Part 12

At this information the tendency of the whole company was to laughter. Indeed the Duke's face, and voice, and manner was that of a man telling an utterly absurd story. Such sweeping alterations were not conceivable; their very excess doomed them to ridicule and failure, in the opinion of the privileged class; but the Duke of Wellington's face expressed an anxiety not consonant with this feeling; and he asked gloomily:

"Did Lord John Russell _dare_ to read the names of the boroughs he intends to disfranchise, with their members present?"

"He read them with the greatest emphasis and deliberation."

"And the result? What was the result? How did they take being robbed of their seats in this summary way?"

"The excitement in the House was incredible. He was derisively interrupted by shouts of laughter, and by cries of 'Hear! Hear!' and by constant questions across the table from the members of those boroughs. The wisest statesmen in the House were aghast at proposals so sweeping and so revolutionary."

"What did Peel say?"

"Nothing. He sat rigid as a statue, his face working with emotion, his brow wrinkled and sombre. His supporters, who were gathered round him, burst again and again into uncontrollable laughter. Peel tried to make them behave like gentlemen, and could not. Every one is sure such a measure predicts a speedy downfall of Grey's Ministry."

"Of course it does," said the Duchess, with a contemptuous laugh. The laugh was contagious, and the majority of the company burst into merriment and ridicule.

"It is really a good joke," said an aged Marquis who had the idea that England was the birthright of her nobles.

"A good joke!" answered the Duke of Wellington, sternly. "I can tell you it is no joke. You will find it no laughing matter."

"I am weary of it all," whispered Annabel to Kate; "let us go into the conservatory." Kate was willing also, and as they entered the sweet, green place, with its tender lights and restful peace, she sighed with pleasure and said, "I wonder, Annabel, if the roses and camellias think themselves better than the violets and daisies."

"I dare say they do. Let us sit down here. I have had such a wretched day, and I am worn out;" and for a moment, as she looked in Kate's gentle face, she had a mind to tell her the whole truth about the unfortunate ring. But while she hesitated, there was a footstep; and in a moment, Piers pushed aside the fronds of the gigantic ferns and joined them.

"It is allowable," said Annabel, "provided you do do not mention Reform."

"There is no necessity here," he answered gallantly. "How could perfection be reformed?" Gradually the conversation fell into a more serious mood, and they began to speak of Yorkshire, and to long after its breezy wolds and lovely dales; and Annabel listened and said, "She would be delighted when they went down there." Kate also acknowledged that she was impatient to return to Atheling; and Piers watched her every movement,--the smile parting her lips, the light coming and going on her cheeks from dropped or lifted eyes, the graceful movements of her hands, the noble poise of her head,--all these things were fresh enchantments to him. What was the noisy, dusty Senate chamber to this green spot filled with the charming presence of the woman he adored?

Very quickly Annabel perceived that she was the one person _not_ necessary; and she was too depressed to resent this position. With a whisper to Kate, she went away, promising to return in ten minutes. She did not return; but in half an hour--which had seemed as five minutes--the Duchess came in her stead, and said blandly, "Annabel has a headache, and has gone to sleep it away. I have sent the Squire home, Miss Atheling; I told him I should keep you here to-night. Indeed he was glad for you to remain; the streets are not in a very pleasant condition. London has lost its senses. It has gone mad; in the morning it may be saner."

So the sweet interval was over; but one secret glance between the lovers showed how delicious it had been. Kate went away with the Duchess; and waiting women led her to a splendid sleeping apartment. There, all night long, she kept the sense of Piers holding her hand in his; and, faintly smiling with this interior bliss, she dreamed away the hours until late in the morning.

Her first thought on awakening was, "What shall I wear? I cannot go to breakfast in a white silk gown." Then, as she rose, she saw a street costume laid ready for her use. "Mrs. Atheling sent it very early this morning," said the maid; and Kate thought with a blessing of the good mother who never forgot her smallest necessities. At breakfast, the Duchess was particularly gracious to her; she affected an entire oblivion of Piers's evident devotion, and talked incessantly of the stupidity of the Grey Ministry; but as she rose from the table, she said,--

"My dear Miss Atheling, will you do me the favour to come to my private parlour before you leave?"

Kate stood up, curtsied slightly, and made the required promise. But she did not at once attend the Duchess, as that lady certainly expected. She had promised Piers to walk with him in the conservatory, and finish their interrupted conversation of the previous night; and a gentle pressure of her hand reminded her of this previous engagement. So it was near the noon hour when she went to the room which the Duchess had selected for their interview.

She entered it without a suspicion of the sorrow waiting there for her, though the first glance at the cold, haughty face that greeted her made her a little indignant. "I expected you an hour ago, Miss Atheling," said the Duchess.

"I am sorry if I have detained you, Duchess. I did not think my interview with you could be of much importance."

"Perhaps not as important to you as the interview you put before it--and yet, perhaps, far more so. For I must tell you that such entirely personal companionship with Lord Exham, must cease from this very hour."

Kate had taken the seat the Duchess indicated on her entering the room; she now rose to her feet, and answered, "If so, Duchess, it is proper for me to leave your home at once. My mother is waiting to see me. She will tell me what it is right for me to do."

"In this case, I am a better adviser than your mother. I believe you to be a girl of noble principles, so I tell you frankly that Lord Exham is bound, by every honourable tie, to marry Miss Vyner. When you are not present, he is quite happy in her society; when you are present, you seem to exert some unaccountable influence over him. Miss Vyner has often complained of this. I thought it was simple jealousy on her part, until I observed you with Lord Exham last night. I am now compelled, by my duty to my son and his affianced wife, to tell you how impossible a marriage between you and Lord Exham is and must be. I believe this information to be all that is necessary to a girl of your birth and breeding."

"What information, Duchess?" She asked the question with a dignity that irritated a woman who thought her word, without her reasons, was quite sufficient.

"If you persist in having the truth, I must give it to you. Remember, I would gladly have spared you and myself this humiliation. Know, then, that many years ago the late General Vyner rendered the Duke a great service. When Annabel was born, the Duke offered himself as her godfather and guardian, and his son as her husband. It is not necessary to go into details; the facts ought to be sufficient for you. There are circumstances which make the fulfilment of this promise imperative; and, if you do not interfere, my son will very willingly perform his part of it. Pardon me if I also remind you that your birth and fortune make any hopes you may entertain of being the future Duchess of Richmoor very presumptuous hopes. I assure you that I have spoken reluctantly, and with sincere kindness; and I do not desire this conversation to interfere with our future intercourse. If you will give me your promise, I know that I may trust you absolutely."

"What do you wish me to promise?"

"That you will allow no love-making between Lord Exham and yourself; that you will not in any way interfere between Lord Exham and Miss Vyner,--in fact, promise me, in a word, that you will never marry Lord Exham. I assure you, such a marriage would be most improper and unfortunate."

Kate stood for a moment still and white as a marble statue; and when she spoke, her words dropped slowly and with an evident effort. And yet her self-control and dignity of manner was remarkable, as she answered,--

"Duchess, I have always done exactly what my dear wise father and mother have told me to do. I shall ask their advice on this matter before I make any promise. If they tell me to do as you wish me to do, I shall know that they are right, and obey them. I do not recognise any other human authority than theirs."

She was leaving the room after these words; but the Duchess cried angrily, "Your father must not at present be asked to interfere. There are interests--grave, political interests--between him and the Duke that cannot be imperilled for some love-nonsense between you and Lord Exham."

"There are no grave political interests between my mother and the Duke; and I shall, at all events, take my mother's counsel."

She had stood with the door open in her hand; she now passed outside. So far she had kept herself from any exhibition of feeling; but, oh, how wronged and unhappy and offended she felt! She went down and down the splendid stairway, erect as a reed; but her heart was like a wounded bird: it fluttered wildly in her bosom, and would not be comforted until she reached that nest of all nests,--her mother's breast.

There she poured out all her grief and indignation; and Mrs. Atheling never interrupted the relation by a single word. She clasped the weeping girl to her heart, and stroked her hands, and soothed her in those tender little ways that are closer and sweeter than any words can be. But when Kate had wept her passionate sense of wrong and affront away, the good mother withdrew herself a little, and began to question her child.

"Let me understand plainly, Kitty dear," she said. "Her Grace--Grace indeed!--wishes you to promise her that you will give up Piers to Annabel."

"Yes, Mother."

"And that you will never marry Piers under any circumstances?"

"Yes, Mother."

"And she thinks you 'presumptuous' in hoping to marry her son?"

"Yes, dear Mother. She said 'presumptuous.' Am I; ought I to do as she wishes me? Oh, I cannot give up Piers! Only this morning he told me that he would never marry any woman but me."

"Have I or your good father told you to give up Piers?"

"No, Mother."

"When we do, you will of course know we have good reasons for such an order, and you will give him up. But as yet, father hasn't said such a word; and I haven't. Kitty darling, the Fifth Commandment only asks you to obey your own father and mother. Let the Duchess put the 'giving up' where it ought to be. Let her tell her son to give you up--that is quite as far as her authority extends. She has nothing to say to Kate Atheling; nor has my little Kitty any obligation to obey her. She must give such orders to Piers Exham. It is the duty of his heart and conscience to decide whether he will obey or not."

"Then I can go on loving him, Mother, without wronging myself or others?"

"Go on loving him, dearie."

"He said he was coming to ride with me at three o'clock."

"Ride with him, and be happy while you can, dear child. Let mother kiss such foolish tears away. I can tell you father was proud of your beauty last night. He said you were the loveliest woman in London."

"The Duke of Wellington told me I was a beautiful girl; and he said many wise and kind things to me, Mother. What did father think about the Reform Bill?"

"It troubled him, Kitty; it troubled him very much. He said, 'It meant civil war;' but I said, 'Nonsense, John Atheling, it will prevent civil war.' And so it will, dearie. The people will have it, or else they will have far more. Your father said all London was shouting till daybreak, 'The Bill! The whole Bill! Nothing but the Bill!' Now then, run away and wash your eyes bright, and put on your habit. I'll warrant Piers outruns the clock."

"Have you seen Edgar this morning?"

"For a few minutes just before you came. Cecil was with him. They had been up all night; but Cecil would have stayed if Annabel had been here. How he does love that girl!"

"I think she loves him. She looked ill last night, and I did not see her this morning. What a tangle it is! Annabel loves Cecil--Piers loves me--and the Duchess--"

"Never mind the Duchess, nor the tangle either, Kitty. To-day is yours; to-morrow is not born; and you are not told to unravel any tangle. There are _them_ whose business it is; and they know all the knots and snarls, and will wind the ball all right in the end."

"Oh, Mother, how I love you!"

"Oh, Kitty, how I love you!"

"Piers loves me too, Mother."

"I'll warrant he does. Who could help loving thee, Kitty? But men's love isn't mother's love; it is a good bit more selfish. God Almighty made thy father, John Atheling, of the best of human elements; but John Atheling has his shabby moments. Piers Exham won't be different; so don't expect it." Then the two women looked at each other and smiled.

They understood.

CHAPTER ELEVENTH

"LIFE COMES AND GOES THE OLD, OLD WAY!"

Annabel had purposely kept out of Kitty's way. She had more than a suspicion of the probable interview between the Duchess and Kitty; and she wished to avoid any unpleasantness with the Athelings. They gave her the most reliable opportunities with Cecil North; and besides, she was so little of a general favourite as to have no other acquaintances as intimate. She was also really sick and unhappy; and the first occurrence of the day did not tend to make her less so. She wished to see the Duke about some matter relating to her finances; and, as soon as she left her room, she went to the apartment in which she was most likely to find him.

The Duke was not there, but Squire Atheling was waiting for him. He said he "had an appointment at two o'clock," and then, looking at the time-piece on the mantel, added, "I always give myself ten minutes or so to come and go on." Annabel knew this peculiarity of the Squire, and made her little joke on the matter; and then the conversation turned a moment on Kitty, and her probable return home. Annabel assured the Squire she had already gone home, and then, offering her hand in adieu, was about to leave the room. The little brown-gemmed hand roused a sudden memory and anxiety in his heart. He detained it, as he said, "Miss Vyner, I have a question to ask you. Do you remember untying a parcel for me the other day?"

"I should think so," she replied with a laugh. "A more impatient man to do anything for I never saw."

"I am a bit impatient. But that is not what I am thinking of. You wore a ring that day--a sapphire ring with a little sapphire padlock--and that ring interests me very much. Will you tell me where you got it?"

"No, sir. Even if I knew, I might have excellent reasons for not telling you. Why, Squire, I am astonished at your asking such a question! Rings have mostly a story--a love-story too; you might be asking for secrets!"

"I beg pardon. To be sure I might. But you see a ring exactly like the one you wore, holds a secret of my own."

"Perhaps you are mistaken about the ring. So many rings look alike."

"I could not be mistaken. I do wish you would tell me--I am afraid you think me rude and inquisitive--"

"Indeed I do, sir! And, if you please, we will forget this conversation. It is too personal to be pleasant."

With these words she bowed and withdrew, and the Squire got up and walked about the room until the Duke entered it. By that time, he had worried himself into an impatient, suspicious temper, and was touchy as tinder when his political chief asked him to sit down and discuss the situation with him.

"Exham has gone to see a number of our party; but I thought I would outline to you personally the course we intend to pursue with regard to this infamous Bill." The Squire bowed but said not a word; and the Duke proceeded, "We have resolved to worry and delay it to the death. In the Commons, the Opposition will go over and over the same arguments, and ask again, and again, and again, the same questions. This course will be continued week after week--month after month if necessary. Obstruction, Squire, obstruction, that is the word!"

"What do you mean exactly by 'obstruction'?"

"I will explain. Lord Exham will move, 'That the Speaker do now leave the Chair.' When this motion is lost, some other member of the Opposition will move, 'That the debate be now adjourned.' That being lost, some other member will again move, 'That the Speaker do now leave the Chair,' and so, with alternations of these motions, the whole night can be passed--and night after night--and day after day. It is quite a legitimate parliamentary proceeding."

"It may be," answered the Squire; "but I am astonished at your asking John Atheling to take any part in such ways. I will fight as well as any man, on the square and the open; if I cannot do this, I will not fight at all. I would as soon worry a vixen fox, as run a doubling race of that kind. No, Duke, I will not worry, and nag, and tease, and obstruct. Such tactics are fitter for old women than for reasoning men, sure of a good cause, and working to win it."

"I did not expect this obstruction from you, Squire; and, I must say, I am disappointed--very much disappointed."

"I don't know, Duke Richmoor, that I have ever given you cause to think I would fight in any other way than in a square, stand-up, face-to-face manner. Wasting time is not fighting, and it is not reasoning. It is just tormenting an angry and impatient nation; it is playing with fire; it is a dangerous, deceitful, cowardly bit of business, and I will have nothing to do with it."

"You remember that I gave you your seat?"

"You can have it back and welcome. I took my seat from you; but when it comes to right and wrong, I take orders only from my own conscience."

"Advice, Squire, advice; I did not think of giving you orders."

"Well, Duke, I am perhaps a little hasty; but I do not understand obstructing warfare. I am ready to attack the Bill, tooth and nail. I am ready to vote against it; but I do not think what you call 'obstructing' is fair and manly."

"All things are fair in love and war, Squire; and this is a war to the knife-hilt for our own caste and privileges."

Here there was a light tap at the door, and, in answer to the Duke's "enter," Annabel came in. She said a few words to him in a low voice, gave him a paper, and disappeared. But, short as the interview was, it put the Duke in a good temper. He looked after her with pride and affection, and said pleasantly,--

"Fight in your own way, Squire Atheling; it is sure to be a good, straight-forward fight. But the other way will be the tactics of our party, and you need not interfere with them. By-the-bye, Miss Vyner is a good deal at your house, I think."

"She is always welcome. My daughter likes her company. We all do. She is both witty and pretty."

"She is a great beauty--a particularly noble-looking beauty. She will make a fine Duchess, and my son is most fortunate in such an alliance; for she has money,--plenty of money,--and a dukedom is not kept up on nothing a year. Perhaps, however, this Reform Bill will eventually get rid of dukedoms and dukes, as it proposes to do with boroughs and members."

The Squire did not immediately answer. He wanted a definite assertion about Lord Exham and Miss Vyner, and could not decide on words which would unsuspiciously bring it. Finally, he blurted out an inquiry as to the date of a marriage between them; and the Duke answered carelessly,--

"It may occur soon or late. We have not yet fixed the time. Probably as soon as this dreadful Reform question is settled. But as the ceremony will surely take place at the Castle, Atheling Manor will be an important factor in the event."

He was shifting and folding up papers as he spoke, and the Squire _felt_, more than understood, that the interview had better be closed. Ostensibly they parted friends; but the Squire kept his right hand across his back as he said "good-morning," and the Duke understood the meaning of this action, though he thought it best to take no notice of it.

"What a fractious, testy, touchy fellow this is!" he said irritably to himself, when he was alone. "A perfect John Bull, absolutely sure of his own infallibility; sure that he knows everything about everything; that he is always right, and always must be right, and that any one who doubts his always being right is either a knave or a fool. _Tush!_ I am glad I gave him that thrust about Piers and Annabel. It hurt. I could see it hurt, though he kept his hand to cover the wound."

The Duke was quite right. Squire Atheling was hurt. He went straight home. In any trouble, his first medicine was his wife; for though he pretended to think little of her advice, he always took it--or regretted that he had not taken it. He found her half-asleep in the chair by the window which she had taken in order to watch Lord Exham and Kitty ride down the street together. She was at rest and happy; but the Squire's entrance, at an hour not very usual, interested her. "Why, John!" she asked, "what has happened? I thought you went to the House at three o'clock."

"I have some questions to ask in my own house, first," he answered. "Maude, I am sure you remember the ring I gave you one night at Belward,--the ring you promised to marry me on, the sapphire ring with the little padlock?"

"To be sure I remember it, John."

"You used to wear it night and day. I have not seen it on your hand for a long time."

"It became too small for me. I had to take it off. Whatever has brought it into your thoughts at this time?"

"I saw one just like it. Where did you put your ring?"

"In my jewel-case."

"Is it there now."

She hesitated a moment, but a life-time of truth is not easily turned aside. "John," she answered, "it is not there. It is gone."

"I thought so. Did you sell it for Edgar, some time when he wanted money?"

"Edgar never asked me for a shilling. I never gave him a shilling unknown to you. And I did not sell the ring at all. I would never have done such a thing."

"But I have seen the ring on a lady's hand."

"Do you know the lady?"

"I think I could find her."

"I will tell you about it, John. I loaned it to Kitty, and Piers saw it and wanted one made like it for Kitty, and so he took it away to show it to his jeweller, and lost it that very night. He has moved heaven and earth to find it, but got neither word nor sight of it. You ought to tell him where you saw it."

"Not yet, Maude."

"Tell me then."

"To be sure! I saw it on Miss Vyner's hand."

"Impossible!"

"Sure!"

"But how?"

"Thou mayst well ask 'how.' Piers gave it to her."

"I wouldn't believe such a thing, not on a seven-fold oath."

"Thou knowest little about men. There are times when they would give their souls away. Thou knowest nothing about such women as Miss Vyner. They have a power that while it lasts is omnipotent. Antony lost a world for Cleopatra, and Herod would have given half, yes, the whole of his kingdom to a dancing woman, if she had asked him for it."

"Those men were pagans, John, and lived in foreign countries. Christian men in England--"

"Christian men in England, in proportion to their power, do things just as reckless and wicked. Piers Exham has never learned any control; he has always given himself, or had given him, whatever he wanted. And I can tell thee, there is a perfect witchery about Miss Vyner in some hours. She has met Exham in a favourable time, and begged the ring from him."