I, Thou, and the Other One: A Love Story
by Amelia E. Barr · English · Gutenberg #34628 · 478,561 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: I, Thou, and the Other One: A Love Story
Author: Amelia E. Barr
Release date: December 12, 2010 [eBook #34628]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK I, THOU, AND THE OTHER ONE: A LOVE STORY ***
Produced by Katherine Ward, Darleen Dove and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
I, THOU, AND THE OTHER ONE
[Illustration:]
I, THOU, AND THE OTHER ONE
A Love Story
BY
AMELIA E. BARR
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1898
_Copyright, 1898_,
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, JOHN WILSON AND SON, U.S.A.
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I THE ATHELINGS 1
II CECIL AND EDGAR 23
III THE LORD OF EXHAM 42
IV THE DAWN OF LOVE 66
V ANNABEL VYNER 81
VI THE BEGINNING OF THE GREAT STRUGGLE 103
VII THE LOST RING 121
VIII WILL SHE CHOOSE EVIL OR GOOD? 150
IX A FOOLISH VIRGIN 169
X TROUBLE COMES UNSUMMONED 193
XI LIFE COMES AND GOES THE OLD, OLD WAY 213
XII THE SHADOW OF SORROW STRETCHED OUT 235
XIII NOT YET 263
XIV AT THE WORST 288
XV LADY OF EXHAM HALL AT LAST 315
XVI AFTER TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS 341
I, Thou, and the Other One
CHAPTER FIRST
THE ATHELINGS
"_The Land is a Land of hills and valleys, and drinketh water of the
rain of heaven._"
Beyond Thirsk and Northallerton, through the Cleveland Hills to the sea
eastward, and by Roseberry Topping, northward, there is a lovely, lonely
district, very little known even at the present day. The winds stream
through its hills, as cool and fresh as living water; and whatever beauty
there is of mountain, valley, or moorland, Farndale and Westerdale
can show it; while no part of England is so rich in those picturesque
manor-houses which have been the homes of the same families for twenty
generations.
The inhabitants of this region are the incarnation of its health,
strength, and beauty,--a tall, comely race; bold, steadfast, and
thrifty, with very positive opinions on all subjects. There are no
Laodiceans among the men and women of the North-Riding; they are one
thing or another--Episcopalians or Calvinists; Conservatives or Radicals;
friends or enemies. For friendship they have a capacity closer than
brotherhood. Once friends, they are friends forever, and can be relied on
in any emergency to "aid, comfort, and abet," legally or otherwise,
with perhaps a special zest to give assistance, if it just smacks of
the "otherwise."
Of such elements, John Atheling, lord of the manors of Atheling and
Belward, was "kindly mixed," a man of towering form and great mental
vigour, blunt of speech, single of purpose, leading, with great natural
dignity, a sincere, unsophisticated life. He began this story one evening
in the May of 1830; though when he left Atheling manor-house, he had
no idea anything out of the customary order of events would happen. It is
however just these mysterious conditions of everyday life that give it
such gravity and interest; for what an hour will bring forth, no man
can say; and when Squire Atheling rode up to the crowd on the village
green, he had no presentiment that he was going to open a new chapter in
his life.
He smiled pleasantly when he saw its occasion. It was a wrestling match;
and the combatants were his own chief shepherd and a stranger. In a
few moments the shepherd was handsomely "thrown" and nobody knew
exactly how it had been done. But there was hearty applause, led by
the Squire, who, nodding at his big ploughman, cried out, "Now then,
Adam Sedbergh, stand up for Atheling!" Adam flung off his vest and
stepped confidently forward; but though a famous wrestler among his
fellows, he got as speedy and as fair a fall as the shepherd had received
before him. The cheers were not quite as hearty at this result, but the
Squire said peremptorily,--
"It is all right. Hold my horse, Jarum. I'll have to cap this match
myself. And stand back a bit, men, I want room enough to turn in." He
was taking off his fine broadcloth coat and vest as he spoke, and the lad
he was to match, stood looking at him with his hands on his hips, and a
smile on his handsome face. Perhaps the attitude and the smile nettled
the Squire, for he added with some pride and authority,--
"I would like you to know that I am Squire Atheling; and I am not going
to have a better wrestler than myself in Atheling Manor, young man, not
if I can help it."
"I know that you are Squire Atheling," answered the stranger. "I have
been living with your son Edgar for a year, why wouldn't I know you? And
if I prove myself the better man, then you shall stop and listen to me
for half-an-hour, and you may stop a whole hour, if you want to; and I
think you will."
"I know nothing about Edgar Atheling, and I am not standing here
either to talk to thee, or to listen to thee, but to give thee a fair
'throw' if I can manage it." He stretched out his left hand as he
spoke, and the young man grasped it with his right hand. This result
was anticipated; there was a swift twist outward, and a lift upward, and
before anyone realised what would happen, a pair of shapely young legs
were flying over the Squire's shoulder. Then there rose from twenty
Yorkshire throats a roar of triumph, and the Squire put his hands on his
hips, and looked complacently at the stranger flicking the Atheling
dust from his trousers. He took his defeat as cheerily as his triumph.
"It was a clever throw, Squire," he said.
"Try it again, lad."
"Nay, I have had enough."
"I thought so. Now then, don't brag of thy wrestling till thou
understandest a bit of 'In-play.' But I'll warrant thou canst talk,
so I'll give myself a few minutes to listen to thee. I should say, I
am twice as old as thou art, but I notice that it is the babes and
sucklings that know everything, these days."
As the Squire was speaking, the youth leaped into an empty cart which
someone pushed forward, and he was ready with his answer,--
"Squire," he said, "it will take not babes, but men like you and these
I see around me, for the wrestling match before us all. What we have to
tackle is the British Government and the two Houses of Parliament."
The Squire laughed scornfully. "They will 'throw' thee into the
strongest jail in England, my lad; they will sink thee four feet under
ground, if thou art bound for any of that nonsense."
"They will have enough to do to take care of themselves soon."
"Thou art saying more than thou knowest. Wouldst thou have the horrors
of 1792 acted over again, in England? My lad, I was a youngster then,
but I saw the red flag, dripping with blood, go round the Champ-de-Mars."
"None of us want to carry the red flag, Squire. It is the tri-colour
of Liberty we want; and that flag--in spite of all tyrants can do--will
be carried round the world in glory! When I was in America--"
"Wilt thou be quiet about them foreign countries? We have bother enough
at home, without going to the world's end for more. And I will have no
such talk in my manor. If thou dost not stop it, I shall have to make
thee."
"King William, and all his Lords and Commons, cannot stop such talk.
It is on every honest tongue, and at every decent table. It is in the
air, Squire, and the winds of heaven carry it wherever they go."
"If thou saidst _William Cobbett_, thou mightst happen hit the truth.
The winds of heaven have better work to do. What art thou after anyway?"
"Such a Parliamentary Reform as will give every honest man a voice in
the Government."
"Just so! Thou wouldst make the door of the House of Commons big enough
for any rubbish to go through."
"The plan has been tried, Squire, in America; and
As the Liberty Lads over the sea,
Bought their freedom--and cheaply--with blood;
So we, boys, we
Will die fighting; or live free,
And down with--"
"Stop there!" roared the Squire. "Nonsense in poetry is a bit worse
than any other kind of nonsense. Speak in plain words, or be done with
it! Do you know what you want?"
"That we do. We want the big towns, where working men are the many, and
rich men, the few, to be represented. We want all sham boroughs thrown
out. What do you think of Old Sarum sending a member to Parliament,
when there isn't any Old Sarum? There used to be, in the days of King
Edward the First, but there is now no more left of it than there is of
the Tower of Babel. What do you think of the Member for Ludgershall
being not only the Member, but the _whole constituency_ of Ludgershall?
What do you think of Gatton having just seven voters, and sending
_two_ members to Parliament?"--then leaning forward, and with burning
looks drinking the wind of his own passionate speech--"What do you
think of _Leeds! Manchester! Birmingham! Sheffield!_ being _without
any representation_!"
"My lad," cried the Squire, "have not Leeds, Manchester, Birmingham,
Sheffield, done very well without representation?"
"Squire, a child may grow to a man without love and without care; but
he is a robbed and a wronged child, for all that."
"The Government knows better than thee what to do with big towns full of
unruly men and women."
"That is just the question. They are not represented, because they
are made up of the working population of England. But the working man
has not only his general rights, he has also rights peculiar to his
condition; and it is high time these rights were attended to. Yet these
great cities, full of woollen and cotton weavers, and of fine workers
in all kinds of metals, have not a man in Parliament to say a word for
them."
"What is there to say? What do they want Parliament to know?" asked the
Squire, scornfully.
"They want Parliament to know that they are being forced to work twelve
hours a day, for thirty pennies a week; and that they have to pay ten
pennies for every four-pound loaf of bread. And they expect that when
Parliament knows these two facts, something will be done to help them in
their poverty and misery. They believe that the people of England will
_compel_ Parliament to do something."
"There are Members in both Houses that know these things, why do they
not speak?--if it was reasonable to do so."
"Squire, they dare not. They have not the power, even if they had the
will. The Peers and the great Landlords own two-thirds of the House of
Commons. They _own_ their boroughs and members, just as they _own_ their
parks and cattle. One duke returns eleven members; another duke returns
nine members; and such a city as Manchester cannot return one! If this
state of things does not need reforming, I do not know what does."
So far his words had rushed rattling on one another, like the ring of
iron on iron in a day of old-world battle; but at this point, the Squire
managed again to interrupt them. From his saddle he had something of an
advantage, as he called out in an angry voice,--
"And pray now, what are _you_ to make by this business? Is it a bit of
brass--or land--or power that you look forward to?"
"None of them. I have set my heart on the goal, and not on the prize.
Let the men who come after me reap; I am glad enough if I may but plough
and sow. The Americans--"
"_Chaff_, on the Americans! We are North-Riding men. We are Englishmen.
We are sound-hearted, upstanding fellows who do our day's work, enjoy
our meat and drinking, pay our debts, and die in our beds; and we
want none of thy Reform talk! It is all scandalous rubbish! Bouncing,
swaggering, new-fashioned trumpery! We don't hold with Reformers, nor
with any of their ways! I will listen to thee no longer. Thou mayst talk
to my men, if they will be bothered with thee. I'm not afraid of
anything thou canst say to them."
"I think they will be bothered with me, Squire. They do not look like
fools."
"At any rate, there isn't one Reform fool among them; but I'll tell
thee something--go to a looking-glass, and thou mayst shake thy fist in
the face of one of the biggest fools in England,"--and to the laughter
this sally provoked the Squire galloped away.
For a short distance, horse and rider kept up the pace of enthusiasm;
but when the village was left behind, the Squire's mood fell below its
level; and a sudden depression assailed him. He had "thrown" his man;
he had "threeped" him down in argument; but he had denied his son,
and he brought a hungry heart from his victory. The bright face of his
banished boy haunted the evening shadows; he grew sorrowfully impatient
at the memories of the past; and when he could bear them no longer, he
struck the horse a smart blow, and said angrily,--
"Dal it all! Sons and daughters indeed! A bitter, bitter pleasure!"
At this exclamation, a turn in the road brought him in sight of two
horsemen. "_Whew!_ I am having a night of it!" he muttered. For he
recognised immediately the portly figure of the great Duke of Richmoor,
and he did not doubt that the slighter man at his side was his son,
Lord Exham. The recognition was mutual; and on the Duke's side very
satisfactory. He quickened his horse's speed, and cried out as he
neared the Squire,--
"Well met, Atheling! You are the very man I wished to see! Do you
remember Exham?"
There was a little complimentary speaking, and then the Duke said
earnestly: "Squire, if there is one thing above another that at this
time the landed interest ought to do, it is to stand together. The
country is going to the devil; it is on the verge of revolution. We
must have a majority in the next Parliament; and we want you for the
borough of Asketh. Exham has come back from Italy purposely to take
Gaythorne. What do you say?"
It was the great ambition of the Squire to go to Parliament, and the
little dispute he had just had with the stranger on the green had whetted
this desire to a point which made the Duke's question a very interesting
one to him; but he was too shrewd to make this satisfaction apparent.
"There are younger men, Duke," he answered slowly; "and they who go
to the next Parliament will have a trying time of it. I hear queer
tales, too, of Parliament men; and the House keeps late hours; and late
hours never did suit my constitution."
"Come, Atheling, that is poor talk at a crisis like this. There will be
a meeting at the Castle on Friday--a very important meeting--and I shall
expect you to take the chair. We are in for such a fight as England has
not had since the days of Oliver Cromwell; and it would not be like John
Atheling to keep out of it."
"It wouldn't. If there is anything worth fighting for, John Atheling
will be thereabouts, I'll warrant him."
"Then we may depend upon you--Friday, and two in the afternoon, is the
day and the hour. You will not fail us?"
"Duke, you may depend upon me." And so the men parted; the Squire, in
the unexpected proposal just made him, hardly comprehending the messages
of friendly courtesy which Lord Exham charged him to deliver to Mrs. and
Miss Atheling.
"My word! My word!" he exclaimed, as soon as the Duke and he were far
enough back to back. "Won't Maude be set up? Won't little Kitty
plume her wings?" and in this vague, purposeless sense of wonder and
elation he reached his home. The gates to the large, sweet garden stood
open, but after a moment's thought, he passed them, and went round to
the farm court at the back of the house. The stables occupied one
side of this court, and he left his horse there, and proceeded to
the kitchen. The girls were starting the fires under the coppers for
the quarterly brewing; they said "the Missis was in the houseplace,"
and the Squire opened the door between the two rooms, and went into
the houseplace. But the large room was empty, though the lattices were
open, and a sudden great waft of honeysuckle fragrance saluted him as
he passed them. He noticed it, and he noticed also the full moonlight
on the rows of shining pewter plates and flagons, though he was not
conscious at the time that these things had made any impression upon him.
Two or three steps at the west end of this room led to a door which
opened into Mrs. Atheling's parlour; and the Squire passed it
impatiently. The news of the night had become too much for him; he wanted
to tell his wife. But Mrs. Atheling was not in her parlour. A few ash
logs were burning brightly on the hearth, and there was a round table
spread for supper, and the candles were lit, and showed him the
mistress's little basket containing her keys and her knitting, but
neither wife nor daughter were to be seen.
"It is always the way," he muttered. "It is enough to vex any man.
Women are sure to be out of the road when they are wanted; and in the
road when nobody cares to see them. Wherever has Maude taken herself?"
Then he opened a door and called "Maude! Maude!" in no gentle voice.
[Illustration:]
In a few minutes the call was answered. Mrs. Atheling came hurriedly
into the room. There was a pleasant smile on her large, handsome face,
and she carried in her hands a bowl of cream and a loaf of white bread.
"Why, John!" she exclaimed, "whatever is to do? I was getting a bit
of supper for you. You are late home to-night, aren't you?"
"I should think I was--all of an hour-and-a-half late."
"But you are not ill, John? There is nothing wrong, I hope?"
"If things go a bit out of the common way, women always ask if they have
gone wrong. I should think, they might as well go right."
"So they might. Here is some fresh cream, John. I saw after it myself;
and the haver-cake is toasted, and--"
"Nay, but I'll have my drinking to-night, Maude. I have been flustered
more than a little, I can tell thee that."
"Then you shall have your drinking. We tapped a fresh barrel of old ale
an hour ago. It is that strong and fine as never was; by the time you
get to your third pint, you will be ready to make faces at Goliath."
"Well, Maude, if making faces means making fight, there will be enough
of that in every county of England soon,--if Dukes and Radical orators
are to be believed."
"Have you seen the Duke to-night?"
"I have. He has offered me a seat in the next Parliament. He thinks
there is a big fight before us."
"Parliament! And the Duke of Richmoor to seat you! Why, John, I am
astonished!"
"I felt like I was dreaming. Now then, where is Kate? I want to tell
the little maid about it. It will be a grand thing for Kate. She will
have some chances in London, and I'll warrant she is Yorkshire enough to
take the best of them."
"Kate was at Dashwood's all the afternoon; and they were riding races;
and she came home tired to death. I tucked her up in her bed an hour
ago."
"I am a bit disappointed; but things are mostly ordered that way. There
is something else to tell you, Maude. I saw a stranger on the green throw
Bill Verity and Adam Sedbergh; and I could not stand such nonsense as
that, so I off with my coat and settled him."
"You promised me that you would not 'stand up' any more, John. Some
of them youngsters will give you a 'throw' that you won't get easy
over. And you out of practice too."
"Out of practice! Nothing of the sort. What do you think I do with
myself on wet afternoons? What could I do with myself, but go to the
granary and have an hour or two's play with Verity and Sedbergh, or any
other of the lads that care to feel my grip? I have something else to
tell you, Maude. I had a talk with this strange lad. He began some Reform
nonsense; and I settled him very cleverly."
"Poor lad!" She spoke sadly and absently, and it nettled the Squire.
"I know what you are thinking, Mistress," he said; "but the time has
come when we are bound to stick to our own side."
"The poor are suffering terribly, John. They are starved and driven to
the last pinch. There never was anything like it before."
"Women are a soft lot; it would not do to give up to their notions."
"If you mean that women have soft hearts, it is a good thing for men
that women are that way made."
"I have not done with my wonders yet. Who do you think was with the
Duke?"
"I don't know, and I can't say that I care."
"Yes, but you do. It was Lord Exham. He said this and that about you,
but I did not take much notice of his fine words." Then he rose and
pushed his chair aside, and as he left the room added,--
"That stranger lad I had the tussle with to-night says he knows your
son Edgar--that they have lived and worked together for a year,--a very
unlikely thing."
"Stop a minute, Squire. Are you not ashamed of yourself to keep this
news for a tag-end? Why it is the best thing I have heard to-night; and
I'll be bound you let it go past you like a waft of wind. What did you
ask the stranger about _my_ son?"
"Nothing. Not a word."
"It was like your stubborn heart. _My son_ indeed! If ever you had a
son, it is Edgar. You were just like him when I married you--not as
handsome--but very near; and you are as like as two garden peas in your
pride, and self-will, and foolish anger. Don't talk to me of Dukes, and
Lords, and Parliaments, and wrestling matches. I want to hear about
_my_ son. If you have nothing to say about Edgar, I care little for
your other news."
"Why, Maude! Whatever is the matter with you? I have lived with you
thirty years, and it seems that I have never known you yet."
"But I know you, John Atheling. And I am ashamed of myself for having
made nothing better out of you in thirty years. I thought I had you
better shaped than you appear to be."
"I shall need nothing but my shroud, when thou, or any other mortal,
shapest me."
"Fiddlesticks! Go away with your pride! I have shaped everything for
you,--your house, and your eating; your clothes, and your religion; and
if I had ever thought you would have fallen into Duke Richmoor's hands,
I would have shaped your politics before this time of day."
"Now, Maude, thou canst easily go further than thou canst come back,
if thou dost not take care. Thou must remember that I am thy lord and
husband."
"To be sure, thou hast that name. But thou hast always found it best
to do as thy lady and mistress told thee to do; and if ever thou didst
take thy own way, sorry enough thou hast been for it. Talk of clay in the
hands of the potter! Clay is free and independent to what a man is in the
hands of his wife. Now, John, go to bed. I won't speak to thee again
till I find out something about _my_ son Edgar."
"Very well, Madame."
"I have been thy guardian angel for thirty years"--and Mrs. Atheling
put her head in her hands, and began to cry a little. The Squire could
not bear that argument; he turned backward a few steps, and said in a
more conciliatory voice,--
"Come now, Maude. Thou hast been my master for thirty years; for that
is what thou meanest by 'guardian angel.' But there is nothing worth
crying about. I thought I had brought news that would set thee up a bit;
but women are never satisfied. What dost thou want more?"
"I want thee to go in the morning and find out all about Edgar. I want
thee to bring his friend up here. I would like to question him myself."
"I will not do it."
"Then thou oughtest to be ashamed of thyself for as cruel, and stubborn,
and ill-conditioned a father as I know of. John, dear John, I am very
unhappy about the lad. He went away without a rag of his best clothes.
There's the twelve fine linen shirts Kitty made him, backstitched
and everything, lying in his drawers yet, and his top-coat hanging on
the peg in his room, and his hat and cane so natural like; and he never
was a lad to take care of his health; and so--"
"Now, Maude, I have humbled a bit to thee many a time; and I don't
mind it at all; for thou art only a woman--and a woman and a wife can
blackguard a man as no other body has either the right or the power to
do--but I will not humble to Edgar Atheling. No, I won't! He is about as
bad a prodigal son as any father could have."
"Well, I never! Putting thy own son down with harlots and swine, and
such like!"
"I do nothing of the sort, Maude. There's all kinds of prodigals.
Has not Edgar left his home and gone away with Radicals and Reformers,
and poor, discontented beggars of all makes and kinds? Happen, I could
have forgiven him easier if it had been a bit of pleasuring,--wine and
a bonny lass, or a race-horse or two. But mechanics' meetings, and
pandering to ranting Radicals--I call it scandalous!"
"Edgar has a good heart."
"A good heart! A cat and a fiddle! And that friend of his thou wantest
me to run after, he is nothing but a bouncing, swaggering puppy! Body of
me, Maude! I will not have this subject named again. If thou thinkest I
will ever humble to Edgar Atheling, thou art off thy horse; for I will
not--_never_!"
"Well, John, as none of thy family were ever out of their senses before,
I do hope thou wilt come round; I do indeed!"
"Make thyself easy on that score. Lord! What did the Almighty make women
of? It confounds me."
"To be sure it does. Didst thou expect the Almighty to tell thee? He
has so ordered things that men get wed, and then try and find the secret
out. Thou hadst better go to bed, John Atheling. I see plainly there
is neither sense nor reason in thee to-night. I fancy thou art a bit
set up with the thought of being sent to Parliament by Duke Richmoor. I
wouldn't if I was thee, for thou wilt have to do just what he tells
thee to do."
"What an aggravating woman thou art!" and with the words he passed
through the door, clashing it after him in a way that made Mistress
Atheling smile and nod her handsome head understandingly. She stood
waiting until she heard a door clash sympathetically up-stairs, and
then she said softly,--
"He did not manage to 'throw' or 'threep' me; if he was cock of
the walk down on the green--what fools men are!--I see clear through
him--stubborn though--takes after his mother--and there never was a woman
more stubborn than Dame Joan Atheling."
During this soliloquy she was locking up the cupboards in the parlour
and houseplace. Then she opened the kitchen door and sharply gave the
two women watching the malt mash her last orders; after which she took
off her slippers at the foot of the stairs, and went very quietly up
them. She had no light, but without any hesitation she turned towards
a certain corridor, and gently pushed open a door. It let her into a
large, low room; and the moonlight showed in the centre of it a high
canopied bedstead, piled with snowy pillows and drapery, and among them,
lying with closed eyes, her daughter Kate.
"Kate! Kitty darling! Are you awake?" she whispered.
"Mother! Yes, dear Mother, I am wide awake."
"Your father has been in one of his tantrums again--fretting and fuming
like everything."
"Poor father! What angered him?"
"Well, child, I angered him. Why wouldn't I? He saw a man in the
village who has been living with Edgar for a year, and he never asked
him whether your poor brother was alive or dead. What do you think of
that?"
"It was too bad. Never mind, Mother. I will go to the village in the
morning, and I will find the man, and hear all about Edgar. If there is
any chance, and you want to see him, I will bring him here."
"I would like him to come here, Kitty; for you know he might take Edgar
his best clothes. The poor lad must be in rags by this time."
"Don't fret, Mother. I'll manage it."
"I knew you would. Your father is going to Parliament, Kate. The Duke
offers to seat him, and you will get up to London. What do you think of
that?"
"I am very glad to hear it. Father ought to be in Parliament. He is such
a straight-forward man."
"Well, I don't know whether that kind of man is wanted there, Kate; but
he will do right, and speak plain, I have no doubt. I thought I would
tell you at once. It is something to look forward to. Now go to sleep and
dream of what may come out of it,--for one thing, you shall have plenty
of fine new dresses--good-night, my dear child."
"Good-night, Mother. You may go sweetly to sleep, for I will find out
all about Edgar. You shall be at rest before dinner-time to-morrow."
Then the mother stooped and tucked in the bedclothing, not because it
needed it, but because it was a natural and instinctive way to express
her care and tenderness. Very softly she stepped to the door, but
ere she reached it, turned back to the bed, and laying her hand upon
Kitty's head whispered, "Lord Exham is home again. He is coming here
to-morrow."
And Kate neither spoke nor moved; but when she knew that she was quite
alone, a sweet smile gathered round her lips, and with a gentle sigh she
went quickly away to the Land of Happy Dreams.
CHAPTER SECOND
CECIL AND EDGAR
Early the next morning the Squire was in the parlour standing at the
open lattices, and whistling to a robin on a branch of the cherry-tree
above them. The robin sang, and the Squire whistled, scattering crumbs
as he did so, and it was this kindly picture which met Kate's eyes as
she opened the door of the room. To watch and to listen was natural;
and she stood on the threshold doing so until the Squire came to the
last bars of his melody. Then in a gay voice she took it up, and sang to
his whistling:
"_York! York! for my money!_"[1]
------
[Footnote 1: "York! York for my monie
Of all the places I ever did see
This is the place for good companie
Except the city of London."]
"Hello, Kate!" he cried in his delight as he turned to her; and as
joyously as the birds sing "Spring!" she called, "Good-morning,
Father!"
"God bless thee, Kate!" and for a moment he let his eyes rest on the
vision of her girlish beauty. For there was none like Kate Atheling in
all the North-Riding; from her sandalled feet to her shining hair, she
was the fairest, sweetest maid that ever Yorkshire bred,--an adorable
creature of exquisite form and superb colouring; merry as a bird, with a
fine spirit and a most affectionate heart. As he gazed at her she came
close to him, put her fingers on his big shoulders, and stood on tiptoes
to give him his morning greeting. He lifted her bodily and kissed her
several times; and she said with a laugh,--
"One kiss for my duty, and one for my pleasure, and all the rest are
stolen. Put me down, Father; and what will you do for me to-day?"
"What wouldst thou like me to do?"
"May I ride with you?"
"Nay; I can't take thee with me to-day. I am going to Squire Ayton's,
and from there to Rudby's, and very like as far as Ormesby and
Pickering."
"Then you will not be home to dinner?"
"Not I. I shall get my dinner somewhere."
"Can I come and meet you?"
"Thou hadst better not."
At this moment Mrs. Atheling entered, and Kate, turning to her,
said, "Mother, I am not to ride with father to-day. He is going a
visiting,--going to get his dinner 'somewhere,' and he thinks I
had better not come to meet him."
"Father is right. Father knows he is not to trust to when he goes
'somewhere' for his dinner. For he will call for Ayton, and they two
will get Rudby, and then it will be Ormesby, and so by dinner-time they
may draw rein at Pickering, and Pickering will start 'Corn Laws' and
'Protection for the Farmers,' and midnight will be talked away. Is not
that about right, John?" but she asked the question with a smile that
proved Maude Atheling was once more the wise and loving "guardian
angel" of her husband.
"Thou knowest all about it, Maude."
"I know enough, any way, to advise thee to stand by thy own heart,
and to say and do what it counsels thee. Pickering is made after the
meanest model of a Yorkshireman; and when a Yorkshireman turns out to
be a failure, he is a ruin, and no mistake."
"What by that? I can't quarrel with Pickering. You may kick up a dust
with your neighbour, but, sooner or later, it will settle on your own
door-stone. It is years and years since I learned that lesson. And as for
Pickering's ideas, many a good squire holds the same."
"I don't doubt it. Whatever the Ass says, the asses believe; thou wilt
find that out when thou goest to Parliament."
"Are you really going to Parliament, Father?"
"Wouldst thou like me to go, Kate?"
"Yes, if I may go to London with you."
"It isn't likely I would go without thee. Did thy mother tell thee,
Lord Exham has come back from Italy to sit for Gaythorne."
"A long way to come for so little," she answered. "Why, Father! there
are only a few hovels in Gaythorne, and all the men worth anything have
gone to Leeds to comb wool. Poor fellows!"
"Why dost thou say 'poor fellows'?"
"Because, when a man has been brought up to do his day's work in fields
and barns, among grass, and wheat, and cattle, it is a big change to sit
twelve hours a day in 'the Devil's Hole,' for Martha Coates told me
that is what the wool-combing room is called."
"There is no sense in such a name."
"It is a very good name, I think, for rooms so hot and crowded, and so
sickening with the smells of soap, and wool, and oil, and steam. Martha
says her lads have turned Radicals and Methodists, and she doesn't
wonder. Neither do I."
"Ay; it is as natural as can be. To do his duty by the land used to
be religion enough for any Yorkshire lad; but when they go to big towns,
they get into bad company; and there couldn't be worse company than
those weaving chaps of all kinds. No wonder the Government doesn't
want to hear from the big towns; they are full of a ranting crowd of
Non-contents."
"Well, Father, if I was in their place, and the question of Content, or
Non-content, was put to me, I should very quickly say, 'Non-content.'"
"Nobody is going to put the question to thee. Thy mother has not managed
to bring up a daughter any better than herself, I see that. Kate, my
little maid, Lord Exham will be here to-day; see that thou art civil
enough to him; it may make a lot of difference both to thee and me."
"John Atheling!" cried his wife, "what a blunderer thou art! Why
can't thou let women and their ways alone?"
When they rose from the breakfast-table, the Squire called for his horse,
and his favourite dogs, and bustled about until he had Mrs. Atheling
and half-a-dozen men and women waiting upon him. But there was much good
temper in all his authoritative brusqueness, and he went away in a little
flurry of eclat, his wife and daughter, his men and maid-servants, all
watching him down the avenue with a loving and proud allegiance. He was
so physically the expression of his place and surroundings that not a
soul in Atheling ever doubted that the Squire was in the exact place to
which God Almighty had called him.
On this morning he was dressed in a riding suit of dark blue broadcloth
trimmed with gilt buttons; his vest was white, his cravat white, and his
hat of black beaver. As he galloped away, he swept it from his brow to
his stirrups in an adieu to his wife and daughter; but the men and
women-servants took their share in the courtesy, and it was easy to
feel the cheer of admiration, only expressed by their broad smiles
and sympathetic glances. As soon as "the Master" was out of sight,
they turned away, each to his or her daily task; and Kate looked at
her mother inquiringly. There was an instant understanding, and very
few words were needed.
"Thou hadst better lose no time. He might get away early."
"He will not leave until he sees us, Mother. That is what he came to
Atheling for,--I'll warrant it,--and if I don't go to the village, he
will come here; I know he will."
"Kitty, I can't, I can't trust to that--and you promised."
"I am going to keep my promise, Mother. Have my mare at the door in ten
minutes, and I will be ready."
Mrs. Atheling had attended to this necessity before breakfast, and
the mare was immediately waiting. She was a creature worthy of the
Beauty she had to carry,--dark chestnut in colour, with wide haunches
and deep oblique shoulders. Her mane was fine, her ears tremulous, her
nostrils thin as parchment, her eyes human in intelligence, her skin
like tissue-paper, showing the warm blood pressing against it, and the
veins standing clearly out. Waiting fretted her, and she pawed the
garden gravel impatiently with her round, dark, shining hoofs until
Kate appeared. Then she uttered a low whinny of pleasure, and bent
her head for the girl to lay her face against it.
[Illustration:]
A light leap from the groom's hand put Kate in her seat, and a lovelier
woman never gathered reins in hand. In those days also, the riding
dress of women did not disfigure them; it was a garb that gave to Kate
Atheling's loveliness grace and dignity, an air of discreet freedom,
and of sweet supremacy,--a close-fitting habit of fine cloth, falling
far below her feet in graceful folds, and a low beaver hat, crowned
with drooping plumes, shadowing her smiling face. One word to the mare
was sufficient; she needed no whip, and Kate would not have insulted
her friend and companion by carrying one.
For a little while they went swiftly, then Kate bent and patted the
mare's neck, and she instantly obeyed the signal for a slower pace. For
Kate had seen before them a young man sitting on a stile, and teaching
two dogs to leap over the whip which he held in his hand. She felt
sure this was the person she had to interview; yet she passed him without
a look, and went forward towards the village. After riding half-a-mile
she took herself to task for her cowardice, and turned back again.
The stranger was still sitting on the stile, and as she approached
him she heard a hearty laugh, evoked doubtless by some antic or mistake
of the dogs he was playing with. She now walked her mare toward him, and
the young man instantly rose, uncovered his head, and, pushing the dogs
away, bowed--not ungracefully--to her. Yet he did not immediately speak,
and Kate felt that she must open the conversation.
"Do you--do you want to find any place?" she asked. "I think you are
a stranger--and I am at home here."
He smiled brightly and answered, "Thank you. I want to find Atheling
Manor-house. I have a message for Mrs. and Miss Atheling."
"I am Miss Atheling; and I am now returning to the house. I suppose that
you are the Wrestler and Orator of last night. My father told us about
the contest. Mother wishes to talk with you--we have heard that you know
my brother Edgar--we are very unhappy about Edgar. Do you know anything
of him? Will you come and see mother--_now_--she is very anxious?"
These questions and remarks fell stumblingly from her lips, one after
the other; she was excited and trembling at her own temerity, and yet
all the time conscious she was Squire Atheling's daughter and in her
father's Manor, having a kind of right to assume a little authority and
ask questions. The stranger listened gravely till Kate ceased speaking,
then he said,--
"My name is Cecil North. I know Edgar Atheling very well. I am ready to
do now whatever you wish."
"Then, Mr. North, I wish you would come with me. It is but a short walk
to the house; Candace will take little steps, and I will show you the
way."
"Thank you."
He said only these two words, but they broke up his face as if there
was music in them; for he smiled with his lips and his eyes at the same
time. Kate glanced down at him as he walked by her side. She saw that
he was tall, finely formed, and had a handsome face; that he was well
dressed, and had an air of distinction; and yet she divined in some
occult way that this animal young beauty was only the husk of his being.
After a few moments' silence, he began that commonplace chat about
horses which in Yorkshire takes the place that weather does in other
localities. He praised the beauty and docility of Candace, and Kate hoped
she was walking slowly enough; and then Cecil North admired her feet
and her step, and asked if she ever stumbled or tripped. This question
brought forth an eager denial of any such fault, and an opinion that
the rider was to blame when such an accident happened.
"In a general way, you are right, Miss Atheling," answered North. "If
the rider sits just and upright, then any sudden jerk forward throws the
shoulders backward; and in that case, if a horse thinks proper to fall,
_he_ will be the sufferer. He may cut his forehead, or hurt his nose, or
bark his knees, but he will be a buffer to his rider."
"Candace has never tripped with me. I have had her four years. I will
never part with her."
"That is right. Don't keep a horse you dislike, and don't part with
one that suits you."
"Do you love horses?"
"Yes. A few years ago I was all for horses. I could sit anything. I
could jump everything, right and left. I had a horse then that was made
to measure, and foaled to order. No one borrowed him twice. He had a
way of coming home without a rider. But I have something better than
horses to care for now; and all I need is a good roadster."
"My father likes an Irish cob for that purpose."
"Nothing better. I have one in the village that beats all. He can trot
fourteen miles an hour, and take a six-foot wall at the end of it."
"Do you ride much?"
"I ride all over England."
She looked curiously at him, but asked no questions; and North continued
the conversation by pointing out to her the several points which made
Candace so valuable. "In the first place," he said, "her colour is
good,--that dark chestnut shaded with black usually denotes speed. She
has all the signs of a thoroughbred; do you know them?"
"No; but I should like to."
"They are three things long,--long ears, long neck, and long forelegs.
Three things short,--short dock, short back, and short hindlegs. Three
things broad,--broad forehead, broad chest, and broad croup. Three
things clean,--clean skin, clean eyes, and clean hoofs. Then the nostrils
must be quite black. If there had been any white in the nostrils of
Candace, I would have ranked her only 'middling.'"
Kate laughed pleasantly, and said over several times the long, short,
broad, and clean points that went to the making of a thoroughbred;
and, by the time the lesson was learned, they were at the door of the
Manor-house. Mrs. Atheling stood just within it, and when Kate said,--
"Mother, this is Edgar's friend, Mr. Cecil North," she gave him her
hand and answered:
"Come in! Come in! Indeed I am fain and glad to see you!" and all the
way through the great hall, and into her parlour, she was beaming and
uttering welcomes. "First of all, you must have a bit of eating and
drinking," she said, "and then you will tell me about my boy."
"Thank you. I will take a glass of ale, if it will please you."
"It will please me beyond everything. You shall have it from the
Squire's special tap: ale smooth as oil, sweet as milk, clear as
amber, fourteen years old next twenty-ninth of March. And so you know
my son Edgar?"
"I know him, and I love him with all my heart. He is as good as gold,
and as true as steel."
"To be sure, he is. I'm his mother, and I ought to know him; and that
is what I say. How did you come together?"
"We met first at Cambridge; but we were not in the same college or set,
so that I only knew him slightly there. Fortune had appointed a nobler
introduction for us. I was in Glasgow nearly a year ago, and I wandered
down to the Green, and was soon aware that the crowd was streaming to one
point. Edgar was talking to this crowd. Have you ever heard him talk to
a crowd?"
The mother shook her head, and Kate said softly: "We have never heard
him." She had taken off her hat, and her face was full of interest and
happy expectation.
"Well," continued North, "he was standing on a platform of rough
boards that had been hastily put together, and I remembered instantly
his tall, strong, graceful figure, and his bright, purposeful face.
He was tanned to the temples, his cheeks were flushed, the wind was in
his hair, the sunlight in his eyes; and, with fiery precipitance of
assailing words, he was explaining to men mad with hunger and injustice
the source of all their woes and the remedy to be applied. I became
a man as I listened to him. That hour I put self behind me and vowed
my life, and all I have, to the cause of Reform; because he showed me
plainly that Parliamentary Reform included the righting of every social
wrong and cruelty."
"Do you really think so?" asked Kate.
"Indeed, I am sure of it. A Parliament that represented the great middle
and working classes of England would quickly do away with both black
and white slavery,--would repeal those infamous Corn Laws which have
starved the working-man to make rich the farmer; would open our ports
freely to the trade of all the world; would educate the poor; give much
shorter hours of labour, and wages that a man could live on. Can I ever
forget that hour? Never! I was born again in it!"
"That was the kind of talk that he angered his father with," said Mrs.
Atheling, between tears and smiles. "You see it was all against the land
and the land-owners; and Edgar would not be quiet, no matter what I said
to him."
"He _could not_ be quiet. He had _no right_ to be quiet. Why! he sent
every man and woman home that night with hope in their hearts and a
purpose in their wretched lives. Oh, if you could have seen those sad,
cold faces light and brighten as they listened to him."
"Was there no one there that didn't think as he did?"
"I heard only one dissenting voice. It came from a Minister. He called
out, 'Lads and lasses, take no heed of what this fellow says to you.
He is nothing but a Dreamer.' Instantly Edgar took up the word. 'A
Dreamer!' he cried joyfully. 'So be it! What says the old Hebrew
prophet? Look to your Bible, sir. Let him that hath a dream tell it.
Dreamers have been the creators, the leaders, the saviours of the world.
And we will go on dreaming until our dream comes true!' The crowd
answered him with a sob and a shout--and, oh, I wish you had been there!"
Kate uttered involuntarily a low, sympathetic cry that she could not
control, and Mrs. Atheling wept and smiled; and when North added, in a
lower voice full of feeling, "There is no one like Edgar, and I love
him as Jonathan loved David!" she went straight to the speaker, took
both his hands in hers, and kissed him.
"Thou art the same as a son to me," she said, "and thou mayst count on
my love as long as ever thou livest." And in this cry from her heart
she forgot her company pronoun, and fell naturally into the familiar and
affectionate "thou."
Fortunately at this point of intense emotion a servant entered with a
flagon of the famous ale, and some bread and cheese; and the little
interruption enabled all to bring themselves to a normal state of
feeling. Then the mother thought of Edgar's clothing, and asked North
if he could take it to him. North smiled. "He is a little of a dandy
already," he answered. "I saw him last week at Lady Durham's, and he
was the best dressed man in her saloon."
"Now then!" said Mrs. Atheling, "thou art joking a bit. Whatever would
Edgar be doing at Lady Durham's?"
"He had every right there, as he is one of Lord Durham's confidential
secretaries."
"Art thou telling me some romance?"
"I am telling you the simple truth."
"Then thou must tell me how such a thing came about."
"Very naturally. I told Lord Grey and his son-in-law, Lord Durham,
about Edgar--and I persuaded Edgar to come and speak to the spur and
saddle-makers at Ripon Cross; and the two lords heard him with delight,
and took him, there and then, to Studley Royal, where they were
staying; and it was in those glorious gardens, and among the ruins of
Fountains Abbey, they planned together the Reform Campaign for the next
Parliament."
"The Squire thinks little of Lord Grey," said Mrs. Atheling.
"That is not to be wondered at," answered North. "Lord Grey is the
head and heart of Reform. When he was Mr. Charles Grey, and the pupil
of Fox, he presented to Parliament the famous Prayer, from the Society of
Friends, for Reform. That was thirty-seven years ago, but he has never
since lost sight of his object. By the side of such leaders as Burke,
and Fox, and Sheridan, his lofty eloquence has charmed the House until
the morning sun shone on its ancient tapestries. He and his son-in-law,
Lord Durham, have the confidence of every honest man in England. And
he is brave as he is true. More than once he has had the courage to tell
the King to his face what it was his duty to do."
"And what of Lord Durham?" asked Kate.
"He is a masterful man,--a bolder Radical than most Radicals. All over
the country he is known as Radical Jack. He has a strong, resolute will,
but during the last half-year he has leaned in all executive matters upon
'Mr. Atheling.' Indeed, there was enthusiastic talk last week at Lady
Durham's of sending 'Mr. Atheling' to the next Parliament."
"My word! But that would never do!" exclaimed Mr. Atheling's mother.
"His father is going there for the landed interest; and if Edgar goes
for the people, there will be trouble between them. They will get to
talking back at each other, and the Squire will pontify and lay down
the law, even if the King and the Law-makers are all present. He will
indeed!"
"It would be an argument worth hearing, for Edgar would neither lose
his temper nor his cause. Oh, I tell you there will be great doings in
London next winter! The Duke of Wellington and Mr. Peel will have to go
out; and Earl Grey will surely form a new Government."
"The Squire says Earl Grey and Reform will bring us into civil war."
"On the contrary, only Reform can prevent civil war. Hitherto, the
question has been, 'What will the Lords do?' Now it is, 'What must
be done with the Lords?' For once, all England is in dead earnest;
and the cry everywhere is, 'The Bill, the whole Bill, and nothing
but The Bill!' And if we win, as win we must, we shall remember how
Edgar Atheling has championed the cause. George the Fourth is on his
death-bed," he added in a lower voice. "He will leave his kingdom in
a worse plight than any king before him. I, who have been through the
land, may declare so much."
"The poor are very poor indeed," said Mrs. Atheling. "Kate and I do
what we can, but the most is little."
"The whole story of the poor is--slow starvation. The best silk weavers
in England are not able to make more than eight or nine shillings a
week. Thousands of men in the large towns are working for two-pence
half-penny a day; and thousands have no work at all."
"What do they do?" whispered Kate.
"They die. But I did not come here to talk on these subjects--only when
the heart is full, the mouth must speak. I have brought a letter and a
remembrance from Edgar," and he took from his pocket a letter and two
gold rings, and gave the letter and one ring to Mrs. Atheling, and the
other ring to Kate. "He bid me tell you," said North, "that some day
he will set the gold round with diamonds; but now every penny goes for
Reform."
"And you tell Edgar, sir, that his mother is prouder of the gold thread
than of diamonds. Tell him, she holds her Reform ring next to her wedding
ring,"--and with the words Mrs. Atheling drew off her "guard" of
rubies, and put the slender thread of gold her son had sent her next her
wedding ring. At the same moment Kate slipped upon her "heart finger"
the golden token. Her face shone, her voice was like music: "Tell
Edgar, Mr. North," she said, "that my love for him is like this ring:
I do not know its beginning; but I do know it can have no end."
Then North rose to go, and would not be detained; and the women walked
with him to the very gates, and there they said "good-bye." And all
the way through the garden Mrs. Atheling was sending tender messages to
her boy, though at the last she urged North to warn him against saying
anything "beyond bearing" to his father, if they should meet on the
battle-ground of the House of Commons. "It is so easy to quarrel on
politics," she said with all the pathos of reminiscent disputes.
"It has always been an easy quarrel, I think," answered North. "Don't
you remember when Joseph wanted to pick a quarrel with his brethren, he
pretended to think they were a special commission sent to Egypt to spy
out the nakedness of the land?"
"To be sure! And that is a long time ago. Good-bye! and God bless thee!
I shall never forget thy visit!"
"And we wish 'The Cause' success!" added Kate.
"Thank you. Success will come. They who _care_ and _dare_ can do
anything." With these words he passed through the gates, and Mrs.
Atheling and Kate went slowly back to the house, both of them turning
the new ring on their fingers. It was dinner-time, but little dinner
was eaten. Edgar's letter was to read; Mr. North to speculate about; and
if either of the women remembered Lord Exham's expected call, no remark
was made about it.
Yet Kate was neither forgetful of the visit, nor indifferent to it. A
sweet trouble of heart, half-fear and half-hope, flushed her cheeks
and sent a tender light into her star-like eyes. In the very depths of
her being there existed a feeling she did not understand, and did not
investigate. Was it Memory? Was it Hope? Was it Love? She asked none of
these questions. But she dressed like a girl in a dream; and just as she
was sliding the silver buckle on her belt, a sudden trick of memory
brought back to her the rhyme of her childhood. And though she blushed
to the remembrance, and would not for anything repeat the words, her
heart sang softly to itself,--
"It may so happen, it may so fall,
That I shall be Lady of Exham Hall."
CHAPTER THIRD
THE LORD OF EXHAM
On the very edge of the deep, tumbling becks which feed the Esk stands
Exham Hall. It is a stately, irregular building of gray stone; and when
the sunshine is on its many windows, and the flag of Richmoor flying from
its central tower, it looks gaily down into the hearts of many valleys,
where
"The oak, and the ash, and the bonny ivy-tree,
Flourish at home in the North Countree."
Otherwise, it has, at a distance, a stern and forbidding aspect. For
it is in a great solitude, and the babble of the beck, and the cawing
of the rooks, are the only sounds that usually break the silence. The
north part was built in A. D. 1320; and the most modern part in the reign
of James the First; and yet so well has it stood the wear and tear of
elemental and human life in this secluded Yorkshire vale that it does
not appear to be above a century old.
It was usually tenanted either by the dowager of the family, or the
heir of the dukedom; and it had been opened at this time to receive its
young lord on his return from Italy. So it happened that at the very
hour when Mrs. and Miss Atheling were talking with Cecil North, Piers
Exham was sitting in a parlour of Exham Hall, thinking of Kate, and
recalling the events of their acquaintanceship. It had begun when he was
seventeen years old, and Kate Atheling exactly twelve. Indeed, because it
was her birthday, she was permitted to accompany an old servant going to
Exham Hall to visit the housekeeper, who was her cousin.
This event made a powerful impression on Kate's imagination. It was
like a visit to some enchanted castle. She felt all its glamour and
mystery as soon as her small feet trod the vast entrance hall with
its hangings of Arras tapestry, and its flags and weapons from every
English battlefield. Her fingers touched lightly standards from Crecy,
and Agincourt, and the walls of Jerusalem; and her heart throbbed to the
touch. And as she climbed the prodigiously wide staircase of carved
and polished oak, she thought of the generations of knights, and lords
and ladies, who had gone up and down it, and wondered where they were.
And oh, the marvellous old rooms with their shadowy portraits, and
their treasures from countries far away!--shells, and carved ivories,
and sandalwood boxes; strange perfumes, and old idols, melancholy,
fantastic, odd; musky-smelling things from Asia; and ornaments and
pottery from Africa, their gloomy, primitive simplicity, mingling with
pretty French trifles, and Italian bronzes, and costly bits of china.
It was all like an Arabian Night's adventure, and hardly needed the
touches of romance and superstition the housekeeper quite incidentally
threw in: thus, as they passed a very, very tall old clock with a silver
dial on a golden face, she said: "Happen, you would not believe it,
but on every tenth of June, a cold queer light travels all round that
dial. It begins an hour past midnight, and stops at an hour past noon.
I've seen it myself a score of times." And again, in going through
a state bed-room, she pointed out a cross and a candlestick, and said,
"They are made from bits of a famous ship that was blown up with an
Exham, fighting on the Spanish Main. I've heard tell that candles
were once lighted in that stick on his birthday; but there's been no
candle-lighting for a century, anyway." And Kate thought it was a
shame, and wished she knew his birthday, and might light candles again in
honour of the hero.
With such sights and tales, her childish head and heart were filled;
and the mazy gardens, with their monkish fish-ponds and hedges, their old
sun-dials and terraces, their ripening berries and gorgeous flower-beds,
completed her fascination. She went back to Atheling ravished and
spellbound; too wrapt and charmed to talk much of what she had seen, and
glad when she could escape into the Atheling garden to think it all over
again. She went straight to her swing. It was hung between two large
ash-trees, and there were high laurel hedges on each side. In this
solitude she sat down to remember, and, as she did so, began to swing
gently to-and-fro, and to sing to her movement,--
"It may so happen, it may so fall,
That I shall be Lady of Exham Hall."
And as she sung these lines over and over--being much pleased with their
unexpected rhyming--the young Lord of Exham Hall came through Atheling
garden. He heard his own name, and stood still to listen; then he softly
parted the laurel bushes, and watched the little maid, and heard her
sing her couplet, and merrily laugh to herself as she did so. And he
saw how beautiful she was, and there came into his heart a singular
warmth and pleasure; but, without discovering himself to the girl, he
delivered his message to Squire Atheling, and rode away.
The next morning, however, he managed to carry his fishing-rod to the
same beck where Edgar Atheling was casting his line, and to so charm the
warm-hearted youth that meeting after meeting grew out of it. Nor was it
long until the friendship of the youths included that of the girl; so
that it was a very ordinary thing for Kate to go with her brother and
Piers Exham to the hill-streams for trout. As the summer grew they tossed
the hay together, and rode after the harvest wagons, and danced at the
Ingathering Feast, and dressed the ancient church at Christmastide, and
so, with ever-increasing kindness and interest, shared each other's joy
and sorrows for nearly two years.
Then there was a break in the happy routine. Kate put on long dresses;
she was going to a fine ladies' school in York to be "finished," and
Edgar also was entered at Cambridge. Piers was to go to Oxford. He
begged to go to Cambridge with his friend; but the Duke approved the
Tory principles of his own University, and equally disapproved of
those of Cambridge, which he declared were deeply tainted with Whig
and even Radical ideas. Perhaps also he was inclined to break up the
close friendship between the Athelings and his heir. "No one can be
insensible to the beauty of Kate Atheling," he said to the Duchess;
"and Piers' constant association with such a lovely girl may not
be without danger." The Duchess smiled at the supposition. A royal
princess, in her estimation, was not above her son's deserts and
expectations; and the Squire's little home-bred girl was beneath
either her fears or her suppositions. This also was the tone in which
she received all her son's conversation about the Athelings. "Very nice
people, I dare say, Piers," she would remark; "and I am glad you have
such thoroughly respectable companions; but you will, of course, forget
them when you go to College, and begin your independent life." And
there was such an air of finality in these assertions that it was only
rarely Piers had the spirit to answer, "Indeed, I shall never forget
them!"
So it happened that the last few weeks of their friendship missed much
of the easy familiarity and sweet confidence that had hitherto marked
its every change. Kate, with the new consciousness of dawning womanhood,
was shy, less frank, and less intimate. Strangers began to call her
"Miss" Atheling; and there were hours when the little beauty's airs
of maidenly pride and reserve made Piers feel that any other address
would be impertinent. And this change had come, no one knew how, only it
was there, and not to be gainsaid; and every day's events added some
trifling look, or word, or act which widened the space between them,
though the space itself was full of sweet and kindly hours.
Then there came a day in autumn when Kate was to leave her home for the
York school. Edgar was already in Cambridge. Piers was to enter Oxford
the following week. This chapter of life was finished; and the three
happy souls that had made it, were to separate. Piers, who had a poetic
nature, and was really in love--though he suspected it not--was most
impressed with the passing away. He could not keep from Atheling, and
though he had bid Kate "good-bye" in the afternoon, he was not
satisfied with the parting. She had then been full of business: the
Squire was addressing her trunks; Mrs. Atheling crimping the lace
frill of her muslin tippets; and Kate herself bringing, one by one,
some extra trifle that at the last moment impressed her with its
necessity. It was in this hurry of household love and care that he had
said "good-bye," and he felt that it had been a mere form.
Perhaps Kate felt it also; for when he rode up to Atheling gates in the
gloaming, he saw her sauntering up the avenue. He thought there was
both melancholy and expectation in her attitude and air. He tied his
horse outside, and joined her. She met him with a smile. He took her
hand, and she permitted him to retain it. He said, "Kate!" and she
answered the word with a glance that made him joyous, ardent, hopeful.
He was too happy to speak; he feared to break the heavenly peace between
them by a word. Oh, this is the way of Love! But neither knew the ways
of Love. They were after all but children, and the sweet thoughts in
their hearts had not come to speech. They wandered about the garden
until the gloaming became moonlight, and they heard Mrs. Atheling calling
her daughter. Then their eyes met, and, swift as the firing of a gun,
their pupils dilated and flashed with tender feeling; over their faces
rushed the crimson blood; and Piers said sorrowfully, "Kate! Sweet
Kate! I shall never forget you!" He raised the hand he held to his
lips, kissed it, and went hurriedly away from her.
Kate was not able to say a word, but she felt the kiss on her hand
through all her sleep and dreams that night. Indeed five years of
change and absence had not chilled its warm remembrance; there were
hours when it was still a real expression, when the hand itself was
conscious of the experience, and willingly cherished it. All through
Cecil North's visit, she had been aware of a sense of expectancy.
Interested as she was in Edgar, the thought of Lord Exham would not be
put down. For a short time it was held in abeyance; but when the early
dinner was over, and she was in the solitude of her own room, Piers put
Edgar out of consideration. As she sat brushing and dressing her long
brown hair, she recalled little incidents concerning Piers,--how once
in the harvest-field her hair had tumbled down, and Piers praised its
tangled beauty; how he had liked this and the other dress; how he had
praised her dancing, and vowed she was the best rider in the county.
He had given her a little gold brooch for a Christmas present, and she
took it from its box, and said to herself she would wear it, and see if
it evoked its own memory in Exham's heart.
It had been her intention to put on a white gown, but the day darkened
and chilled; and then she had a certain shyness about betraying, even
to her mother, her anxiety to look beautiful. Perhaps Piers might not now
think her beautiful in any garb. Perhaps he had forgotten--everything.
So, impelled by a kind of perverse indifference, she wore only the gray
woollen gown that was her usual afternoon attire. But the fashion of
the day left her lovely arms uncovered, and only veiled her shoulders
in a shadowing tippet of lace. She fastened this tippet with the
little gold brooch, just where the folds crossed the bosom. She had
hastened rather than delayed her dressing; and when Mrs. Atheling came
downstairs in her afternoon black silk dress, she found Kate already in
the parlour. She had taken from her work-box a piece of fine cambric,
and was stitching it industriously; and Mrs. Atheling lifted her own
work, and began to talk of Edgar, and Edgar's great fortune, and what
his father would say about it. This subject soon absorbed her; she
forgot everything in it; but Kate heard through all the radical
turmoil of the conversation the gallop of a strange horse on the
gravelled avenue, and the echo of strange footsteps on the flagged halls
of the house.
[Illustration:]
In the middle of some grand prophecy for Edgar's future, the parlour
door was opened, and Lord Exham entered. He came forward with something
of his boyhood's enthusiasm, and took Mrs. Atheling's hands, and said
a few words of pleasant greeting, indistinctly heard in the fluttering
gladness of Mrs. Atheling's reception. Then he turned to Kate. She had
risen, but she held her work in her left hand. He took it from her,
and laid it on her work-box, and then clasped both her hands in his. The
firm, lingering pressure had its own eloquence. In matters of love,
they who are to understand, _do_ understand; and no interpreter is needed.
The conversation then became general and full of interest; but from
Oxford, and France, and Italy, it quickly drifted--as all conversation
did in those days--to Reform. And Mrs. Atheling could not keep the
news that had come to her that day. She magnified Edgar with a sweet
motherly vanity that was delightful, and to which Piers listened with
pleasure; for the listening gave him opportunity to watch Kate's
eloquent face, and to flash his sympathy into it. He thought her
marvellously beautiful. Her shining hair, her rich colouring, and her
large gray eyes were admirably emphasised by the homely sweetness of
her dress. After the lavish proportions, and gaily attired women of
Italy, nothing could have been more enchanting to Piers Exham than
Kate's subdued, gray-eyed loveliness, clad in gray garments. The
charming background of her picturesque home added to this effect; and
this background he saw and realised; but she had also a moral background
of purity and absolute sincerity which he did not see, but which he
undoubtedly felt.
While Piers was experiencing this revelation of womanhood, it was not
likely Kate was without impressions. In his early youth, Exham had a
slight resemblance to Lord Byron; and he had been vain of the likeness,
and accentuated it by adopting the open collar, loose tie, and other
peculiarities of the poetic nobleman. Kate was glad to see this servile
imitation had been discarded. Exham was now emphatically individual. He
was not above medium height; but his figure was good, and his manner
gentle and courteous, as the manner of all superior men is. Grave and
high-bred, he had also much of the melancholy, mythical air of an
English nobleman, conscious of long antecedents, and dwelling in the
seclusion of shaded parks, and great houses steeped in the human aura
of centuries. His hair was very black, and worn rather long, and his
complexion, a pale bronze; but this lack of red colouring added to
the fascination of his dark eyes, which were remarkable for that deep
glow always meaning mental or moral power of some kind. They were
often half shut--and then--who could tell what was passing behind them?
And yet, when all this had been observed by Kate, she was sure that
something--perhaps the most essential part--had escaped her.
This latter estimate was the correct one. No one as yet had learned
the heart or mind of Piers Exham. It is doubtful if he understood his own
peculiarities; for he had few traits of distinctive pre-eminence, his
character being very like an opal, where all colours are fused and
veiled in a radiant dimness. So that, after all, this meeting was a
first meeting; and Kate did not feel that the past offered her any
intelligible solution of the present man.
The conversation having drifted to Edgar and Reform, stayed there.
Lord Exham spoke with a polite, but stubborn emphasis in favour of his
own caste, as the governing caste, and thought that the honour and
welfare of England might still be left "to those great Houses which
represented the collective wisdom of the nation." Nor was he disturbed
when Mrs. Atheling, with some scorn and temper, said "they represented
mostly the collective folly of the nation." He bowed and smiled at
the dictum, but Kate understood the smile; it was of that peculiarly
sweet kind which is equivalent to having the last word. He admitted
that some things wanted changing, but he said, "Changes could not be
manufactured; they must grow." "True," replied Kate, "but Reform
has been growing for sixty years." "That is as it should be," he
continued. "You cannot write Reforms on human beings, as you write it on
paper. Two or three generations are not enough." In all that was
said--and Mrs. Atheling said some very strong things--he took a polite
interest; but he made no surrender. Even if his words were conciliatory,
Kate saw in his eyes--languid but obstinately masterful--the stubborn,
headstrong will of a man who had inherited his prejudices, and who had
considered them in the light of his interest, and did not choose to bring
them to the light of reason.
Still the conversation was a satisfactory and delightful vehicle of human
revelation. The two women paled and flushed, and grew sad or happy in
its possibilities, with a charming frankness. No social subject could
have revealed them so completely; and Exham enjoyed the disclosures of
feeling which this passionate interest evoked,--enjoyed it so much that
he forgot the lapse of time, and stayed till tea was ready, and then was
delighted to stay and take it with them. Mrs. Atheling was usually
relieved of the duty of making it by Kate; and Piers could not keep his
glowing eyes off the girl as her hands moved about the exquisite Derby
teacups, and handed him the sweet, refreshing drink. She remembered
that he loved sugar; that he did not love cream; that he preferred his
toast not buttered; that he liked apricot jelly; and he was charmed and
astonished at these proofs of remembrance, so much so indeed that he
permitted Mrs. Atheling to appropriate the whole argument. For this sweet
hour he resigned his heart to be pleased and happy. Too wise in some
things, not wise enough in others, Piers Exham had at least one great
compensating quality--the courage to be happy.
He let all other feelings and purposes lapse for this one. He gave
himself up to charm, and to be charmed; he flattered Mrs. Atheling into
absolute complaisance; he persuaded Kate to walk through the garden
and orchard with him, and then, with caressing voice and a gentle
pressure of the hand, reminded her of days and events they had shared
together. Smiles flashed from face to face. Her simple sweetness, her
ready sympathy, her ingenuous girlish expressions, carried him back to
his boyhood. Kate shone on his heart like sunshine; and he did not
know that it had become dark until he had left Atheling behind, and found
himself Exham-way, riding rapidly to the joyful whirl and hurry of his
thoughts.
Now happiness, as well as sorrow, is selfish. Kate was happy and not
disposed to talk about her happiness. Her mother's insistent questions
about Lord Exham troubled her. She desired to go into solitude with the
new emotions this wonderful day had produced; but the force of those
lovely habits of respect and obedience, which had become by constant
practice a second nature, kept her at her mother's side, listening with
sweet credulousness to all her opinions, and answering her hopes with
her own assurances. The reward of such dutiful deference was not long
in coming. In a short time Mrs. Atheling said,--
"It has been such a day as never was, Kate; and you must be tired. Now
then, go to bed, my girl, and sleep; for goodness knows when your father
will get home!"
So Kate kissed her mother--kissed her twice--as if she was dimly
conscious of unfairly keeping back some pleasure, and would thus atone
for her selfishness. And Mrs. Atheling sat down in the chimney-corner
with the gray stocking she was knitting, and pondered her son's good
fortune for a while. Then she rose and sent the maids to bed, putting
the clock an hour forward ere she did so, and excusing the act by saying,
"If I don't set it fast, we shall soon be on the wrong side of
everything."
Another hour she sat calmly knitting, while in the dead silence of the
house the clock's regular "_tick! tick!_" was like breathing. It
seemed to live, and to watch with her. As the Squire came noisily into
the room it struck eleven. "My word, Maude!" he said with great good
humour, "I am sorry to keep you waiting; but there has been some good
work done to-night, so you won't mind it, I'll warrant."
"Well now, John, if you and your friends have been at Pickering's, and
have done any 'good' work there, I will be astonished! You may warrant
_that_ with every guinea you have."
"We were at Rudby's. There were as many as nine landed men of us
together; and for once there was one mind in nine men."
"That is, you were all for yourselves."
"No! Dal it, we were all for old England and the Constitution! The
Constitution, just as it is, and no tinkering with it."
"I wonder which of the nine was the biggest fool among you?"
"Thou shouldst not talk in that way, Maude. The country is in real
danger with this Reform nonsense. Every Reformer ought to be hung, and I
wish they were hung."
"I would be ashamed to say such words, John. Thou knowest well that thy
own son is a Reformer."
"More shame to him, and to me, and to thee! I would have brought up a
better lad, or else I would hold my tongue about him. It was thy fault he
went to Cambridge. I spent good money then to spoil a fine fellow."
"Now, John Atheling, I won't have one word said against Edgar in this
house."
"It is my house."
"Nay, but it isn't. Thou only hast the life rent of it. It is Edgar's
as much as thine. He will be here, like enough, when I and thou have gone
the way we shall never come back."
"Maybe he will--and maybe he will not. I can break the entail if it
suits me."
"Thou canst not. For, with all thy faults, thou art an upright man,
and thy conscience wouldn't let thee do anything as mean and spiteful
as that. How could we rest in our graves if there was any one but an
Atheling in Atheling?"
"He is a disgrace to the name."
"He is nothing of that kind. He will bring the old name new honour. See
if he does not! And as for the Constitution of England, it is about as
great a ruin as thy constitution was when thou hadst rheumatic fever, and
couldn't turn thyself, nor help thyself, nor put a morsel of bread
into thy mouth. But thou hadst a good doctor, and he set thee up; and a
good House of Commons--Reforming Commons--will happen do as much for
the country; though when every artisan and every farm labourer is hungry
and naked, it will be hard to spread the plaster as far as the sore. It
would make thy heart ache to hear what they suffer."
"Don't bother thy head about weavers, and cutlers, and artisans. If
the Agriculture of the country is taken care of--"
"Now, John, do be quiet. There is not an idiot in the land who won't
talk of Agriculture."
"We have got to stick by the land, Maude."
"The land will take care of itself. If thou wouldst only send for thy
son, and have a little talk with him, he might let some light and wisdom
into thee."
"I have nothing to say on such subjects to Edgar Atheling--not a word."
"If thou goest to Parliament, thou mayst have to 'say' to him, no
matter whether thou wantest to or not; that is, unless thou art willing
to let Edgar have both sides of the argument."
"What tom-foolery art thou talking?"
"I am only telling thee that Edgar is as like to go to Parliament as
thou art."
"To be sure--when beggars are kings."
"Earl Grey will seat him--or Lord Durham; and I would advise thee to
study up things a bit. There are new ideas about, John; and thou wouldst
look foolish if thy own son had to put any of thy mistakes right for
thee."
"I suppose, Maude, thou still hast a bit of faith left in the Bible.
And I'll warrant thou knowest every word it says about children obeying
their parents, and honouring their parents, and so on. And I can
remember thee telling Edgar, when he was a little lad, about Absalom
going against his father, and what came of it; now then, is the Bible, as
well as the Constitution, a ruin? Is it good for nothing but to be
pitched into limbo, or to be 'reformed'? I'm astonished at thee!"
"The Bible has nothing to do with politics, John. I wish it had!
Happen then we would have a few wise-like, honest politicians. The
Bible divides men into good men and bad men; but thou dividest all men
into Tories and Radicals; and the Bible has nothing to do with either
of them. I can tell thee that. Nay, but I'm wrong; it does say a deal
about doing justice, and loving mercy, and treating your neighbour
and poor working-folk as you would like to be treated yourself. Radicals
can get a good deal out of the New Testament."
"I don't believe a word of what thou art saying."
"I don't wonder at that. Thou readest nothing but the newspapers; if
thou didst happen to read a few words out of Christ's own mouth, thou
wouldst say, 'Thou never heardest the like,' and thou wouldst think
the man who quoted them wrote them out of his own head, and call him a
Radical. Get off to thy bed, John. I can always tell when thou hast
been drinking Rudby's port-wine. It is too heavy and heady for thee.
As soon as thou art thyself again, I will tell thee what a grand son
thou art the father of. My word! If the Duke gives thee a seat at his
mahogany two or three times a year, thou art as proud as a peacock; now
then, thy son Edgar is hob-nobbing with earls and lords every day of
his life, and they are proud of his company."
The Squire laughed boisterously. "It is time, Maude," he said, "I went
to my bed; and it is high time for thee to wake up and get thy head on a
feather pillow; then, perhaps, thou will not dream such raving nonsense."
With these scornful words he left the room, and Mrs. Atheling rose
and put away her knitting. She was satisfied with herself. She expected
her mysterious words to keep the Squire awake with curiosity; and in
such case, she was resolved to make another effort to reconcile her
husband to his son. But the Squire gave her no opportunity; he slept
with an indifferent continuity that it was useless to interrupt. Perhaps
there was intention in this heavy sleep, for when he came downstairs
in the morning he went at once to seek Kate. He soon saw her in the
herb garden; for she had on a white dimity gown, and was standing
upright, shading her eyes with her hands to watch his approach. A good
breeze of wind from the wolds fluttered her snowy skirts, and tossed
the penetrating scents of thyme and marjoram, mint and pennyroyal
upward, and she drew them through her parted lips and distended nostrils.
"They are so heavenly sweet!" she said with a smile of sensuous
pleasure. "They smell like Paradise, Father."
"Ay, herbs are good and healthy. The smell of them makes me hungry. I
didn't see thee last night, Kitty; and I wanted to see thee."
"I was so tired, Father. It was a day to tire any one. Was it not?"
"I should say it was," he replied with conscious diplomacy. "Now what
part of it pleased thee best?"
"Well, Mr. North's visit was of course wonderful; and Lord Exham's
visit was very pleasant. I enjoyed both; but Mr. North's news was so
very surprising."
"To be sure. What dost thou think of it?"
"Of course, Edgar is on the other side, Father. In some respects that
is a pity."
"It is a shame! It is a great shame!"
"Nay, nay, Father! We won't have 'shame' mixed up with Edgar. He
is in dead earnest, and he has taken luck with him. Just think of our
Edgar being one of Lord Durham's favourites, of him speaking all over
England and Scotland for Reform. Mr. North says there is no one like
him in the drawing-rooms of the Reform ladies; and no one like him on
the Reform platforms; and he was made a member of the new Reform Club in
London by acclamation. And Earl Grey will get him a seat in Parliament
next election."
"Who is this Mr. North?"
"Why, Father! You heard him speak, and you 'threw' him down on the
Green, you know."
"_Oh! Him!_ Dost thou believe all this palaver on the word of a
travelling mountebank?"
"He is not a travelling mountebank. I am sure he is a gentleman. You
shouldn't call a man names that you have 'thrown' fairly. You know
better than that."
"I know nothing about the lad. And he does not seem to have told thee
anything about himself. As for thy mother--" and then he hesitated, and
looked at Kate meaningly and inquiringly.
"Mother liked him. She liked him very much indeed. He brought both
mother and me a ring from Edgar," and she put out her hand and showed
the Squire the little gold circle.
"Trumpery rubbish!" he said scornfully. "It didn't cost half a crown.
Give it to me, and I will get thee a ring worth wearing,--sapphires or
rubies."
"I would not part with it for loops and hoops of sapphires and rubies.
Edgar sent it as a love-token; he wants his money for nobler things than
rubies--but, dear me! you can't buy love for any money. Oh, Father!
I do wish you would be friends with Edgar."
"My little lass, I cannot be friends with any one if he goes against
the land, and the King, and the Constitution. I am loyal straight
through; up and down to-day, and to-morrow, and every day; and I can't
bear traitors,--men that would sell their country for a bit of mob
power or mob glory. All of Edgar's friends and neighbours are for the
King and the Laws; and it shames me and pains me beyond everything to
have a rascal and a Radical in my family. The Duke and his son are
finger and thumb, buckle and belt; and Edgar and I ought to be the
same. And it stands to reason that a father knows more than his own
lad of twenty-six years old. What dost thou think of Lord Exham?"
The question was asked at a venture; but Kate had no suspicion, and
she answered frankly, "I think very well of him. He talked mostly of
politics; but every one does that. It was pleasant to see him at our
tea-table again."
"To be sure. So he stayed to tea?"
"Yes; did not mother tell you?"
"Nay, we were talking of other things. What does he look like?"
"I think he is much improved."
"Well, he ought to be. He must have learned a little, and he has seen
a lot since we saw him. Come, let us go and find out what kind of a
breakfast mother can give us. I am hungry enough for two."
So Kate lifted the herbs which she had cut into her garden apron, and
cruddling close to her father's side, they went in together, with the
smell of the thyme and marjoram all about them. Mrs. Atheling drew it in
as they entered the parlour, and then turned to them with a smile. The
Squire went to her side, and promptly kissed her. It was one of his ways
to ignore their little tiffs; and this morning Mrs. Atheling was also
agreeable. She looked into his eyes, and said:
"Why, John! are you really awake. You lay like the Seven Sleepers when I
got up, and I said to myself, 'John will sleep the clock round,' so
Kate and I will have our breakfasts."
"Nay, I have too much to look after, Maude." Then he turned the
conversation to the farms, and talked of the draining to be done, and
the meadows to be left for grass; but he eschewed politics altogether,
and, greatly to Mrs. Atheling's wonder, never alluded to the information
she had given him about their son Edgar. Did he really think she had
been telling him a made-up story? She could not otherwise understand
this self-control in her curious lord. However, sometime during the
morning, Kate told her about the conversation in the herb garden; then
she was content. She knew just where she had her husband; and the little
laugh with which she terminated the conversation was her expression of
conscious power over him, and of a retaliation quite within her reach.
CHAPTER FOURTH
THE DAWN OF LOVE
There is always in every life some little part which even those dearer
than life to us cannot enter. Kate had become conscious of this fact. She
hoped her mother would not talk of Lord Exham; for she did not as yet
understand anything about the feelings his return had evoked. She would
have needed the uncertain, enigmatical language which comes in dreams
to explain the "yes" and the "no" of the vague, trembling memories,
prepossessions, and hopes which fluttered in her breast.
Fortunately Mrs. Atheling had some dim perception of this condition, and
without analysing her reasons, she was aware "it was best not to
meddle" between two lives so surrounded by contradictious circumstances
as were those of her daughter and Lord Exham. Besides, as she said to
her husband, "It was no time for love-making, with the King dying,
and the country on the quaking edge of revolution, and starvation and
misery all over the land." And the Squire answered: "Exham has not one
thought of love-making. He is far too much in with a lot of men who
have the country and their own estates to save. He won't bother himself
with women-folk now, whatever he may do in idle times."
They had both forgotten, or their own love affair had been of such
Arcadian straightness and simplicity that they had never learned Love's
ability to domineer all circumstances that can stir this mortal frame.
Exham had indeed enlisted himself with passionate earnestness in the
cause of his class, which he called the cause of his country--but as the
drop of
"lucent sirup tinct with cinnamon"
is forever flavoured and perfumed by the spice, so Exham's life was
coloured and prepossessed by the thought of the sweet girl who had been
blended with so many of his purest and happiest hours.
It was then of Kate he thought as he wandered about the stately rooms and
beautiful gardens of Exham Hall. He was not oblivious of his engagements
with the Duke and the tenants; but he was considering how best to keep
these engagements, and yet not miss a visit to her. The dying King,
the riotous land, were accidentals of his life and condition; his love
for Kate Atheling was at the root of his existence; it was a fundamental
of the past and of the future. For five years of constant change and
movement, it had lain in abeyance; but old love is a dangerous thing
to awaken; and Piers Exham found in doing this thing that every event
of the past strengthened the influence of the present, and fixed his
heart more passionately on the girl he had first found fair; the
--"rosebud set with little, wilful thorns,
And sweet as English airs could make her,"
that had sung and swung herself into his affection when she was only
twelve years old.
He was however quite aware that any proposal to marry Kate Atheling
would meet with prompt opposition from his family; indeed the Duke had
already mentioned a very different alliance; and in that case, he did
not doubt but that Squire Atheling would be equally resolved never to
allow his daughter to enter a home where she would be regarded by any
member of it as an intruder. But he put all such considerations for
the present behind him. He said to himself, "The first thing to do, is
to win Kate's love; with that sweet consciousness, I shall be ready for
all opposition." For his heart kept assuring him that every trouble
and obstacle has an hour in which it may be conquered,--an hour when
Fate and Will become One, and are then as irresistible as a great force
of Nature. He was sure the hour for this conflict had not yet come.
It was the day for a different fight. His home, his estate, his title,
and all the privileges of his nobility were in danger. When they were
placed beyond peril, then he would fight for the wife he wanted, and
win her against all opposition. And who could tell in what way the
first conflict would bring forth circumstances to insure victory to the
last?
He was deeply in love; he was full of hope; he was at Atheling some part
of every day. If he came in the afternoon, Kate's pony was saddled, and
they rode far and away, to where the shadows and sunshine elbowed
one another on the moors. The golden gorse shed its perfume over their
heads; the linnets sang to them of love; they talked, and laughed, and
rode swiftly until their pace brought them among the mountains that
looked like a Titanic staircase going up to the skies. There, they always
drew rein, and went slower, and spoke softer, and indeed often became
quite silent, and knew such silence to be the sweetest eloquence. Then
after a little interval Piers would say one word, "_Kate!_" and
Kate only answer with a blush, and a smile, and an upturned face. For
Love can put a volume in four letters; and souls say in a glance what
a thousand words would only blunder about. Then there was the gallop
home, and the merry cup of tea, and the saunter in the garden, and the
long tender "good-bye" at the threshold where the damask roses made
the air heavy with their sweetness.
So Lord Exham did not find his politics hard to bear with such delicious
experiences between whiles. And Kate? What were Kate's experiences?
Oh, any woman who has once loved, any pure girl who longs to love, may
divine them! For Love is always the same. The tale he told Kate on the
Atheling moors and under the damask roses was the very same tale he
told high in Paradise by the four rivers where the first roses blew.
As the summer advanced, startling notes from the outside world forced
themselves into this heavenly solitude. On the twenty-sixth of June,
King George died; and this death proved to be the first of a series of
great events. Piers felt it to be a warning bell. It said to him, "The
charming overture of Love, with its restless pleasure, its delicate
hopes and fears, is nearly at an end." He had been with Kate for
three divine hours. They had sat among the brackens at the foot of the
mountains, and been twenty times on the very point of saying audibly
the word "Love!" and twenty times had felt the delicious uncertainty
of non-confession to be too sweet for surrender. Nay, they did not
reason about it; they simply obeyed that wise, natural self-restraint
which knew its own hour, and would not hurry it.
[Illustration:]
With a sigh of rapture, they rose as the sun began to wester, and rode
slowly back to Atheling. No one was at the door to receive them, and
Kate wondered a little; but when they entered the hall, the omission
was at once understood. There was a large open fireplace at the
northern extremity, and over it the Atheling arms, with their motto,
"_Feare God! Honour the Kinge! Laus Deo!_" Squire Atheling was
draping this panel with crape; and Mrs. Atheling stood near him with
some streamers of the gloomy fabric in her hands. She pointed to the
King's picture--which already wore the emblem of mourning--and said,
"The King is dead."
"The King lives! God save the King!" replied the Squire, instantly.
"God save King William the Fourth!"
Then all the clocks in the house were stopped, and draped, and when this
ceremony was over, they had tea together. And as it is a Yorkshire
custom to make funeral feasts, Mrs. Atheling gave to the meal an air
of special entertainment. The royal Derby china added its splendour
to the fine old silver and delicate damask. There were delicious
cheese-cakes, and Queen's-cakes, and savoury potted meats, and fresh
crumpets; and the ripe red strawberries filled the room with their
ethereal scent. No one was at all depressed by the news. If King George
was dead, King William was alive; and the Squire thought, "Everything
might be hoped from 'The Sailor King.' Why!" he said, "he is that
good-natured he won't say a bad word about the Reformers; though, God
knows, they are a disgrace to themselves, and to all that back them up."
"There will now be a general election," said Exham positively.
"To be sure," answered the Squire. "And it is to be hoped we may get
together a few men that will take the Bull of Reform by the horns, and
put a stop to that nonsense forever in England."
"Before they do that," said Mrs. Atheling, "they will have to consider
the swarms of people they have brought up in dirt, and rags, and misery.
For if they don't, they will bring ruin to the nation that owns them."
"King William is a fighter. He will back the Law with bayonets, if he
thinks it right," said the Squire.
Mrs. Atheling looked at him indignantly. Then, putting her cup down
with unmistakable emphasis, she exclaimed, "The Lord forgive thee,
John Atheling! I'll say one thing, and I'll say it now, and forever,
it isn't law backed with bayonets that has saved England so far; it is
the bit of religion in every man's heart, and his trust that somehow
God will see him righted. If it wasn't for that it would have been all
up with our set long ago."
"That is just the way women talk politics," said the Squire, with some
contempt. "If there was nothing else in this Reform business to make a
man sick, the way they have given in to women, and got them to form clubs
and make speeches, is enough to set any sensible person against Reform;
and if there is no way of talking people into doing what is right--then
they must be _made_ to do right; and that's all there is about it."
"Very well, John; but there are two sides to play at making other
people do right. I'll tell you one thing, the Government will have to
take a lot of things into consideration before they put their trust in
backing law with bayonets. It won't work! Let them start doing it, and
we shall all find ourselves in a wrong box."
"I think there is much good sense in what Mrs. Atheling believes," said
Lord Exham.
"And as for the Reformers getting round the women of the country,"
she continued, "that is as it should be. Men have done all the governing
for six thousand years; and, in the main, they have made a very bad job
of it. Happen, a few kind-hearted women would help things forwarder.
There is going to be some alterations, you may depend upon it, John."
"Father," said Kate, "you had better not argue with mother. She knows
a deal more about the country than you think she does; and mother is
always right."
"To be sure, Kate. To hear mother talk, she knows a lot; but if she
would take my advice, she would forget a lot, and try and learn
something better." Then touching his wife's hand, he continued,
"Maude, I always did believe thou wert in favour of the land, and
the law, and the King."
"I don't know that I ever said such a thing, John; but thou mayst have
believed it. What I _thought_, was another matter. And I am beginning
to think aloud now, that makes all the difference."
Such divided opinions were in every household; and yet, upon the
whole, the death of the selfish, intolerant George was a hopeful
event. When people are desperate, any change is a promise; and William
had a reputation not only for good nature, but also for that love of
fair play which is the first article of an Englishman's personal
creed. He came to the throne on the twenty-sixth of June; and on the
twenty-ninth Parliament resumed its sittings. Mr. Brougham led the
opposition, and violent debates and unmeasured language distinguished
the short session. The Duke of Wellington, representing the Government,
was prominently bitter against Reform of every kind; and Mr. Brougham
boldly declared that any Minister now hoping to rule either by royal
favour or military power would be overwhelmed. In less than a month
the King prorogued Parliament in person, and in so doing, congratulated
his country on the tranquillity of Europe. Forty-eight hours afterwards,
France was insurgent, and Paris in arms. Three days of most determined
fighting followed; and then Charles the Tenth was driven from his
throne, and the white flag of the Bourbon tyranny gave place to the
Tri-colour of Liberty.
Now if there had been a direct electric or magnetic current between
England and the Continent, the effect could not have been more
sympathetically startling; and these three memorable "Days of
July" in Paris impelled forward, with an irresistible impetus, the
cause of freedom in England. The nobility and the landed gentry were
gravely aware of this effect; and the great middle class, and the
working men in every county, were stirred to more hopeful and united
action. Far and wide the people began anew to express, in various
ways, their determination to have the Tory Ministers dismissed, and a
Liberal Government in favour of Reform inaugurated.
For the first time the Squire was anxious. For the first time he saw
and felt positive symptoms of insubordination among his own people.
Pickering's barns were burnt one night; and a few nights afterwards,
Rudby's hay-ricks. Squire Atheling was a man of prompt action; one
well disposed to do in his own manor what he expected the Government
to do in the country,--take the Reform bull by the horns. He sent for
all his labourers to meet him in the farm court at Atheling; and when
they were gathered there, he stood up on the stone wall which enclosed
one side of it and said in his strong, resonant voice,--
"Now, men of Atheling manor and village, you have been sulky and ugly
for two or three weeks. You aren't sulky and ugly without knowing _why_
you are so. If you are Yorkshiremen worth your bread and bacon, you will
out with your grievance--whatever it is. Tom Gisburn, what is it?"
"We can't starve any longer, Squire. We want two shillings a week more
wages. Me and mine would hev been in t' churchyard if thy Missis hed
been as hard-hearted as thysen."
"I will give you all one shilling a week more."
"Nay, but a shilling won't do. Thy Missis is good, and Miss Kate is
good; but we want our rights; and we hev made up our minds that two
shillings a week more wage will nobbut barely cover them. We are varry
poor, Squire! Varry poor indeed!"
The man spoke sadly and respectfully; and the Squire looked at him,
and at the stolid, anxious faces around with an angry pity. "I'll tell
you what, men," he continued; "everything in England is going to the
devil. Englishmen are getting as ill to do with as a lot of grumbling,
contrary, bombastic Frenchers. If you'll promise me to stand by the
King, and the land, and the laws, and give these trouble-making Reformers
a dip in the horse-pond if any of them come to Atheling again--why, then,
I will give you all--every one of you--two shillings a week more wage."
"Nay, Squire, we'll not sell oursens for two shillings a week; not one
of us--eh, men?" and Gisburn looked at his fellows interrogatively.
"Sell oursens!" replied the Squire's blacksmith, a big, hungry-looking
fellow in a leather apron; "no! no, Squire! Thou oughtest to know us
better. Sell oursens! Not for all the gold guineas in Yorkshire! We'll
sell thee our labour for two shilling a week more wage, and thankful;
but our will, and our good-will, thou can't buy for any money."
There was a subdued cheer at these words from the men, and the Squire's
face suddenly lightened. His best self put his lower self behind him.
"Sawley," he answered, "thou art well nicknamed 'Straight-up!' and I
don't know but what I'm very proud of such an independent, honourable
lot of men. Such as you won't let the land suffer. Remember, you were
all born on it, and you'll like enough be buried in it. Stand by the
land then; and if two shillings a week more wage will make you happy, you
shall have it,--if I sell the gold buttons off my coat to pay it. Are
we friends now?"
A hearty shout answered the question, and the Squire continued, "Then go
into the barn, and eat and drink your fill. You'll find a barrel of old
ale, and some roast beef, and wheat bread there."
In this way he turned the popular discontent from Atheling, and doubtless
saved his barns and hay-ricks; but he went into his house angry at the
men, and angry at his wife and daughter. They had evidently been aiding
and succouring these discontents and their families; and--as he took
care to point out to Kate--evil and not good had been the result. "I
have to give now as a right," he said, "what thee and thy mother have
been giving as a kindness!" And his temper was not improved by hearing
from the barn the noisy "huzzas" with which the name of "the young
Squire" was received, and his health drank.
"Wife, and son, and daughter! all of them against me! I wonder what
I have done to be served in such a way?" he exclaimed sorrowfully.
And then Kate forgot everything about politics. She said all kinds of
consoling words without any regard for the Reform Bill, and, with the
sweetest kisses, promised her father whatever she thought would make him
happy. It is an unreasonable, delightful way that belongs to loving
women; and God help both men and women when they are too wise for such
sweet deceptions!
Yet the Squire carried a hot, restless heart to the Duke's meeting that
night; and he was not pleased to find that the tactics he had used with
his labourers met with general and great disapproval. Those men who had
already suffered loss, and those who knew that they had gone beyond a
conciliating policy, said some ugly words about "knuckling down,"
and it required all the Duke's wisdom and influence to represent it as
"a wise temporary concession, to be recalled as soon as the election
was over, and the Tory Government safely reinstalled."
Upon the whole, then, Squire Atheling had not much satisfaction in his
position; and every day brought some new tale of thrilling interest. All
England was living a romance; and people got so used to continual
excitement that they set the homeliest experiences of life to great
historical events. During the six weeks following the death of King
George the Fourth occurred the new King's coronation, the dissolution
of Parliament, the "Three Days of July," and the landing of the
exiled French King in England; all of these things being accompanied
by agrarian outrages in the farming districts, the destruction of
machinery in the manufacturing towns, and constant political tumults
wherever men congregated.
The next six weeks were even more restless and excited. The French
King was a constant subject of interest to the Reformers; for was he
not a stupendous example of the triumph of Liberal principles? He was
reported first at Lulworth Castle in Devonshire. Then he went to Holyrood
Palace in Edinburgh. The Scotch Reformers resented his presence, and
perpetually insulted him, until Sir Walter Scott made a manly appeal for
the fallen tyrant. And while the Bourbon sat in Holyrood, a sign and
a text for all lovers of Freedom, England was in the direst storm and
stress of a general election. The men of the Fen Country were rising.
The Universities were arming their students. There was rioting in this
city and that city. The Tories were gaining. The Reformers were gaining.
Both sides were calling passionately on the women of the country to come
to their help, without it seeming to occur to either that if women had
political influence, they had also political rights.
But the end was just what all these events predicated. When the election
was over, the Tory Government had lost fifty votes in the House of
Commons; but Piers Exham was Member of Parliament for the borough of
Gaythorne, and Squire Atheling was the Representative of the Twenty-two
Tory citizens of the village of Asketh.
CHAPTER FIFTH
ANNABEL VYNER
The first chapter of Kate's and Piers' love-story was told to these
stirring events. They were like a _trumpet obligato_ in the distance
thrilling their hearts with a keener zest and a wider sympathy. True,
the sympathy was not always in unison, for Piers was an inflexible
partisan of his own order, yet in some directions Kate's feelings
were in perfect accord. For instance, at Exham Hall and at Atheling
Manor-house, there was the same terror of the mob's firebrand, and
the same constant watch for its prevention. These buildings were not
only the cherished homes of families; they were houses of national pride
and record. Yet many such had perished in the unreasoning anger of
multitudes mad with suffering and a sense of wrong; and the Squire
and the Lord alike kept an unceasing watch over their habitations. On
this subject, all were unanimous; and the fears, and frights, and
suspicions relating to it drew the families into much closer sympathy.
After the election was over, there was a rapid subsidence of public
feeling; the people had taken the first step triumphantly; and they
were willing to wait for its results. Then the Richmoor family began
to consider an immediate removal to London, and, as a preparatory
courtesy, gave a large dinner party at the Castle. As Kate was not
yet in society, she had no invitation; but the Squire and Mrs. Atheling
were specially honoured guests.
"The Squire has been of immense service to me," said Richmoor to
his Duchess. "A man so sincere and candid I have seldom met. He has
spoken well for us, simply and to the point, and I wish you to pay
marked attention to Mrs. Atheling."
"Of course, if you desire it, I will do so. Who was Mrs. Atheling? Is
she likely to be detrimental in town or troublesome?"
"She is the daughter of the late Thomas Hardwicke, of Hardwicke--as you
know, a very ancient county family. She had a good fortune; in fact, she
brought the Squire the Manor of Belward."
"In appearance, is she presentable?"
"She was very handsome some years ago. I have not seen her for a long
time."
"I dare say she has grown stout and red; and she will probably wear blue
satin in honour of her husband's Tory principles. These county dames
always think it necessary to wear their party colours. I counted eleven
blue satin dresses at our last election dinner."
"Even if she does wear blue satin, I should like you to be exceedingly
civil to her."
"I suppose you know that Piers has been at Atheling a great deal. I
heard in some way that--in fact, Duke, that Piers and Miss Atheling were
generally considered lovers."
The Duke laughed. "I think I understand Piers," he said. "These
incendiary terrors have drawn people together; and there has also been
the election business as well. Many perfectly necessary natural causes
have taken Piers to Atheling."
"Miss Atheling, for instance!"
"Oh, perhaps so! Why not? When I was a young man, I thought it both
necessary and natural to have a pretty girl to ride and walk with. But
riding and walking with a lovely girl is one thing; marrying her is
another. Piers knows that he is expected to marry Annabel Vyner; he
knows that for many reasons it will be well for him to do so. And above
all other considerations, Piers puts his family and his caste."
The Duke's absolute confidence in his son satisfied the Duchess. She
looked upon her husband as a man of wonderful penetration and invincible
wisdom. If he was not uneasy about Piers and Miss Atheling, there was
no necessity for her to carry an anxious thought on the subject; and she
was glad to be fully released from it. Yet she had more than a passing
curiosity about Kate's mother. The Squire she had frequently seen,
both in the pink of the hunting-field and in the quieter dress of the
dinner-table. But it so happened that she had never met Mrs. Atheling;
and, on entering the great drawing-room, her eyes sought the only lady
present who was a stranger to her.
Mrs. Atheling was standing at the Duke's side; and she went directly
to her, taking note, as she did so, of the beauty, style, and physical
grace that distinguished the lady. She saw that she wore a gown--not of
blue--but of heavy black satin, that it fell away from her fine throat
and shoulders, and showed her arms in all their exquisite form and
colour. She saw also that her dark hair was dressed well on the top of
the head in _bouillones_ curls, and that the only ornament she wore
was among them,--a comb of wrought gold set with diamonds,--and that
otherwise neither brooch nor bracelet, pendant nor ruffle of lace broke
the noble lines of her figure or the rich folds of her gown. And the
Duchess was both astonished and pleased with a toilet so distinguished;
she assured herself in this passing investigation that Mrs. Atheling
was quite "presentable," and also probably desirable.
The favourable impression was strengthened in that hour after dinner
when ladies left to their own devices either become disagreeable or
confidential. The Duchess and Mrs. Atheling fell into the latter mood,
and their early removal to London was the first topic of conversation.
"We have no house in town," said Mrs. Atheling; "but the Squire has
rented one that belonged to the late General Vyner. It is in very good
condition, I hear, though we may have to stay a few days at '_The
Clarendon_.'"
"How strange! I mean that it is strange you should have rented the
General's house. Did you make the arrangement with the Duke?"
"No, indeed; with a Mr. Pownell who is a large house agent."
"Mr. Pownell attends to the Duke's London property. I am sure he will
be delighted to know his old friend's home is in such good hands. I
wonder if you have heard that the Duke is General Vyner's executor and
the guardian of his daughter?"
Mrs. Atheling made a motion indicative of her ignorance and her
astonishment, and the Duchess continued, "It is quite a charge
everyway; but there was a life-long friendship between the two men,
and Annabel will come to us almost like a daughter."
"A great charge though," answered Mrs. Atheling, "especially if she
is yet to educate."
"Her education is finished. She is twenty-two years of age. It is her
wealth which will make my position an anxious one. It is not an easy
thing to chaperon a great heiress."
"And if she is beautiful, that will add to the difficulty," said Mrs.
Atheling.
"I have never seen Miss Vyner. I cannot tell you whether she is
beautiful or not so. She joins us in London, and my first duty will be to
present her at the next drawing-room."
A little sensitive pause followed this statement,--a pause so sensitive
that the Duchess divined the desire in Mrs. Atheling's heart; and Mrs.
Atheling felt the hesitancy and wavering inclination weighing her wish
in the thoughts of the Duchess. A sudden, straight glance from Mrs.
Atheling's eyes decided the question.
"I should like to present Miss Atheling at the same time, if you have
no objection," she added. And Mrs. Atheling's pleasure was so great,
and her thanks so candid and positive, that the Duchess accepted the
situation she had placed herself in with apparent satisfaction. Yet
she wondered _why_ she had made the offer. She felt as if the favour
had been obtained against her will. She was half afraid in the very
moment of the proposal that she was doing an imprudent thing. But when
she had done it, she never thought of withdrawing from a position she
must have taken voluntarily. On the contrary, she affected a great
interest in the event, and talked of "the ceremonies Miss Atheling
must make herself familiar with," of the probable date at which the
function would take place, and of the dress and ornaments fitting for
the occasion. "And the young people must meet each other as soon as
possible," she continued.
Then the gentlemen entered the drawing-room, and the groups scattered.
The Duchess left Mrs. Atheling; and Lord Exham took the chair she
vacated. And the happy mother was far too simple, and too single-hearted
to keep her pleasure to herself. She told Exham of the honour intended
Kate, and was a little dashed by the manner in which he heard the
news. He was ashamed of it himself; but he could not at once conquer
the feeling of jealousy which assailed him. It was the first time
that the image of Kate had been presented to him in company with any but
Piers Exham; and it gave him real suffering to associate it with the
attention and admiration her beauty was sure to challenge from all
and sundry who would be present at a court drawing-room. However, he made
the necessary assurances of pleasure, and Mrs. Atheling was not a woman
who went motive hunting. She took a friend's words at their face value.
Of course Kate was delighted, and the Squire perhaps more so; for
though he pretended to think it "all a bit of nonsense," he opened
his purse-strings wide, and told his wife and daughter to "help
themselves." So the last few days at Atheling were set to the dreams,
and hopes, and expectations of that gay social life which always has
a charm for youth. The clash of party warfare, the wailing of want, the
insistent claims of justice,--all these voices were temporarily hushed.
They had become monotonous and, to Kate, suddenly uninteresting. What
was the passing of a Reform Bill to a girl of nineteen, when there was
such a thing as a court drawing-room in expectation?
It made her restless and anxious during the two weeks occupied by their
removal from Atheling, and their settlement in London. And though the
great city was full of wonder and interest, and the new splendours of
the Vyner mansion very satisfactory, yet she could not enjoy these
things until there was some token that the Duchess remembered, and
intended to fulfil her promise. If only Piers had been in London! But
Piers had been detained in Yorkshire, and was not expected until the
formal opening of Parliament, so that Kate could only speculate, and
wish, and fear, and in so doing discount her present, and forestall
her future pleasures. So prodigal is youth of happiness and feeling!
However, at the end of October, Mrs. Atheling received a letter from
the Duchess. It reminded her of the drawing-room, and asked Miss
Atheling's presence that evening in order to meet Miss Vyner, and
consult with her about the dresses to be worn. The visit was to be
perfectly informal; but even an informal visit to Richmoor House was a
great event to Kate. And how pretty she was when she came into her
father's and mother's presence, dressed for the occasion! Mrs.
Atheling looked at her with a smile of satisfaction, and the Squire
instantly rose, and took her on his arm to the waiting carriage. This
carriage was the Squire's pet extravagance, and there was not a more
splendidly-appointed equipage in London. Its horses were of the finest
that Yorkshire breeds; the servant's liveries irreproachable in taste;
and when he saw his daughter's white figure against its rich, blue
linings he was satisfied with his outlay.
Richmoor House was soon reached, and Kate looked with wonder at its
noble frontage, and its stone colonnades. How much greater was her
wonder when she stepped into its interior vestibule! This vestibule was
eighty-two feet long, by more than twelve feet wide; it was ornamented
with Doric columns and fine carvings, and at each end there was a
colossal staircase. Up one of these stately ways Kate was conducted
into a gallery full of fine paintings, and forming the corridor on
which the one hundred and fifty rooms appropriated to the use of the
family opened. Here, one servant after another escorted her, until she
was left with a woman-in-waiting, who led her into a tiring-room and then
assisted Kate's own maid to remove her mistress's wrap and hood, and
tie in pretty bows her white satin sandals. The simple girl felt as if
she was in a dream, and she accepted all this attention with the calm
composure of a dream-maiden. It was just like one of the old fairy tales
she used to live in. She was an enchanted princess in an enchanted
castle, and all she had to do, was to be passive in the hands of her
destiny. Transient and illogical as this feeling was, it gave to her
manner a singular air of serene confidence, and the Duchess noticed and
approved it. She was relieved at once from any apprehension of anything
_malapropos_ in The Presence.
She went forward to meet Kate, and was both astonished and pleased at
her _protegee's_ appearance. The white llama in which she was gowned,
its simple trimming of white satin, and its pretty accessories of
white slippers and gloves satisfied both the pride and the taste of
the Duchess. Any less attention to costume she would have felt as a
want of respect towards herself; any more extravagant display would
have indicated vulgar display and a due want of subordination to her
own rank and age. But Kate offended no feeling, and she took her by
the hand and led her down the long room. At its extremity there was a
group of girls: one was standing; the others were sitting on a sofa
before her. The eyes of all were fastened on Kate as she approached;
but she was not disturbed by this scrutiny. She had all the strength and
assurance which comes from a proper and moderate toilet; and she was even
competent to do her own share of observation.
[Illustration:]
The three girls sitting on the sofa offered no points of remark or
speculation. They were the three Ladies Anne, Mary, and Charlotte
Warwick; and all alike had the beauty of youth, the grace of noble
nurture, and the pretty garments indicative of their station. But the
young lady standing was of a different character. Her personality
pervaded the space in which she stood; she domineered with a look; and
Kate knew instinctively that this girl was Annabel Vyner. The knowledge
came with a little shock, a sudden failing of heart, a presentiment. She
had given her hand with a pleasant impulse, and without consideration,
to the Ladies Warwick; she did not offer it to Annabel; and yet she was
not aware of the omission. All of these girls were intending to make a
Court _debut_, and at that moment were discussing its necessities. Kate
at first took little part in this discussion. Mrs. Atheling had already
decided on the costume she thought most suitable for her daughter;
and Kate was quite satisfied with her choice. Miss Vyner was however
dictating to Lady Charlotte Warwick what she ought to wear; and Kate
watched with a curious wonder this girlish oracle, laying down laws
for others her equal in age, and far more than her equal in rank and
social position.
Miss Vyner was not beautiful; but she possessed an irresistible
fascination. She was large, and rather heavy. She reminded one of a
roughhewn granite statue of old Egypt; and she was just as magnificently
imposing. Her hair was long, and strong, and wavy; her eyes very black
and intrepid, but capable of liquid, languishing expressions, full of
enchantment. Her nose, though thick and square at the end, had wide,
sensitive nostrils; and her fine, red lips showed white and dazzling
teeth. But it was the sense of power and plenitude of life which she
possessed which gave her that natural authority, whose influence all
felt, and few analysed or disputed.
She was quite aware that standing was a becoming posture, and that it
gave to her a certain power over the girlish figures who seemed to sit
at her feet. It was not long, however, before Kate felt an instinctive
rebellion against the position assigned her; she knew that it put her
in an unfair subordination; and she rose from her chair, and stood
leaning against the Broadwood piano at her side. The action arrested Miss
Vyner's attention. She stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence,
and, looking steadily at Kate, said suavely, as she pushed the chair
slightly,--
"Do sit down, Miss Atheling."
"No, thank you," answered Kate. "I have been sitting all day. I am
tired of sitting."
Then Annabel gave her a still more searching look, and something came
into Kate's eyes which she understood; for she smiled as she went on
with her little dictation; but the thought in her heart was, "So you
have thrown down the glove, Miss Atheling!"
Nothing however of this incipient defiance was noticeable; and Annabel's
attention was almost immediately afterwards diverted from her companions.
For in the middle of one of her fine descriptions of an Indian court, she
observed a sudden loss of interest, and a simultaneous direction of
every glance towards the upper end of the room. The Duchess was
approaching, and with her, a young man in dinner costume. A crimson
flush rushed over Kate's neck and face; she dropped her eyes, but
could not restrain the faint smile that came and went like a flash
of light.
"It is Lord Exham," she said in a low voice to Anne Warwick; and
the Ladies nodded slightly, and continued a desultory conversation,
they hardly knew what about. But Annabel stood erect and silent. She
glanced once at Kate, and then turned the full blaze of her dazzling
eyes upon the advancing nobleman. For once, their magnetic rays were
ineffectual. The Duchess, on her son's arrival, had notified him of
the ladies present; and Kate Atheling was the lodestar which drew his
first attention. He had in the button-hole of his coat a few Michaelmas
daisies, and after speaking to the other ladies, he put them into Kate's
hand, saying, "I gathered them in Atheling garden. Do you remember the
bush by the swing in the laurel walk? I thought you would like to have
them." And Kate said "thank you" in the way that Piers perfectly
understood and appreciated, though it seemed to be of the most formal
kind.
The dinner was a family dinner, but far from being tiresome or dull. The
Duke and Lord Exham had both adventures to tell. The latter in passing
through a little market-town had seen the hungry people take the wheat
from the grain-market by force, and said he had been delayed a little
by the circumstance.
"But why?" asked the Duchess.
"There were some arrests made; and after all, one cannot see hungry
men and women punished for taking food." There was silence after
this remark, and Kate glanced at Exham, whose veiled eyes, cast upon
the glass of wine he held in his hand, betrayed nothing. But when he
lifted them, they caught something from Kate's eyes, and an almost
imperceptible smile passed from face to face. No one asked Exham for
further particulars; and the Duke hurriedly changed the subject.
"Where do you think I took lunch to-day?" he asked.
"At Stephen's," answered the Duchess.
"Not likely," he replied. "I am neither a fashionable officer, nor
a dandy about town. If I had asked for lunch there, the waiters would
have stared solemnly, and told me there was no table vacant."
"As you want horses, perhaps you went to Limmers," said Exham.
"No. I met a party of gentlemen and ladies going to Whitbread's
Brewery, and I went with them. We had a steak done on a hot malt shovel,
and plenty of stout to wash it down. There were quite a number of
visitors there; it has become one of the sights of London. Then I rode as
far as the Philosophical Society, and heard a lecture on a new chemical
force."
"The Archbishop does not approve of your devotion to Science," said
the Duchess, reprovingly.
"I know it," he answered. "All our clergy regard Science as a new kind
of sin. I saw the Archbishop later, at a very interesting ceremony,--the
deposition in Whitehall Chapel of twelve Standards taken in Andalusia
by the personal bravery of our soldiers."
"I wish I had seen that ceremony," said Kate.
"And I wish I had myself been one of the heroes carrying the Standard
I had won," added Annabel.
The Duke smiled at the pretty volunteers, and continued, "It was a
very interesting sight. Three royal Dukes, many Generals and foreign
Ambassadors, and the finest troops in London were present. We had some
good music, and a short religious service, and then the Archbishop
deposited the flags on each side of the Altar."
"I like these military ceremonies," said the Duchess. "I shall not
forget the Proclamation of Peace after Waterloo. What a procession of
mediaeval splendour it was!"
"I remember it, though I was only a little boy," said Exham. "The
Proclamation was read three times,--at Temple Bar, at Charing Cross,
and at The Royal Exchange. The blast of trumpets before and after each
reading!--I can hear it yet!"
"And the Thanksgiving at St. Paul's after the procession was just as
impressive," continued the Duchess. "The Prince Regent and the Duke of
Wellington walked together, and Wellington carried the Sword of State. It
was a gorgeous festival set to trumpets and drums, and the roll of organ
music, and the seraphic singing of '_Lo! the conquering hero comes_.'
The Duke could have asked England for anything he desired that day."
"Yet he is very unpopular now," said Kate, timidly. "Even my father
thinks he carries everything with too high a hand."
"His military training must be considered, Miss Atheling," said the
Duke. "And the country needs a tight rein now."
"He may hold it too tight," said Exham, in a low voice.
Then the conversation was turned to the theatres, and while they were
talking, Squire Atheling was introduced. He had called to escort his
daughter home; and after a short delay, Kate was ready to accompany
him. The Duke and the Squire--who were deep in some item of political
news--went to the entrance hall together; and Lord Exham took Kate's
hand, and led her down the great stairway. It was now lighted with a
profusion of wax candles in silver candelabra. They were too happy to
speak, and there was no need of speech. Like two notes of music made
for each other, though dissimilar, they were one; and the melody in
the heart of Piers was the melody in the heart of Kate. The unison was
perfect; why then should it be explained? Very slowly they came down
the low broad steps, hardly feeling their feet upon them; for spirit
mingled with spirit, and gave them the sense of ethereal motion.
When they reached the vestibule, Kate's maid advanced and threw round
her a wrap of pink silk, trimmed with minever; and as Piers watched the
shrouding of her rose-like face in the pretty hood, a sudden depression
came like a cloud over him. Oh, yes! True love has these moments of
deep gloom, in which intense feeling suspends both movement and speech.
He could only look into the warm, secret foldings of silk and fur which
hid Kate's beauty; he had not even the common words of courtesy at
his command; but Kate divined the much warmer "good-night" that was
masked by the formal bow and uncovered head.
After the departure of the Athelings, father and son walked silently up
the stairs together; but at the top of them, the Duke paused and said,
"Piers, the King opens Parliament on the Second of November. We have
only three days' truce. Then for the fight."
"We have foemen worthy of our steel. Grey--Durham--Brougham--Russel and
Graham. They will not easily be put down."
"We shall win."
"Perhaps. The House of Lords is very near of one mind. Will you come to
my smoking-room and have a pipe of Turkish?"
"I must see the ladies again; afterwards I may do so."
With these words they parted, and Piers went dreamily along the state
corridor. In its dim, soft light, he suddenly saw Miss Vyner approaching
him. He was thinking of Kate; but he had no wish to escape Annabel. He
was even interested in watching her splendid figure in motion. Only from
some Indian loom had come that marvellous tissue of vivid scarlet with
its embroidery of golden butterflies. It made her look like some superb
flower. She smiled as she reached Piers, and said,--
"I only am left to wish you a 'good-night and happy dreams.'The Ladies
Warwick were sleepy, the Duchess longing to be rid of such a lot of
tiresome girls, and I--"
"What of 'I'?" he asked with a sudden, unaccountable interest.
"I am going to the Land where I always go in sleep. I shut my eyes, and
I am there."
"Then, 'Good-night.'"
"Good-night." She put her little, warm, brown hand, flashing with gems,
into his; and then with one long, unwinking gaze--in which she caught
Piers' gaze--she strangely troubled the young man. His blood grew hot as
fire; his heart bounded; his face was like a flame; and he clasped her
hand with an unconscious fervour. She laughed lightly, drew it away,
and passed on. But as she did so, the Indian scarf she had over her
arm trailed across his feet, and thrilled him like some living thing.
He had a sense of intoxication, and he hurried forward to his own room,
and threw himself into a chair.
"It is that strange perfume that clings around her," he said in a
voice of controlled excitement. "I perceived it as soon as I met her.
It makes me drowsy. It makes me feverish--and yet how delicious it is!"
He threw his head backward, and lay with closed eyes, moving neither
hand nor foot for some minutes. Then he rose, and began to walk about
the room, lifting and putting down books, and papers, and odd trifles,
as they came in the way of his restless fingers. And when at last he
found speech, it was to reproach himself--his real self--the man within
him.
"You, poor, weak, false-hearted lover!" he muttered bitterly. "Piers
Exham! You hardly needed temptation. I am ashamed of you! Ashamed of
you, Piers! Oh, Kate! I have been false to you. It was only a passing
thought, Kate; but you would not have given to another even a passing
thought. Forgive me. _O Thou Dear One!_"
"Thou Dear One!" These three words had a meaning of inexpressible
tenderness to him. For one night,--when as yet their Love was but
learning to speak,--one warm, sweet July night, as they stood under the
damask roses, he said to Kate,--
"How beautiful are the words and tones which your mother uses to the
Squire. She does not speak thus to every one."
"No," replied Kate. "To strangers mother always says '_you_.' To
those she loves, she says '_thou_.'"
And Piers answered, "Dear--if only--" and then he let the silence speak
for him. But Kate understood, and she whispered softly,--
"_Thou Dear One!_"
It seemed to Piers as if no words to be spoken in time or in eternity
could ever make those three words less sweet. They came to his memory
always like a sigh of soft music on a breath of roses. And so it was at
this hour. They filled his heart, they filled his room with soft delight.
He stood still to realise their melody and their fragrance, the music
of their sweet inflections, the perfume of their pure and perfect love.
"_Thou Dear One!_" He said these words again and again. "It has always
been Kate and Piers! Always _I_ and _Thou_--and as for _the Other One_--"
This mental query, utterly unthought of and uncalled for, very much
annoyed him. Who or What was it that suggested "The Other One"? Not
himself; he was sure of that. He went to his father, and they talked
of the King, and the Ministers, and the great Mr. Brougham, whom both
King and Ministers feared--but all the time, and far below the tide of
this restless conversation, Piers heard this very different one,--
"_I_ and _Thou_!"
"And _the Other One_."
"There is no 'Other One.'"
"Annabel."
"No."
"If Annabel were Destiny?"
"Will is stronger than Destiny."
"If Annabel should be Will."
"Love is stronger than Will."
"It is Kate and Piers."
"And the Other One."
He grew impatient at this persistence of an idea that he had not evoked,
that he had, in fact, denied. But he could not exorcise it. His very
dreams were made and mingled of the two girls,--Kate, whom he loved,
Annabel, who came like a splendid destiny to trouble love. In the
pageant of sleep, he lost that will-power which controlled his life;
he was tossed to-and-fro between blending shadows: Kate was Annabel;
Annabel was Kate; and the fretful, unreasonable drama went on through
restless hours, always to the same tantalising refrain,--
"_I, Thou, and the Other One!_"
CHAPTER SIXTH
THE BEGINNING OF THE GREAT STRUGGLE
There is no eternity for nations. Individuals may be punished hereafter;
nations are punished here. In the first years of the Nineteenth Century,
Englishmen were mad on war; and though wise men warned them of the ruin
that stalks after war, no one believed their report. The treasure that
would have now fed the starving population of England, had been spent
in killing Frenchmen. Bad harvests followed the war years, taxation
was increased, wages were lowered and lowered, credit was gone, trade
languished, hunger or scrimping carefulness was in every household.
For the iniquitous Corn Laws of 1815, forbidding the importation of
foreign grain, had raised English wheat to eighty shillings a quarter.
And how were working men to buy bread at such a price? No wonder,
they clamoured for a House of Commons that should represent their
case, and repeal Acts that could only benefit one class, and inflict
ruin and misery on all others.
A feeling therefore of intense anxiety pervaded the country on the
Second of November,--the day on which the King was to open Parliament.
No one could work; every one was waiting for the King's speech. He was
as yet very popular; it was his first message to his people; and they
openly begged him for some word of hope--some expression of sympathy for
Reform. He went in great state to Westminster, and was cheered by the
city as he went. "Will Your Majesty say a word for the poor? God bless
Your Majesty! Stand by Reform!" Such expressions assailed him on every
hand; they were the prayers of a people wronged and suffering, yet
disposed to be patient and loyal, and to seek Reform only to spare
themselves and the country the ruth and ruin of Revolution.
Richmoor House was on the way of the royal procession, and Kate was there
to watch it. A little later, a great company began to assemble in its
rooms; for the Duke had promised to bring, or to send, the earliest news
of the event. There was however an intense restlessness among these
splendidly attired men and women. They could not separate Reform from
Revolution; and the French Revolution was yet red and bloody in their
memories. They still heard the thunder of those famous "Three Days of
July," and there was constantly before their eyes, the heir of forty
kings finding in a British palace an ignominious shelter. Not only was
this the case, but French noblemen, in poverty and exile, were earning
precarious livings all around; and English noblemen and ladies looked
forward with terror to a similar fate, if the Reformers obtained their
desire. Indeed, Sir Robert Inglis had boldly prophesied, "Reform would
sweep the House of Lords clear in ten years."
No wonder then the company waiting in Richmoor House were restless and
anxious. Kate did not permit herself to speak, and Mrs. Atheling had
very prudently remained in her own home. She had told the Squire she
"must say what she thought, if she died for it!" and the Squire had
answered, "To be sure, Maude. That is thy right; only, for goodness'
sake, say it in thy own house!" But though Kate knew she would follow
her mother's example, if she was brought to catechism on the subject,
she did not have much fear of such a result; there were too many older
ladies present, all of them desirous to express the hatreds and hopes
of their class.
Yet it was these emotional, expressional women that Annabel Vyner
naturally joined. She stood among them like a splendid incarnation of
its spirit. She hoped vehemently that "Earl Grey and Lord John Russell
would be beheaded as traitors;" she declared she would "go with
delight to Tower Hill and see the axe fall." She flashed into contempt,
when she spoke of Mr. Brougham. "Botany Bay and hard labour might do
for him; and as for the waiting crowds in the streets, the proper thing
was to shoot them down, like rabid animals." She wondered "the Duke
of Wellington did not do so." These sentiments were vivified by the
passion that blazed in her black eyes and flushed her brown face crimson,
and by the gown of bright yellow Chinese crape which she wore; for it
fluttered and waved with her impetuous movements, and made a kind of
luminous atmosphere around her.
"What a superb creature!" exclaimed Mr. Disraeli to the Hon. Mrs.
Norton. And Mrs. Norton put up her glass and looked at Annabel critically.
"Superb indeed--to look at. Would you like to live with her?"
"It would be exciting."
"More so than your 'Vivian Grey,' which I have just read. It is the
book of the year."
"No, that honour belongs to a little volume of poems by a young man
called Tennyson. Get it; you will read every word it contains."
"I am wedded to my idols,--Byron and Scott and Keble. I am much
interested at present in those 'Imaginary Conversations' which that
queer Mr. Landor has given us. They are worth reading, I assure you."
"But why read them? Listen to the 'Conversations' around us! They are
of Revolution, Civil War, Exile, and the Headsman. Could anything be more
'Imaginary'?"
"Who can tell? Here comes Richmoor. He may be able to prognosticate.
What a murmur of voices! What invisible movement! Can you divine the news
from the messenger's face?"
"He thinks that he brings good news. He may be fatally wrong."
The Duke certainly thought that he brought good news. He was much
excited. He came forward with his hands extended, palms upward.
"The King stands by us!" he cried. "God save the King!"
Twenty voices called out at once, "What did he say?"
"He said plainly that in spite of the public opinion expressed so
loudly in recent elections, Reform would have no sanction from the
Government. I only stayed until the end of the royal speech. Yet in
some way rumours of its purport must have reached the street. In the
neighbourhood, there was much agitation, and even anger."
Then Kate slipped away from the excited throng. Piers had evidently
remained for the discussion on the King's speech; and it might be
midnight when the House adjourned. The winter day was fast darkening;
she ordered her chairmen, and the pretty sedan was brought into the
vestibule for her. She had no fear, though the very gloom and silence of
the waiting crowd was more indicative of danger than noise or threats
would have been. When she reached Hyde Park corner, however, angry faces
pressed around a little too close, and she was alarmed. Then she threw
back her hood and looked out calmly at the crowd, and immediately a
clear voice cried out, "It is Edgar Atheling's sister! Take good care
of her!" And there was a cheer and a cry, and about twenty men closed
round the chair, and saw it safely to its destination.
Then Cecil North stepped to the door and opened it. "I knew it was you,
Mr. North!" cried Kate. "I knew your voice. How kind of you to come
all the way with me! How glad mother will be to see you!"
"I cannot wait a moment, Miss Atheling. Can you give me any news?"
"Yes. The King says the Government will not sanction Reform."
"Who told you this?"
"The Duke of Richmoor--not an hour ago."
"Then 'good-night.' I am afraid there will be trouble."
Mrs. Atheling and Kate were afraid also. The murmur of the crowd grew
louder and louder as the tenor of the King's speech became known; and
many a time they wished themselves in the safety and solitude of their
Yorkshire home. So they talked, and watched, and listened until the
night was far advanced. Then they heard the firm, strong step of the
Squire on the pavement; and his imperative voice in denial of something
said by a group of men whom he passed. In a few minutes he entered the
drawing-room with an angry light in his eyes, and the manner of a man
exasperated by opposition.
"Whatever is it, John? Is there trouble already?" asked Mrs. Atheling.
[Illustration:]
"Plenty of it, and like to be more. The King has spoken like a fool."
"John Atheling! His Majesty!"
"His Imbecility! I tell you what, Maude, there has been enough said
to-day, and to-night, to set all the dogs of civil war loose. Give me a
bit of eating, and I will tell thee and Kitty what a lot of idiots are
met together in Westminster."
The Squire always wanted a deal of waiting upon; and in a few minutes
his valet was bringing him easy slippers and a loose coat, and two
handmaidens serving a tray, bearing game pastry, and fruit tarts, and
clotted cream. But he would take neither wine, nor strong ale,--
"Water is all a man wants that gets himself stirred up in the House of
Commons," he said. "And if I had been in the Lords' House, I would
have needed nothing but a strait-jacket."
He had hardly sat down to eat, when Piers Exham came in. No one could
have been more welcome, and the young man's troubled face brightened
in the sunshine of Kate's smile, and in the honest kindness of the
Squire's greeting. "I was just going to tell Mrs. Atheling all I knew
about to-night's blundering," he said; "but now we will have your
report first, for you have seen the Duke, I'll warrant."
"Indeed, Squire, the Duke is not dissatisfied--though the general
opinion is, that the Duke of Wellington has committed an egregious
mistake."
"I shouldn't wonder. Wellington does not know the difference between
a field-marshal and a Cabinet Minister. What did he say?"
"He said that as long as he held any office in the Government, he would
resist Reform. He said there was no need of Reform; that we had the best
government in the world. The Duke of Devonshire, whom I have just seen,
told me that this statement produced a feeling of the utmost dismay, even
in the calm atmosphere of the House of Lords."
"Calm!" interrupted the Squire. "You had better say, Incurable
prosiness."
"Wellington noticed the suppressed excitement, the murmur, and the
movement, and asked Devonshire in a whisper, 'What can I have said to
cause such great disturbance?' And Devonshire shrugged his shoulders
and answered candidly, 'You have announced the fall of your government,
that is all.'"
"Wellington considers the nation as a mutinous regiment," answered the
Squire. "He thinks the arguments for Reformers ought to be cannon balls;
but Englishmen will not endure a military government."
"It would be better than a mob government, Squire. Remember France."
"Englishmen are not Frenchmen," said Kate. "You ought to remember
_that_, Piers. Englishmen are the most fair, just, reasonable, brave,
loyal, honourable people on the face of the earth!"
"Well done, Kitty!" cried the Squire. "It takes a little lass like
thee to find adjectives plenty enough, and good enough, for thy own. My
word! I wish thou couldst tell the Duke of Wellington what thou thinkest
of his fellow-citizens. He would happen trust them more, and treat them
better."
"There is Mr. Peel too," she continued. "Both he and the Duke of
Wellington are always down on the people. And yet the Duke has led these
same people from one victory to another; and Mr. Peel is one of the
people. His father was a day-labourer, and he ought to be proud of it;
William Cobbett is, and William Cobbett is a greater man than Robert
Peel."
"Now then, Kitty, that is far enough; for thou art wrong already.
Cobbett isn't a greater man than Peel; he isn't a great man at all,
he is only a clever man. But the man for my money is Henry Brougham. He
drives the world before him. He is a multitude. He had just one idea
to-day,--Reform and again Reform. He played that tune finely to the
House, and they danced to it like a miracle. Much good it will do them!"
"He was scarcely decent," said Piers. "He gave notice, as you must
have heard, in the most aggressive manner that he should bring 'Reform'
to an immediate issue."
"Yes," answered the Squire. "There is doubtless a big battle before
us. But, mark my words, it will not be with Wellington and Peel. They
signed their own resignation this afternoon."
"That is what my father thinks," said Piers.
"If Wellington could only have held his tongue!" said the Squire,
bitterly.
"And if Daniel O'Connell would only cease making fun of the
Government."
"That man! He is nobody!"
"You mistake, Squire. His buffoonery is fatal to our party. I tell
you that Ridicule is the lightning that kills. Has not Aristophanes
tossed his enemies for the scorn and laughter of a thousand cities for a
thousand years? I fear O'Connell's satire and joking, far more than
I fear Grey's statesmanship, or Durham's popularity."
Then Piers turned to Kate, and asked if she had seen the royal
procession. And she told him about her visit, and about Mr. North's
interference for her safety, and his escort of her home. Piers was
much annoyed at this incident. He begged her not to venture into the
streets until public feeling had abated, or was controlled, and
asked with singular petulance, "Who is this Mr. North? He plays the
mysterious Knight very well. He interferes too much."
"I was grateful for his interference."
"Why did you not remain at Richmoor until I returned? I expected it,
Kate."
"I was afraid; and I knew my mother would be anxious--and I felt so
sad among strangers. You know, Piers, I have always lived among my own
people--among those who loved me."
This little bit of conversation had taken place while the tray was
being removed, and the Squire and Mrs. Atheling were talking about
the engagements for the next day, so that definite orders might be
given concerning the carriage and horses. The movements of the servants
had enabled Piers and Kate, quite naturally, to withdraw a little
from the fireside group; and when Kate made her tender assertion,
about living with those who loved her, Piers's heart was full to
overflowing. This girl of sweet nature, with her innocent beauty and
ingenuous expressions, possessed his noblest feelings. He clasped her
hands in his, and said,--
"Oh, Kate! I loved you when you were only twelve years old; I love you
now beyond all measure of words. And you love me? Speak, Dear One!"
"I love none but thee!"
The next moment she was standing before her father and mother. Piers held
her hand. He was talking to them in low but eager tones, yet she did not
realise a word, until he said,--
"Give her to me, my friends. We have loved each other for many years.
We shall love each other for ever. She is the wife of my soul. Without
her, I can only half live." Then bending to Kate, he asked her fondly,
"Do you love me, Kate? Do you love me? Ask your heart about it. Tell us
truly, do you love me?"
Then she lifted her sweet eyes to her lover, her father, and her mother,
and answered, "I love Piers with all my heart."
The Squire was much troubled and affected. "This is taking a bit of
advantage, Piers," he said. "There is a time for everything, and this
is not my time for giving my little girl away."
"Speak for us, Mrs. Atheling," said Piers.
"Nay, I think the Squire is quite right," she replied. "Love isn't
worth much if Duty does not stand with it."
"And there is far more, Piers," continued the Squire, "in such a
marriage as you propose than a girl's and a lover's 'yes.' When
the country has settled a bit, we will talk about love and wedding. I
can't say more for my life, can I, Mother?"
"It is enough," answered Mrs. Atheling. "Why, we might have a civil
war, and what not! To choose a proper mate is good enough; but it is
quite as important to choose a proper time for mating. Now then, this is
not a proper time, when everything is at ups-and-downs, and this way and
that way, and great public events, that no one can foretell, crowding
one on the neck of the other. Let things be as they are, children. If
you only knew it, you are in the Maytime of your lives. I wouldn't
hurry it over, if I was you. It won't come back again."
Then Kate kissed her father, and her mother, and her lover; and Piers
kissed Kate, and Mrs. Atheling, and put his hand into the Squire's
hand; and the solemn joy of betrothal was there, though it was not openly
admitted.
In truth the Squire was much troubled at events coming to any climax.
He would not suffer his daughter to enter into an engagement not openly
acknowledged and approved by both families; and yet he was aware that
at the present time the Duke would consider any subject--not public or
political--as an interruption, perhaps as an intrusion. Besides which,
the Squire's own sense of honour and personal pride made him averse
to force an affair so manifestly to the preferment of his daughter.
It looked like taking advantage of circumstances--of presuming upon a
kindness; in fact, the more Squire Atheling thought of the alliance, the
less he was disposed to sanction it. Under no circumstances, could he
give Kate such a fortune as the heir of a great Dukedom had a right to
expect. She must enter the Richmoor family at a disadvantage--perhaps
even on sufferance.
"No! by the Lord Harry, no!" he exclaimed. "I'll have none of the
Duke's toleration on any matter. I am sorry I took his seat. I wish
Edgar was here--he ought to be here, looking after his mother and
sister, instead of setting up rogues on Glasgow Green against their
King and Country! Of course, there is Love to reckon with, and Love does
wonders--but it is money that makes marriage."
With such reflections, and many others growing out of them, the Squire
hardened his heart, and strengthened his personal sense of dignity, until
he almost taught himself to believe the Duke had already wounded it. In
this temper he was quite inclined to severely blame his wife for not
"putting a stop to the nonsense when it first began."
"John," she answered, "we are both of a piece in that respect."
"On my honour, Mother."
"Don't say it, John. You used to laugh at the little lass going off
with Edgar and Piers fishing. You used to tease her about the gold brooch
Piers gave her. Many a time you have called her to me, 'the little
Duchess.'"
"Wilt thou be quiet?"
"I am only reminding thee."
"Thou needest not. I wish thou wouldst remind thy son that he has a
sister that he might look after a bit."
"I can look after Kate without his help. He is doing far better business
than hanging around Dukes."
"If thou wantest a quarrel this morning, Maude, I'm willing to give
thee one. I say, Edgar ought to be here."
"What for? He is doing work that we will all be proud enough of some
day. Thou oughtest to be helping him, instead of abusing him. I want thee
to open this morning's _Times_, and read the speech he made in Glasgow
City Hall. Thou couldst not have made such a speech to save thy life."
"Say, I _would not_ have made it, and then thou wilt say the very
truth."
"Read it."
"Not I."
"Thou darest not. Thou knowest it would make thee turn round and vote
with the Reformers."
"Roast the Reformers! I wish I could! I would not have believed thou
couldst have said such a thing, Maude. How darest thou even think of thy
husband as a turncoat? Why, in politics, it is the unpardonable sin."
"It is nothing of the kind. Not it! It is far worse to stick to a sin,
than to turn from it. If I was the biggest of living Tories, and I found
out I was wrong, I would stand up before all England and turn my coat in
the sight of everybody. I would that. When I read thy name against Mr.
Brougham bringing up Reform, I'll swear I could have cried for it!"
"I wouldn't wonder. All the fools are not dead yet. But I hear Kitty
and her lover coming. I wonder what they are talking and laughing about?"
"Thou hadst better not ask them. I'll warrant, Piers is telling her
the same sort of nonsense, thou usedst to tell me; and they will both
of them, believe it, no doubt."
At these words Piers and Kate entered the room together. They were
going for a gallop in the Park; and they looked so handsome, and so
happy, that neither the Squire nor Mrs. Atheling could say a word to
dash their pleasure. The Squire, indeed, reminded Piers that the House
met at two o'clock; and Piers asked blankly, like a man who neither
knew, nor cared anything about the House, "Does it?" With the words on
his lips, he turned to Kate, and smiling said, "Let us make haste, my
dear. The morning is too fine to lose." And hand in hand, they said
a hasty, joyful "good-bye" and disappeared. The father and mother
watched them down the street until they were out of sight. As they
turned away from the window, their eyes met, and Mrs. Atheling smiled.
The Squire looked abashed and disconcerted.
"Why didst not thou put a stop to such nonsense, John?" she asked.
Fortunately at this moment a servant entered to tell the Squire his horse
was waiting, and this interruption, and a rather effusive parting, let
him handsomely out of an embarrassing answer.
Then Mrs. Atheling wrote a long letter to her son, and looked after the
ways of her household, and knit a few rounds on her husband's hunting
stocking, and as she did so thought of Kate's future, and got tired
of trying to settle it, and so left it, as a scholar leaves a difficult
problem, for the Master to solve. And when she had reached this point
Kate came into the room. She had removed her habit, and the joyous look
which had been so remarkable two hours before was all gone. The girl
was dashed and weary, and her mother asked her anxiously, "If she was
sick?"
"No," she answered; "but I have been annoyed, and my heart is heavy,
and I am tired."
"Who or what annoyed you, child?"
"I will tell you. Piers and I had a glorious ride, and were coming
slowly home, when suddenly the Richmoor liveries came in sight. I saw
the instant change on Piers's face, and I saw Annabel slightly push the
Duchess and say something. And the Duchess drew her brows together as
we passed each other, and though she bowed, I could see that she was
angry and astonished. As for Annabel, she laughed a little, scornful
laugh, and threw me a few words which I could not catch. It was a most
unpleasant meeting; after it Piers was very silent. I felt as if I had
done something wrong, and yet I was indignant at myself for the feeling."
"What did Piers say?"
"He said nothing that pleased me. He fastened his eyes on Annabel,--who
was marvellously dressed in rose-coloured velvet and minever,--and she
clapped her small hands together and nodded to him in a familiar way,
and, bending slightly forward, passed on. And after that he did not talk
much. All his love-making was over, and I thought he was glad when we
reached home. I think Annabel will certainly take my lover from me."
"You mean that she has made up her mind to be Duchess of Richmoor?"
"Yes."
"Well, my dear Kate, a beautiful woman is strong, and money is stronger;
but _True Love conquers all_."
CHAPTER SEVENTH
THE LOST RING
"To-morrow some new light may come, and you will see things another way,
Kitty." This was Mrs. Atheling's final opinion, and Kitty was inclined
to take all the comfort there was in it. She was sitting then in her
mother's room, watching her dress for dinner, and admiring, as good
daughters will always do, everything she could find to admire about the
yet handsome woman.
"You have such beautiful hair, Mother. I wouldn't wear a cap if I was
you," she said.
"Your father likes a bit of lace on my head, Kitty. He says it makes me
look more motherly."
She was laying the "bit of lace" on her brown hair as she spoke. Then
she took from her open jewel case, two gold pins set with turquoise, and
fastened the arrangement securely. Kitty watched her with loving smiles,
and finally changed the whole fashion of the bit of lace, declaring that
by so doing she had made her mother twenty years younger. And somehow
in this little toilet ceremony, all Kitty's sorrow passed away, and
she said, "I wonder where my fears are gone to, Mother; for it does not
now seem hard to hope that all is just as it was."
"To be sure, Kitty, I never worry much about fears. Fears are mostly
made of nothing; and in the long run they are often a blessing. Without
fears, we couldn't have hopes; now could we?"
"Oh, you dear, sweet, good Mother! I wish I was just like you!"
"Time enough, Kitty." Then a look of love flashed from face to face,
and struck straight from heart to heart; and there was a little silence
that needed no words. Kitty lifted a ring and slipped it on her finger.
It was a hoop of fine, dark blue sapphires, set in fretted gold, and
clasped with a tiny padlock, shaped like a heart.
"What a lovely ring!" she cried. "Why do you not wear it, Mother?"
"Because it is a good bit too small now, Kitty."
"Miss Vyner's hands are always covered with rings, and she says every
one of them has a romance."
"I've heard, or read, something like that. There was a woman in the
story-book, was there not, who kept a tally of her lovers on a string of
rings they had given her? I don't think it was anything to her credit.
I shouldn't wonder if that is a bit ill-natured. I ought not to say such
a thing, so don't mind it, Kitty."
"Is this sapphire band yours, Mother?"
"To be sure it is."
[Illustration:]
"May I wear it?"
"Well, Kitty, I think a deal of that ring. You must take great care of
it."
"So then, Mother, one of your rings has a story too, has it?" And there
was a little laugh for answer, and Kitty slipped the coveted trinket on
her finger, and held up her hand to admire the gleam of the jewels, as
she said, musingly, "I wonder what Piers is doing?"
"I wouldn't 'wonder,' dearie. Little troubles are often worrited into
big troubles. If things are let alone, they work themselves right. I'll
warrant Piers is unhappy enough."
But Mrs. Atheling's warrant was hardly justified. Piers should have
gone to the House; but he went instead to his room, threw himself among
the cushions of a divan, and with a motion of his head indicated to
his servant that he wanted his Turkish pipe. The strange inertia and
indifference that had so suddenly assailed, still dominated him, and
he had no desire to combat it. He was neither sick nor weary; yet he
seemed to have lost all control over his feelings. Had the man within
the man "gone off guard"? Have we not all--yes, we have all of us
succumbed to just such intervals of supreme, inexpressible listlessness
and insensibility? We are "not all there," but _where_ has our inner
self gone to? And what is it doing? It gives us no account of such lapses.
Piers asked no questions of himself. He was like a man dreaming; for if
his Will was not asleep, it was at least quiescent. He made no effort
to control his thoughts, which drifted from Annabel to Kate, and from
Kate to Annabel, in the vagrant, inconsequent manner which acknowledges
neither the guidance of Reason or Will. And as the Levantine vapour
lulled his brain, he felt a pleasure in this surrender of his noblest
attributes. He thought of Annabel as he had seen her the previous
evening, dressed in a shaded satin of blue and green, trimmed with the
tips of peacock feathers. The same resplendent ornaments were in her
strong, wavy, black hair, and round her throat was a necklace of
emeralds and amethysts. "What a Duchess of Richmoor she would make!"
he thought. "How stately and proud! How well she would wear the coronet
and the gold strawberry leaves, and the crimson robe and ermine of her
state dress! Yes, Annabel would be a proper Duchess; but--but--" and
then he was sitting with Kate among the tall brackens, where the
Yorkshire hills threw miles of shadow. She was in her riding dress; but
her little velvet cap was in her hand, and the fresh wind was blowing
her brown hair into bewitching tendrils about her lovely face. How well
he knew the sweet seriousness of her downcast eyes, the rich bloom of
her cheeks and lips, the tender smile with which she always answered his
"_Kate! Sweet Kate!_"
Even through all his listlessness, this vision moved him, and he heard
his heart say, "Oh, Kate, wife of my soul! Oh, Beloved! Love of my life,
who can part us? Thou and I, Kate! Thou and I--"
"And the Other One."
From _whom_ or from _where_ came the words? Piers heard them with his
spiritual sense plainly, and their suggestion annoyed him. Now if we
stir under a nightmare, it is gone; and this faint rebellion broke the
chain of that mental inertia which had held him at least three hours
under its spell. He moved irritably, and in so-doing threw down the lid
of the tobacco jar, and then rose to his feet. In a moment, he was "all
there."
"I ought to be in the House," he muttered, and he touched the bell
for his valet, and dressed with less deliberation than was his wont.
And during the toilet he was aware of a certain mental anger that longed
to expend itself: "If Mr. Brougham is as insufferably dictatorial as
he was last night, if Mr. O'Connell only plays the buffoon again, we
shall meet in a narrow path--and one of us will fare ill," he muttered.
The hour generally comes when we are ready for it; and Piers found
both gentlemen in the tempers he detested. He gladly accepted his own
challenge, and the Squire was so interested in the wordy fight that he
did not return home to dinner. Mrs. Atheling neither worried nor waited.
She knew that the Squire's vote might be wanted at any inconvenient
hour; and, besides, the night had set stormily in, and she said
cheerfully to Kate, "It wouldn't do for father to get a wetting and
then be hours in damp clothes. He is far better sitting to-day's
business out while he is there."
But the evening dragged wearily, in spite of the efforts of both women
to make little pleasantries. Kate's whole being was in her sense of
hearing. She was listening for a step that did not come. On other nights
there had been visitors; she heard the roll of carriages and the clash
of the heavy front door; but this dreary night no roll of wheels broke
the stillness of the aristocratic Square; and she listened for the
sound of the closing door until she was ready to cry out against the
strain and the suspense. However, the longest, saddest day wears to
its end; and though it does not appear likely that a loving girl's
anxiety about a coolness in her lover should teach us how far deeper,
even than mother-love, is our trust in God's love, yet little Kitty's
behaviour on this sorrowful evening did show forth this sublime fact.
For the girl left undone none of her usual duties, left unsaid none of
the pleasant words she knew her mother expected from her; she even
followed her--as she always did when the Squire was late--to her bedroom,
and helped her lay away her laces and jewels ere she bid her a last
"good-night." But as soon as she had closed the door of her own room,
she felt she might give herself some release. If she did not read the
whole of the Evening Service, _God would understand_. She could trust
His love to excuse, to pity, to release her from all ceremonies. She
knelt down, she bowed her head, and said only the two or three words
which opened her heart and let the rain of tears wash all her anxieties
away.
And though sorrow may endure for a night, joy comes in the morning;
and this is specially true in youth. When Kate awoke, the sun was
shining, and the care and ache was gone from her heart. "He giveth His
Beloved sleep," and thus some angel had certainly comforted her,
though she knew it not. With a cheerful heart she dressed and went
into the breakfast-room, and there she saw her father standing on the
hearthrug, with _The Times_ open in his hand. He looked at her over
its pages with beaming eyes, and she ran to him and took the paper
away, and nestling to his heart, said, "she would have no rival, first
thing in the morning."
And the proud father stroked her hair, and kissed her lips, and answered
her, "Rival was not born yet, and never would be born; and that he was
only seeing if them newspaper fellows had told lies about Piers."
"Piers!" cried Mrs. Atheling, entering the room at the moment, "what
about Piers?"
"Well, Mother, the lad had his say last night; but, Dal it! Mr. Brougham
went at the Government and the Electors as if they were all of them
wearing the devil's livery. I call it scandalous! It was nothing else.
He let on to be preaching for Reform, but he was just preaching for
Henry Brougham."
"What was Mr. Brougham talking about, Father?"
"Mr. Brougham can talk about nothing but Reform, Kitty, the right of
every man to vote as seems good in his own eyes. He said peers and
landowners influenced and prejudiced votes in a way that was outrageous
and not to be borne, and a lot more words of the same kind; for Henry
Brougham would lose his speech if he had anything pleasant to say. I was
going to get up and give him a bit of my mind, when Piers rose; and the
cool way in which he fixed his eye-glass, and looked Mr. Brougham up and
down, and straight in the face, set us all by the ears. He was every
inch of him, then and there, the future Duke of Richmoor; and he told
Brougham, in a very sarcastic way, that his opinions were silly, and
would neither bear the test of reason nor of candid examination."
"But, Father, I thought Mr. Brougham was the great man of the Commons,
and held in much honour."
"Well, my little maid, he may be; but I'll warrant it is only by people
who have their own reasons for worshipping the devil."
"Come, come, John! If I was thee, I would be silent until I could be
just."
"Not thou, Maude! Right or wrong, thou wouldst say thy say. I think I
ought to know thee by this time."
"Never mind me, John. We want to hear what Piers said."
"Brougham's words had come rattling off in full gallop. Piers,
after looking at him a minute, began in that contemptuous drawl of
his,--you've heard it I've no doubt,--'Mr. Brougham affords an
example of radical opinions degrading a statesman into a politician.
He cannot but know that it is the positive, visible duty of every
landowner to influence and prejudice votes. It is the business and the
function of education and responsibility to enlighten ignorance, and to
influence the misguided and the misled. If it is the business and the
function of the clergy to influence and prejudice people in favour
of a good life; if it is the business and function of a teacher to
influence and prejudice scholars in favour of knowledge,--it is just as
certainly the business and function of the landowner to influence
his tenants in favour of law and order, and to prejudice them against
men who would shatter to pieces the noblest political Constitution in
the world.'"
The Squire read this period aloud with great emphasis, and added, "Well,
Maude, you never heard such a tumult as followed. Cries of '_Here!
Here!_' and '_Order! Order!_' filled the House; and the Speaker had
work enough to make silence. Piers stood quite still, watching Brougham,
and as soon as all was quiet, he went on,--
"'If you take the peers, the gentry, the scholars, the men of
enterprise and wealth, from our population, what kind of a government
should we get from the remainder? Would they be fit to select and
elect?' Then there was another uproar, and Piers sat down, and
O'Connell jumped up. He put his witty tongue in his laughing cheek,
and, buttoning his coat round him, held up his right hand. And the
Reform members cheered, and the Tory members shrugged their shoulders,
and waited for what he would say."
"I don't want to hear a word from _him_," answered Mrs. Atheling.
"Come and get your coffee, John. A cup of good coffee costs a deal now,
and it's a shame to let it get cold and sloppy over Dan O'Connell's
blackguarding."
"Tell us what he said, Father," urged Kate, who really desired to know
more about Piers's efforts. "You can drink your coffee to his words. I
don't suppose they will poison it."
"I wouldn't be sure of that," said Mrs. Atheling, with a dubious shake
of her head; while the Squire lifted his cup, and emptied it at a draught.
"What did he say, Father? Did he attack Piers?"
"To be sure he did. He took the word 'Remainder,' and said Piers had
called the great, substantial working men of England, Scotland, and
Ireland _Remainders_. He said these '_Remainders_' might only be
farmers, and bakers, and builders, and traders; but they were the
backbone of the nation; and the honourable gentleman from Richmoor
Palace had called them 'Remainders.' And then he gave Piers a few
of such stinging, abusive names as he always keeps on hand,--and he keeps
a good many kinds of them on hand,--and Piers was like a man that
neither heard nor saw him. He looked clean through the member for
Kilkenny as if he wasn't there at all. And then Mr. Scarlett got
up, and asked the Speaker if such unparliamentary conduct was to be
permitted? And Mr. Dickson called upon the House to protect itself
from the browbeating, bullying ruffianism of the member for Kilkenny;
and Dan O'Connell sat laughing, with his hat on one side of his head,
till Dickson sat down; then he said, he 'considered Mr. Dickson's
words complimentary;' and the shouts became louder and louder, and
the Speaker had hard work to get things quieted down."
"Why, John! I never heard tell of such carryings on."
"Then, Maude, I thought _I_ would say a word or two; and I got the
Speaker's eye, and he said peremptorily, 'The member for Asketh!'
and I rose in my place and said I thought the honourable member for
Kilkenny--"
"John! I wouldn't have called him 'honourable.'"
"I know thou wouldst not, Maude. Well, I said honourable, and I went
on to say that Mr. O'Connell had mistaken the meaning Lord Exham
attached to the word 'Remainder.' I said it wasn't a disrespectful
word at all, and that there were plenty of 'remainders,' we all of us
thought a good deal of; but, I said, I would come to an instance which
every man could understand,--the remainder of a glass of fine, old
October ale. The rich, creamy, bubbling froth might stand for the
landowners; but it was part of the whole; and the remainder was all the
better for the froth, and the more froth, and the richer the froth,
the better the ale below it. And I went on to say that Lord Exham, and
every man of us, knew right well, that the great body of the English
nation wasn't made up of knaves, and scoundrels, and fools, but of
good men and women. And then our benches cheered me, up and down,
till I felt it was a good thing to be a Representative of the Remainder,
and I said so."
Then Mrs. Atheling and Kitty cheered the Squire more than a little, with
smiles, and kisses, and proud words; and he went on with increased
animation, "In a minute O'Connell was on his feet again, and he
called me a lot of names I needn't repeat here; until he said, 'My
example of a glass of ale was exactly what anybody might expect from
such a John Bull as the member for Asketh.' And, Maude and Kitty, I
could not stand that. The House was shouting, 'Order! Order!' and
I cried, 'Mr. Speaker!' and the Speaker said, 'Order, the member for
Kilkenny is speaking!' 'But, Mr. Speaker,' I said, 'I only want to
say to the member for Kilkenny that I would rather be a John Bull, than
a bully.' And that was the end. There was no 'Order' after it. Our
side cheered and roared, and, Maude, what dost thou think?--the one to
cheer loudest was thy son Edgar. He must have got in by the Speaker's
favour; but there he was, and when I came through the lobby, with Piers
and Lord Althorp, and a crowd after me, he was standing with that
young fellow I threw on Atheling Green; and he looked at me so pleased,
and eager, and happy, that I thought for a moment he was going to shake
hands; but I kept my hands in my pockets--yet I'll say this,--he has
thy fine eyes, Maude,--I most felt as if thou wert looking at me."
"John! John! How couldst thou keep thy hands in thy pockets? How couldst
thou do such an unfatherly thing? I'm ashamed of thee! I am."
"Give me a slice of ham, and don't ask questions. I want my breakfast
now. I can't live on talk, as if I was a woman."
Fortunately at this moment a servant entered with the morning's mail.
He gave Mrs. Atheling a letter, and Kate two letters; and then offered
the large salver full of matter to the Squire. He looked at the pile with
indignation. "Put it out of my sight, Dobson," he said angrily. "Do
you think I want letters and papers to my breakfast? I'm astonished at
you!" He was breaking his egg-shell impatiently as he spoke, and he
looked up with affected anger at his companions. Kitty met his glance
with a smile. She could afford to do so, for both her letters lay
untouched at her side. She tapped the upper one and said, "It is from
Miss Vyner, Father; it can easily wait."
"And the other, Kitty? Who is it from?"
"From Piers, I don't want to read it yet."
"To be sure." Then he looked at Mrs. Atheling, and was surprised. Her
face was really shining with pleasure, her eyes misty with happy tears.
She held her letter with a certain pride and tenderness that her whole
attitude also expressed; and the Squire had an instant premonition as to
the writer of it.
"Well, Maude," he said, "I would drink my coffee, if I was thee. A
cup of coffee costs a deal now; and it's a shame to let it get cold and
sloppy over a bit of a letter--nobody knows who from."
"It is from Edgar," said Mrs. Atheling, far too proud and pleased to
keep her happiness to herself. "And, John, I am going to have a little
lunch-party to-day at two o'clock; and I do wish thou wouldst make it
in thy way to be present."
"I won't. And I would like to know who is coming here. I won't
have all kinds and sorts sitting at my board, and eating my bread and
salt--and I never heard tell of a good wife asking people to do that
without even mentioning their names to her husband--and--"
"I am quite ready to name everybody I ask to thy board, John. There
will be thy own son Edgar Atheling, and Mr. Cecil North, and thy wife
Maude Atheling, and thy daughter Kitty. Maybe, also, Lord Exham and Miss
Vyner. Kitty says she has a letter from her."
"I told thee once and for all, I had forbid Edgar Atheling to come to
my house again until I asked him to do so."
"This isn't thy house, John. It is only a rented roof. Thou mayst be
sure Edgar will never come near Atheling till God visits thee and gives
thee a heart like His own to love thy son. Thou hast never told Edgar to
keep away from the Vyner mansion, and thou hadst better never try to do
so; for I tell thee plainly if thou dost--"
"Keep threats behind thy teeth, Maude. It isn't like thee, and I won't
be threatened either by man or woman. If thou thinkest it right to set
Edgar before me, and to teach him _not_ to 'Honour his father'--"
"Didn't he 'honour' thee last night! Wasn't he proud of thee? And
he wanted to tell thee so, if thou wouldst have let him. Poor Edgar!"
And Edgar's mother covered her face, and began to cry softly to herself.
"Nay, Maude, if thou takest to crying I must run away. It isn't
fair at all. What can a man say to tears? I wish I could have a bit of
breakfast in peace; I do that!"--and he pushed his chair away in a
little passion, and lifted his mail, and was going noisily out of the
room, when he found Kitty's arms round his neck. Then he said peevishly,
"Thou art spilling my letters, Kitty. Let me alone, dearie! Thou
never hast a word to say on thy father's side. It's too bad!"
"I am all for you, father,--you and you first of all. There is nobody
like you; nobody before you; nobody that can ever take your place." Then
she kissed him, and whispered some of those loving, senseless little
words that go right to the heart, if Love sends them there. And the
Squire was comforted by them, and whispered back to her, "God love
thee, my little maid! I'll do anything I can to give thee pleasure."
"Then just think about Edgar as you saw him last night, think of him
with mother's eyes watching you, listening to you, full of pride and
loving you so much--oh, yes, Father! loving you so much."
"Well, well,--let me go now, Kitty. I have all these bothering letters
and papers to look at; they are enough to make any man cross."
"Let me help you."
"Go to thy mother. Listen, Kitty," and he spoke very low, "tell her,
thou art sure and certain thy father does not object to her seeing her
son, if it makes her happy--thou knowest my bark is a deal worse than
my bite--say--thou believest I would like to see Edgar myself--nay,
thou needest not say that--but say a few words just to please her; thou
knowest what they should be better than I do,"--then, with a rather
gruff "good-morning," he went out of the room; and Kitty turned to
her mother.
Mrs. Atheling was smiling, though there were indeed some remaining
evidences of tears. "He went without bidding me 'good-morning,'
Kitty. What did he say? Is he very angry?"
"Not at all angry. All put on, Mother. He loves Edgar quite as much as
you do."
"He can't do that, Kitty. There is nothing like a mother's love."
"Except a father's love. Don't you remember, that God takes a
father's love to express His own great care for us? And when the
Prodigal Son came home, Christ makes his father, not his mother, go to
meet him."
"That was because Christ knew children were sure and certain of their
mother's love and forgiveness. He wasn't so sure of the fathers. So he
gave the lesson to them; he knew that mothers did not need it. Mothers
are always ready to forgive, Kitty; but there is nothing to forgive in
Edgar."
"Is he really coming to-day?"
"Listen to what he says, Kitty. 'Darling Mother, I cannot live
another day without seeing you. Let me come to-morrow at two o'clock,
and put my arms round you, and kiss you, and talk to you for an hour.
Ask father to let me come. London is not Atheling. If he counts his
passionate words as forever binding between him and me, surely they are
not binding between you and me. Let me see you anyway, Mother. Sweet,
dear Mother! When father forgives the rest, he will forgive this also.
Your loving son, Edgar.' Now, Kitty, if Edgar was your son, what would
you say?"
"I would say, Come at once, Edgar, and dearly welcome!"
"To be sure you would. So shall I. What is Miss Vyner writing about?"
Then Kitty lifted the squarely folded letter with its great splash of
white wax stamped with the Vyner crest, and after a rapid glance at its
contents said, "There is likely to be a great House to-night; and the
Duchess has three seats in the Ladies Gallery. One is for Annabel, the
other for me; and she asks you to take her place. Do go, Mother."
"I'll think about it."
"Don't say that."
"It is all I will say just yet. Did you have a letter from Piers?"
"Yes."
"I knew you would. Go and read it, and tell Dobson to send the cook to
me. We want the best lunch that can be made; and put on a pretty dress,
Kitty. Edgar must feel that nothing is too good for him."
In accordance with this intent, Mrs. Atheling took particular pains
with her own dress; and Kitty thought she had never seen her mother so
handsome. Soft brown satin, and gold ornaments, and the bit of lace
on her head set off her large, blonde, stately beauty to perfection;
while the look of love and anxiety, as the clock moved on to two, gave to
her countenance that "something more" without which beauty is only
flesh and blood.
She had said to herself that Edgar might be detained, that he might not
be able to keep his time, and that she would not feel disappointed if he
was a bit behind two o'clock. But fully ten minutes before the hour,
she heard his quick, firm knock; and as she stood trembling with joy in
the middle of the room, he took her in his arms, and, between laughing
and crying, they knew not, either of them, what they said. And then
Kitty ran into the room, all a flutter with pale-blue ribbons, and it
was a good five minutes before the two women found time to see, and
to speak to Cecil North, who stood watching the scene with his kind
heart in his face.
Evidently the meeting had bespoke a fortunate hour. The weather, though
it was November, was sunny; the lunch was perfection, and they were
in the midst of the merriest possible meal when Annabel Vyner and
Piers Exham joined them. Annabel had expected nothing better from
this visit than an opportunity to show off her familiar relations with
Lord Exham, and torment Kitty, as far as she thought it prudent to do
so; but Fate had prepared motives more personal and delightful for
her,--two handsome young men, whom she at once determined to conquer.
Cecil North made no resistance; he went over heart and head in love
with her. Her splendid vitality, her manner,--so demanding and so
caressing,--her daring dress, and dazzling jewelry, her altogether
unconventional air charmed and vanquished him, and he devoted himself to
pleasing her.
During the lunch hour the conversation was general, and very animated.
Annabel excelled herself in her peculiar way of saying things which
appeared singularly brilliant, but which really derived all their
point from her looks, and shrugs, and flashing movements. The good mother
was in an earthly heaven, watching, and listening, and attending to
every one's wants, actual and possible. Laughter and repartee and
merry jests mingled with bits of social and parliamentary gossip, though
politics were instinctively avoided. Piers knew well the opinions of
the two men with whom he was sitting; and he was quite capable of
respecting them. Besides, he had an old friendship for Edgar Atheling;
and he loved his sister, and was well aware that she had much sympathy
with her brother's views. So all Annabel's attempts to make a division
were futile; no one took up the little challenges she flung into their
midst, and the parliamentary talk drifted no nearer dangerous ground
than the Ladies Gallery. Piers knew of the invitation given to the
Athelings, and he proposed to meet the ladies in the courtyard near
the entrance to the exclusive precinct.
"Too exclusive by far," said Annabel. "Why do English ladies submit
to that grating? It is a relic of the barbarous ages. I intend to move
in the matter. Let us get up a petition, or an act, or an agitation of
some kind for its removal. I think we should succeed. What do you say,
Lord Exham?"
"I think you would _not_ succeed," answered Piers. "I have heard the
Duke say that the proposition is frequently made in the House; that it is
always enthusiastically cheered; but that every time the question comes
practically up, there is a dexterous count out."
"Well, then, I will propose that the front Treasury Bench be taken away,
and twenty-four ladies' seats put in its place. Do you see, Mr. North,
what I intend by that?"
"I am sure it is something wise and good, Miss Vyner."
"My idea is, that twenty-four ladies should sit there as representatives
of the women of England. Twenty-four bishops in lovely lawn sit as
representatives of the clergy of England; why should not English women
have their representation? I hope while Reformers are correcting the
abuses of Representation, they will consider this abuse. Mr. Atheling,
what do you say?"
"I am at your service, Miss Vyner."
"Indeed, sir, just at present you are hand and heart in the service of
Mrs. Atheling. I must turn to Mr. North."
Then Mrs. Atheling perceived that in her interesting conversation with
Edgar, she was keeping her guests at table; and she rose with an apology,
and led the way into the parlour. There was a large conservatory opening
out of this room, and Kate and Piers, on some pretext of rosebuds,
went into it.
"My dear Kate, I have been so unhappy!" he said, taking her hand.
"But why, Piers?"
"We parted so strangely yesterday. I do not know how it happened."
"We were both tired, I think. I was as much in fault as you. Is not
this an exquisite flower?" That was the end of the trouble. He drew
her to his side, and kissed the hand that touched the flower; and so
all explanations were over; and they took up their love-story where
the shadow of yesterday had broken it off. And as their hands wandered
among the shrubs, it was natural for Piers to notice the ring on Kate's
finger. "It is a very singular jewel," he said; "I never saw one
like it."
"It is my mother's," answered Kate. "She told me this morning it was
her betrothal ring and that father bought it in Venice."
"Kate dear, I wish to get you a ring just like it. Let us ask Mrs.
Atheling if I may show it to my jeweller, and have one made for you."
"I am sure mother will be willing," and she slipped the shining circle
from her finger, and gave it to Piers; and he whispered fondly, as he
placed it on his own hand, "Will you take it from me, Kate, as a love
gage?--never to leave your finger until I put the wife's gold ring
above it?"
And what she said need not be told. Many happy words grew from her
answer; and they forgot the rosebuds they had come to gather, and the
company they had left, and the flight of time, until Edgar came into
the conservatory to bid his sister "good-bye." There had been a slight
formality between Piers and Edgar at their first meeting; but with
Kate standing between them, all the good days on the Yorkshire hills
and moors came into their memories, and they clasped hands with their
old boyish fervour, and it was "Piers" and "Edgar" again. So the
parting was the real meeting; and they went back to the parlour in an
unmistakable enthusiasm of good fellowship.
Annabel was then quite ready to leave, and the question of the Ladies
Gallery came up for settlement. Mrs. Atheling declared she was too
weary to go out; and Kate preferred her own happy thoughts to the
tumult of a political quarrel. Annabel was equally indifferent. She
had discovered that Mr. North was a son of the Earl of Westover, and
might with propriety be asked to the Richmoor opera-box, that there was
even an acquaintance strong enough between the families to enable her
new lover to pay his respects to the Duchess in the interludes, and, in
fact, an understanding to that effect had been made for that very
night, if the offer of the seats in the Ladies Gallery was not accepted.
So their refusal caused no regret; for when politics come in competition
with youth and love, they have scarcely a hearing. But during the
slight discussion, Piers found time to speak to Mrs. Atheling about the
ring; and the direction of three pair of eyes to the trinket caught
Annabel's attention. Her face flamed when she saw that it had passed
from Kate's hand to the hand of Exham; and for the first time, she
had a feeling of active dislike against Kate. Her sweet, calm, innocent
beauty, her happy eyes and ingenuous girlish expression, offended her,
and set all the worst forces of her soul in revolt.
She did not dare to trust herself with Piers. In her present mood, she
knew she would be sure to say something that would hamper her future
actions. She declared she would only accept Mr. North's escort to
Richmoor House; for she was sure the Duke was expecting Piers to be
in his place in the Commons when the vote was taken.
Piers had a similar conviction, and he looked at his watch almost
guiltily, and went hurriedly away. Then the little party was soon
dispersed; but Mrs. Atheling and Kate were both far too happy to need
outside aids. They talked of Edgar and Cecil North, and Annabel's
witcheries, and Piers's great and good qualities, and the promised ring,
and the excellent lunch, and the general success of the impromptu
little feast. Everything had been pleasant, and the Squire's absence
was not thought worth worrying about.
"He will come round, bit by bit," said the happy mother. "I know
John Atheling. The first thing Edgar does to please him, will put all
straight; and Edgar is on the very road to please him most of all."
"What road is that, Mother?"
"Nay, I can't tell you, Kitty; for just yet it is a secret between
Edgar and me. He was glad to meet Piers again; and, if I am any judge,
they will be better friends than ever before."
Thus the two women talked the evening away, and were by no means sorry
to be at their own fireside. "We could have done no good by going to the
House," said Kate. "If we were men, it would be different. They like
it. Father says the House is the best club in London."
"It gives men a lot of excuses," said Mrs. Atheling, with a sigh. "I
dare say your father won't get home till late. You had better go to bed,
Kitty."
"Perhaps Piers may come with him."
"I don't think he will. He looked tired when he left here; he will
be worse tired when he gets away from the Commons. He said he was going
to speak again, if he got the opportunity,--that is, if he could find
anything to contradict in Mr. Brougham's speech. Piers likes saying,
'No, sir!' his spurs are always in fighting trim. Go to bed, Kitty.
Piers won't be back to-night, and I can say to father whatever I think
proper."
Mrs. Atheling judged correctly. Piers sat a long time before his
opportunity came, and then he did not get the best of it. Brougham's
followers overflowed the Opposition benches, the Government side,
and the gangway, and Piers exhausted himself vainly in an endeavour
to get a hearing. It was late when he returned to Richmoor House, but the
Duke was still absent, and the Duchess and Annabel at the opera. He
went to the Duke's private parlour, for there were some things he felt
he must discuss before another day's sitting; and the warmth and
stillness, added to his own mental and physical weariness, soon overcame
all the resistance he could make. The couch on which he had thrown
himself was also a drowsy place; it seemed to sink softly down, and
down, until Piers was far below the tide of thought, or even dreams.
It was then that Annabel returned. She came slowly and rather
thoughtfully along the silent corridor. She had exhausted for the time
being her fine spirits, her wit, almost her good looks. She hoped she
would _not_ meet Piers, and was glad in passing the door of his
apartments to see no man in attendance, nor any sign of wakeful life. A
little further on she noticed a band of light from the Duke's private
parlour; the door was a trifle open, left purposely so by Piers in
order that his father might not be tempted to pass it. Tired as she was,
she could not resist the opportunity it offered. She liked to show
herself in her fineries to her guardian, for he always had a compliment
for her beauty; and although she had listened for hours to compliments
her vanity was still unsatiated. With a coquettish smile she pushed
wider the door and saw Lord Exham. There could be no doubt of his
profound insensibility; his face, his attitude, his breathing, all
expressed the deep sleep of a thoroughly-exhausted man.
For one moment she looked at him curiously, then, at the instigation
of the Evil One, her eyes saw the ring upon his hand, and her heart
instantly desired it; for what reason she did not ask. At the moment
she perhaps had no reason, except the wicked hope that its loss might
make trouble between Kitty and her lover. With the swift, noiseless step
that Nature gives to women who have the treachery and cruelty of the
feline family, she reached Piers's side. But rapid as her movement had
been, her thought had been more rapid. "If I am caught, I will say I
won a pair of gloves, and took the ring as the gage of my victory."
She stooped to the dropped hand, but never touched it. The ring was
large, and it was only necessary for her to place her finger and thumb
on each side of it. It slipped off without pressing against the flesh,
and in a moment it was in her palm. She waited to see if the movement
had been felt. There was no evidence of it, and she passed rapidly out
of the room. Outside the door, she again waited for a movement, but
none came, and she walked leisurely, and with a certain air of weariness,
to her own apartments. Once there all was safe; she dropped it into
the receptacle in which she kept the key of her jewel-case, and went
smiling to bed.
Not ten minutes after her theft the Duke entered the room. He did not
scruple to awaken his son, and to discuss with him the tactics of a
warfare which was every day becoming more bitter and violent. Piers
was full of interest, and eager to take his part in the fray. Suddenly
he became aware of his loss. Then he forgot every other thing. He
insisted, then and there, on calling his valet and searching every inch
of carpet in the room. The Duke was disgusted with this radical change
of interest. He went pettishly away in the middle of the search, saying,--
"The Reformers might well carry all before them, when peers who had
everything to lose or gain thought more of a lost ring than a lost
cause."
And Piers could not answer a word. He was confounded by the circumstance.
That the ring was on his hand when he entered the room was certain.
He searched all his pockets with frantic fear, his purse, the couch on
which he had slept. There was no part of the room not examined, no piece
of furniture that was not moved; and the day began to dawn when the
useless search was over. He went to his room, sleepless and troubled
beyond belief. Government might be defeated, Ministers might resign,
Reform might spell Revolution, the estates and titles of nobles might
be in jeopardy,--but Kitty's ring was lost, and that was the first,
and the last, and the only thought Piers Exham could entertain.
CHAPTER EIGHTH
WILL SHE CHOOSE EVIL OR GOOD?
Annabel had a very good night. Her conscience was an indulgent one,
and she easily satisfied its complaining. "It was after all only a
joke," she said. "In the morning I can restore the ring. The Duke
will have a good laugh at his son's discomfiture, and will praise my
cleverness. The Duchess will either knit her brows, or else take it
merrily; and Piers will owe me a forfeit, and that will be the end of
the affair. What is there to make a fuss over?" Annabel's conscience
thought, in such case, there was nothing to fuss about; and it let her
sleep comfortably on the prevaricating promise.
She considered the matter over as she was dressing. She had slept
well, was refreshed and full of life, and therefore full of selfish
wilfulness:--
"I will restore the ring to Piers." She said this to please one side
of her nature.
"I will not restore the ring." She said this to please the other
side. "As a thing of worth, it is by no means costly. I will give Kate
Atheling a ring of twice its value. As a thing of power it is mine,
the spoil of my will and my skill; and I will not part with it." Still
she kept the first decision in reserve; she promised herself to be
influenced by the circumstances which the affair induced.
But the way out of temptation is always very difficult, and circumstances
are rarely favourable to it. They were not in this case. Before
Annabel was dressed she received a message that overthrew all her
intentions. The Duchess was going to breakfast in her own parlour, and
she desired Annabel's company at the meal. The desires of the Duchess
were commands, and the young lady reluctantly obeyed them; for she
anticipated the reproof that came, as soon as they were alone, regarding
her attitude towards Cecil North.
"It will not do, Annabel," said the Duchess, severely. "The Norths
are a fine family, but poor, even in the elder branches. This young man
can look forward to nothing better than some diplomatic or military
appointment, and that in an Indian Presidency."
"What could be better?" asked Annabel, with an affectation of delight.
"An Indian Court is a court. It has the splendour, the ceremony, the
very air of royalty."
"But with your fortune--"
"I assure you, Duchess, any man who marries me will need all my fortune.
He will in fact deserve it. You know that I am _not_ amiable, and that I
_am_ extravagant and luxurious."
"But you may avoid such a foolish, unwomanly thing as flirtation, even
if you are not amiable. It seems to me the world has forgotten how to be
amiable. This morning, the Duke is touchy and disagreeable; and Piers
has not come to ask after my health, though it is his usual custom when I
remain in my room. He angered the Duke also last night."
"Did you see him last night?" asked Annabel, with an air of
indifference.
"The Duke did. Piers seems to have behaved in an absurd way about a
ring he has lost. The Duke says, he turned his room topsy-turvy, and
went on as if he had lost his whole estate."
"Was it the ring with the ducal arms that he always wears?"
"No, indeed! Only a simple band of sapphires, or some other stone. The
Duke thinks it must have been the gift of some woman. Were you the donor,
Annabel?"
"I! I should think not! I do not give rings away. I prefer to receive
them. He wore no sapphire band yesterday when he and I went to the
Athelings--" and she looked the rest of the query, over her coffee-cup,
straight into the eyes of the Duchess.
"What is it you mean to ask, Annabel?"
"Do you think that Miss Atheling--"
[Illustration:]
"Miss Atheling! That girl! What an absurd idea! Why should she give Lord
Exham a ring?"
"_Why!_ There are so many '_whys_' that nobody can answer." And
with this remark, Annabel felt that her opportunity for confession
had quite lapsed. For if the Duchess had thought it right to reprove
her for such freedom as she had shown towards Cecil North, what would
she say about an act so daring, so really improper in a social sense, as
the removal of a ring from her son's hand? Annabel had no mind to
bring on herself the disagreeable looks and words she merited. She gave
the conversation the political turn that answered all purposes, by
asking the Duchess if she was not afraid Piers's principles might be
influenced by his friendship with young Atheling. "They were David
and Jonathan yesterday," she said; "and as for Cecil North, he is a
Radical of the first water."
"Lord Exham is not so easily persuaded," answered the Duchess, loftily.
"He could as readily change his nose as his principles. But I am
seriously annoyed at this intercourse with a family distinctly out of our
own caste. The Duke has been very foolish to encourage it."
"You have also encouraged Miss Atheling."
"I have been too good-natured. I admit that. But as I have promised to
present her, I must honourably keep my word; that is, if any opportunity
offers. It now appears as if there would be no court functions. The King
declined the Lord Mayor's feast,--a most unprecedented thing,--and
it is said the Queen is averse to receive while the Reform agitat
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