Kingsworth: or, The Aim of a Life. Coleridge Christabel Rose

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.

      Chapter Three

      Found Drowned

      Mrs Kingsworth remained near the library fire by herself. Her tears soon ceased, and she sat still and silent, in the grasp of a conviction from which she could not free herself. Every word that George had said might be true, and yet she knew, she felt that all his wishes had worked in his own favour, that a “covetous desire” had been granted perhaps even in spite of weak and inadequate words and actions telling the other way. An