Part 2

The peerage of Exeter is extremely singular. Therein we find four dukes, starting from John Holland, the first of them, in 1397. Between the first and the last duke there were two forfeitures and one extinction of the title; moreover, only three of them were Hollands, the second having been a Beaufort, a natural son of John of Gaunt; and this must have been the Exeter mentioned by Shakspeare; but the poet and dates are not quite reconcilable here. Then came two Marquises of Exeter, both of whom were Courtenays; and the present Marquis is a Cecil, the originator of the now existing marquisate having been the second Lord Burleigh or Burghley, who became Earl of Exeter in 1605. The present marquisate of the title dates from 1793.

The history of the peerage or title of Warwick is one of the most extraordinary to be found on the rolls. It was commenced in the reign of the Conqueror, comprises, in the first place, fourteen earls, mostly of the name of De Newburgh and De Beauchamp, a duke, and a countess. It has been extinct four times, and forfeited five times; has been borne by royalty, by the noblest of the noble, by traitors, and by no less than thirty-three persons of various families. After becoming extinct in the family of Rich by the decease of the eighth earl without issue in 1759, it was revived in that of Greville, and the present earl is the fourth in succession since then. The first of these holders of the title was Francis Greville, a descendant of William de Beauchamp, the tenth of the first set of earls, who died in 1298. The fifth and last of the De Beauchamps as Earls of Warwick must have been Shakspeare’s Warwick; so that while clearly the Bedfords and Exeters of to-day are not the representatives of those mentioned in _Henry V._, the Earl of Warwick who fought at Agincourt has a living descendant. The same may be said as to Talbot. The person alluded to by Shakspeare was the sixth baron of that title, and was the greatest soldier of his time. He was created Earl of Shrewsbury in 1442, and the present earl—who is the twentieth from him, and premier Earl of England—is also Earl and Baron Talbot, and accordingly is a blood-relative of Shakspeare’s fourth hero. Salisbury comes next; but the present marquis being descended from Robert Cecil, created Earl of Salisbury in 1605, is therefore not connected with Henry V.th’s Salisbury, who was Thomas de Montacute. The Marquisate of Salisbury was created in 1780, every other previous holder of a Salisbury title having been an earl, and the honour first arose in the reign of Stephen.

With regard to the last of the personages introduced by Shakspeare, Glo’ster, it may be observed that the title of Gloucester appears from its very beginning to have been appropriated to personages of unusually exalted birth. It commenced with a natural son of Henry I., and went through eleven earldoms to 1337. From that time we have only dukes; and Shakspeare evidently alludes to Humphry Plantagenet, youngest son of Henry IV., and therefore brother of Henry V., whom the poet, with strict regard to the rules of courtesy, makes the last to be named by the gallant king. With him the dukedom of Gloucester became extinct; but it was revived in 1461, and conferred on Richard, brother of Edward IV., commonly known as ‘Crookback.’ At his death at Bosworth in 1485, the title merged in the Crown; and the last who held it was the uncle of our present gracious Queen, William-Frederick, Duke of Gloucester and Edinburgh. Seeing that Shakspeare’s Glo’ster was the son of Henry IV., and that our present royal family trace their descent through all the previous sovereigns of England, we may conclude that while the ‘Bedford and Exeter’ and Salisbury of Agincourt fame have no representatives at the present day connected with them by any ties of sanguinity, yet that ‘Harry the King,’ ‘Warwick and Talbot’ and Glo’ster are so represented, and in the manner just intimated.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This indicates that the barony mentioned is in abeyance, a term which will be explained afterwards.

[2] It may interest some readers to be reminded that the widow of this earl, Selina, was the founder of the religious body known as ‘Lady Huntingdon’s Connection.’

[3] It may be instructive to the non-legal reader to be told that the word ‘issue’ in law signifies lineal descendants _ad infinitum_, and therefore has a more extensive signification than ‘children.’ The two terms are often confounded; but while of course ‘issue’ will include children, it may include more than children.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER XXVIII.—‘THE LITTLE RIFT.’

Uncle Dick was for some time busy with his meal and with the details of the scare he had got in the morning.

‘I tell you, Philip, it a’most took away my appetite—and that’s saying something. Seemed to me that the bullock had nearly all the signs of foot-and-mouth; and the vet. thought so too; when along comes Beecham, and shows us it was nothing of the kind, but that the brute had somehow swallowed a poisonous herb. Clever chap that. Never thought he knew anything about cattle.... You see what it would have been to me? I would not have been allowed to exhibit at Smithfield at all this year—I, who have some of the finest stock in the county or in Norfolk either, and I won’t even bar that of His Royal Highness, although he has a prime breed—managed as well as my own too. I set my heart on getting a prize at the show this year; and it was hard lines to think that I was to be shut out at the last moment a’most, all owing to them foreigners bringing the disease amongst us.’

‘But you are at rest on that score now,’ said Philip, rousing himself to say something.

‘O yes; it’s right enough now; but it _was_ a scare; and if it had not been for Beecham, the vet. would have gone off and reported me. I couldn’t have said nay; for bad as it would be to get the disease amongst my own stock, I’d feel it a heap worse if I carried it to somebody else’s. Don’t know how to be thankful enough to Beecham.’

The repetition of the name awakened some association of sounds in Philip’s ears; and whilst one division of his thoughts was entirely occupied with Madge, there seemed to be another whispering the question: ‘Was not that voice I heard behind me at the “dancing beeches” like the stranger’s?’

Uncle Dick went on describing the merits of the cattle he was to exhibit at Smithfield; but when he had pushed away his plate, he suddenly became aware that he was speaking to an inattentive audience.

‘Got the toothache, Philip?—or lost anything?’ he asked.

‘No, no.—I beg your pardon, Uncle Dick,’ replied Philip, a little confused, but frankly admitting his inattention. ‘Madge did not seem to be quite well when she came in just now, and I was thinking about her.’

‘Wool-gathering,’ said Uncle Dick with a hearty laugh. ‘Well, never mind. I ought to have known better. What’s the use of talking about prime fat cattle to a lad when he is sweethearting! I forgive you.’

Philip made an attempt to respond to the laugh; but it was not very successful, and he was glad of the relief which the entrance of the dame afforded him. In her quiet eyes, he fancied that there were signs of disturbed thought.

‘What ails Madge?’ inquired Uncle Dick. ‘Here is Philip in a way about her. She was well enough at dinner-time.’

‘She is out of sorts a bit, and wants to see Philip in the other room.’

‘Go to her lad; and if you have been amusing yourselves with a tiff—why, buss and make it up.’

Philip scarcely heard the whole of this wise counsel, for he had darted off the moment he heard that Madge wanted him.

But she was not in the room yet. So he stood watching the door, and wondering what could be the meaning of this conduct, which would have been singular on the part of any girl, but was most singular in his eyes when it was the conduct of Madge. A headache was _not_ a sufficient explanation of that frightened look on her face, and it was still less a satisfactory explanation of her eager desire to get away from him, when he had expected to be chidden for his long absence. What could have happened, to account for it?

In all this wondering and questioning there was not the remotest shade of jealousy. He loved her. She loved him; he trusted her absolutely. His was the nature which gives absolute trust, and is incapable of thinking that it might be betrayed. But this absolute trust is in a keen-eyed, passionate nature a sort of windbag; and with the first pin-prick of suspicion it collapses: all trust changes to all doubt. He was still untouched by this demon. So he only wondered, and was sorry for her.

Then she came in, looking so pale—haggard almost—and quite unlike herself. She had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she had been crying. She closed the door, held out her hands to him, avoiding his eyes, and rested her head on his shoulder.

That was all right: she was not angry with him. He kissed the wet eyes gratefully, and the lips. But she did not look at him or speak; and although he wanted to say something soothing, he did not know how to begin.

Presently he was startled by a low sobbing, and words came to him: ‘For goodness’ sake, Madge, tell me what is the meaning of all this. Have I done anything to vex you?’

She pressed his hands, to assure him that he had not; but she did not speak.

‘Then what is it, my poor Madge? What can have upset you in this way? Uncle Dick and Aunt Hessy are all right: I am all right; but I shall be all wrong in a minute, if you will not show me how I am to make you all right, like the rest of us.’

She raised her head slowly, wiped her eyes, and went to a chair by the fire. No smile, no sign of relief, but a frown at the laughing flame which rose from the burning log of wood. (That was one of Madge’s own conceits, to have a homely log of wood for the evening fires.) Suddenly she lay back on the chair with hands clasped on the top of her head.

‘I don’t know what to say to you, Philip.’

‘What about?’

‘About being so foolish.’

‘Tell me why you are so foolish, and then maybe some good fairy will help me to tell you what you ought to say.’

He rested his elbow on the back of her chair and passed his hand tenderly over her hot brow. Her lips tightened, then relaxed, and she seemed to be on the point of crying again. With an effort, she overcame this hysterical emotion.

‘Sit down, Philip, there, where I can see your face,’ she said; and the voice was steady, although there were pauses between some of the words.

‘Will that do?’

He seated himself so that he could look at her face in the full light of the fire.

‘No; turn to the fire, so that I can see you.’

He drew a hassock close to her chair, sat down on it, and looked up to her so that the full reflection of the fire fell upon him.

‘Will that please you?’

She passed her hand timidly through his hair without looking at him.

‘I am half ashamed to tell you,’ she said huskily, ‘because I have done something that you will be angry about.’

‘Come on with it, then, and let us get the angry part over as quickly as possible, so that we may have the more time for enjoying ourselves.’

‘I always thought that I should never listen to anything which I might not repeat to you, Philip,’ she said hesitatingly.

‘Well?’

‘This afternoon, I have listened to something which I have ... I _have_ promised not to tell you—yet.’

That little word ‘yet’ seemed to come in as a peacemaker; and Philip felt that it was so. But he looked gravely at the merry fire for a few minutes before he answered, and she now gazed anxiously into his face.

Then, he:

‘I don’t like the idea, Madge, and it would be nonsense to pretend that I did. I should feel myself—well, we won’t say what; but my notion is that our lives should be so much one that our acts should be clear to each other, and our thoughts should be the same, as far as possible. I am not so stupid as to imagine that we can always control our thoughts, and think only what we _ought_ to think (what a weary world it would be if we could!); but I believe that a man and woman who love each other can, and ought to be honest in their thoughts, and should not keep one which cannot be confided to the twin—twin—what shall I call it?—twin spirit. There; that will do. Funny that I should be talking this way to you, Madge—you have taught it to me.’

His upturned face still wore the frank, boyish expression which it always assumed when he was with her.

Madge took her hand from his head and clasped it with the other round her knees, whilst she stared into the fire.

‘It is Aunt Hessy who has taught us both that rule. I, too, believe in it, and mean to follow it. But’——

She stopped, and the fright showed itself in her eyes again by the clear light of the cheerful fire.

‘Why don’t you go on?’ he asked, after a moment of thoughtful silence. ‘Why are you so distressed? Does this confidence, or secret, concern any of us?’

‘It concerns YOU—and I may not tell you what it is. That is why I am troubled.’

And again she clasped hands over her head, as if to subdue its throbbing.

He was thoughtful; and an expression appeared on his face, so like the one often seen on his father’s, that Madge, whose nerves were quickened by her pain, was startled. But he spoke kindly:

‘Have you told—or are you to tell—Aunt Hessy and Uncle Dick?’

‘No ... no ... no’ (this was like a moan). ‘I am not to tell them either—not now, that is. By-and-by, you shall all know—you first, Philip.... Don’t ask me any more questions. I wish I could have held my tongue altogether—it would have spared you pain, perhaps. But I could not do that. I thought you might blame me afterwards, and maybe misunderstand many things that I may do. There is no wrong meant to any one—no harm. You will see that, when it is explained.’

He rose slowly, and stood with his back to the fire, gazing at her.

‘Is not this foolish, Madge?’ he said sadly. ‘You see what a state you have got into already over a matter which I have no doubt appears to you innocent enough, and is very likely quite trifling in its consequences to me or any one, except yourself. I can see you are going to worry about it—I shall not—and I cannot guess why you should. At the same time, it does not please me to think that you should accept any confidence which you may not share with Aunt Hessy, if not with me.’

She looked at him with such sad eyes: no tears in them, but questioning him, as if inspired by some distant thought, as yet only half comprehended. Her voice, too, seemed to come from a distance.

‘I thought you would have trusted me, Philip. I hope you will, when you know that my mother has to do with this promise I have given.’

He placed his hands on her shoulders.

‘I did not need that assurance, but am glad that you have told me so much. I do trust you—so much, that if you had simply said you had a secret which was not to be told to me yet a while, I should have thought nothing about it. But when I see that this thing distresses you and makes you ill—come, now, confess you would not have liked me to be indifferent.’

She confessed:

‘No; I should not have liked you to be indifferent.’

‘Very well, then, you have heard—say, a riddle, about which you think it right to hold your tongue meanwhile. I am content; for I know that you would not hold your tongue if you thought that any harm was to come of it to anybody. So, let it be, until you are ready to give us the answer to this riddle.’

He stooped and kissed her.

‘Thank you, Philip. I am better now; but it did seem so terrible to have to tell you that there was something’——

He put his hand playfully on her mouth, stopping her.

‘We are not going to say anything more about that. I have a lot of things to tell you; and came here in fear and trembling that you would be scolding me roundly for my long absence. But I see you have not missed me so much.’

Something of her bright smile returned as she shook her head disapprovingly.

‘You know that I have missed you very much, or you would not have said that. But I knew that you were busy with the work which is to make your name a blessed one all over the world. How I should like to be by your side helping you!’

‘You can be, whenever you choose. Why not at once? Although Uncle Shield says he would prefer that I should not marry for a year, I refused to give any promise on that subject, and am free to please you and myself.’

‘No, no; I have told you that my ideas are the same as Mr Shield’s. You must be quite free to set your plans in good working order before you tie yourself down to me. For you know I shall require such a heap of attention and looking after!’

And the eyes which had been for a second clouded when he pleaded again for their early union, opened upon him with that gentle light which could lead him anywhere. And so he yielded, allowing the subject of greatest import to their future to be put aside once more for matters of the moment. He told her first with what forbearance his father had acted, and how wisely he had dealt with his fortune.

‘I did expect to have a bad time with him; but he was kinder to me than ever, and has done exactly what I should have asked him to do if he had consulted me beforehand. I am proud of him, and believe that he will be the first to hold out the hand of friendship, when I come to my grand scene of reconciliation between him and my uncle.—What is the matter with you? Why did you start?’

‘A chill—don’t mind it, please. I do hope you will manage to bring them together in friendship. You know I have as much interest in it as you now.’

‘That is as it ought to be. I am sure that the governor would give in; but Shield passes all my powers of understanding. He won’t speak like a sensible man to me, and yet he writes like a philosopher—at least as if he took real interest in what I am doing, and wished me to succeed.’

‘Why do you not write to him about your father?’

‘Because I am keeping that part of my work in hand until I can pounce upon both of them, and make them feel so ashamed, that they will not be able to say no when I say, and you say with me—Shake hands. We will manage it, you and I. Won’t we?’

‘I will try to do my part.’

She spoke low, and her thoughts seemed to reach into the future and the past farther than those of her lover. She seemed to feel that her part was a much heavier one than he imagined.

‘For that, of course, we must watch our opportunity, and be ready to seize it when it comes. I know you will not fail, and hope I shall not. But there is another thing I want you to do at once.’

‘What is that?’

‘To bring old Culver into a Christian frame of mind regarding Caleb Kersey. You will manage that by proving to him what a fortune Kersey is going to make as my foreman. I am sure he will do well, and sure too that Pansy will be a lucky woman to have such a husband.’

‘I think she would be; and for a time believed that she thought so too. But lately—I do not know why—I have had a suspicion that Pansy does not care so much for Caleb as she used to do.’

‘Oh—h,’ is the simplest representation of the long-drawn sound emitted by Philip, with many modulations before it passed into silence. It suggested surprise, curiosity, and suspicion, combined with a degree of uneasiness. ‘Surely it is not possible that Pansy, who has always appeared to me the model of an innocent country girl, has been only making fun of this sturdy fellow? Can she have taken any other man into her mind? If she has, it will turn the poor chap topsy-turvy.’

‘Has he said anything to you about her?’

‘No; but I could see the whole thing when we were working at the church decorations. If ever any man was ready to die for a woman, Caleb feels that way towards Pansy. I hope she is not a fool.’

The last phrase was uttered with an excess of energy which the occasion did not seem to demand.

‘How could you suppose that?’

‘Because she is a woman,’ he replied, with forced audacity and an awkward smile. ‘Why do you suppose that she is changed?’

‘You cannot have noticed her lately, or you would not require to ask. She has grown pale and nervous and forgets what she is told—blushes and grows white without any reason.’

‘All that fits in exactly with my suspicion,’ said Philip seriously; ‘she has seen somebody else who has caught her fancy more than Kersey, and she is either afraid or ashamed to own it.’

Madge looked surprised.

‘I never knew you to be so uncharitable, Philip. Can you not imagine any other cause for her unhappy state?’

‘No.’ He could not bring himself to say: ‘I have seen my brother Coutts talking to her in a way which I should call flirting if she had been a girl with a good dowry at her back. I know that he will require substantial compensation for the surrender of his bachelorhood.’

‘It might be so,’ said Madge reflectively; ‘but my idea was that she had been so worried by her father, that she had come to wish Caleb would keep away, and was too shy to tell him frankly.’

‘Perhaps it is so; and maybe it would be best that we should not interfere. At the same time, I think old Culver should have a hint that in standing in Kersey’s way he is doing his daughter an injury that he may be sorry for by-and-by. You might do that without risk of hurting anybody.’

‘Yes; and if Pansy gives me an opportunity, I shall tell her what you think about Caleb.’

‘And about his prospects—don’t forget that with both of them. I told her this afternoon, when passing, that there was good news coming to her, and there could be no better angel than you to carry it.’

‘Philip!’

‘I didn’t tell her that last bit, of course; but I thought it.’

She was not angry; and he sat down on the hassock again. Then they laid their heads together, and saw beautiful visions of the future in the bright fire. To him the path was like one long golden sunbeam; but she saw many motes in it—some of them big ones—although she said nothing at all about them to him.

She was striving hard to make him forget the opening part of their interview, and to send him away with a feeling of contentment in the belief that she was happy, so that he might go on with his great work undisturbed by any anxiety on her account. She felt that it was a great work, and that she must do everything in her power to lift the bars to its accomplishment out of the way. He had shown himself in two characters to-night—the loving, light-hearted boy and—when he stood up with that thoughtful face which reminded her of his father—the earnest and sharpsighted man.

She was not clear as to which side of his character she liked most; but they were both hers, and it was a relief to feel that if trial came to them, he could be resolute and considerate.

So she did her best to hide the fatigue which worry had brought upon her; and for a time she was completely successful.

Suddenly he jumped up.

‘How stupid I am, Madge!’ he exclaimed in irritation with himself.

‘What is the matter now?’

‘You—why, you are as tired as can be, and ought to have been off to bed long ago. I began by trying to get you to think of something pleasant, so as to drive off the blue fit that was on you, and then in my own enjoyment forgot how weary you must be. I am going away at once.’

She relieved him with a laugh; it was a delight to feel that they had been both inspired by the same good thought.

‘I am glad you did not go sooner, Philip,’ she said, standing up, her hands clasped round his neck. ‘Do you know that, to-night, you have made me feel what I thought was impossible?’

‘That must be worth knowing. What is it?’

‘That I care more for you than ever,’ she whispered, as she rested her brow on his shoulder.

A pause, as his arms tightened round her—his heart in his throat. Then, as people do in accepting the greatest benefactions, trying to hide with a laugh what they, from the hard teachings of stoic philosophers, have come to regard as the foolish weakness of tears of joy.