The first week of her trouble was the worst; but it was made tolerable by a long letter from Piers on the second day. It came in the Squire’s mail-bag, and he could easily have retained it. But such a course would have been absolutely contradictious to his whole nature. He held the thick missive a moment in his hand, and glanced at the large red seal, lifting up so prominently the Richmoor arms, and then said,–

“Here is a letter for you, Kitty. It is from Piers. What am I to do with it?”

“Please, Father, give it to me.”

“Give it to her, Father,” said Mrs. Atheling; and Kate’s eager face pleaded still more strongly. Rather reluctantly, he pushed the letter towards Kate, saying, “I would as leave not give it to thee, but I can trust to thy honour.”

“You may trust me, Father,” she answered. And the Squire was satisfied with his relenting, when she came to him a few hours later, and said, “Thank you for giving me my letter, Father. It has made my trouble a great deal lighter. Now, Father, will you do me one more favour?”

“Well, dear, what is it?”

“See Piers for me, and tell him of the promise I made to you. Say I cannot break it, but that I send, by you, my thanks for his letter, and my love forever more.”

“I can’t tell him about ‘love forever more,’ Kitty. That won’t do at all.”

“Tell him, then, that all he says to me I say to him. Dear Father, make that much clear to him.”

“John, do what Kitty asks thee. It isn’t much.”

“A man can’t have his way in this house with two women to coax or bully him out of it. What am I to do?”

“Just what Kitty asks you to do.”

“Please, Father!” And the two words were sent straight to the father’s heart with a kiss and a caress that were irresistible. Three days afterwards the Squire came home from a ride, very much depressed. He was cross with the servant who unbuttoned his gaiters, and he looked resentfully at Mrs. Atheling as she entered the room.

“A nice message I was sent,” he said to her as soon as they were alone. “That young man has given me a heart-ache. He has made me think right is wrong. He has made me feel as if I was the wickedest father in Yorkshire. And I know, in my soul, that I am doing right; and that there isn’t a better father in the three kingdoms.”

“Whatever did he say?”

“He said I was to tell Kate that from the East to the West, and from the North to the South, he would love her. That from that moment to the moment of death, and throughout all eternity, he would love her. And I stopped him there and then, and said I would carry no message that went beyond the grave. And he said I was to tell her that neither for father nor mother, nor for the interests of the dukedom, nor for the command of the King, would he marry any woman but her. And I was fool enough to be sorry for him, and to promise I would give him Kate, with my blessing, when his father and mother asked me to do so.”

“I don’t think that was promising very much, John.”

“Thou knowest nothing of how I feel, Maude. But he is a good man, and true; I think so, at any rate.”

“Tell Kitty what he said.”

“Nay, you must tell her if you want her to know. I would rather not speak of Piers at all. Tell her, also, that the Duchess and Miss Vyner are going to Germany, and that Piers goes with them as far as London. I am very glad of this move, for we can ride about, then, without fear of meeting them.”

All the comfort to be got from this conversation and intelligence was given at once to Kate; and perhaps Mrs. Atheling unavoidably made it more emphatic than the Squire’s manner warranted. She did not overstep the truth, however, for Piers had spoken from his very heart, and with the most passionate love and confidence. Indeed, the Squire’s transcript had been but a bald and lame translation of the young man’s fervent expressions of devotion and constancy.

Kate understood this, and she was comforted. Invincible Hope was at the bottom of all her sorrow, and she soon began to look on the circumstances as merely transitory. Yet she had moments of great trial. One evening, while walking with her mother a little on the outskirts of Atheling, the Duke’s carriage, with its splendid outriders, suddenly turned into the little lane. There was no escape, and they looked at each other bravely, and stood still upon the turf bordering the road. Then the Duchess gave an order to the coachman. There was difficulty in getting the horses to the precise spot which was best for conversation; but Mrs. Atheling would not take a step forward or backward to relieve it. She stood with her hand on Kate’s arm, Kate’s hands being full of the blue-bells which she had been gathering.

The carriage contained only the Duchess and Annabel. There had been no overt unpleasantness between the ladies of the two families, and Mrs. Atheling would not take the initiative, especially when the question was one referring to the most delicate circumstances of her daughter’s life. She talked with the Duchess of her German trip, and Kate gave Annabel the flowers, and hoped she would enjoy her new experience. In five minutes the interview was over; nothing but courteous words had been said, and yet Mrs. Atheling and Kate had, somehow, a sense of intense humiliation. The Duchess’s manner had been politely patronising, Annabel’s languid and indifferent; and, in some mysterious way, the servants echoed this covert atmosphere of disdain. Little things are so momentous; and the very attitude of the two parties was against the Athelings. From their superb carriage, as from a throne, the Duchess and her companion looked down on the two simply-dressed ladies who had been gathering wild flowers on the roadside.

“How provoking!” was Kate’s first utterance. “Mother, I will not walk outside the garden again until they go away; I will not!”

“I am ashamed of you!” answered Mrs. Atheling, angrily. “Will you make yourself a prisoner for these two women? Tush! Who are they? Be yourself, and who is better than you?”

“It is easy talking, Mother. You are as much annoyed as I am. How did they manage to snub us so politely?”

“Position is everything, Kate. A woman in a Duke’s carriage, with outriders in scarlet, and coachmen and footmen in silver-laced liveries, would snub the Virgin Mary if she met her in a country lane, dressed in pink dimity, and gathering blue-bells. Try and forget the affair.”

“Annabel looked ill.”

“It was her white dress. A woman with her skin ought to know better than to wear white.”

“Oh, Mother! if Piers had been with them, what should I have done?”

“I wish he had been there! You were never more lovely. I saw you for a moment, standing at the side of the carriage; with your brown hair blowing, and your cheeks blushing, and your hands full of flowers, and I thought how beautiful you were; and I wish Piers had been there.”

“They go away on Saturday. I shall be glad when Saturday is over. I do not think I could bear to see Piers. I should make a little fool of myself.”

“Not you! Not you! But it is just as well to keep out of danger.”

Certainly neither the Squire nor Kate had any idea of meeting Piers on the following Saturday night when they rode along Atheling lane together. Both of them believed Piers to be far on the way to London. They had been to the village, and were returning slowly homeward in the gloaming. A light like that of dreamland was lying over all the scene; and the silence of the far-receding hills was intensified by the murmur of the streams, and the sleepy piping of a solitary bird. The subtle, fugitive, indescribable fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley was in the air; and a sense of brooding power, of mystical communion between man and nature, had made both the Squire and Kate sympathetically silent.

Suddenly there was the sound of horse’s feet coming towards them; and the figure of its rider loomed large and spectral in the gray, uncertain light. Kate knew instantly who it was. In a moment or two they must needs pass each other. She looked quickly into her father’s face, and he said huskily, “Be brave, Kate, be brave!”

The words had barely been spoken, when Piers slowly passed them. He removed his hat, and the Squire did the same; but Kate sat with dropped eyes, white as marble. From her nerveless hands the reins had fallen; she swayed in her saddle, and the Squire leaned towards her with encouraging touch and words. But she could hear nothing but the hurrying flight of her lover, and the despairing cry which the wind brought sadly back as he rode rapidly up the little lane,–

“Kate! Kate! Kate!”

Fortunately, news of Miss Curzon’s and Edgar’s arrival at Ashley Hall came to Atheling that very hour; and the Squire and Mrs. Atheling were much excited at their proposal to lunch at Atheling Manor the next day. Kate had to put aside her own feelings, and unite in the family joy of reunion. There was a happy stir of preparation, and the Squire dressed himself with particular care to meet his son and his new daughter. As soon as he heard of their approach, he went to the open door to meet them.

To Edgar he gave his right hand, with a look which cancelled every hard word; and then he lifted little Annie Curzon from her horse, and kissed her on the doorstep with fatherly affection. And between Kate and Annie a warm friendship grew apace; and the girls were continually together, and thus, insensibly, Kate’s sorrow was lightened by mutual confidence and affection.

Early in June the Squire and Edgar were to return to London, for Parliament re-opened on the fourteenth; and a few days before their departure Mrs. Atheling asked her husband one afternoon to take a drive with her. “To be sure I will, Maude,” he answered. “It isn’t twice in a twelvemonth thou makest me such an offer.” She was in her own little phaeton, and the Squire settled himself comfortably at her side, and took the reins from her hands. “Which way are we to go?” he asked.

“We will go first to Gisbourne Gates, and maybe as far as Belward.”

The Squire wondered a little at her direction, for she knew Gisbourne was rather a sore subject with him. As they approached the big iron portals, rusty on all their hinges from long neglect, he could not avoid saying,–

“It is a shame beyond everything that I have not yet been able to buy Gisbourne. The place has been wanting a master for fifteen years; and it lays between Atheling and Belward as the middle finger lays between the first and the third. I thought I might manage it next year; but this Parliament business has put me a good bit back.”

“Many things have put you back, John. There was Edgar’s college expenses, and the hard times, and what not beside. Look, John! the gates are open. Let us drive in. It is twenty years since I saw Gisbourne Towers.”

“The gates are open. What does that mean, Maude?”

“I suppose somebody has bought the place.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Never mind, John.”

“But I do mind. The kind of neighbour we are to have is a very important thing. They will live right between Atheling and Belward. The Gisbournes were a fine Tory family. Atheling and Gisbourne were always friends. My father and Sir Antony went to the hunt and the hustings together. They were finger and thumb in all county matters. It will be hard to get as good a master of Gisbourne as Sir Antony was.”

“John, I have a bit of right good news for thee. Edgar is going to take Sir Antony’s place. Will Edgar do for a neighbour?”

“Whatever art thou saying, Maude?”

“The very truth. Miss Curzon has bought Gisbourne. Lord Ashley advised her to do so; and she has brought down a big company of builders and such people, and the grand old house is to be made the finest home in the neighbourhood. She showed me the plans yesterday, and I promised her to bring thee over to Gisbourne this afternoon to meet her architect and Lord Ashley and Edgar. See, they are waiting on the terrace for thee; for they want thy advice and thy ideas.”

It was, indeed, a wonderful afternoon. The gentlemen went into consultation with the architect, and a great many of the Squire’s suggestions were received with enthusiastic approval. Mrs. Atheling, Kate, and Annie went through the long-deserted rooms, and talked of what should be done to give them modern convenience and comfort, without detracting from their air of antique splendour. Then at five o’clock the whole party met in the faded drawing-room and had tea, with sundry additions of cold game and pasties, and discussed, together, the proposed plans. At sunset the parties separated at Gisbourne Gates, Kate going with Miss Curzon to Ashley, and the Squire and Mrs. Atheling returning to their own home. The Squire was far too much excited to be long quiet.

“They were very glad of my advice, Maude,” he said, as soon as the last good-bye had been spoken. “Ashley seconded nearly all I proposed. He is a fine fellow. I wish I had known him long ago.”

“Well, John, nobody can give better advice than you can.”

“And you see I know Gisbourne, and what can be done with it. Bless your soul! I used to be able to tell every kind of bird that built in Gisbourne Chase, and where to find their nests–though I never robbed a nest; I can say that much for myself. Well, Edgar has done a grand thing for Atheling, and no mistake.”

“I told you Edgar–”

“Now, Maude, Edgar and me have washed the slate between us clean. It is not thy place to be itemising now. I say Edgar has done well for Atheling, and I don’t care who says different. I haven’t had such a day since my wedding day. Edgar in Gisbourne! An Atheling in Gisbourne! My word! Who would have thought of such a thing? I couldn’t hardly have asked it.”

“I should think not. There are very few of us, John, would have the face to ask for half of the good things the good God gives us without a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you.’”

“Belward! Gisbourne! Atheling! It will be all Atheling when I am gone.”

“Not it! I do not want Belward to be sunk in that way. Belward is as old as Atheling.”

“In a way, Maude, in a way. It was once a part of Atheling; so was Gisbourne. As for sinking the name, thou sunkest thy name in Atheling; why not sink the land’s name, eh, Maude?”

And until the Squire and Edgar left for London, such conversations were his delight; indeed, he rather regretted his Parliamentary obligations, and envied his wife and daughter the delightful interest that had come into their lives. For they really found it delightful; and all through the long, sweet, summer days it never palled, because it was always a fresh wing, or a fresh gallery, cabinet-work in one parlour, upholstery work in another, the freshly laid-out gardens, the cleared chase, the new stables and kennels. Even the gates were a subject of interesting debate as to whether the fine old ones should be restored or there should be still finer new ones.

Thus between Atheling, Ashley, and Gisbourne, week after week passed happily. Kate did not forget, did not cease to love and to hope; she just bided her time, waiting, in patience, for Fortune to bring in the ship that longed for the harbour but could not make it. And with so much to fill her hours joyfully, how ungrateful she would have been to fret over the one thing denied her! The return of the Squire and Edgar was very uncertain. Both of them, in their letters, complained bitterly of the obstructive policy which the Tories still unwaveringly carried out. It was not until the twelfth of July that the Bill got into Committee; and there it was harassed and delayed night after night by debates on every one of its clauses. This plan of obstructing it occupied thirty-nine sittings, so that it did not reach the House of Lords until the twenty-second of September. The Squire’s letter at this point was short and despondent:–

About a couple of weeks after this letter, one evening in October, Mrs. Atheling, Kate, and Annie were returning to Atheling House from Gisbourne, where they had been happily busy all the afternoon. They were easy-hearted, but rather quiet; each in that mood of careless stillness which broods on its own joy or sorrow. The melancholy of the autumn night influenced them,–calm, pallid, and a little sad, with a dull, soft murmur among the firs,–so they did not hurry, and it was nearly dark when they came in sight of the house. Then Mrs. Atheling roused herself. “How good a cup of tea will taste,” she said; “and I dare say it is waiting, for Ann has lighted the room, I see.” Laughing and echoing her remark, they reached the parlour. On opening the door, Mrs. Atheling uttered a joyful cry.

“Why, John! Why, Edgar!”

“To be sure, Maude,” answered the Squire, leaping up and taking her in his arms. “I wonder how thou feelest to have thy husband come home and find thee out of the house, and not a bit of eating ready for him.”

Then Mrs. Atheling pointed to the table, and said, “I do not think there is any need for complaint, John.”

“No; we managed, Edgar and me, by good words and bad words, to get something for ourselves–” and he waved his hand complacently over the table, loaded with all kinds of eatables,–a baron of cold beef, cold Yorkshire pudding, a gypsy pie, Indian preserves, raspberry tarts, clotted cream, roast apples, cheese celery, fine old ale, strong gunpowder tea, and a variety of condiments.

“What do you call this meal, John?”

“I call it a decent kind of a tea, and I want thee to try and learn something from its example.” Then he kissed her again, and looked anxiously round for Kitty.

“Come here, my little girl,” he cried; and Kitty, who had been feeling a trifle neglected, forgot everything but the warmth and gladness of her father’s love and welcome. Edgar had found Annie a seat beside his own, and the Squire managed to get his place between his wife and his daughter. Then the “cup of tea” Mrs. Atheling had longed for became a protracted home festival. But they could not keep politics out of its atmosphere; they were, indeed, so blended with the life of that time that their separation from household matters was impossible, and the Squire was no more anxious to hear about his hunters and his harvest, than Mrs. Atheling was to know the fate of the Reform Bill.

“It has passed at last, I suppose, John,” she said, with an air of satisfied certainty.

“Thou supposest very far wrong, then. It has been rejected again.”

“Never! Never! Never! Oh, John, John! It is not possible!”

“The Lords did, as I told thee they would,–that is, the Lords and the bishops together.”

“The bishops ought to be unfrocked,” cried Edgar, with considerable temper. “Only one in all their number voted for Reform.”

“I’ll never go to church again,” said Mrs. Atheling, in her unreasonable anger.

“Tell us about it, Father,” urged Kate.

“Well, you see, Mr. Peel and Mr. Croker led our party against the Bill; and Croker is clever, there is no doubt of that.”

“Not to be compared to Lord Althorp, our leader,–so calm, so courageous, so upright,” said Edgar.

“Nobody denies it; but Croker’s practical, vigorous views–”

“You mean his ‘sanguine despondency,’ his delight in describing England as bankrupt and ruined by Reform.”

“I mean nothing of the kind, Edgar; but–”

“Did the Bill pass the Commons, Father?” asked Kate.

“It did; although in fifteen days Peel spoke forty-eight times against it, and Croker fifty-seven times, and Wetherell fifty-eight times. But all they could say was just so many lost words.”

“Think of such men disputing the right of Manchester, Leeds, and Birmingham to be represented in the House of Commons! What do you say to that, Mother?”

“I only hope father wasn’t in such a stupid bit of business, Edgar.” And the Squire drank a glass of ale, and pretended not to hear.

“But,” continued Edgar, “we never lost heart; for all over the country, and in every quarter of London, they were holding meetings urging us not to give way,–not to give way an inch. We were fighting for all England; and, as Lord Althorp said, we were ready to keep Parliament sitting till next December, or even to next December twelvemonth.”

“I’ll warrant you!” interrupted the Squire. “Well, Edgar, you passed your Bill in a fine uproar of triumph; all London in the street, shouting thanks to Althorp and the others–Edgar Atheling among them.” Then the Squire paused and looked at his son, and Mrs. Atheling asked, impatiently,–

“What then, John?”

“Why, then, Lord John Russell and Lord Althorp carried the Bill to the House of Lords. It was a great scene. The Duke told me about it. He said nearly every peer was in his seat; and a large number of peeresses had been admitted at the bar, and every inch of space in the House was crowded. The Lord Chancellor took his seat at the Woolsack; and the Deputy Usher of the Black Rod threw open the doors, crying, ‘A Message from the Commons.’ Then Lord John Russell and Lord Althorp, at the head of one hundred Members of the House of Commons, entered, and delivered the Bill to the Lord Chancellor.”

“Oh, how I should have liked to have been present!” said Kate.

“Well, some day thou–” and then the Squire suddenly stopped; but the unfinished thought was flashed to every one present,–“some day thou mayst be Duchess of Richmoor, and have the right to be present;” and Kate was pleased, and felt her heart warm to conscious hope. She caught her mother watching her, and smiled; and Mrs. Atheling, instantly sensitive to the unspoken feeling, avoided comment by her eager inquiry,–

“Whatever did they say, John?”

“They said the usual words; but the Duke told me there was a breathless silence, and that Lord John Russell said them with the most unusual and impressive emphasis: ‘My Lords, the House of Commons have passed an Act to Amend the Representation of England and Wales, to which they desire your Lordships’ Concurrence.’ Lord Grey opened the debate. I dare say Edgar knows all about it. I believe Grey is his leader.”

“Yes,” answered Edgar, “and very proud I am of my leader. He is in his sixty-eighth year, and he stood there that night to advocate the measure he proposed forty years before, in the House of Commons. Althorp told me he spoke with a strange calmness and solemnity, ‘for the just claims of the people;’ but as soon as he sat down Lord Wharncliffe moved that the Bill be rejected altogether.”

“That was like Wharncliffe,” said the Squire. “No half measures for him.”

“Wellington followed, and wanted to know, ‘How the King’s government was to be carried on by the will of a turbulent democracy?’”

“Wellington would govern with a sword instead of a sceptre. He would try every cause round a drum-head. I am not with Wellington.”

“Lord Dudley followed in an elegant, classical speech, also against the Bill.”

The Squire laughed. “I heard about that speech. Did not Brougham call it, ‘An essay or exercise of the highest merit, on democracies–but not on this Bill.’”

“Yes. Brougham can say very polite and very disagreeable things. He spoke on the fifth and last night of the debate. Earl Grey said a more splendid declamation was never made. All London is now quoting one passage which he addressed to the Lords: ‘Justice deferred,’ he said, ‘enhances the price at which you will purchase your own safety; nor can you expect to gather any other crop than they did who went before you, if you persevere in their utterly abominable husbandry of sowing injustice and reaping rebellion.’”

“Fine words, Edgar, fine words; just like Brougham,–catch-words, to take the common people.”

“They did not, however, alarm or take the Lords. My leader closed the debate, and in a magnificent speech implored the archbishops and bishops not to vote against the Bill, and thus stand before the people of England as the enemies of a just and moderate scheme of Reform.”

“And yet they voted against it!” said Mrs. Atheling. “I am downright ashamed of them. The very date ought to be put up against them forever.”

“It was the seventh of October. All night long, until the dawning of the eighth, the debate was continued; and until three hours after midnight, Palace Yard, and the streets about Westminster, were crowded with anxious watchers, though the weather was cold and miserably wet. Towards morning their patience was exhausted; and when the carriages of the peers and bishops rolled out in broad daylight there was no one there to greet them with the execrations and hisses they deserved. The whole of our work this session in the Commons has been done in vain. But we shall win next time, even if we compel the King to create as many new Reform peers as will pass the Bill in spite of the old Lords.”

“Edgar, you are talking nonsense–if not treason.”

“Pardon me, Father. I am only giving you the ultimatum of Reform. The Bill must pass the Lords next session, or you may call Reform Revolution. The people are particularly angry at the bishops. They dare not appear on the streets; curses follow them, and their carriages have been repeatedly stoned.”

“There is a verse beginning, ‘Inasmuch as ye did it not,’ etc.,–I wonder if they will ever dare to repeat it again. They will do the church a deal of harm.”

“Oh, no,” said Edgar. “The church does not stand on the bishops.”

“Be easy with the bishops,” added the Squire. “They have to scheme a bit in order to get the most out of both worlds. They scorn to answer the people according to their idols. They are politically right.”

“No, sir,” said Edgar. “Whatever is morally wrong cannot be politically right. The church is well represented by the clergy; they have generally sympathised with the people. One of them, indeed, called Smith–Sydney Smith–made a speech at Taunton, three days after our defeat, that has gone like wild-fire throughout the length and breadth of England;” and Edgar took a paper out of his pocket, and read, with infinite delight and appreciation, the pungent wit which made “Mrs. Partington” famous throughout Christendom:–

“It was not respectful to liken the Lords of England to an old woman, now was it, Mother?” asked the Squire.

But Mrs. Atheling only laughed the more, and the conversation drifted so completely into politics that Kitty and Annie grew weary of it, and said they wished to go to their rooms. And as they left the parlour together, Edgar suddenly stayed Kitty a moment, and said, “I had nearly forgotten to tell you something. Miss Vyner is to be married, on the second of December, to Cecil North. I am going to London in time for the wedding.”

And Kitty said, “I am glad to hear it, Edgar,” and quickly closed the door. But she lay long awake, wondering what influence this event would have upon Piers and his future, until, finally, the wonder passed into a little verse which they had learned together; and with it singing in her heart, she fell asleep:–

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH
AT THE WORST

In the first joy of their return home, Squire Atheling and his son had not chosen to alarm the women of the family; yet the condition of the country was such as filled with terror every thoughtful mind. The passionate emotion evoked by the second rejection of the Reform Bill did not abate. Tumultuous meetings were held in every town and village as the news reached them; houses were draped in black; shops were closed; and the bells of the churches tolled backward. In London the populace was quite uncontrollable. Vast crowds filled the streets, cheering the Reform leaders, and denouncing with furious execrations the members of either House who had opposed the Bill. The Duke of Newcastle, the Marquis of Londonderry, and many other peers were not saved from the anger of the people without struggle and danger. Nottingham Castle, the seat of the Duke of Newcastle, was burnt to the ground; and Belvoir Castle, the seat of the Duke of Rutland, was barely saved. Bristol saw a series of riots, and during them suffered greatly from fire, and the Bishop’s palace was reduced to ashes.

Everywhere the popular fury settled with special bitterness and hatred upon the bishops; because, as teachers of the doctrines of Jesus of Nazareth, the “common people” expected sympathy from them. A cry arose, from one end of England to the other, for their expulsion from the Upper Chamber; and proposals even for the abolition of the House of Lords were constant and very popular. For such extreme measures no speaker was so eloquent and so powerful as Mr. O’Connell. In addressing a great meeting at Charing Cross one day, he pointed in the direction of Whitehall Palace, and reminded his hearers that, “A King had lost his head there. Why,” he asked, “did this doom come on him? It was,” he cried, “because he refused to listen to his Commons and his people, and obeyed the dictation of a foreign wife.” And this allusion to the Queen’s bad influence over William the Fourth was taken up by the crowd with vehement cheering.

While Bristol was burning, the cholera appeared in England; and its terrors, new and awful and apparently beyond human help or skill, added the last element of supernatural fear to the excited and hopeless people. It is hard to realise at this day, and with our knowledge of the disease, the frantic and abject despair which seized all classes. The churches were kept open, supplications ascended night and day from the altars; and on the sixth of November, at one hour, from every place of worship in England, hundreds of thousands knelt to utter aloud a form of prayer which was constantly broken by sobs of anguish:–

In the presence of this scourge, Mrs. Atheling found it impossible to persuade the Squire to let his family go up with him and Edgar to London. About the cholera, the Squire had the common fatalistic ideas.

“You may escape through God’s mercy,” he said; “but if you are to die of this fearsome, outlandish sickness, then it is best to face death in your own home.”

“But if you should take it in London, and me not near even to bid you ‘good-bye,’ John! I should die of grief.”

“I do hope thou wouldst have more sense, Maude.”

“I would follow thee beyond the grave, very quickly, John.”

“No, no! Stay where thou art. Thou knowest what Yorkshire is,” and though he spoke gruffly, his eyes were dim with unshed tears for the dreadful possibility he thought it right to face.

Kate was specially averse to return to London. It was full of memories she did not wish to revive. Piers was there; and how could she bear to meet him, and neither speak to nor even look at her lover? There was Annabel’s marriage also to consider. If she did not attend it, how many unpleasant inquiries and suppositions there would be? If she did accept the formal invitation sent her, how was she to conduct herself towards Piers in the presence of those who knew them both intimately?

The marriage was to take place shortly before the opening of Parliament; and, owing to the wretched condition of the country, it was thought best to give it only a private character. The management of the social arrangements were in Piers’s hands, and during these last days a very brotherly and confidential affection sprang up in his heart for the brilliant girl who was so soon to leave them forever. One morning he returned to Richmoor House with some valuable jewels for Annabel. He sent a servant to tell her that he was in the small east parlour and desired her company. Then, knowing her usual indifference to time, he sat down and patiently awaited her coming. She responded almost immediately. But her entrance startled and troubled him. She came in hastily, and shut the door with a perceptible nervous tremour. Her face was flushed with anger; she looked desperate and defiant, and met his curious glance with one of mingled fear and entreaty and reckless passion. He led her to a seat, and taking her hands said,–

“My dear Bella, what has grieved you?”

“Oh, Piers! Piers!” she sobbed. “If you have one bit of pity in your heart, give it to me. I am the most miserable woman in the world.”

“Bella, if you do not love Cecil–if you want to break off this marriage–”

“Love Cecil? I love him better than my life! My love for Cecil is the best thing about me. It is not Cecil.”

“Who is it then?”

“I will tell you, though you may hate me for my words. Piers, I took the ring you lost. I meant no harm in the first moment; mischief and jealousy were then so mixed, I don’t know which of them led me. I saw you asleep. I slipped the ring off your finger. I told myself I would give it to you in the morning, and claim my forfeit. In the morning, the Duchess was cross; and you were cross; and the constables were in the house; and I was afraid. And I put it off and off, and every day my fear of trouble–and perhaps my hope of doing mischief with it–grew stronger. I had then hours of believing that I should like to be your wife, and I hated and envied Kate Atheling. I hesitated until I lost the desire to explain things; and then one day my maid Justine flew in a passion at me, and accused me of stealing the ring. She said it was in my purse–and it was. She threatened to call in the whole household to see me found out; and it was the night of the great dinner; and I bought her off.”

“Oh, Bella! Bella! that was very foolish.”

“I know. She has tortured and robbed me ever since. I have wasted away under her threats. Look at my arms, Piers, and my hands. I have a constant fever. Last week she promised me, if I would give her two hundred pounds, she would go away, and I should never see or hear of her again. I gave her the money. Now she says she has made up her mind to go to India with me. That I cannot endure. She has kept me on the rack with threats to tell Cecil. He is the soul of Honour; he would certainly cease to love me; and if I was his wife, how terrible that would be! What am I to do? What am I to do? Oh, Piers, help me!”

“Where is the woman now?”

“In my apartments.”

“Can I go with you to your parlour?”

“Yes–but, Piers, why?”

“Where is the ring, Bella dear?”

“In her possession. She was afraid I would give it to you.”

“Why did you not tell me all this before? Come, I will soon settle the affair.”

When they reached the room, Annabel sank almost lifeless on a sofa; and Piers touched a hand-bell. Justine called from an inner room:

“I will answer at my leisure, Miss.”

Piers walked to the dividing door, and threw it open. “You will answer now, at my command. Come here, and come quickly.”

“My lord–I did not mean–”

“Stand there, and answer truly the questions I shall ask; or I promise you a few years on the treadmill, if not a worse punishment. Do you know that you are guilty of black-mailing, and of obtaining money on false pretences?–both crimes to be expiated on the gallows.”

“My lord, it is a true pretence. Miss Vyner stole your ring. She knows she did.”

“She could not steal anything I have; she is welcome to whatever of mine she desires. How much money have you taken from Miss Vyner?”

“I have not taken one half-penny,” answered Justine, sulkily. “She gave me the money; she dare not say different. Speak, Miss, you know you gave it to me.” But Annabel had recovered something of her old audacity. She felt she was safe, and she was not disposed to mercy. She only smiled scornfully, and re-arranged the satin cushions under her head more comfortably.

“Quick! How much money have you taken?”

Justine refused to answer; and Piers said, “I give you two minutes. Then I shall send for a constable.”

“And Miss Vyner’s wedding will be put off.”

“For your crime? Oh, no! Miss Vyner’s wedding is far beyond your interference. She will have nothing to do with this affair. I shall prosecute you. You have my ring. Will you give it to me, or to a constable?”

“I did not take the ring.”

“It is in your possession. I will send now for an officer.” He rose to touch the bell-rope, keeping his eyes on the woman all the time; and she darted forward and arrested his hand.

“I will do what you wish,” she said.

“How much money have you taken from Miss Vyner?”

“Eight hundred and ninety pounds.”

“Where is it?”

“In my room.”

“Go and get it–stay, I will go with you.”

In a few minutes Justine returned with her ill-gotten treasure; and then she condescended to explain, and entreat,–

“Oh, my lord,” she said, “don’t be hard on me. I wanted the money for my poor old mother who is in Marylebone Workhouse. I did, indeed I did! It was to make her old age comfortable. She is sick and very poor, and I wanted it for her.”

“We shall see about that. If your story is true, you shall give the money to your poor old sick mother. If it is not true, you shall give my ring and the money to a constable, and sleep in prison this very night.”

With impetuous passion he ordered a carriage, and Justine was driven to the Marylebone Workhouse. By the time they reached that institution, she was thoroughly humbled and afraid; her fear being confirmed by the subservience of the Master to the rank and commands of Lord Exham. For a moment she had an idea of denying her own statement; but the futility of the lie was too evident to be doubted; and, very reluctantly, she admitted her mother’s name to be Margaret Oddy. In a few minutes–during which Lord Exham ordered Justine to count out the money in her bag to the Master–Margaret appeared. She was not an old woman in years, being but little over forty; but starvation, sorrow, and hard work had made her prematurely aged. When she entered the room, she looked around anxiously; but as soon as she saw Justine, she covered her face with her thin hands, and began to weep.

“Is this your daughter?” asked the Master, pointing to Justine.

“I am her mother, sure enough, sir; but she have cast me off long ago. Oh, Justine girl, speak a word to me! You are my girl, for all that’s past and gone.”

“Justine has come to make you some amends for her previous neglect, Mother,” said Lord Exham. “She has brought you eight hundred and ninety pounds for your old age. To-morrow my lawyer will call here, and give you advice concerning its care and its use. Until then, the Master will take it in charge.”

“Let me see it! Let me touch it with my hands! No more hunger! No more cold! No more hard work! It can’t be true! It can’t be true! Is it true, Justine? Kiss me with the money, girl, for the sake of the happy days we have had together!” With these words she went to her daughter, and tried to take her hands, and draw her to her breast. But Justine would not respond. She stood sullen and silent, with eyes cast on the ground.

“Why, then,” said Margaret, with just anger, “why, then, keep the money, Justine. I would rather eat peas and porridge, and sleep on straw, than take a shilling with such ill-will from you, girl.” Then, turning to Piers, she added, “Thank you, good gentleman, but I’ll stay where I am. Let Justine keep her gold. I don’t want such an ill-will gift.”

“Mother,” answered Piers. “You may take the money from my hands, then. It is yours. Justine’s good or ill-will has now nothing to do with it. I give it to you from the noble young lady whom your daughter has wronged so greatly that the gallows would be her just desert. She gives up this money–which she has no right to–as some atonement for her crime. Is not this the truth, Justine?” he asked sternly; and the woman answered, “Yes.” Then turning to the Master, he added, “To this fact, and to Justine’s admission of it, you are witness.”

The Master said, “I am.” Then addressing Margaret, he told her to go back to her place, and think over the good fortune that had so unexpectedly come to her; what she wished to do with her money; and where she wished to make her future home. And the mother curtsied feebly and again turned to her child,–

“If I go back to the old cottage in Downham–the old cottage with the vines, and the bee skeps, and the long garden, will you come with me, and we will share all together?”

“No.”

“Let her alone, Mother,” said Exham. “She is going to the furthest American colony she can reach. Only in some such place, will she be safe from the punishment of her wrong-doing.”

“Justine, then, my girl, good-bye!”

No answer.

“Justine, good-bye!”

No answer.

“Why, then, my girl, God be with you, and God forgive you!”

Then Justine turned to Lord Exham, “I have done what you demanded. May I now go my own way?”

“Not just yet. You will return with me.”

He gave his card to the Master, and followed the woman, keeping her constantly under his hand and eye until they returned to Annabel’s parlour. Annabel was in a dead sleep; but their entrance awakened her, and it pained Piers to see the look of fear that came into her face when she saw her cruel tormentor. She was speedily relieved, however; for the first words she heard, was an order from Piers, bidding her to be ready to leave the house in twenty minutes. He took out his watch as he gave the order, and then added, “First of all, return to me my ring.”

“I did not take your ring, my lord.”

“You have it in your possession. Return it at once.”

“Miss Vyner stole it–”

“Give it to me! You know the consequences of one more refusal.”

Then Justine took from her purse the long missing ring. She threw it on the table, and, with tears of rage, said,–

“May ill-luck and false love go with it, and follow all who own it!”

“The bad wishes of the wicked fall on themselves, Justine,” said Lord Exham, as he lifted the trinket. “How much money does your mistress owe you?”

“I have no ‘mistress.’ Miss Vyner owes me a quarter’s wage, and a quarter’s notice, that is eight pounds.”

“Is that correct, Annabel?”

“The woman says so. Pay her what she wants–only get her out of my sight.”

“Oh, Miss, I can tell you–”

“Go. Pack your trunk, and be back here in fifteen minutes. And, mind what I say, leave England at once–the sooner the better.”

Before the time was past, the woman was outside the gates of Richmoor House, and Piers returned to Annabel. “That trouble is all over and gone forever,” he said to her; “now, dear Bella, lift up your heart to its full measure of love and joy! Let Cecil see you to-night in your old beauty. He is fretting about your health; show him the marvellously bright Annabel that captured his heart with a glance.”

“I will! I will, Piers! This very night you shall see that Annabel is herself again.”

“And in three days you are to be Cecil’s wife!”

“In three days,” she echoed joyfully. “Leave me now, Piers. I want to think over your goodness to me. I shall never forget it.”

Smiling, they parted; and then Annabel opened all the doors of her rooms, and looked carefully around them, and assured herself that her tyrant was really gone. “In three days!” she said, “in three days I am going away from all this splendour and luxury,–going to dangers of all kinds; to a wild life in camps and quarters; perhaps to deprivations in lonely places–and I am happy! Happy! transcendently happy! Oh, Love! Wonderful, Invincible, Omnipotent Love! Cecil’s love! It will be sufficient for all things.”

Certainly she was permeated with this idea. It radiated from her countenance; it spoke in her eyes; it made itself visible in the glory of her bridal attire. The wedding morning was one of the darkest and dreariest of London’s winter days. A black pouring rain fell incessantly; the atmosphere was heavy, and loaded with exhalations; and the cholera terror was on every face. For at this time it was really “a destruction walking at noon-day” and leaving its ghastly sign of possession on many a house in the streets along which the bridal party passed.

It came into the gloomy church like a splendid dream: officers in gay uniforms, ladies in beautiful gowns and nodding plumes, and at the altar,–shining like some celestial being,–the radiant bride in glistening white satin, and sparkling gems. And Cecil, in his new military uniform, tall, handsome, soldierly, happy, made her a fitting companion. The church was filled with a dismal vapour; the rain plashed on the flagged enclosure; the wind whistled round the ancient tower: there was only gloom, and misery, and sudden death outside; but over all these accidents of time and place, the joy of the bride and the bridegroom was triumphant. And later in the day, when the Duke and Piers went with them to the great three-decked Indiaman waiting for their embarkation, they were still wondrously exalted and blissful. Dressed in fine dark-blue broadcloth, and wrapped in costly furs, Annabel watched from the deck the departure of her friends, and then put her hand in Cecil’s with a smile.

“For weal or woe, Bella, my dear one,” he said.

“For weal or woe, for life or death, Cecil beloved,” she answered, having no idea then of what that promise was to bring her in the future; though she kept it nobly when the time of its redemption came.

Three days after this event, Mrs. Atheling received by special messenger from Lord Exham a letter, and with it the ring which had caused so much suspicion and sorrow. But though the letter was affectionate and confidential, and full of tender messages which he “trusted in her to deliver for him,” nothing was said as to the manner of its recovery, or the personality of the one who had purloined it.

“Your father has been right, no doubt, Kate,” she said. “In some weak moment Annabel has got the ring from him, and on her marriage has given it back. That is clear to me.”

“Not to me, Mother. I am sure Piers did not give Annabel–did not give any one the ring. I will tell you what I think. Annabel got it while he was asleep, or he inadvertently dropped it, and she picked it up–and kept it, hoping to make mischief.”

“You may be wrong, Kitty.”

“I may–but I know I am right.”

No Diviner like Love!

On this same day, with the cholera raging all around, Parliament was re-opened; and Lord John Russell again brought in the Reform Bill. There was something pathetic in this persistence of a people, hungry and naked, and overshadowed by an unknown pestilence, swift and malignant as a Fate. It was evident, immediately, that the same course of “obstruction” which had proved fatal to the two previous Bills was to be pursued against the third attempt. Yet the temper of the House of Commons, sullenly, doggedly determined, might even thus early have warned its opposers. All the unfairness and pertinacity of Peel and his associates was of no avail against the inflexible steadiness of Lord Althorp and the cold impassibility of Lord John Russell.

Week after week passed in debating, while the press and people waited in alternating fits of passionate threats and still more alarming silence,–a silence, Lord Grey declared to be, “Most ominous of trouble, and of the most vital importance to the obstructing force.” The Squire was weary to death. He found it impossible to take a dutiful interest in the proceedings. The tactics of the fight did not appeal to his nature. He thought they were neither fair nor straightforward; and, unconsciously, his own opinions had been much leavened by his late familiar intercourse with Lord Ashley and his son.

In these days his chief comfort came from the friendship of Piers Exham. The young man frequently sought his company; and it became almost a custom for them to dine together at the Tory Club. And at such times words were dropped that neither would have uttered, or even thought of, at the beginning of the contest. Thus one night Piers said, in his musing way, as he fingered his glass, rather than drank the wine in it,–

“I have been wondering, Squire, whether the wish of a whole nation, gradually growing in intensity for sixty years, until it has become, to-day, a command and a threat, is not something more than a wish?”

“I should say it was, Piers,” answered the Squire. “Very likely the wish has grown to–a right.”

“Perhaps.”

Then both men were silent; and the next topic discussed was the new sickness, and Piers anxiously asked if “it had reached Atheling.”

“No, it has not, thank the Almighty!” replied the Squire. “There has not been a case of it. My family are all well.”

Allusions to Kate were seldom more definite than this one; but Piers found inexpressible comfort in the few words. Such intercourse might not seem conducive to much kind feeling; but it really was. The frequent silences; the short, pertinent sentences; the familiar, kindly touch of the young man’s hand, when it was time to return to the House; the little courteous attentions which it pleased Piers to render, rather than let the Squire be indebted to a servant for them,–these, and other things quite as trivial, made a bond between the two men that every day strengthened.