I mean you. You are our ancestor’s heir. What would they say to the place coming to a girl like me, or to Emmy either?”
“That is romantic nonsense,” said Walter almost fiercely, and colouring to his hair roots, “I have no more to do with it than I have with Mayford, than I have with the deanery of Fanchester. I wish there was no such place, I wish the sea would swallow it up, it’s a—a stumbling-block, and an incumbrance. I wish it was in South Africa!”
“Dear me, Walter,” said Kate, “I don’t see why you should hate it so. I don’t care about it much myself; but I have liked it better since I heard about our ancestors, it seems more worth while to do right about it. I know you think I ought to give it to Emberance.”
“I wish—I wish—I can’t advise you, Kate, I—I—There’s Eva—isn’t it tea-time?”
He turned away and left her abruptly: while she, surprised at his manner, began to seek for some explanation of it. Why should he hate Kingsworth? Why should he refuse to tell her what he thought to be her duty? Kate did not hit even in a guess on the right explanation; her frank pleasant intercourse with Walter was so unlike her past experience of any one’s attentions, but it did occur to her that he might possibly admire Emberance. Kate did not like the notion, it made her uncomfortable, yet it inclined her more to the sacrifice than anything which had yet passed. If Emmy had it, and married Walter, how right, according to all principles, everything would come. The real old head of the family, and the rightful heiress would reign, while she having had her day and her disappointment, would act the beneficent genius and—retire.
But then, Emberance had another love, and—and “I don’t think,” said honest Kate to herself, “that I do feel quite like having had my day. I was very young, and—I believe I shall get over it! I—I think I have!”
But Mrs Kingsworth, from the drawing-room window, had watched the pair strolling up and down, and a new idea occurred to her that fell like a cold chill on her reviving interests. If this pleasant, clever, well-bred young man, was, after all, not disinterested. If he had an eye to Kate and to Kingsworth, how completely her daughter’s wavering mind would be set in the wrong direction, how right it would all be made to seem while justice was as far as ever from being done.