Kingsworth: or, The Aim of a Life

Kingsworth: or, The Aim of a Life
Christabel Coleridge

Coleridge Christabel R. Christabel Rose

Kingsworth; or, The Aim of a Life

Chapter One

The Heirs of Kingsworth

Kingsworth was a moderate-sized old-fashioned house, standing amid bare undulating downs above a low line of chalky cliffs and looking over the sea. It was enclosed in a piece of barren down, which young half-grown trees were struggling to turn into a park – trees that the wind blew all in one direction, and forced into strange shapes and attitudes. Almost on the edge of the cliff was a bit of ruined tower, and down below the slope or the park and sheltered by the hill from the wind was a little village, untidy rather than picturesque.

The rooms in Kingsworth House were small and dark; the situation, save in sparkling sunshine, was bleak and dreary; yet its possession had been the aim of a whole life’s work – and would be a matter of infinite importance to those whose fortunes these pages are intended to follow.

Kingsworth House had once been Kingsworth Castle, when the ruined tower had been whole and inhabited, and the family traditions were both ancient and honourable. But early in the 18th century, between political changes and personal extravagance Walter Kingsworth was ruined, and the family place sold to a stranger. He left two sons, who set to work in various ways to earn their living. The younger went into trade; in due time his family made their fortune, and his grandson fulfilled a long-standing ambition and bought back the family place. Their old house had been pulled down and the present one built by the intermediate owners; but the Kingsworths of Kingsworth came back very naturally to their place in the county, the rich merchant’s son closed his connection with the business that had made his father’s fortune – and the two young men, the purchaser’s grandsons, who were lounging about in the little dark library one windy sunny March morning, had no thought but that their family place was an inalienable inheritance.

With the elder branch of the Kingsworths they had only a little occasional intercourse, as these were settled far away in the North at a place called Silthorpe, where they were solicitors of good standing, and with a large business. The Kingsworths were fair fresh-coloured people, with dark eyes and aquiline noses. They were slightly made and mostly of middle height, and were proud of their resemblance to the family type. James, the elder of those two brothers, was the handsomer, and George the more thoughtful looking of the two. He was writing a letter; while his brother, turning over the newspaper, looking out of window, and idly stirring the fire, seemed rather at a loss for some amusement.

“I declare, George,” he said, presently, “I am lost in admiration of your good luck.”

“Well,” said George, good-humouredly, “if you think I am lucky I am the last person to deny it. I am – successful.”

“That you should have succeeded in engaging yourself to an heiress! a lady, and a very handsome girl into the bargain. Why – if I could have done such a thing, then I should have won pardon for all my offences, retrieved my character for good sense, got my debts paid – ”

“With the heiress’s money?”

“No, no, don’t you suppose my father would pay them twenty times over if I had done such a clever thing as to get engaged to Miss Lacy?”

“You don’t seem to give my father much reason to think there is any use in paying them,” said George, gravely.

James shrugged his shoulders, then said abruptly, “Where shall you live after your marriage?”

“I believe,” returned George, as he sealed his letter, “that my father, feeling the want of a mistress to his house, is very anxious that we should live here. Mary would be like a daughter to him.”

James’ brow darkened. “I don’t think I like that arrangement,” he said shortly. “I should find myself de trop.”

“Well, James,” said the younger brother, “I should think that you would find your visits at home much more comfortable if you were not tête-à-tête with my father.”

“Perhaps. But I thought I had heard something of a government appointment?”

“Yes,” said George, with some hesitation. “But my father needs some one to help him in all the business of the estate, and he offers me a sort of agency of it. Don’t be angry, Jem, I can assure you that your interests shall in no way suffer.”

“I suppose my father wouldn’t trust me.”

“Well – do you think he could?”

James Kingsworth started up at this unanswerable question, and walked over to the window. Alas, there was a long story of extravagance and disobedience, there had been evidence of fatal weakness of character, and of culpable indifference to the father’s wishes and feelings, before things had come to their present pass. Who could blame the father who had been so deeply disappointed in his elder son, if he turned for support to the younger one? who could blame George because he did not share in his brother’s well deserved disgrace?

James Kingsworth was ordinarily callous and indifferent to the pain his transgressions caused to others, nor would he ever confess to the suffering they must frequently have caused himself. Now, however, he was evidently hit hard, the step his father had taken showed him how entirely his respect was forfeited; and though the brothers had never been otherwise than friendly, there was a gleam of distrust in James’ eyes, which George felt to be unjustifiable. Had he not often smoothed over difficulties, and prevented useless explanations that could only lead to passionate scenes between the father and the son? For what a cruel disappointment this eldest born had been to the ambitious man who had shared so earnestly in his father’s desire to reinstate their family in their ancient honour and high place!

Nothing more passed between the brothers. They were cool-tempered people and rarely came to words. George was too fortunate, too sure of himself, and too happy in his bright prospects to waste anger on his brother, and James had that kind of nonchalance which is a very bad imitation of a forgiving nature.

He strolled out now into the March sunshine and looked about him. He was supposed to dislike Kingsworth, and annoyed his father frequently, by complaints of the cold wind, and the bleak downs, the old-fashioned house, and the general inferiority of the estate. Now he looked round at the chalky downs, the sparkling water, the pale blue sky, and wished, rather vaguely, perhaps, that his way lay clearer to the peaceful useful life proper to its owner. He had constantly refused to take any interest in the management of the estate, but none the better did he like that his brother should be in any sense the master of it.

Mr Kingsworth, however, was a man who pursued his own course, consulting nobody, and the arrangement was made. James was to receive his usual allowance, and George was to assist his father in the management of the estate.

“Provided,” Mr Kingsworth said punctiliously, “that the young lady whom he had chosen had no objection to make to the proposal.”

Mary Lacy was a tall, dark-eyed girl, graceful and distinguished, with a cultivated mind and strong enthusiastic temper.

George went to see her, and told her of the plan proposed. Their home, he said, “had been lonely since their mother’s death, and his father required both her presence within the house, and his assistance about the estate.”

Miss Lacy listened, thoughtfully. “You think we are so much wanted as to make this a duty?” she said.

“Don’t you like the notion, Mary?” said George, surprised.

“I should like it very much,” said Mary, with clear directness, “if you were the eldest and the heir. But as it is, I think I want you to make a career for yourself. But oh, George, I am ashamed of being so selfish and worldly-minded. Of course we must do it if your father wants us. And, don’t you think, don’t you think, George, that if Kingsworth was very bright and cheerful, it would be better for your brother too?”

“I am quite sure that every one will be the better for having you there, my dearest!”

“I will try, I will try my very best to have it so,” said Mary, earnestly.

What better could she wish than to help her husband to sacrifice his natural desire for an independent career to his father’s need? she would be wealthy, and her marriage settlements were to be handsome, there was no difficulty on that score, but she was ambitious enough to feel that the choice was a sacrifice, and enthusiastic enough to glory in being able to think of George as a hero, worthy of the good old Kingsworth name. So when the honeymoon was over, the bride came home, a young light-hearted creature, spite of her lofty carriage and shy manners, ready to love and respect her new relations, and with a specially kind thought, and as kind a look as her bashfulness permitted for James, who was to be helped to reform by his good brother, and reinstated in his father’s favour.

James admired her very much. As he said, he could not have the luck to fix his affections on so undeniable an object. He had a very different ideal in his mind. What would his father say to the pretty penniless nursery governess, who had won his affections? He did not care what his father said, but he did care for what his father did, and a vague idea crossed his mind that his new sister-in-law might be a kind and generous ally.

She, on her side, felt that in setting these family disturbances right, she would find an object worthy of all her energies, and one only to be accomplished by herself living up to the strong Church principles and religious motives which, adopted perhaps as a matter of taste or education, were now to be tested by the trials of real life.

Chapter Two

The Reading of the Will

Mrs George Kingsworth had reigned for a year over Kingsworth House, her father-in-law had grown very fond of her, and the estate had prospered under George’s management. But James scarcely ever came home, and was no nearer than before to his father’s favour. Mr Kingsworth, though not old, was much broken in health, and it was not surprising that he should lean much on the son who was close at hand.

So mused the young wife as she sat in a little breakfast room in the second autumn after her marriage; her little four months old daughter on her knee. Her face had grown much graver and sterner since her wedding day, and she was only half attending to her lively cooing baby, as if her thoughts were not free to take pleasure in it.

“I don’t think George need have shown that angry letter to his father,” she thought, “what good could it do any one? I suppose such faults as James’s do seem intolerable to a person like George. They are horrible.” As these thoughts passed through her mind, her husband came into the room. He looked serious, said something about the weather, touched the baby’s cheek with his finger, and at length observed, “Well, I am afraid poor James has done for himself at last!”

“How, what has happened?” said Mary, in alarm.

“They say a man is never ruined till he is married!”

“Married? Has he written to say so? Did you know anything about it?”

“He has not written, but my uncle has picked up a report, which he heard from Mr Hatton, that James has been married for some time. Of course if he had made a particularly creditable choice there would be no occasion for secrecy. We have heard less than usual of him lately.”

“Do you know, can you guess at all who it is, George?”

“Well, I’m not sure, I think I can form a notion.”