Part 13

"I cannot believe it. Why should she do such a thing? She must have had a reason."

"Certainly she had a reason. It might be pure mischief, for she is mischievous as a cat. It might be superstition; she is as superstitious as an Hindoo fakir. She has charms and signs for everything. She orders her very life by the stars of heaven. I have watched her, and listened to her, and never trusted her about Kitty--not a moment. Now this is a secret between thee and me. I asked her to-day about the ring, and she would say neither this nor that; yet somehow she gave me to understand it was a love token."

"She is a liar, if she means that Piers gave it to her as a love token. I saw the young man half an hour ago. If ever a man loved a maid, he loves our Kitty."

"Yet he is going to marry Miss Vyner."

"He is not. I am sure he is not. He will marry Kate Atheling."

"The Duke told me this afternoon that Lord Exham would marry Miss Vyner as soon as this Reform question is settled. He said the marriage would take place at the Castle."

"The Duke has been talking false to you for some purpose of his own."

"Not he. Richmoor has faults--more than enough of them; but he treads his shoes straight. A truthful man, no one can say different."

"I wouldn't notice a thing he said for all that. Pass it by. Leave Kitty to manage her own affairs."

"No, I will not! Thou must tell Kitty to give the man up. He is going to marry another woman."

"I don't believe a word of it."

"His father said so. What would you have?"

"Fathers don't know everything."

"Now, Maude Atheling, my girl shall not marry where she is not wanted. I would rather see her in her death shroud than in her wedding gown, if things were in that way."

"John, I have always been open as the day with you, and I will not change now. The Duchess said something like it to Kitty this morning, so you see there has been a plan between the Duke and Duchess to make trouble about Piers. Kitty came home very troubled."

"And you let her go out with the man! I am astonished at you!"

"She asked me what she ought to do, and I told the dear girl to be happy until _you_ told her to be miserable. If you think it is right to do so, tell her when she comes home never to see Piers again."

"You had better tell her. I cannot."

"I cannot, and I will not, for the life of me." "Don't you believe what I say?"

"Yes--with a grain of salt. Piers is to hear from yet."

"Well, you must speak to her, Mother. My heart is too soft. It is _your_ place to do it."

"My heart is as soft as yours, John. I say, let things alone. We are going to Atheling soon--we cannot go too soon now. If it must be told her, Kate will hear it, and bear it best in her own home; and, besides, he will not be within calling distance. John, this thing cannot be done in a hurry. God help the dear girl--to find Piers false--to give him up--it will break her heart, Father!"

"Kitty's heart is made of better stuff. When she finds out that Piers has been false to her, she will despise him."

"She will make excuses for him."

"No good woman will care about an unworthy man."

"Then, God help the men, John! If that were so, there would be lots of them without any good woman to care for them."

"Show Kitty that Piers is unworthy of her love, and I tell you she will put him out of her heart very quickly. I think I know Kitty."

"Women do not love according to deserts, John. If a woman has a bad son or daughter, does she take it for comfort when they go away from her? No, indeed! She never once says, 'They were nothing but a sorrow and an expense, and I am glad to be rid of them.' She weeps, and she prays all the more for them, just because they were bad. And one kind of love is like another; so I will not speak ill of Piers to Kate; besides, I do not think ill of him. If she has to give him up, it will not be his fault; and I could not tell her 'he is no loss, Kate,'--and such nonsense as that,--for it would be nonsense."

"What will you say then?"

"I shall help her to remember everything pleasant about him, and to make excuses for him. Even if you put comfort on the lowest ground possible, no woman likes to think she has been fooled and deceived, and given her heart for worse than nothing. Nine hundred and ninety-nine women out of a thousand would rather blame Fate or father or Fortune, or some other man or woman, than their own lover."

"Women are queer. A man in such a case whistles or sings his heartache away with the thought,--

"'If she be not fair for me, What care I how fair she be?'"

"You are slandering good men, John. Plenty of men would not give heart-room to such selfish love. They can live for the woman they love, and yet live apart from her. My advice is that we go back to Atheling at once. My heart is there already. Kitty and I were talking yesterday of the garden. The trees will soon be in blossom, and the birds busy building in them. Oh, John,--

"'The Spring's delight, In the cowslip bright, As she laughs to the warbling linnet! And a whistling thrush, On a white May bush, And his mate on the nest within it!'"

And both caught the joy of the spring in the words, and the Squire, smiling, stooped and kissed his wife; and she knew then that she had permission to carry her daughter out of the way of immediate sorrow. As for the future, Mrs. Atheling never went into an enemy's country in search of trouble. She thought it time enough to meet misfortune when it came to her.

Kate was not averse to the change. Her conversation with the Duchess naturally affected her feeling towards Annabel. She could not imagine her quite ignorant of it; and it was, therefore, a trial to have the girl intruding daily into her life. Yet self-respect forbade her to make any change in their relationship to each other. Annabel, indeed, appeared wishful to nullify all the Duchess had said by her behaviour to Cecil North. Never had she been so familiar and so affectionate towards him, and she evidently desired Mrs. Atheling and Kate to understand that she was sincerely in love, and had every intention of marrying for love.

But yet she was unable to disguise her pleasure when she was suddenly told of their proposed return to the country. A vivid wave of crimson rushed over her face and throat; and though she said she "was sorry," there was an uncontrollable note of satisfaction in her voice. She was really sorry in one respect; but she had become afraid of the Squire. He asked such point-blank questions. His suspicions were wide awake and veering to the truth. He was another danger in her situation, and she felt Justine to be all she could manage. Mrs. Atheling and Kate being gone, her visits to the Vyner house could naturally cease; and, as the winter was nearly over, she could arrange some other place for her meetings with Cecil North. Indeed, he had already joined her in a few early morning gallops; and, besides which, she reflected, "Love always finds out a way." Cecil was a quite manageable factor.

About the middle of March, one fine spring evening, Mrs. Atheling and Kate came once more near to their own home. The road was a beautiful one, bordered with plantations of feathery firs on each side; and the pure resinous odour was to these two northern women sweeter than a rose garden. And, oh, what a home-like air the long, rambling old Manor House had, and how bright and comfortable were its low-ceiled rooms! When Kate went to her own chamber, a robin on a spray of sweet-briar was singing at her window. She took it for her welcome back to the happy place. To be sure, the polished oak floor with its strips of bright carpet, the little tent-bed with its white dimity curtains, and the low, latticed windows, full of rosemary pots and monthly roses, were but simple surroundings; yet Kate threw herself with joyful abandon into her white chair before the blazing logs, and thought, without regret, of the splendid rooms of the Vyner mansion, and the tumult of men and horses in the thousand-streeted city outside it.

Certainly Piers was in the city, and she had no hope of his speedy return to the country. But, equally, she had no doubts of his true affection; and the passing days and weeks brought her no reasons for doubting. She had frequent letters from him, and many rich tokens of his constant remembrance. And, as the spring advanced, the joy of her heart kept pace with it. Never before had she taken such delight in the sylvan life around her. The cool sweetness of the dairy; the satiny sides of the milking-pails; the trig beauty of the dairymaids, waiting for the cows, coming slowly out of the stable,--the beautiful cows, with their indolent gait and majestic tramp, their noble, solemn faces, and their peaceful breathing,--why had she never noticed these things before? Was it because we must lose good things--though but for a time--in order to find them? And very soon the bare, brown garden was aflame with gold and purple crocus buds, and the delicious woody perfume of wallflowers, and the springtide scent of the sweet-briar filled all its box-lined paths. The trees became misty with buds and plumes and tufts and tassels; and in the deep, green meadow-grass the primroses were nestling, and the anemones met her with their wistful looks.

And far and wide the ear was as satisfied as the eye with the tones of waterfalls, the inland sounds of caves and woods, the birds twittering secrets in the tree-tops, and the running waters that were the tongue of life in many a silent place. Oh, how beautiful, and peaceful, and happy were these things! Often the mother and daughter wondered to each other how they could ever have been pleased to exchange them for the gilt and gewgaws and the social smut of the great city. Thus they fell naturally into the habit of pitying the Squire, and Edgar, and Piers, and wishing they were all back at Atheling to share the joy of the spring-time with them.

One night towards the close of April, Kate was very restless. "I cannot tell what is the matter, Mother," she said. "My feet go of their own will to the garden gates. It is as if my soul knew there was somebody coming. Can it be father?"

"I think not, Kitty. Father's last letter gave no promise of any let-up in the Reform quarrel. You know the Bill was read for the second time as we left London; and Earl Grey's Ministry had then only a majority of one. Your father said the Duke was triumphant about it. He was sure that a Bill which passed its second reading by only a majority of one, could be easily mutilated in Committee until it would be harmless. The Lords mean to kill it, bit by bit,--that will take time."

"But what then, Mother?"

"God knows, child! I do not believe the country will ever settle to work again until it gets what it wants."

"Then will the House sit all summer?"

"I think it will."

At these words a long, cheerful "_hallo!_"--the Squire's own call in the hunting-field--was heard; and Kate, crying, "I told you so!" ran rapidly into the garden. The Squire was just entering the gates at a gallop. He drew rein, threw himself off his horse, and took his daughter in his arms.

"I am so glad, Father!" she cried. "So happy, Father! I knew you were coming! I knew you were coming! I did that!"

"Nay, not thou! I told nobody."

"Your heart told my heart. Ask mother. Here she comes."

Then, late as it was, the quiet house suddenly became full of noise and bustle; and the hubbub that usually followed the Squire's advent was everywhere apparent. For he wanted all at once,--his meat and his drink, his easy coat and his slippers, his pipe and his dogs, and his serving men and women. He wanted to hear about the ploughing, and the sowing, and the gardening; about the horses, and the cattle, and the markets; the farm hands, and the tenants of the Atheling cottages. He wanted his wife's report, and his steward's report, and his daughter's petting and opinions. The night wore on to midnight before he would speak of London, or the House, or the Bill.

"I may surely have a little bit of peace, Maude," he said reproachfully, when she ventured to introduce the subject; "it has been the Bill, and the Bill, and the Bill, till my ears ache with the sound of the words."

"Just tell us if it has passed, John."

"No, it has _not_ passed; and Parliament is dissolved again; and the country has taken the bit in its teeth, and the very mischief of hell is let loose. I told the Duke what his 'obstructing' ways would do. Englishmen like obstructions. They would put them there, if they were absent, for the very pleasure of getting over them. Many a man that was against the Bill is now against the 'obstructions' and bound to get over them."

"Did Piers come down with you, Father?" asked Kate. She had waited long and patiently, and the Squire had not named him; and she felt a little wounded by the neglect.

"No. He did not come down with me, Kitty. But I dare say he is at the Castle. The Duke spoke of returning to Yorkshire at once."

"He might have come with you, I think."

"I think not. A man's father and mother cannot always be put aside for his sweetheart. Lovers think they can run the world to their own whim-whams. 'Twould be a God's pity if they could!"

"What are you cross about, Father? Has Piers vexed you?"

"Am I cross, Kitty? I did not know it. Go to bed, child. England stands where she did, and Piers is yet Lord of Exham Hall. I dare say he will be here to-morrow. I came at my own pace. He would have to keep the pace of two fine ladies. And I'll be bound he fretted like a race-horse yoked in a plough."

And Kitty was wise enough to know that she had heard all she was likely to hear that night; nor was she ill-pleased to be alone with her hopes. Piers was at hand. To-morrow she might see him, and hear him speak, and feel the tenderness of his clasp, and meet the love in his eyes. So she sat at the open casement, breathing the sweetness and peace of the night, and shaping things for the future that made her heart beat quick with many thoughts not to be revealed. The faint smile of the loving, dreaming of the loved one, was on her lips; and if a doubt came to her, she put it far away. In fear she would not dwell, and, besides, her heart had given her that insight which changes faith into knowledge. She _knew_ that Piers loved her.

The Squire had no such clear confidence. When Kitty had gone away, he said plainly, "I am not pleased with Piers. I do not like his ways; I do not like them at all. After Kate left London, he was seen everywhere, and constantly, with Miss Vyner."

"Why not? She is one of his own household."

"They were very confidential together. I noticed them often for Kitty's sake."

"I do wish, Squire, that you would leave Kitty's love-affairs alone."

"_That_ I will not, Maude. If I have any business now, it is to pay attention to them. I have taken your 'let-alone' plan, far too long. My girl shall not be courted in any such underhand, mouse-in-the-corner way. Her engagement to Lord Exham must be publicly acknowledged, or else broken entirely off."

"The man loves Kate. He will do right to her."

"Loves Kate! Very good. But what of the Other One? He cannot do right to both."

"Yes, he can. Their claims are different. You may depend on that. Kate is the love of his soul; the Other One is like a sister."

"I do not trust either Piers or the Other One--and I wish she would give me my ring."

"You do not certainly know that she has your ring."

"I will ask her to let me see it."

"Now, John Atheling, you will meddle with things that concern you, and let other things alone. It may be your duty to interfere about your daughter. You may insist on having her recognised as the future Duchess of Richmoor,--it will be a feather in your own cap; you may say to the Duke, you must accept my daughter, or I will--"

"Maude! You are just trying to stand me upon my pride. You cannot do that any longer. If you are willing to let Kate 'drift,' I am not. It is my duty to insist on her proper recognition."

"Then do your duty. But it is _not_ your duty to catechise Miss Vyner about _my_ ring. When that inquiry is to be made, I will make it myself. If Piers has to give up Kate, it will be to him a knock-down blow; it will be a shot in the backbone; you need not sting him at the same time."

"I will speak to him to-morrow, and see the Duke afterwards. I owe my little Kate that much."

"And the Duke and yourself will be the upper and the nether millstones, and your little Kate between them. I know! I know!"

"I will do what is right, Maude, and I will be as kind as I can in doing it. Who loves Kitty as I do? There is a deal said about mother love; but, I tell thee, a father's love is bottomless. I would lay my life down for my little girl, this minute."

"But not thy pride."

"Not my honour--which is her honour also. Honour must stand with love, or else--nay, I will not give thee any more reasons. I know my decision is right; but it is thy way to make out that all my reasons are wrong. I wish thou wouldst prepare her a bit for what may come."

"There is no preparation for sorrow, John. When it comes it smites."

Then the Squire lit his pipe, and the mother went softly upstairs to look at her little girl. And, as she did so, Kate's arms enfolded her, and she whispered, "Piers is coming to-morrow. Are you glad, Mother?"

Then, so strange and contrary is human nature, the mother felt a moment's angry annoyance. "Can you think of no one but Piers, Kate?" she asked. And the girl was suddenly aware of her selfish happiness, and ashamed of it. She ran after her mother, and brought her back to her bedside, and said sorrowfully, "I know, Mother, that about Piers I am a little sinner." And then Mrs. Atheling kissed her again, and answered, "Never mind, Kitty. I have often seen sinners that were more angel-like than saints--" and the shadow was over. Oh, how good it is when human nature reaches down to the perennial!

CHAPTER TWELFTH

THE SHADOW OF SORROW STRETCHED OUT

When the Squire entered the breakfast parlour, Kate was just coming in from the garden. The dew of the morning was on her cheeks, the scent of the sweet-briar and the daffodils in her hair, the songs of the thrush and the linnet in her heart. She was beautiful as Hebe, and fresh as Aurora. He clasped her face between his large hands, and she lifted the bunch of daffodils to his face, and asked, "Are they not beautiful? Do you know what Mr. Wordsworth says about them, Father?"

"Not I! I never read his foolishness."

"His 'foolishness' is music; I can tell you that. Listen sir,--

"'A smile of last year's sun strayed down the hills, And lost its way within yon windy wood; Lost through the months of snow--but not for good: I found it in a clump of daffodils.'

Are they not lovely lines?"

"They sound like most uncommon nonsense, Kitty. Come and sit beside me, I have something far more sensible and important to tell you."

"About the Bill, Father?"

"Partly about the Bill and partly about Edgar. Which news will you have first?"

"Mother will say 'Edgar,' and I go with mother."

"I do not think you can tell me any news about Edgar, John."

"Go on, Father, mother is only talking. She is so anxious she cannot pour the coffee straight. What about Edgar?"

"I must tell you that I made a speech two days before the House closed; and the papers said it was a very great speech, and I think it _was_ a tone or two above the average. Did you read it?"

"You never sent us a paper, Father."

"You wouldn't have read it if I had sent it. I knew Philip Brotherton would read every word, so it went to him. I was a little astonished at myself, for I did not know that I could bring out the very truth the way I did; but I saw Edgar watching me, and I saw no one else; and I just talked to him, as I used to do,--good, plain, household words, with a bit of Yorkshire now and then to give them pith and power. I was cheered to the echo, and if Edgar, when I used to talk to him for his good, had only cheered me on my hearthstone as he cheered me in the Commons, there wouldn't have been any ill blood between us. Afterwards, in the crush of the lobby, I saw Edgar a little before me; and Mr. O'Connell walked up to him, and said, 'Atheling, you ought to take lessons from your father, he strikes every nail on the head. In your case, the old cock crows, but the young one has not learnt his lesson.' I was just behind, and I heard every word, and I was ready to answer; but Edgar did my work finely.'

'He should not have noticed him,' said Mrs. Atheling.

'Ah, but he did! He said, "Mr. O'Connell, I will trouble you to speak of Squire Atheling respectfully. He is not old; he is in the prime of life; and, in all that makes youth desirable, he is twenty-five years younger than you are. I think you have felt his spurs once, and I would advise you to beware of them." And what O'Connell answered I cannot tell, but it would be up to mark, I can warrant that! I slipped away before I was noticed, and I am not ashamed to say I was pleased with what I had heard. "Not as old as O'Connell by twenty-five years!" I laughed to myself all the way home; and, in the dark of the night, I could not help thinking of Edgar's angry face, and the way he stood up for me. I do think, Maude, that somehow it must have been thy fault we had that quarrel--I mean to say, that if thou hadst stood firm by me,--that is, if thou hadst--'

'John, go on and do not bother thyself to make excuses. Was that the end of it?'

'In a way. The next afternoon I was sitting by the fireside having a quiet smoke, and thinking of the fine speech I had made, and if it would be safe to try again, when Dobson came in and said, "Squire, Mr. Edgar wishes to see you," and I said, "Very well, bring Mr. Edgar upstairs." I had thrown off my coat; but I had on one of my fine ruffled shirts and my best blue waistcoat, and so I didn't feel so very out of the way when Edgar came in with the loveliest young woman on his arm--except Kitty--that I ever set eyes on; and I was dumfounded when he brought her to me and said, "My dear Father, Annie Curzon, who has promised to be my wife, wants to know you and to love you." And the little thing--for she is but a sprite of a woman--laid her hand on my arm and looked at me; and what in heaven's name was I to do?'

'What did you do?'

'I just lifted her up and kissed her bonny face, and said I had room enough in my heart and home for her; and that she was gladly welcome, and would be much made of, and I don't know what else--plenty of things of the same sort. My word! Edgar was set up.'

'He may well be set up,' answered Mrs. Atheling; 'she is the richest and sweetest girl in England; and she thinks the sun rises and sets in Edgar Atheling. He ought to be set up with a wife like that.'

'He was, with her and me together. I don't know which of us seemed to please him most. Maude, they are coming down to Lord Ashley's on a visit, and I asked them _here_. I could not do any different, could I?'

'If you had you would have been a poor kind of a father. What did you say?'

'I said, when you are at Ashley Place come over to Atheling, and I gave Edgar my hand and looked at him; and he looked at me and clasped it tight, and said, "We will come.'"

"That was right."

"I am glad I have done right for once, Maude. Do you know that Ashley is one of the worst Radicals in the lot of them?"

"Never mind, John. I have noticed that, as a general thing, the worse Radical, the better man; but a Tory cannot be trusted to give a Radical a character. The Tories are very like the poor cat who said, 'If she only had wings, she would gladly extirpate the whole race of those troublesome sparrows.'"