"_The Land is a Land of hills and valleys, and drinketh water of the
rain of heaven._"
Beyond Thirsk and Northallerton, through the Cleveland Hills to the sea
eastward, and by Roseberry Topping, northward, there is a lovely, lonely
district, very little known even at the present day. The winds stream
through its hills, as cool and fresh as living water; and whatever beauty
there is of mountain, valley, or moorland, Farndale and Westerdale
can show it; while no part of England is so rich in those picturesque
manor-houses which have been the homes of the same families for twenty
generations.
The inhabitants of this region are the incarnation of its health,
strength, and beauty,--a tall, comely race; bold, steadfast, and
thrifty, with very positive opinions on all subjects. There are no
Laodiceans among the men and women of the North-Riding; they are one
thing or another--Episcopalians or Calvinists; Conservatives or Radicals;
friends or enemies. For friendship they have a capacity closer than
brotherhood. Once friends, they are friends forever, and can be relied on
in any emergency to "aid, comfort, and abet," legally or otherwise,
with perhaps a special zest to give assistance, if it just smacks of
the "otherwise."
Of such elements, John Atheling, lord of the manors of Atheling and
Belward, was "kindly mixed," a man of towering form and great mental
vigour, blunt of speech, single of purpose, leading, with great natural
dignity, a sincere, unsophisticated life. He began this story one evening
in the May of 1830; though when he left Atheling manor-house, he had
no idea anything out of the customary order of events would happen. It is
however just these mysterious conditions of everyday life that give it
such gravity and interest; for what an hour will bring forth, no man
can say; and when Squire Atheling rode up to the crowd on the village
green, he had no presentiment that he was going to open a new chapter in
his life.
He smiled pleasantly when he saw its occasion. It was a wrestling match;
and the combatants were his own chief shepherd and a stranger. In a
few moments the shepherd was handsomely "thrown" and nobody knew
exactly how it had been done. But there was hearty applause, led by
the Squire, who, nodding at his big ploughman, cried out, "Now then,
Adam Sedbergh, stand up for Atheling!" Adam flung off his vest and
stepped confidently forward; but though a famous wrestler among his
fellows, he got as speedy and as fair a fall as the shepherd had received
before him. The cheers were not quite as hearty at this result, but the
Squire said peremptorily,--
"It is all right. Hold my horse, Jarum. I'll have to cap this match
myself. And stand back a bit, men, I want room enough to turn in." He
was taking off his fine broadcloth coat and vest as he spoke, and the lad
he was to match, stood looking at him with his hands on his hips, and a
smile on his handsome face. Perhaps the attitude and the smile nettled
the Squire, for he added with some pride and authority,--
"I would like you to know that I am Squire Atheling; and I am not going
to have a better wrestler than myself in Atheling Manor, young man, not
if I can help it."
"I know that you are Squire Atheling," answered the stranger. "I have
been living with your son Edgar for a year, why wouldn't I know you? And
if I prove myself the better man, then you shall stop and listen to me
for half-an-hour, and you may stop a whole hour, if you want to; and I
think you will."
"I know nothing about Edgar Atheling, and I am not standing here
either to talk to thee, or to listen to thee, but to give thee a fair
'throw' if I can manage it." He stretched out his left hand as he
spoke, and the young man grasped it with his right hand. This result
was anticipated; there was a swift twist outward, and a lift upward, and
before anyone realised what would happen, a pair of shapely young legs
were flying over the Squire's shoulder. Then there rose from twenty
Yorkshire throats a roar of triumph, and the Squire put his hands on his
hips, and looked complacently at the stranger flicking the Atheling
dust from his trousers. He took his defeat as cheerily as his triumph.
"It was a clever throw, Squire," he said.
"Try it again, lad."
"Nay, I have had enough."
"I thought so. Now then, don't brag of thy wrestling till thou
understandest a bit of 'In-play.' But I'll warrant thou canst talk,
so I'll give myself a few minutes to listen to thee. I should say, I
am twice as old as thou art, but I notice that it is the babes and
sucklings that know everything, these days."
As the Squire was speaking, the youth leaped into an empty cart which
someone pushed forward, and he was ready with his answer,--
"Squire," he said, "it will take not babes, but men like you and these
I see around me, for the wrestling match before us all. What we have to
tackle is the British Government and the two Houses of Parliament."
The Squire laughed scornfully. "They will 'throw' thee into the
strongest jail in England, my lad; they will sink thee four feet under
ground, if thou art bound for any of that nonsense."
"They will have enough to do to take care of themselves soon."
"Thou art saying more than thou knowest. Wouldst thou have the horrors
of 1792 acted over again, in England? My lad, I was a youngster then,
but I saw the red flag, dripping with blood, go round the Champ-de-Mars."
"None of us want to carry the red flag, Squire. It is the tri-colour
of Liberty we want; and that flag--in spite of all tyrants can do--will
be carried round the world in glory! When I was in America--"
"Wilt thou be quiet about them foreign countries? We have bother enough
at home, without going to the world's end for more. And I will have no
such talk in my manor. If thou dost not stop it, I shall have to make
thee."
"King William, and all his Lords and Commons, cannot stop such talk.
It is on every honest tongue, and at every decent table. It is in the
air, Squire, and the winds of heaven carry it wherever they go."
"If thou saidst _William Cobbett_, thou mightst happen hit the truth.
The winds of heaven have better work to do. What art thou after anyway?"
"Such a Parliamentary Reform as will give every honest man a voice in
the Government."
"Just so! Thou wouldst make the door of the House of Commons big enough
for any rubbish to go through."
"The plan has been tried, Squire, in America; and
As the Liberty Lads over the sea,
Bought their freedom--and cheaply--with blood;
So we, boys, we
Will die fighting; or live free,
And down with--"
"Stop there!" roared the Squire. "Nonsense in poetry is a bit worse
than any other kind of nonsense. Speak in plain words, or be done with
it! Do you know what you want?"
"That we do. We want the big towns, where working men are the many, and
rich men, the few, to be represented. We want all sham boroughs thrown
out. What do you think of Old Sarum sending a member to Parliament,
when there isn't any Old Sarum? There used to be, in the days of King
Edward the First, but there is now no more left of it than there is of
the Tower of Babel. What do you think of the Member for Ludgershall
being not only the Member, but the _whole constituency_ of Ludgershall?
What do you think of Gatton having just seven voters, and sending
_two_ members to Parliament?"--then leaning forward, and with burning
looks drinking the wind of his own passionate speech--"What do you
think of _Leeds! Manchester! Birmingham! Sheffield!_ being _without
any representation_!"
"My lad," cried the Squire, "have not Leeds, Manchester, Birmingham,
Sheffield, done very well without representation?"
"Squire, a child may grow to a man without love and without care; but
he is a robbed and a wronged child, for all that."
"The Government knows better than thee what to do with big towns full of
unruly men and women."
"That is just the question. They are not represented, because they
are made up of the working population of England. But the working man
has not only his general rights, he has also rights peculiar to his
condition; and it is high time these rights were attended to. Yet these
great cities, full of woollen and cotton weavers, and of fine workers
in all kinds of metals, have not a man in Parliament to say a word for
them."
"What is there to say? What do they want Parliament to know?" asked the
Squire, scornfully.
"They want Parliament to know that they are being forced to work twelve
hours a day, for thirty pennies a week; and that they have to pay ten
pennies for every four-pound loaf of bread. And they expect that when
Parliament knows these two facts, something will be done to help them in
their poverty and misery. They believe that the people of England will
_compel_ Parliament to do something."
"There are Members in both Houses that know these things, why do they
not speak?--if it was reasonable to do so."
"Squire, they dare not. They have not the power, even if they had the
will. The Peers and the great Landlords own two-thirds of the House of
Commons. They _own_ their boroughs and members, just as they _own_ their
parks and cattle. One duke returns eleven members; another duke returns
nine members; and such a city as Manchester cannot return one! If this
state of things does not need reforming, I do not know what does."
So far his words had rushed rattling on one another, like the ring of
iron on iron in a day of old-world battle; but at this point, the Squire
managed again to interrupt them. From his saddle he had something of an
advantage, as he called out in an angry voice,--
"And pray now, what are _you_ to make by this business? Is it a bit of
brass--or land--or power that you look forward to?"
"None of them. I have set my heart on the goal, and not on the prize.
Let the men who come after me reap; I am glad enough if I may but plough
and sow. The Americans--"
"_Chaff_, on the Americans! We are North-Riding men. We are Englishmen.
We are sound-hearted, upstanding fellows who do our day's work, enjoy
our meat and drinking, pay our debts, and die in our beds; and we
want none of thy Reform talk! It is all scandalous rubbish! Bouncing,
swaggering, new-fashioned trumpery! We don't hold with Reformers, nor
with any of their ways! I will listen to thee no longer. Thou mayst talk
to my men, if they will be bothered with thee. I'm not afraid of
anything thou canst say to them."
"I think they will be bothered with me, Squire. They do not look like
fools."
"At any rate, there isn't one Reform fool among them; but I'll tell
thee something--go to a looking-glass, and thou mayst shake thy fist in
the face of one of the biggest fools in England,"--and to the laughter
this sally provoked the Squire galloped away.
For a short distance, horse and rider kept up the pace of enthusiasm;
but when the village was left behind, the Squire's mood fell below its
level; and a sudden depression assailed him. He had "thrown" his man;
he had "threeped" him down in argument; but he had denied his son,
and he brought a hungry heart from his victory. The bright face of his
banished boy haunted the evening shadows; he grew sorrowfully impatient
at the memories of the past; and when he could bear them no longer, he
struck the horse a smart blow, and said angrily,--
"Dal it all! Sons and daughters indeed! A bitter, bitter pleasure!"
At this exclamation, a turn in the road brought him in sight of two
horsemen. "_Whew!_ I am having a night of it!" he muttered. For he
recognised immediately the portly figure of the great Duke of Richmoor,
and he did not doubt that the slighter man at his side was his son,
Lord Exham. The recognition was mutual; and on the Duke's side very
satisfactory. He quickened his horse's speed, and cried out as he
neared the Squire,--
"Well met, Atheling! You are the very man I wished to see! Do you
remember Exham?"
There was a little complimentary speaking, and then the Duke said
earnestly: "Squire, if there is one thing above another that at this
time the landed interest ought to do, it is to stand together. The
country is going to the devil; it is on the verge of revolution. We
must have a majority in the next Parliament; and we want you for the
borough of Asketh. Exham has come back from Italy purposely to take
Gaythorne. What do you say?"
It was the great ambition of the Squire to go to Parliament, and the
little dispute he had just had with the stranger on the green had whetted
this desire to a point which made the Duke's question a very interesting
one to him; but he was too shrewd to make this satisfaction apparent.
"There are younger men, Duke," he answered slowly; "and they who go
to the next Parliament will have a trying time of it. I hear queer
tales, too, of Parliament men; and the House keeps late hours; and late
hours never did suit my constitution."
"Come, Atheling, that is poor talk at a crisis like this. There will be
a meeting at the Castle on Friday--a very important meeting--and I shall
expect you to take the chair. We are in for such a fight as England has
not had since the days of Oliver Cromwell; and it would not be like John
Atheling to keep out of it."
"It wouldn't. If there is anything worth fighting for, John Atheling
will be thereabouts, I'll warrant him."
"Then we may depend upon you--Friday, and two in the afternoon, is the
day and the hour. You will not fail us?"
"Duke, you may depend upon me." And so the men parted; the Squire, in
the unexpected proposal just made him, hardly comprehending the messages
of friendly courtesy which Lord Exham charged him to deliver to Mrs. and
Miss Atheling.
"My word! My word!" he exclaimed, as soon as the Duke and he were far
enough back to back. "Won't Maude be set up? Won't little Kitty
plume her wings?" and in this vague, purposeless sense of wonder and
elation he reached his home. The gates to the large, sweet garden stood
open, but after a moment's thought, he passed them, and went round to
the farm court at the back of the house. The stables occupied one
side of this court, and he left his horse there, and proceeded to
the kitchen. The girls were starting the fires under the coppers for
the quarterly brewing; they said "the Missis was in the houseplace,"
and the Squire opened the door between the two rooms, and went into
the houseplace. But the large room was empty, though the lattices were
open, and a sudden great waft of honeysuckle fragrance saluted him as
he passed them. He noticed it, and he noticed also the full moonlight
on the rows of shining pewter plates and flagons, though he was not
conscious at the time that these things had made any impression upon him.
Two or three steps at the west end of this room led to a door which
opened into Mrs. Atheling's parlour; and the Squire passed it
impatiently. The news of the night had become too much for him; he wanted
to tell his wife. But Mrs. Atheling was not in her parlour. A few ash
logs were burning brightly on the hearth, and there was a round table
spread for supper, and the candles were lit, and showed him the
mistress's little basket containing her keys and her knitting, but
neither wife nor daughter were to be seen.
"It is always the way," he muttered. "It is enough to vex any man.
Women are sure to be out of the road when they are wanted; and in the
road when nobody cares to see them. Wherever has Maude taken herself?"
Then he opened a door and called "Maude! Maude!" in no gentle voice.
[Illustration:]
In a few minutes the call was answered. Mrs. Atheling came hurriedly
into the room. There was a pleasant smile on her large, handsome face,
and she carried in her hands a bowl of cream and a loaf of white bread.
"Why, John!" she exclaimed, "whatever is to do? I was getting a bit
of supper for you. You are late home to-night, aren't you?"
"I should think I was--all of an hour-and-a-half late."
"But you are not ill, John? There is nothing wrong, I hope?"
"If things go a bit out of the common way, women always ask if they have
gone wrong. I should think, they might as well go right."
"So they might. Here is some fresh cream, John. I saw after it myself;
and the haver-cake is toasted, and--"
"Nay, but I'll have my drinking to-night, Maude. I have been flustered
more than a little, I can tell thee that."
"Then you shall have your drinking. We tapped a fresh barrel of old ale
an hour ago. It is that strong and fine as never was; by the time you
get to your third pint, you will be ready to make faces at Goliath."
"Well, Maude, if making faces means making fight, there will be enough
of that in every county of England soon,--if Dukes and Radical orators
are to be believed."
"Have you seen the Duke to-night?"
"I have. He has offered me a seat in the next Parliament. He thinks
there is a big fight before us."
"Parliament! And the Duke of Richmoor to seat you! Why, John, I am
astonished!"
"I felt like I was dreaming. Now then, where is Kate? I want to tell
the little maid about it. It will be a grand thing for Kate. She will
have some chances in London, and I'll warrant she is Yorkshire enough to
take the best of them."
"Kate was at Dashwood's all the afternoon; and they were riding races;
and she came home tired to death. I tucked her up in her bed an hour
ago."
"I am a bit disappointed; but things are mostly ordered that way. There
is something else to tell you, Maude. I saw a stranger on the green throw
Bill Verity and Adam Sedbergh; and I could not stand such nonsense as
that, so I off with my coat and settled him."
"You promised me that you would not 'stand up' any more, John. Some
of them youngsters will give you a 'throw' that you won't get easy
over. And you out of practice too."
"Out of practice! Nothing of the sort. What do you think I do with
myself on wet afternoons? What could I do with myself, but go to the
granary and have an hour or two's play with Verity and Sedbergh, or any
other of the lads that care to feel my grip? I have something else to
tell you, Maude. I had a talk with this strange lad. He began some Reform
nonsense; and I settled him very cleverly."
"Poor lad!" She spoke sadly and absently, and it nettled the Squire.
"I know what you are thinking, Mistress," he said; "but the time has
come when we are bound to stick to our own side."
"The poor are suffering terribly, John. They are starved and driven to
the last pinch. There never was anything like it before."
"Women are a soft lot; it would not do to give up to their notions."
"If you mean that women have soft hearts, it is a good thing for men
that women are that way made."
"I have not done with my wonders yet. Who do you think was with the
Duke?"
"I don't know, and I can't say that I care."
"Yes, but you do. It was Lord Exham. He said this and that about you,
but I did not take much notice of his fine words." Then he rose and
pushed his chair aside, and as he left the room added,--
"That stranger lad I had the tussle with to-night says he knows your
son Edgar--that they have lived and worked together for a year,--a very
unlikely thing."
"Stop a minute, Squire. Are you not ashamed of yourself to keep this
news for a tag-end? Why it is the best thing I have heard to-night; and
I'll be bound you let it go past you like a waft of wind. What did you
ask the stranger about _my_ son?"
"Nothing. Not a word."
"It was like your stubborn heart. _My son_ indeed! If ever you had a
son, it is Edgar. You were just like him when I married you--not as
handsome--but very near; and you are as like as two garden peas in your
pride, and self-will, and foolish anger. Don't talk to me of Dukes, and
Lords, and Parliaments, and wrestling matches. I want to hear about
_my_ son. If you have nothing to say about Edgar, I care little for
your other news."
"Why, Maude! Whatever is the matter with you? I have lived with you
thirty years, and it seems that I have never known you yet."
"But I know you, John Atheling. And I am ashamed of myself for having
made nothing better out of you in thirty years. I thought I had you
better shaped than you appear to be."
"I shall need nothing but my shroud, when thou, or any other mortal,
shapest me."
"Fiddlesticks! Go away with your pride! I have shaped everything for
you,--your house, and your eating; your clothes, and your religion; and
if I had ever thought you would have fallen into Duke Richmoor's hands,
I would have shaped your politics before this time of day."
"Now, Maude, thou canst easily go further than thou canst come back,
if thou dost not take care. Thou must remember that I am thy lord and
husband."
"To be sure, thou hast that name. But thou hast always found it best
to do as thy lady and mistress told thee to do; and if ever thou didst
take thy own way, sorry enough thou hast been for it. Talk of clay in the
hands of the potter! Clay is free and independent to what a man is in the
hands of his wife. Now, John, go to bed. I won't speak to thee again
till I find out something about _my_ son Edgar."
"Very well, Madame."
"I have been thy guardian angel for thirty years"--and Mrs. Atheling
put her head in her hands, and began to cry a little. The Squire could
not bear that argument; he turned backward a few steps, and said in a
more conciliatory voice,--
"Come now, Maude. Thou hast been my master for thirty years; for that
is what thou meanest by 'guardian angel.' But there is nothing worth
crying about. I thought I had brought news that would set thee up a bit;
but women are never satisfied. What dost thou want more?"
"I want thee to go in the morning and find out all about Edgar. I want
thee to bring his friend up here. I would like to question him myself."
"I will not do it."
"Then thou oughtest to be ashamed of thyself for as cruel, and stubborn,
and ill-conditioned a father as I know of. John, dear John, I am very
unhappy about the lad. He went away without a rag of his best clothes.
There's the twelve fine linen shirts Kitty made him, backstitched
and everything, lying in his drawers yet, and his top-coat hanging on
the peg in his room, and his hat and cane so natural like; and he never
was a lad to take care of his health; and so--"
"Now, Maude, I have humbled a bit to thee many a time; and I don't
mind it at all; for thou art only a woman--and a woman and a wife can
blackguard a man as no other body has either the right or the power to
do--but I will not humble to Edgar Atheling. No, I won't! He is about as
bad a prodigal son as any father could have."
"Well, I never! Putting thy own son down with harlots and swine, and
such like!"
"I do nothing of the sort, Maude. There's all kinds of prodigals.
Has not Edgar left his home and gone away with Radicals and Reformers,
and poor, discontented beggars of all makes and kinds? Happen, I could
have forgiven him easier if it had been a bit of pleasuring,--wine and
a bonny lass, or a race-horse or two. But mechanics' meetings, and
pandering to ranting Radicals--I call it scandalous!"
"Edgar has a good heart."
"A good heart! A cat and a fiddle! And that friend of his thou wantest
me to run after, he is nothing but a bouncing, swaggering puppy! Body of
me, Maude! I will not have this subject named again. If thou thinkest I
will ever humble to Edgar Atheling, thou art off thy horse; for I will
not--_never_!"
"Well, John, as none of thy family were ever out of their senses before,
I do hope thou wilt come round; I do indeed!"
"Make thyself easy on that score. Lord! What did the Almighty make women
of? It confounds me."
"To be sure it does. Didst thou expect the Almighty to tell thee? He
has so ordered things that men get wed, and then try and find the secret
out. Thou hadst better go to bed, John Atheling. I see plainly there
is neither sense nor reason in thee to-night. I fancy thou art a bit
set up with the thought of being sent to Parliament by Duke Richmoor. I
wouldn't if I was thee, for thou wilt have to do just what he tells
thee to do."
"What an aggravating woman thou art!" and with the words he passed
through the door, clashing it after him in a way that made Mistress
Atheling smile and nod her handsome head understandingly. She stood
waiting until she heard a door clash sympathetically up-stairs, and
then she said softly,--
"He did not manage to 'throw' or 'threep' me; if he was cock of
the walk down on the green--what fools men are!--I see clear through
him--stubborn though--takes after his mother--and there never was a woman
more stubborn than Dame Joan Atheling."
During this soliloquy she was locking up the cupboards in the parlour
and houseplace. Then she opened the kitchen door and sharply gave the
two women watching the malt mash her last orders; after which she took
off her slippers at the foot of the stairs, and went very quietly up
them. She had no light, but without any hesitation she turned towards
a certain corridor, and gently pushed open a door. It let her into a
large, low room; and the moonlight showed in the centre of it a high
canopied bedstead, piled with snowy pillows and drapery, and among them,
lying with closed eyes, her daughter Kate.
"Kate! Kitty darling! Are you awake?" she whispered.
"Mother! Yes, dear Mother, I am wide awake."
"Your father has been in one of his tantrums again--fretting and fuming
like everything."
"Poor father! What angered him?"
"Well, child, I angered him. Why wouldn't I? He saw a man in the
village who has been living with Edgar for a year, and he never asked
him whether your poor brother was alive or dead. What do you think of
that?"
"It was too bad. Never mind, Mother. I will go to the village in the
morning, and I will find the man, and hear all about Edgar. If there is
any chance, and you want to see him, I will bring him here."
"I would like him to come here, Kitty; for you know he might take Edgar
his best clothes. The poor lad must be in rags by this time."
"Don't fret, Mother. I'll manage it."
"I knew you would. Your father is going to Parliament, Kate. The Duke
offers to seat him, and you will get up to London. What do you think of
that?"
"I am very glad to hear it. Father ought to be in Parliament. He is such
a straight-forward man."
"Well, I don't know whether that kind of man is wanted there, Kate; but
he will do right, and speak plain, I have no doubt. I thought I would
tell you at once. It is something to look forward to. Now go to sleep and
dream of what may come out of it,--for one thing, you shall have plenty
of fine new dresses--good-night, my dear child."
"Good-night, Mother. You may go sweetly to sleep, for I will find out
all about Edgar. You shall be at rest before dinner-time to-morrow."
Then the mother stooped and tucked in the bedclothing, not because it
needed it, but because it was a natural and instinctive way to express
her care and tenderness. Very softly she stepped to the door, but
ere she reached it, turned back to the bed, and laying her hand upon
Kitty's head whispered, "Lord Exham is home again. He is coming here
to-morrow."
And Kate neither spoke nor moved; but when she knew that she was quite
alone, a sweet smile gathered round her lips, and with a gentle sigh she
went quickly away to the Land of Happy Dreams.