LADY OF EXHAM HALL AT LAST
The three weeks’ recess was full of grave anxiety; and the Squire had many fears they were to be the last weeks of peace and home before civil war called him to fulfil the promise he had made to his working-men. The Birmingham Political Union declared that if there was any further delay after Easter, two hundred thousand men would go forth from their shops and forges, and encamp in the London squares, till they knew the reason why the Reform Bill was not passed. The Scots Greys, who were quartered at Birmingham, had been employed the previous Sabbath in grinding their swords; and it was asserted that the Duke of Wellington stood pledged to the Government to quiet the country in ten days. These facts sufficiently indicated to the Squire the temper of the people; and he set himself, as far as he could, to take all the sweetness out of his home life possible. The memory of it might have to comfort him for many days.
With his daughter always by his side, he rode up and down the lands he loved; unconsciously giving directions that might be serviceable if he had to go to a stormier field than the House of Commons. To Mrs. Atheling he hardly suggested the possibility; for if he did, she always answered cheerfully, “Nonsense, John! The Bill will pass; and if it does not pass, Englishmen have more sense than they had in the days of Cromwell. They aren’t going to kill one another for an Act of Parliament.”
But to Kate, as they rode and walked, he could worry and grumble comfortably. She was always ready to sympathise with his fears, and to encourage and suggest any possible hope of peace and better days. To see her bright face answering his every thought filled the father’s heart with a joy that was complete.
“Bless thy dear soul!” he would frequently say to her. “God’s best gift to a man is a daughter like thee. Sons are well enough to carry on the name and the land, and bring honour to the family; but the man God loves isn’t left without a daughter to sweeten his days and keep his heart fresh and tender. Kitty! Kitty, how I do love thee!” And Kitty knew how to answer such true and noble affection; for,–
“Down the gulf of his condoled necessities,
She cast her best: she flung herself.”
Oh, sweet domestic love! Surely it is the spiritual world, the abiding kingdom of heaven, not far from any one of us.
With a heavy heart the Squire went back to London. Mrs. Atheling took his gloom for a good sign. “Your father is always what the Scotch call ‘fay’ before trouble,” she said to Kate. “The day your sister Edith died his ways made me angry. You would have thought some great joy had come to Atheling. He said he was sure Edith was going to live; and I knew she was going to die. I am glad he has gone to London sighing and shaking his head; it is a deal better sign than if he had gone laughing and shaking his bridle. He will meet Edgar in London, and Edgar won’t let him look forward to trouble.”
But the Squire found Edgar was not in London when he arrived there; and Piers was as silent and as gloomy a companion as a worrying man could desire. He came to dine with his friend, and he listened to all his doleful prognostications; but his interest was forced and languid. For he also had lost the convictions that made the contest possible to him, and there was at the bottom of all his reasoning that little doubt as to the justice of his cause which likewise infected the Squire’s more pronounced opinions.
They were sitting one evening, after dinner, almost silent, the Squire smoking, Piers apparently reading the Times, when Edgar, with an almost boyish demonstrativeness, entered the room. He drew a chair between them, and sat down, saying, “I have just returned from the great Newhall Hill meeting. Father, think of two hundred thousand men gathered there for one united purpose.”
“I hope I have a few better thoughts to keep me busy, Edgar.”
Piers looked up with interest. “It must have been an exciting hour or two,” he said.
“I hardly knew whether I was in the body or out of the body,” answered Edgar. “For a little while, at least, I was not conscious of the flesh. I had a taste of how the work of eternity may be done with the soul.”
“The Times admits the two hundred thousand,” said Piers, “and also that it was a remarkably orderly meeting. Who opened it? Was it Mr. O’Connell?”
“The meeting was opened by the singing of a hymn. There were nine stanzas in it, and every one was sung with the most enthusiastic feeling. I remember only the opening lines:
“‘Over mountain, over plain,
Echoing wide from sea to sea,
Peals–and shall not peal in vain–
The trumpet call of Liberty!’
But can you imagine what a majestic volume of sonorous melody came from those two hundred thousand hearts? It was heard for miles. The majority of the singers believed, with all their souls, that it was heard in heaven.”
“Well, I never before heard of singing a hymn to open a political meeting,” said the Squire. “It does not seem natural.”
“But, Father, you are used to political meetings opened by prayer, for the House has its chaplain. The Rev. Hugh Hutton prayed after the hymn.”
“I never heard of the Rev. Hugh Hutton.”
“I dare say not, Father. He is an Unitarian minister; for it is only the Unitarians that will pray with, or pray for, Radicals. I should not quite say that. There is a Roman Catholic priest who is a member of the Birmingham Union,–a splendid-looking man, a fine orator, and full of the noblest public spirit; but a Birmingham meeting would never think of asking him to pray. They would not believe a Catholic could get a blessing down from heaven if he tried.”[3]
This intolerance, general and common in the England of that day, is now happily much mitigated.
“What of O’Connell?” said the Squire; “he interests me most.”
“O’Connell outdid himself. About four hundred women in one body had been allowed to stand near the platform, and the moment his eyes rested on them his quick instinct decided the opening sentence of his address. He bowed to them, and said, ‘Surrounded as I am by the fair, the good, and the gentle.’ They cheered at these words; and then the men behind them cheered, and the crowds behind cheered, because the crowds before cheered; and then he launched into such an arraignment of the English Government as human words never before compassed. And in it he was guilty of one delightful bull. It was in this way. Among other grave charges, he referred to the fact that births had decreased in Dublin five thousand every year for the last four years, and then passionately exclaimed, ‘I charge the British Government with the murder of those twenty thousand infants!’ and really, for a few moments, the audience did not see the delightful absurdity.”
“Twenty thousand infants who were never born,” laughed the Squire. “That is worthy of O’Connell. It is worthy of Ireland.”
“And did he really manage that immense crowd?” asked Piers. “I see the Times gives him this credit.”
“Sir Bulwer Lytton in a few lines has painted him for all generations at this meeting. Listen!” and Edgar took out of his pocket a slip of paper, and read them:–
“‘Once to my sight the giant thus was given–
Walled by wide air, and roofed by boundless heaven;
Methought, no clarion could have sent its sound
Even to the centre of the hosts around.
And as I thought, rose the sonorous swell
As from some church tower swings the silver bell.
Aloft and clear, from airy tide to tide,
It glided easy as a bird may glide,
To the last verge of that vast audience.’”
“After O’Connell, who would try to manage such a crowd?” asked Piers.
“They behaved splendidly whoever spoke; and finally Mr. Salt stood forward, and, uncovering his head, bid them all uncover, and raise their right hands to heaven while they repeated, after him, the comprehensive obligation which had been given in printed form to all of them:
“‘With unbroken faith, through every peril, through every privation, we here devote ourselves, and our children, to our country’s cause!’
And while those two hundred thousand men were taking that oath together, I find the House of Lords was going into Committee on the Reform Bill. This time it must pass.”
“It will not pass,” said Piers, “without the most extreme measures are resorted to.”
“You mean that the King will be compelled to create as many new peers as will carry it through the House of Lords.”
“Yes; but can the King be ‘compelled’?”
“He will find that out.”
“Now, Edgar, that is as far as I am going to listen.”
Then Piers put down his paper, and said, “The House was in session, and would the Squire go down to it?” And the Squire said, “No. If there is to be any ‘compelling’ of His Majesty, I will keep out of it.”
The stress of this compulsion came the very next day. Lord Lyndhurst began the usual policy by proposing important clauses of the Bill should be postponed; and the Cabinet at once decided to ask the King to create more peers. Sydney Smith had written to Lady Grey that he was, “For forty, in order to make sure;” but the number was not stipulated. The King promptly refused. The Reform Ministry tendered their resignation, and it was accepted. For a whole week the nation was left to its fears, its anger, and its despair. It was, however, almost insanely active. In Manchester twenty-five thousand people, in the space of three hours, signed a petition to the King, telling him in it that “the whole North of England was in a state of indignation impossible to be described.” Meanwhile, the Duke of Wellington had failed to form a Cabinet, and Peel had refused; and the King was compelled to recall Lord Grey to power, and to consent to any measures necessary to pass the Reform Bill. It was evident, even to royalty, that it had at length become–The Bill or The Crown. For His Majesty was now aware that he was denounced from one end of England to the other; and several painful experiences convinced him that his carriage could not appear in London without being surrounded by an indignant, hooting, shrieking crowd.
Yet it was in a very wrathful mood he sent for Grey and Brougham, so wrathful that he kept them standing during the whole audience, although this attitude was contrary to usage. “My people are gone mad,” he said, “and must be humoured like mad people. They will have Reform. Very well. I give you my royal assent to create a sufficient number of new peers to carry Reform through the House of Lords. It is an insult to my loyal and sensible peers; but they will excuse the circumstances that force me to such a measure.” His manner was extremely sullen, and became indignantly so when Lord Brougham requested this permission to be given them in the King’s handwriting. The request was, however, necessary, and was reluctantly granted.
With the King’s concession, the great struggle virtually ended. For the creation of new peers was not necessary. A private message from the King to the House of Lords effected what the long-continued protestations and entreaties of the whole nation had failed to effect. Led by the Duke of Wellington, those Lords who were determined not to vote for Reform left the House until the Bill was passed; and thus a decided majority for its success was assured. They felt it to be better for their order to retire to their castles, than to suffer the “swamping of the House of Lords” by a force of new peers pledged to Reform, and sure to control all their future deliberations. Consequently, in about two weeks, the famous Bill was triumphantly carried by a majority of eighty-four; and three days afterwards it received the royal assent.
The long struggle was over; and the tremendous strain on the feelings of the nation relieved itself by an universal and unbounded rejoicing. All night long, the church bells answered one another from city to city, and from hamlet to hamlet. It was said to be impossible to escape, from one end of the country to the other, the tin-tan-tabula of their jubilation. Illuminations must have made the Island at night a blaze of light; the people went about singing and congratulating each other; and for a few hours the tie of humanity was a tie of brotherhood, even when men and women were perfect strangers.
The Duke of Richmoor retired with the majority of his peers, and shut himself up in his Yorkshire Castle, a victim to the most absurd but yet the most sincere despondency. The Squire applied for the Chiltern Hundreds, and returned to Atheling as soon as possible. Edgar remained in the House until its dissolution in August. As for Piers, he had taken the turn of affairs with a composure that had produced decided differences between the Duke and himself; and he lingered in London until he heard of the Squire’s departure for the North. Then he sought him with a definite purpose. “Squire,” he said, “may I go back to Exham in your company?”
“I’ll be glad if you do, Piers,” was the answer.
The young man laid his hand on the Squire’s hand, and looked at him steadily and entreatingly. “Squire, I am going away from England. Let me see Kate before I go.”
“You are asking me to break my word, Piers.”
“The law of kindness may sometimes be greater than the law of truth; the greatest of these is charity–is love. I love her so! I love her so that I am only half alive without her. I do entreat you to have pity on me–on us both! She loves me!” and Piers pleaded until the Squire’s eyes were full of tears. He could not resist words so hot from a true and loving heart; and he finally said,–
“It may be that my word, and my pride in my word, are of less consequence than the trouble of two suffering human hearts; Piers, right or wrong, you may see Kitty. I am not sure I am doing right, but I will risk the uncertainty–this time.”
However, if the Squire had any qualms of conscience on the subject, they were driven away by Kitty’s gratitude and delight. He arrived at Atheling about the noon hour, and Kitty was the first to see and to welcome him. She had been gathering cherries, and was coming through the garden with her basket full of the crimson drupes, when he entered the gates. She set the fruit on the ground, and ran to meet him, and took him proudly in to her mother, and fussed over his many little comforts to his heart’s content and delight.
Nothing was said about Piers until after dinner, which was hurried forward at the Squire’s request; but afterwards, when he sat at the open casement smoking, he called Kate to him. He took her on his knee and whispered, “Kate, there is somebody coming this afternoon.”
“Yes,” she said, “we have sent word to Annie. She will be here.”
“I was not thinking of Annie. I was thinking of thee, my little maid. There is somebody coming to see thee.”
“You can’t mean Piers? Oh, Father, do you mean Piers?”
“I do.”
Then she laid her cheek against his cheek. She kissed him over and over, answering in low, soft speech, “Oh, my good Father! Oh, my dear Father! Oh, Father, how I love you!”
“Well, Kitty,” he answered, “thou dost not throw thy love away. I love thee, God knows it. Now run upstairs and don thy prettiest frock.”
“White or blue, Father?”
“Well, Kitty,” he answered, with a thoughtful smile, “I should say white, and a red rose or two to match thy cheeks, and a few forget-me-nots to match thy eyes. Bless my heart, Kitty! thou art lovely enough any way. Stay with me.”
“No, Father, I will go away and come again still lovelier;” and she sped like a bird upstairs. “It may be all wrong,” muttered the Squire; “but if it is, then I must say, wrong can make itself very agreeable.”
“Piers is coming!” That was the song in Kitty’s heart, the refrain to which her hands and feet kept busy until she stood before her glass lovelier than words can paint, her exquisite form robed in white lawn, her cheeks as fresh and blooming as the roses at her girdle, her eyes as blue as the forget-me-nots in her hair, her whole heart in every movement, glance, and word, thrilling with the delight of expectation, and shining with the joy of loving.
So Piers found her in the garden watching for his approach. And on this happy afternoon, Nature was in a charming mood; she had made the garden a Paradise for their meeting. The birds sang softly in the green trees above them; the flowers perfumed the warm air they breathed; and an atmosphere of inexpressible serenity encompassed them. After such long absence, oh, how heavenly was this interview without fear, or secrecy, or self-reproach, or suspicion of wrong-doing! How heavenly was the long, sweet afternoon, and the social pleasure of the tea hour, and the soft starlight night under the drooping gold of the laburnums and the fragrant clusters of the damask roses! Even parting under such circumstances was robbed of its sting; it was only “such sweet sorrow.” It was glorified by its trust and hope, and was without the shadow of tears.
Kitty came to her father when it was over; and her eyes were shining, and there was a little sob in her heart; but she said only happy words. With her arms around his neck she whispered, “Thank you, dear!” And he answered, “Thou art gladly welcome! Right or wrong, thou art welcome, Kitty. My dear little Kitty! He will come back; I know he will. A girl that puts honour and duty before love, crowns them with love in the end–always so, dear. That is sure. When will he be back?”
“When the Duke and Duchess want him more than they want their own way. He says disputing will do harm, and not good; but that if a difference is left to the heart, the heart in the long run will get the best of the argument. I am sure he is right. Father, he is going to send you and mother long letters, and so I shall know where he is; and with the joy of this meeting to keep in my memory, I am not going to fret and be miserable.”
“That is right. That is the way to take a disappointment. Good things are worth waiting for, eh, Kitty?”
“And we shall have so much to interest us, Father. There is Edgar’s marriage coming; and it would not do to have two weddings in one year, would it? Father, you like Piers? I am sure you do.”
“I would not have let him put a foot in Atheling to-day if I had not liked him. He has been very good company for me in London, very good company indeed–thoughtful and respectful. Yes, I like Piers.”
“Because–now listen, Father–because, much as I love Piers, I would not be his wife for all England if you and mother did not like him.”
“Bless my heart, Kitty! Is not that saying a deal?”
“No. It would be no more than justice. If you should force on me a husband whom I despised or disliked, would I not think it very wicked and cruel? Then would it not be just as wicked and cruel if I should force on you a son-in-law whom you despised and disliked? There is not one law of kindness for the parents, and another law, less kind, for the daughter, is there?”
“Thou art quite right, Kitty. The laws of the Home and the Family are equal laws. God bless thee for a good child.”
And, oh, how sweet were Kitty’s slumbers that night! It is out of earth’s delightful things we form our visions of the world to come; and Kate understood, because of her own pure, true, hopeful love, how “God is love,” and how, therefore, He would deny her any good thing.
So the summer went its way, peacefully and happily. In the last days of August, Edgar was married with great pomp and splendour; and afterwards the gates of Gisbourne stood wide-open, and there were many signs and promises of wonderful improvements and innovations. For the young man was a born leader and organiser. He loved to control, and soon devised means to secure what was so necessary to his happiness. The Curzons had made their money in manufactures; and Annie approved of such use of money. So very soon, at the upper end of Gisbourne, a great mill, and a fine new village of cottages for its hands, arose as if by magic,–a village that was to example and carry out all the ideas of Reform.
“Edgar is making a lot of trouble ready for himself,” said the Squire to his wife; “but Edgar can’t live without a fight on hand. I’ll warrant that he gets more fighting than he bargains for; a few hundreds of those Lancashire and Yorkshire operatives aren’t as easy to manage as he seems to think. They have ‘reformed’ their lawgivers; and they are bound to ‘reform’ their masters next.”
The Squire had said little about this new influx into his peaceful neighbourhood, but it had grieved his very soul; and his wife wondered at his reticence, and one day she told him so.
“Well, Maude,” he answered, “when Edgar was one of my household, I had the right to say this and that about his words and ways; but Edgar is now Squire, and married man, and Member of Parliament. He is a Reformer too, and bound to carry out his ideas; and, I dare say, his wife keeps the bit in his mouth hard enough, without me pulling on it too. I have taken notice, Maude, that these sweet little women are often very masterful.”
“I am sure his grandfather Belward would never have suffered that mill chimney in his sight for any money.”
“Perhaps he could not have helped it.”
“Thou knowest different. My father always made everything go as he wanted it. The Belwards know no other road but their own way.”
“I should think thou needest not tell me that. I have been learning it for a quarter of a century.”
“Now, John! When I changed my name, I changed my way also. I have been Atheling, and gone Atheling, ever since I was thy wife.”
“Pretty nearly, Maude. But Edgar’s little, innocent-faced, gentle wife will lead Edgar, Curzon way. She has done it already. Fancy an Atheling, land lords for a thousand years, turning into a loom lord. Maude, it hurts me; but then, it is a bit of Reform, I suppose.”
For all this interior dissatisfaction, the Squire and his son were good friends and neighbours; and, in a kind of a way, the father approved the changes made around him. They came gradually, and he did not have to swallow the whole dose at once. Besides he had his daughter. And Kitty never put him behind Gisbourne or any other cause. They were constant companions. They threw their lines in the trout streams together through the summer mornings; and in the winter, she was with him in every hunting field. About the house, he heard her light foot and her happy voice; and in the evenings, she read the papers to him, and helped forward his grumble at Peel, or his anger at Cobbett.
At not very long intervals there came letters to the Squire, or to Mrs. Atheling, which made sunshine in the house for many days afterwards,–letters from Boston, New York, Baltimore, Washington, New Orleans, and finally from an outlandish place called Texas. Here Piers seemed to have found the life he had been unconsciously longing for. “The people were fighting,” he said, “for Liberty: a handful of Americans against the whole power of Mexico; fighting, not in words–he was weary to death of words–but with the clang of iron on iron, and the clash of steel against steel, as in the old world battles.” And he filled pages with glowing encomiums of General Houston, and Colonels Bowie and Crockett, and their wonderful courage and deeds. “And, oh, what a Paradise the land was! What sunshine! What moonshine! What wealth of every good thing necessary for human existence!”
When such letters as these arrived, it was holiday at Atheling; it was holiday in every heart there; and they were read, and re-read, and discussed, till their far-away, wild life became part and parcel of the calm, homely existence of this insular English manor. So the years went by; and Kate grew to a glorious womanhood. All the promise of her beauteous girlhood was amply redeemed. She was the pride of her county, and the joy of all the hearts that knew her. And if she had hours of restlessness and doubt, or any fears for Piers’s safety, no one was made unhappy by them. She never spoke of Piers but with hope, and with the certainty of his return. She declared she was “glad that he should have the experience of such a glorious warfare, one in which he had made noble friends, and done valiant deeds. Her lover was growing in such a struggle to his full stature.” And, undoubtedly, the habit of talking hopefully induces the habit of feeling hopefully; so there were no signs of the love-lorn maiden about Kate Atheling, nor any fears for her final happiness in Atheling Manor House.
The fears and doubts and wretchedness were all in the gloomy castle of Richmoor, where the Duke and Duchess lived only to bewail the dangers of the country, and their deprivation of their son’s society,–a calamity they attributed also to Reform. Else, why would Piers have gone straight to a wild land where outlawed men were also fighting against legitimate authority.
One evening, nearly four years after Piers had left England, the Duke was crossing Belward Bents, and he met the Squire and his daughter, leisurely riding together in the summer gloaming. He touched his hat, and said, “Good-evening, Miss Atheling! Good-evening, Squire!” And the Squire responded cheerfully, and Kate gave him a ravishing smile,–for he was the father of Piers, accordingly she already loved him. There was nothing further said, but each was affected by the interview; the Duke especially so. When he reached his castle he found the Duchess walking softly up and down the dim drawing-room, and she was weeping. His heart ached for her. He said tenderly, as he took her hand,–
“Is it Piers, Julia?”
“I am dying to see him,” she answered, “to hear him speak, to have him come in and out as he used to do. I want to feel the clasp of his hand, and the touch of his lips. Oh, Richard, Richard, bring back my boy! A word from you will do it.”
“My dear Julia, I have just met Squire Atheling and his daughter. The girl has grown to a wonder of beauty. She is marvellous; I simply never saw such a face. Last week I watched her in the hunting field at Ashley. She rode like an Amazon; she was peerless among all the beauties there. I begin to understand that Piers, having loved her, could love no other woman; and I think we might learn to love her for Piers’s sake. What do you say, my dear? The house is terribly lonely. I miss my son in business matters continually; and if he does not marry, the children of my brother Henry come after him. He is in constant danger; he is in a land where he must go armed day and night. Think of our son living in a place like that! And his last letters have had such a tone of home-sickness in them. Shall I see Squire Atheling, and ask him for his daughter?”
“Let him come and see you.”
“He will never do it.”
“Then see him, Richard. Anything, anything, that will give Piers back to me.”
The next day the Duke was at Atheling, and what took place at that interview, the Squire never quite divulged, even to his wife. “It was very humbling to him,” he said, “and I am not the man to brag about it.” To Kate nothing whatever was said. “Who knows just where Piers is? and who can tell what might happen before he learns of the change that has taken place?” asked the Squire. “Why should we toss Kitty’s mind hither and thither till Piers is here to quiet it?”
In fact the Squire’s idea was far truer than he had any conception of. Piers was actually in London when the Duke’s fatherly letter sent to recall his self-banished son left for Texas. Indeed he was on his way to Richmoor the very day that the letter was written. He came to it one afternoon just before dinner. The Duchess was dressed and waiting for the Duke and the daily ceremony of the hour. She stood at the window, looking into the dripping garden, but really seeing nothing, not even the plashed roses before her eyes. Her thoughts were in a country far off; and she was wondering how long it would take Piers to answer their loving letter. The door opened softly. She supposed it was the Duke, and said, fretfully, “This climate is detestable, Duke. It has rained for a week.”
“Mother! Mother! Oh, my dear Mother!”
Then, with a cry of joy that rung through the lofty room, she turned, and was immediately folded in the arms she longed for. And before her rapture had time to express itself, the Duke came in and shared it. They were not an emotional family; and high culture had relegated any expression of feeling far below the tide of their daily life; but, for once, Nature had her way with the usually undemonstrative woman. She wept, and laughed, and talked, and exclaimed as no one had ever seen or heard her since the days of her early girlhood.
In the happy privacy of the evening hours, Piers told them over again the wild, exciting story he had been living; and the Duke acknowledged that to have aided in any measure such an heroic struggle was an event to dignify life. “But now, Piers,” he said, “now you will remain in your own home. If you still wish to marry Miss Atheling, your mother and I are pleased that you should do so. We will express this pleasure as soon as you desire us. I wrote you to this effect; but you cannot have received my letter, since it only left for Texas yesterday.”
“I am glad I have not received it,” answered Piers. “I came home at the call of my mother. It is true. I was sitting one night thinking of many things. It was long past midnight, but the moonlight was so clear I had been reading by it, and the mocking birds were thrilling the air, far and wide, with melody. But far clearer, far sweeter, far more pervading, I heard my mother’s voice calling me. And I immediately answered, ‘I am coming, Mother!’ Here I am. What must I do, now and forever, to please you?”
And she said, “Stay near me. Marry Miss Atheling, if you wish. I will love her for your sake.”
And Piers kissed his answer on her lips, and then put his hand in his father’s hand. It was but a simple act; but it promised all that fatherly affection could ask, and all that filial affection could give.
Who that has seen in England a sunny morning after a long rain-storm can ever forget the ineffable sweetness and freshness of the woods and hills and fields? The world seemed as if it was just made over when Piers left Richmoor for Atheling. A thousand vagrant perfumes from the spruce and fir woods, from the moors and fields and gardens, wandered over the earth. A gentle west wind was blowing; the sense of rejoicing was in every living thing. The Squire and Kate had been early abroad. They had had a long gallop, and were coming slowly through Atheling lane, talking of Piers, though both of them believed Piers to be thousands of miles away. They were just at the spot where he had passed them that miserable night when his cry of “Kate! Kate! Kate!” had nearly broken the girl’s heart for awhile. She never saw the place without remembering her lover, and sending her thoughts to find him out, wherever he might be. And thus, at this place, there was always a little silence; and the Squire comprehended, and respected the circumstance.
This morning the silence, usually so perfect, was broken by the sound of an approaching horseman; but neither the Squire nor Kate turned. They simply withdrew to their side of the road, and went leisurely forward.
“Kate! Kate! Kate!”
The same words, but how different! They were full of impatient joy, of triumphant hope and love. Both father and daughter faced round in the moment, and then they saw Piers coming like the wind towards them. It was a miracle. It was such a moment as could not come twice in any life-time. It was such a meeting as defies the power of words; because our diviner part has emotions that we have not yet got the speech and language to declare.
Imagine the joy in Atheling Manor House that night! The Squire had to go apart for a little while; and tears of delight were in the good mother’s eyes as she took out her beautiful Derby china for the welcoming feast. As for Kate and Piers, they were at last in earth’s Paradise. Their lives had suddenly come to flower; and there was no canker in any of the blossoms. They had waited their full hour. And if the angels in heaven rejoice over a sinner repenting, how much more must they rejoice in our happiness, and sympathise in our innocent love! Surely the guardian angels of Piers and Kate were satisfied. Their dear charges had shown a noble restraint, and were now reaping the joy of it. Do angels talk in heaven of what happens among the sons and daughters of men whom they are sent to minister unto, to guide, and to guard? If so, they must have talked of these lovers, so dutiful and so true, and rejoiced in the joy of their renewed espousals.
Their marriage quickly followed. In a few weeks Piers had made Exham Hall a palace of splendour and beauty for his bride, and Kate’s wedding garments were all ready. And far and wide there was a most unusual interest taken in these lovers, so that all the great county families desired and sought for invitations to the marriage ceremony, and the little church of Atheling could hardly contain the guests. Even to this day it is remembered that nearly one hundred gentlemen of the North Riding escorted the bride from Atheling to Exham.
But at last every social duty had been fulfilled, and they sat alone in the gloaming, with their great love, and their great joy. And as they spoke of the days when this love first began, Kate reminded Piers of the swing in the laurel walk, and her girlish rhyming,–
“It may so happen, it may so fall,
That I shall be Lady of Exham Hall.”
And Piers drew her beautiful head closer to his own, and added,–
“Weary wishing, and waiting past,
Lady of Exham Hall at last!”
After twenty years have passed away, it is safe to ask if events have been all that they promised to be; and one morning in August of 1857, it was twenty years since Kate Atheling became Lady Exham. She was sitting at a table writing letters to her two eldest sons, who were with their tutor in the then little known Hebrides. Lord Exham was busy with his mail. They were in a splendid room, opening upon a lawn, soft and green beyond description; and the August sunshine and the August lilies filled it with warmth and fragrance. Lady Exham was even more beautiful than on her wedding day. Time had matured without as yet touching her wonderful loveliness, and motherhood had crowned it with a tender and bewitching nobility. She had on a gown of lawn and lace, white as the flowers that hung in clusters from the Worcester vase at her side. Now and then Piers lifted his head and watched her for a moment; and then, with the faint, happy smile of a heart full and at ease, he opened another letter or paper. Suddenly he became a little excited. “Why, Kate,” he said, “here is my speech on the blessings which Reform has brought to England. I did not expect such a thing.”
“Read it to me, Piers.”
“It is entirely too long; although I only reviewed some of the notable works that followed Reform.”
“Such as–”
“Well, the abolition of both black and white slavery; the breaking up of the gigantic monopoly of the East India Company, and the throwing open of our ports to the merchants of the world; the inauguration of a system of national education; the reform of our cruel criminal code; the abolition of the press gang, and of chimney sweeping by little children, and such brutalities; the postal reform; and the spread of such good, cheap literature as the Penny Magazine and Chambers’s Magazine. My dear Kate, it would require a book to tell all that the Reform Bill has done for England. Think of the misery of that last two years’ struggle, and look at our happy country to-day.”
“Prosperous, but not happy, Piers. How can we be happy when, all over the land, mothers are weeping because their children are not. If this awful Sepoy rebellion was only over; then!”
“Yes,” answered Piers; “if it was only over! Surely there never was a war so full of strange, unnatural cruelties. I wonder where Cecil and Annabel are.”
“Wherever they are, I am sure both of them will be in the way of honour and duty.”
There was a pause, and then Piers asked, “To whom are you writing, dear Kate?”
“To Dick and John. They do not want to return to their studies this winter; they wish to travel in Italy.”
“Nonsense! They must go through college before they travel. Tell them so.”
The Duke had entered as Piers was speaking, and he listened to his remark. Then, even as he stooped to kiss Kate, he contradicted it. “I don’t think so, Piers,” he said decisively. “Let the boys go. Give them their own way a little. I do not like to see such spirited youths snubbed for a trifle.”
“But this is not a trifle, Father.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You insisted on my following the usual plan of college first, and travel afterwards.”
“That was before the days of Reform. The boys are my grandsons. I think I ought to decide on a question of this kind. What do you say, my dear?” and he turned his kindly face, with its crown of snowy hair, to Kate.
“It is to be as you say, Father,” she answered. “Is there any Indian news?”
“Alas! Alas!” he answered, becoming suddenly very sorrowful, “there is calamitous news,–the fort in which Colonel North was shut up, has fallen; and Cecil and Annabel are dead.”
“Oh, not massacred! Do not tell us that!” cried Kate, covering her ears with her hands.
“Not quite as bad. A Sepoy who was Cecil’s orderly, and much attached to him, has been permitted to bring us the terrible news, with some valuable gems and papers which Annabel confided to him. He told me that Cecil held out wonderfully; but it was impossible to send him help. Their food and ammunition were gone; and the troops, who were mainly Sepoys, were ready to open the gates to the first band of rebels that approached. One morning, just at daybreak, Cecil knew the hour had come. Annabel was asleep; but he awakened her. She had been expecting the call for many days; and, when Cecil spoke, she knew it was death. But she rose smiling, and answered, ‘I am ready, Love.’ He held her close to his breast, and they comforted and strengthened one another until the tramp of the brutes entering the court was heard. Then Annabel closed her eyes, and Cecil sent a merciful bullet through the brave heart that had shared with him, for twenty-five years, every trial and danger. Her last words were, ‘Come quickly, Cecil,’ and he followed her in an instant. The man says he hid their bodies, and they were not mutilated. But the fort was blown up and burned; and, in this case, the fiery solution was the best.”
“And her children?” whispered Kate.
“The boys are at Rugby. The little girl died some weeks ago.”
The Duke was much affected. He had loved Annabel truly, and her tragic death powerfully moved him. “The Duchess,” he said, “had wept herself ill; and he had promised her to return quickly.” But as he went away, he turned to charge Piers and Kate not to disappoint his grandsons. “They are such good boys,” he added; “and it is not a great matter to let them go to Italy, if they want to–only send Stanhope with them.”
No further objection was then made. Kate had learned that it is folly to oppose things yet far away, and which are subject to a thousand unforeseen influences. When the time for decision came, Dick and John might have changed their wishes. So she only smiled a present assent, and then let her thoughts fly to the lonely fort where Cecil and Annabel had suffered and conquered the last great enemy. For a few minutes, Piers was occupied in the same manner; and when he spoke, it was in the soft, reminiscent voice which memory–especially sad memory–uses.
“It is strange, Kate,” he said, “but I remember Annabel predicting this end for herself. We were sitting in the white-and-gold parlour in the London House, where I had found her playing with the cat in a very merry mood. Suddenly she imagined the cat had scratched her, and she spread out her little brown hand, and looked for the wound. There was none visible; but she pointed to a certain spot at the base of her finger, and said, ‘>Look, Piers. There is the sign of my doom,–my death-token. I shall perish in fire and blood.’ Then she laughed and quickly changed the subject, and I did not think it worth pursuing. Yet it was in her mind, for a few minutes afterwards, she opened her hand again, held it to the light, and added, ‘An old Hindoo priest told me this. He said our death-warrant was written on our palms, and we brought it into life with us.’”
“You should have contradicted that, Piers.”
“I did. I told her, our death-warrant was in the Hand of Him with whom alone are the issues of life and death.”
“She was haunted by the prophecy,” said Kate. “She often spoke of it. Oh, Piers, how merciful is the veil that hides our days to come!”
“I feel wretched. Let us go to Atheling; it will do us good.”
“It is very warm yet, Piers.”
“Never mind, I want to see the children. The house is too still. They have been at Atheling for three days.”
“We promised them a week. Harold will expect the week; and Edith and Maude will rebel at any shorter time.”
“At any rate let us go and see them.”
“Shall we ride there?”
“Let us rather take a carriage. One of the three may possibly be willing to come back with us.”
Near the gates of Atheling they met the Squire and his grandson Harold. They had been fishing. “The dew was on the grass when we went away; and Harold has been into the water after the trout. We are both a bit wet,” said the Squire; “but our baskets are full.” And then Harold leaped into the carriage beside his father and mother, and proudly exhibited his speckled beauties.
Mrs. Atheling had heard their approach, and she was at the open door to meet them. Very little change had taken place in her. Her face was a trifle older, but it was finer and tenderer; and her smile was as sweet and ready, and her manner as gracious–though perhaps a shade quieter than in the days when we first met her. Her granddaughter Edith, a girl of eight years, stood at her side; and Maude, a charming babe of four, clung to her black-silk apron, and half-hid her pretty face in its sombre folds. To her mother, Kate was still Kate; and to Kate, mother was still mother. They went into the house together, little Maude making a link between them, and Edith holding her mother’s hand. But, in the slight confusion following their arrival, the children all disappeared.
“They were helping Bradley to make tarts,” said Mrs. Atheling, “when I called them, and they have gone back to their pastry and jam. Let them alone. Dear me! I remember how proud I was when I first cut pastry round the patty pans with my thumb,” and Mrs. Atheling looked at Kate, who smiled and nodded at her own similar memory.
They were soon seated in the large parlour, where all the windows were open, and a faint little breeze stirring the cherry leaves round them. Then the Squire began to talk of the Indian news; and Piers told, with a pitiful pathos, the last tragic act in Cecil’s and Annabel’s love and life. And when he had finished the narration, greatly to every one’s amazement, the Squire rose to his feet, and, lifting his eyes heavenward, said solemnly,–
“I give hearty thanks for their death, so noble and so worthy of their faith and their race. I give hearty thanks because God, knowing their hearts and their love, committed unto them the dismissing of their own souls from the wanton cruelty of incarnate devils. I give hearty thanks for Love triumphant over Death, and for that faith in our immortality which could command an immediate re-union, ‘Come quickly, Cecil!’
“There is nothing to cry about,” he added, as he resumed his seat. “Death must come to all of us. It came mercifully to these two. It did not separate them; they went together. Somewhere in God’s Universe they are now, without doubt, doing His Will together. Let us give thanks for them.”
After a little while, Kate and her mother went away. They had many things to talk over about which masculine opinions were not necessary, nor even desirable. And the Squire and Piers had, in a certain way, a similar confidence. Indeed the Squire told Piers many things he would not have told any one else,–little wrongs and worries not worth complaining about to his wife, and perhaps about which he was not very certain of her sympathy. But with Piers, these crept into his conversation, and were talked away, or at least considerably lessened, by his son-in-law’s patient interest.
This morning their conversation had an unconscious tone of gratified prophecy in it. “Edgar is in a lot of trouble,” he said; “but then he seems to enjoy it. His hands gathered in the mill-yard yesterday and gave him what they call, ‘a bit of their mind.’ And their ‘mind’ isn’t what you and I would call a civil one. Luke Staley, a big dyer from Oldham, got beyond bearing, and told Edgar, if he didn’t do thus and so, he would be made to. And Edgar can be very provoking. He didn’t tell me what he said; but I have no doubt it was a few of the strongest words he could pick out. And Luke Staley, not having quite such a big private stock as Edgar, doubled his fist, to make the shortage good, almost in Edgar’s face; and there would have, maybe, been a few blows, if Edgar had not taken very strong measures at once,–that is, Piers, he knocked the fellow down as flat as a pancake. And then all was so still that, Edgar said, the very leaves rustling seemed noisy; and he told them in his masterful way, they could have five minutes to get back to their looms. And if they were not back in five minutes, he promised them he would dump the fires and lock the gates, and they could go about their business.”
“And they went to their looms, of course?”
“To be sure they did. More than that, Luke Staley picked himself up, and went civilly to Edgar and said, ‘That was a good knock-down. I’m beat this time, Master;’ and he offered his hand, blue and black with dyes, and Edgar took it. My word! how his grandfather Belward would have enjoyed that scene. I am sorry he is not alive this day. He missed a deal by dying before Reform. Edgar and he together could keep a thousand men at their looms–and set the price, too.”
“What did the men want?”
“A bit of Reform, of course,–more wage and less work. I am not much put out of the way now, Piers, with the mill. I get a lot of pleasure out of it, one road or another. Did I ever tell you about the Excursion Edgar gave them last week?”
“I have not heard anything about it.”
“Well, you see, Edgar sent all his hands and their wives and sweethearts to the seaside, and gave them a good dinner; and they had a band of music to play for them, and a little steamer to give them a sail; and they came home at midnight, singing and in high good humour. Edgar thought he had pleased them. Not a bit of it! Two nights after they held a meeting in that Mechanics Hall Mrs. Atheling built for them. What for? To talk over the jaunt, and try and find out, ‘What Master Atheling was up to.’ You see they were sure he had a selfish motive of some kind.”
“I don’t believe he had a single selfish motive; he is not a selfish man,” said Piers.
“I wouldn’t swear to his motives, Piers. Between you and me, he wants to go to Parliament again.”
“He ought to be there; it is his native heath, in a manner.”
“Well, as I said, one way or another, I get a lot of pleasure out of these men. There is a truce on now between them and Edgar; but, in the main, it is a lively truce.”
“Edgar seems to enjoy the conditions, also, Father.”
“Well, he ought to have a bit of something that pleases him. He has a deal of contrary things to fight. There is his eldest son.”
“Augustus?”
“Yes, Augustus.”
“What has Augustus done?”
“He will paint pictures and make little figures, and waste his time about such things as no Atheling in this world ever bothered his head about,–unless he wanted his likeness painted. The lad does wonders with his colours and brushes, and I’ll allow that. He brought me a bit of canvas with that corner by the fir woods on it, and you would have thought you could pull the grass and drink the water. But I did not think it right to praise him much. I said, ‘Very good, Augustus, but what will you make by this?’”
“Well?”
“Well, Piers, the lad talked about his ideals, and said Art was its own reward, and a lot of rubbishy nonsense. But I never expected much from a boy called Augustus. That was his mother’s whim; no Atheling was ever called such a name before. He wants to go to Italy, and his father wants him in the mill. Edgar is finding a few things out now he didn’t believe in when he was twenty years old. The point of view is everything, Piers. Edgar looks at things as a father looks at them now; then, he had an idea that fathers knew next to nothing. Augustus is no worse than he was. Maybe, he will come to looms yet; he is just like the Curzons, and they were loom lovers. Now Cecil, his second boy, has far better notions. He likes a rod, and a horse, and a gun; and he thinks a gamekeeper has the best position in the world.”
“Mrs. Atheling sets us all an example. She is always doing something for the people.”
“They don’t thank her for it. She brings lecturers, and expects them to go and hear them; and the men would rather be in the cricket field. She has classes of all kinds for the women and girls; and they don’t want her interfering in their ways and their houses. I’ll tell you what it is, Piers, you cannot write Reform upon flesh and blood as easy as you can write it upon paper. It will take a few generations to erase the old marks, and put the new marks on.”
“Still Reform has been a great blessing. You know that, Father.”
“Publicly, I know it, Piers. Privately, I keep my own ideas. But there is Kate calling us, and I see the carriage is waiting. Thank God, Reform has nothing to do with homes. Wives and children are always the same. We don’t want them changed, even for the better.”
“You do not mean that?”
“Yes, I do,” said the Squire, positively. “My wife’s faults are very dear to me. Do you think I would like to miss her bits of tempers, and her unreasonableness? Even when she tries to get the better of me, I like it. I wouldn’t have her perfect, not if I could.”
Then Piers called for his son; but Harold could not be found. The Squire laughed. “He has run away,” he said. “The boy wants a holiday. I’ll take good care of him. He isn’t doing nothing; he is learning to catch a trout. Many a very clever man can’t catch a trout.” Then Piers asked his little daughters to come home with him; and Edith hid herself behind the ample skirts of her grandfather’s coat, and Maude lifted her arms to her grandmother, and snuggled herself into her bosom.
“Come, Piers, we shall have to go home alone,” Kate said.
“You have Katherine at home,” said the Squire.
And then Kate laughed. “Why, Father,” she said, “you speak as if Katherine was more than we ought to expect. Surely we may have one of our six children. The Duke thinks he has whole and sole right in Dick and John; and you have Harold and Edith and Maude.”
“And you have Katherine,” reiterated the Squire.
When they got back to Exham Hall, the little Lady Katherine was in the drawing-room to meet them. She was the eldest daughter of the house, a fair girl of fifteen with her father’s refined face and rather melancholy manner. Piers delighted in her; and there was a sympathy between them that needed no words. She had a singular love for music, though from what ancestor it had come no one could tell; and it was her usual custom after dinner to open the door a little between the drawing-room and music-room, and play her various studies, while her father and mother mused, and talked, and listened.
This evening Piers lit his cigar, and Kate and he walked in the garden. It was warm, and still, and full of moonshine; and the music rose and fell to their soft reminiscent talk of the many interests that had filled their lives for the past twenty golden years. And when they were wearied a little, they came back to the drawing-room and were quiet. For Katherine was striking the first notes of a little melody that always charmed them; and as they listened, her girlish voice lifted the song, and the tender words floated in to them, and sunk into their hearts, and became a prayer of thanksgiving.
“We have lived and loved together,
Through many changing years;
We have shared each other’s gladness,
And wept each other’s tears.”
And while Kate’s face illuminated the words, Piers leaned forward, and took both her hands in his, and whispered with far tenderer, truer love than in the old days of his first wooing.
And if any thought of The Other One entered his mind at this hour, it came with a thanksgiving for a life nobly redeemed by a pure, unselfish love, and a death which was at once sacrificial and sacramental.