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.”
“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!