On the very edge of the deep, tumbling becks which feed the Esk stands
Exham Hall. It is a stately, irregular building of gray stone; and when
the sunshine is on its many windows, and the flag of Richmoor flying from
its central tower, it looks gaily down into the hearts of many valleys,
where
"The oak, and the ash, and the bonny ivy-tree,
Flourish at home in the North Countree."
Otherwise, it has, at a distance, a stern and forbidding aspect. For
it is in a great solitude, and the babble of the beck, and the cawing
of the rooks, are the only sounds that usually break the silence. The
north part was built in A. D. 1320; and the most modern part in the reign
of James the First; and yet so well has it stood the wear and tear of
elemental and human life in this secluded Yorkshire vale that it does
not appear to be above a century old.
It was usually tenanted either by the dowager of the family, or the
heir of the dukedom; and it had been opened at this time to receive its
young lord on his return from Italy. So it happened that at the very
hour when Mrs. and Miss Atheling were talking with Cecil North, Piers
Exham was sitting in a parlour of Exham Hall, thinking of Kate, and
recalling the events of their acquaintanceship. It had begun when he was
seventeen years old, and Kate Atheling exactly twelve. Indeed, because it
was her birthday, she was permitted to accompany an old servant going to
Exham Hall to visit the housekeeper, who was her cousin.
This event made a powerful impression on Kate's imagination. It was
like a visit to some enchanted castle. She felt all its glamour and
mystery as soon as her small feet trod the vast entrance hall with
its hangings of Arras tapestry, and its flags and weapons from every
English battlefield. Her fingers touched lightly standards from Crecy,
and Agincourt, and the walls of Jerusalem; and her heart throbbed to the
touch. And as she climbed the prodigiously wide staircase of carved
and polished oak, she thought of the generations of knights, and lords
and ladies, who had gone up and down it, and wondered where they were.
And oh, the marvellous old rooms with their shadowy portraits, and
their treasures from countries far away!--shells, and carved ivories,
and sandalwood boxes; strange perfumes, and old idols, melancholy,
fantastic, odd; musky-smelling things from Asia; and ornaments and
pottery from Africa, their gloomy, primitive simplicity, mingling with
pretty French trifles, and Italian bronzes, and costly bits of china.
It was all like an Arabian Night's adventure, and hardly needed the
touches of romance and superstition the housekeeper quite incidentally
threw in: thus, as they passed a very, very tall old clock with a silver
dial on a golden face, she said: "Happen, you would not believe it,
but on every tenth of June, a cold queer light travels all round that
dial. It begins an hour past midnight, and stops at an hour past noon.
I've seen it myself a score of times." And again, in going through
a state bed-room, she pointed out a cross and a candlestick, and said,
"They are made from bits of a famous ship that was blown up with an
Exham, fighting on the Spanish Main. I've heard tell that candles
were once lighted in that stick on his birthday; but there's been no
candle-lighting for a century, anyway." And Kate thought it was a
shame, and wished she knew his birthday, and might light candles again in
honour of the hero.
With such sights and tales, her childish head and heart were filled;
and the mazy gardens, with their monkish fish-ponds and hedges, their old
sun-dials and terraces, their ripening berries and gorgeous flower-beds,
completed her fascination. She went back to Atheling ravished and
spellbound; too wrapt and charmed to talk much of what she had seen, and
glad when she could escape into the Atheling garden to think it all over
again. She went straight to her swing. It was hung between two large
ash-trees, and there were high laurel hedges on each side. In this
solitude she sat down to remember, and, as she did so, began to swing
gently to-and-fro, and to sing to her movement,--
"It may so happen, it may so fall,
That I shall be Lady of Exham Hall."
And as she sung these lines over and over--being much pleased with their
unexpected rhyming--the young Lord of Exham Hall came through Atheling
garden. He heard his own name, and stood still to listen; then he softly
parted the laurel bushes, and watched the little maid, and heard her
sing her couplet, and merrily laugh to herself as she did so. And he
saw how beautiful she was, and there came into his heart a singular
warmth and pleasure; but, without discovering himself to the girl, he
delivered his message to Squire Atheling, and rode away.
The next morning, however, he managed to carry his fishing-rod to the
same beck where Edgar Atheling was casting his line, and to so charm the
warm-hearted youth that meeting after meeting grew out of it. Nor was it
long until the friendship of the youths included that of the girl; so
that it was a very ordinary thing for Kate to go with her brother and
Piers Exham to the hill-streams for trout. As the summer grew they tossed
the hay together, and rode after the harvest wagons, and danced at the
Ingathering Feast, and dressed the ancient church at Christmastide, and
so, with ever-increasing kindness and interest, shared each other's joy
and sorrows for nearly two years.
Then there was a break in the happy routine. Kate put on long dresses;
she was going to a fine ladies' school in York to be "finished," and
Edgar also was entered at Cambridge. Piers was to go to Oxford. He
begged to go to Cambridge with his friend; but the Duke approved the
Tory principles of his own University, and equally disapproved of
those of Cambridge, which he declared were deeply tainted with Whig
and even Radical ideas. Perhaps also he was inclined to break up the
close friendship between the Athelings and his heir. "No one can be
insensible to the beauty of Kate Atheling," he said to the Duchess;
"and Piers' constant association with such a lovely girl may not
be without danger." The Duchess smiled at the supposition. A royal
princess, in her estimation, was not above her son's deserts and
expectations; and the Squire's little home-bred girl was beneath
either her fears or her suppositions. This also was the tone in which
she received all her son's conversation about the Athelings. "Very nice
people, I dare say, Piers," she would remark; "and I am glad you have
such thoroughly respectable companions; but you will, of course, forget
them when you go to College, and begin your independent life." And
there was such an air of finality in these assertions that it was only
rarely Piers had the spirit to answer, "Indeed, I shall never forget
them!"
So it happened that the last few weeks of their friendship missed much
of the easy familiarity and sweet confidence that had hitherto marked
its every change. Kate, with the new consciousness of dawning womanhood,
was shy, less frank, and less intimate. Strangers began to call her
"Miss" Atheling; and there were hours when the little beauty's airs
of maidenly pride and reserve made Piers feel that any other address
would be impertinent. And this change had come, no one knew how, only it
was there, and not to be gainsaid; and every day's events added some
trifling look, or word, or act which widened the space between them,
though the space itself was full of sweet and kindly hours.
Then there came a day in autumn when Kate was to leave her home for the
York school. Edgar was already in Cambridge. Piers was to enter Oxford
the following week. This chapter of life was finished; and the three
happy souls that had made it, were to separate. Piers, who had a poetic
nature, and was really in love--though he suspected it not--was most
impressed with the passing away. He could not keep from Atheling, and
though he had bid Kate "good-bye" in the afternoon, he was not
satisfied with the parting. She had then been full of business: the
Squire was addressing her trunks; Mrs. Atheling crimping the lace
frill of her muslin tippets; and Kate herself bringing, one by one,
some extra trifle that at the last moment impressed her with its
necessity. It was in this hurry of household love and care that he had
said "good-bye," and he felt that it had been a mere form.
Perhaps Kate felt it also; for when he rode up to Atheling gates in the
gloaming, he saw her sauntering up the avenue. He thought there was
both melancholy and expectation in her attitude and air. He tied his
horse outside, and joined her. She met him with a smile. He took her
hand, and she permitted him to retain it. He said, "Kate!" and she
answered the word with a glance that made him joyous, ardent, hopeful.
He was too happy to speak; he feared to break the heavenly peace between
them by a word. Oh, this is the way of Love! But neither knew the ways
of Love. They were after all but children, and the sweet thoughts in
their hearts had not come to speech. They wandered about the garden
until the gloaming became moonlight, and they heard Mrs. Atheling calling
her daughter. Then their eyes met, and, swift as the firing of a gun,
their pupils dilated and flashed with tender feeling; over their faces
rushed the crimson blood; and Piers said sorrowfully, "Kate! Sweet
Kate! I shall never forget you!" He raised the hand he held to his
lips, kissed it, and went hurriedly away from her.
Kate was not able to say a word, but she felt the kiss on her hand
through all her sleep and dreams that night. Indeed five years of
change and absence had not chilled its warm remembrance; there were
hours when it was still a real expression, when the hand itself was
conscious of the experience, and willingly cherished it. All through
Cecil North's visit, she had been aware of a sense of expectancy.
Interested as she was in Edgar, the thought of Lord Exham would not be
put down. For a short time it was held in abeyance; but when the early
dinner was over, and she was in the solitude of her own room, Piers put
Edgar out of consideration. As she sat brushing and dressing her long
brown hair, she recalled little incidents concerning Piers,--how once
in the harvest-field her hair had tumbled down, and Piers praised its
tangled beauty; how he had liked this and the other dress; how he had
praised her dancing, and vowed she was the best rider in the county.
He had given her a little gold brooch for a Christmas present, and she
took it from its box, and said to herself she would wear it, and see if
it evoked its own memory in Exham's heart.
It had been her intention to put on a white gown, but the day darkened
and chilled; and then she had a certain shyness about betraying, even
to her mother, her anxiety to look beautiful. Perhaps Piers might not now
think her beautiful in any garb. Perhaps he had forgotten--everything.
So, impelled by a kind of perverse indifference, she wore only the gray
woollen gown that was her usual afternoon attire. But the fashion of
the day left her lovely arms uncovered, and only veiled her shoulders
in a shadowing tippet of lace. She fastened this tippet with the
little gold brooch, just where the folds crossed the bosom. She had
hastened rather than delayed her dressing; and when Mrs. Atheling came
downstairs in her afternoon black silk dress, she found Kate already in
the parlour. She had taken from her work-box a piece of fine cambric,
and was stitching it industriously; and Mrs. Atheling lifted her own
work, and began to talk of Edgar, and Edgar's great fortune, and what
his father would say about it. This subject soon absorbed her; she
forgot everything in it; but Kate heard through all the radical
turmoil of the conversation the gallop of a strange horse on the
gravelled avenue, and the echo of strange footsteps on the flagged halls
of the house.
[Illustration:]
In the middle of some grand prophecy for Edgar's future, the parlour
door was opened, and Lord Exham entered. He came forward with something
of his boyhood's enthusiasm, and took Mrs. Atheling's hands, and said
a few words of pleasant greeting, indistinctly heard in the fluttering
gladness of Mrs. Atheling's reception. Then he turned to Kate. She had
risen, but she held her work in her left hand. He took it from her,
and laid it on her work-box, and then clasped both her hands in his. The
firm, lingering pressure had its own eloquence. In matters of love,
they who are to understand, _do_ understand; and no interpreter is needed.
The conversation then became general and full of interest; but from
Oxford, and France, and Italy, it quickly drifted--as all conversation
did in those days--to Reform. And Mrs. Atheling could not keep the
news that had come to her that day. She magnified Edgar with a sweet
motherly vanity that was delightful, and to which Piers listened with
pleasure; for the listening gave him opportunity to watch Kate's
eloquent face, and to flash his sympathy into it. He thought her
marvellously beautiful. Her shining hair, her rich colouring, and her
large gray eyes were admirably emphasised by the homely sweetness of
her dress. After the lavish proportions, and gaily attired women of
Italy, nothing could have been more enchanting to Piers Exham than
Kate's subdued, gray-eyed loveliness, clad in gray garments. The
charming background of her picturesque home added to this effect; and
this background he saw and realised; but she had also a moral background
of purity and absolute sincerity which he did not see, but which he
undoubtedly felt.
While Piers was experiencing this revelation of womanhood, it was not
likely Kate was without impressions. In his early youth, Exham had a
slight resemblance to Lord Byron; and he had been vain of the likeness,
and accentuated it by adopting the open collar, loose tie, and other
peculiarities of the poetic nobleman. Kate was glad to see this servile
imitation had been discarded. Exham was now emphatically individual. He
was not above medium height; but his figure was good, and his manner
gentle and courteous, as the manner of all superior men is. Grave and
high-bred, he had also much of the melancholy, mythical air of an
English nobleman, conscious of long antecedents, and dwelling in the
seclusion of shaded parks, and great houses steeped in the human aura
of centuries. His hair was very black, and worn rather long, and his
complexion, a pale bronze; but this lack of red colouring added to
the fascination of his dark eyes, which were remarkable for that deep
glow always meaning mental or moral power of some kind. They were
often half shut--and then--who could tell what was passing behind them?
And yet, when all this had been observed by Kate, she was sure that
something--perhaps the most essential part--had escaped her.
This latter estimate was the correct one. No one as yet had learned
the heart or mind of Piers Exham. It is doubtful if he understood his own
peculiarities; for he had few traits of distinctive pre-eminence, his
character being very like an opal, where all colours are fused and
veiled in a radiant dimness. So that, after all, this meeting was a
first meeting; and Kate did not feel that the past offered her any
intelligible solution of the present man.
The conversation having drifted to Edgar and Reform, stayed there.
Lord Exham spoke with a polite, but stubborn emphasis in favour of his
own caste, as the governing caste, and thought that the honour and
welfare of England might still be left "to those great Houses which
represented the collective wisdom of the nation." Nor was he disturbed
when Mrs. Atheling, with some scorn and temper, said "they represented
mostly the collective folly of the nation." He bowed and smiled at
the dictum, but Kate understood the smile; it was of that peculiarly
sweet kind which is equivalent to having the last word. He admitted
that some things wanted changing, but he said, "Changes could not be
manufactured; they must grow." "True," replied Kate, "but Reform
has been growing for sixty years." "That is as it should be," he
continued. "You cannot write Reforms on human beings, as you write it on
paper. Two or three generations are not enough." In all that was
said--and Mrs. Atheling said some very strong things--he took a polite
interest; but he made no surrender. Even if his words were conciliatory,
Kate saw in his eyes--languid but obstinately masterful--the stubborn,
headstrong will of a man who had inherited his prejudices, and who had
considered them in the light of his interest, and did not choose to bring
them to the light of reason.
Still the conversation was a satisfactory and delightful vehicle of human
revelation. The two women paled and flushed, and grew sad or happy in
its possibilities, with a charming frankness. No social subject could
have revealed them so completely; and Exham enjoyed the disclosures of
feeling which this passionate interest evoked,--enjoyed it so much that
he forgot the lapse of time, and stayed till tea was ready, and then was
delighted to stay and take it with them. Mrs. Atheling was usually
relieved of the duty of making it by Kate; and Piers could not keep his
glowing eyes off the girl as her hands moved about the exquisite Derby
teacups, and handed him the sweet, refreshing drink. She remembered
that he loved sugar; that he did not love cream; that he preferred his
toast not buttered; that he liked apricot jelly; and he was charmed and
astonished at these proofs of remembrance, so much so indeed that he
permitted Mrs. Atheling to appropriate the whole argument. For this sweet
hour he resigned his heart to be pleased and happy. Too wise in some
things, not wise enough in others, Piers Exham had at least one great
compensating quality--the courage to be happy.
He let all other feelings and purposes lapse for this one. He gave
himself up to charm, and to be charmed; he flattered Mrs. Atheling into
absolute complaisance; he persuaded Kate to walk through the garden
and orchard with him, and then, with caressing voice and a gentle
pressure of the hand, reminded her of days and events they had shared
together. Smiles flashed from face to face. Her simple sweetness, her
ready sympathy, her ingenuous girlish expressions, carried him back to
his boyhood. Kate shone on his heart like sunshine; and he did not
know that it had become dark until he had left Atheling behind, and found
himself Exham-way, riding rapidly to the joyful whirl and hurry of his
thoughts.
Now happiness, as well as sorrow, is selfish. Kate was happy and not
disposed to talk about her happiness. Her mother's insistent questions
about Lord Exham troubled her. She desired to go into solitude with the
new emotions this wonderful day had produced; but the force of those
lovely habits of respect and obedience, which had become by constant
practice a second nature, kept her at her mother's side, listening with
sweet credulousness to all her opinions, and answering her hopes with
her own assurances. The reward of such dutiful deference was not long
in coming. In a short time Mrs. Atheling said,--
"It has been such a day as never was, Kate; and you must be tired. Now
then, go to bed, my girl, and sleep; for goodness knows when your father
will get home!"
So Kate kissed her mother--kissed her twice--as if she was dimly
conscious of unfairly keeping back some pleasure, and would thus atone
for her selfishness. And Mrs. Atheling sat down in the chimney-corner
with the gray stocking she was knitting, and pondered her son's good
fortune for a while. Then she rose and sent the maids to bed, putting
the clock an hour forward ere she did so, and excusing the act by saying,
"If I don't set it fast, we shall soon be on the wrong side of
everything."
Another hour she sat calmly knitting, while in the dead silence of the
house the clock's regular "_tick! tick!_" was like breathing. It
seemed to live, and to watch with her. As the Squire came noisily into
the room it struck eleven. "My word, Maude!" he said with great good
humour, "I am sorry to keep you waiting; but there has been some good
work done to-night, so you won't mind it, I'll warrant."
"Well now, John, if you and your friends have been at Pickering's, and
have done any 'good' work there, I will be astonished! You may warrant
_that_ with every guinea you have."
"We were at Rudby's. There were as many as nine landed men of us
together; and for once there was one mind in nine men."
"That is, you were all for yourselves."
"No! Dal it, we were all for old England and the Constitution! The
Constitution, just as it is, and no tinkering with it."
"I wonder which of the nine was the biggest fool among you?"
"Thou shouldst not talk in that way, Maude. The country is in real
danger with this Reform nonsense. Every Reformer ought to be hung, and I
wish they were hung."
"I would be ashamed to say such words, John. Thou knowest well that thy
own son is a Reformer."
"More shame to him, and to me, and to thee! I would have brought up a
better lad, or else I would hold my tongue about him. It was thy fault he
went to Cambridge. I spent good money then to spoil a fine fellow."
"Now, John Atheling, I won't have one word said against Edgar in this
house."
"It is my house."
"Nay, but it isn't. Thou only hast the life rent of it. It is Edgar's
as much as thine. He will be here, like enough, when I and thou have gone
the way we shall never come back."
"Maybe he will--and maybe he will not. I can break the entail if it
suits me."
"Thou canst not. For, with all thy faults, thou art an upright man,
and thy conscience wouldn't let thee do anything as mean and spiteful
as that. How could we rest in our graves if there was any one but an
Atheling in Atheling?"
"He is a disgrace to the name."
"He is nothing of that kind. He will bring the old name new honour. See
if he does not! And as for the Constitution of England, it is about as
great a ruin as thy constitution was when thou hadst rheumatic fever, and
couldn't turn thyself, nor help thyself, nor put a morsel of bread
into thy mouth. But thou hadst a good doctor, and he set thee up; and a
good House of Commons--Reforming Commons--will happen do as much for
the country; though when every artisan and every farm labourer is hungry
and naked, it will be hard to spread the plaster as far as the sore. It
would make thy heart ache to hear what they suffer."
"Don't bother thy head about weavers, and cutlers, and artisans. If
the Agriculture of the country is taken care of--"
"Now, John, do be quiet. There is not an idiot in the land who won't
talk of Agriculture."
"We have got to stick by the land, Maude."
"The land will take care of itself. If thou wouldst only send for thy
son, and have a little talk with him, he might let some light and wisdom
into thee."
"I have nothing to say on such subjects to Edgar Atheling--not a word."
"If thou goest to Parliament, thou mayst have to 'say' to him, no
matter whether thou wantest to or not; that is, unless thou art willing
to let Edgar have both sides of the argument."
"What tom-foolery art thou talking?"
"I am only telling thee that Edgar is as like to go to Parliament as
thou art."
"To be sure--when beggars are kings."
"Earl Grey will seat him--or Lord Durham; and I would advise thee to
study up things a bit. There are new ideas about, John; and thou wouldst
look foolish if thy own son had to put any of thy mistakes right for
thee."
"I suppose, Maude, thou still hast a bit of faith left in the Bible.
And I'll warrant thou knowest every word it says about children obeying
their parents, and honouring their parents, and so on. And I can
remember thee telling Edgar, when he was a little lad, about Absalom
going against his father, and what came of it; now then, is the Bible, as
well as the Constitution, a ruin? Is it good for nothing but to be
pitched into limbo, or to be 'reformed'? I'm astonished at thee!"
"The Bible has nothing to do with politics, John. I wish it had!
Happen then we would have a few wise-like, honest politicians. The
Bible divides men into good men and bad men; but thou dividest all men
into Tories and Radicals; and the Bible has nothing to do with either
of them. I can tell thee that. Nay, but I'm wrong; it does say a deal
about doing justice, and loving mercy, and treating your neighbour
and poor working-folk as you would like to be treated yourself. Radicals
can get a good deal out of the New Testament."
"I don't believe a word of what thou art saying."
"I don't wonder at that. Thou readest nothing but the newspapers; if
thou didst happen to read a few words out of Christ's own mouth, thou
wouldst say, 'Thou never heardest the like,' and thou wouldst think
the man who quoted them wrote them out of his own head, and call him a
Radical. Get off to thy bed, John. I can always tell when thou hast
been drinking Rudby's port-wine. It is too heavy and heady for thee.
As soon as thou art thyself again, I will tell thee what a grand son
thou art the father of. My word! If the Duke gives thee a seat at his
mahogany two or three times a year, thou art as proud as a peacock; now
then, thy son Edgar is hob-nobbing with earls and lords every day of
his life, and they are proud of his company."
The Squire laughed boisterously. "It is time, Maude," he said, "I went
to my bed; and it is high time for thee to wake up and get thy head on a
feather pillow; then, perhaps, thou will not dream such raving nonsense."
With these scornful words he left the room, and Mrs. Atheling rose
and put away her knitting. She was satisfied with herself. She expected
her mysterious words to keep the Squire awake with curiosity; and in
such case, she was resolved to make another effort to reconcile her
husband to his son. But the Squire gave her no opportunity; he slept
with an indifferent continuity that it was useless to interrupt. Perhaps
there was intention in this heavy sleep, for when he came downstairs
in the morning he went at once to seek Kate. He soon saw her in the
herb garden; for she had on a white dimity gown, and was standing
upright, shading her eyes with her hands to watch his approach. A good
breeze of wind from the wolds fluttered her snowy skirts, and tossed
the penetrating scents of thyme and marjoram, mint and pennyroyal
upward, and she drew them through her parted lips and distended nostrils.
"They are so heavenly sweet!" she said with a smile of sensuous
pleasure. "They smell like Paradise, Father."
"Ay, herbs are good and healthy. The smell of them makes me hungry. I
didn't see thee last night, Kitty; and I wanted to see thee."
"I was so tired, Father. It was a day to tire any one. Was it not?"
"I should say it was," he replied with conscious diplomacy. "Now what
part of it pleased thee best?"
"Well, Mr. North's visit was of course wonderful; and Lord Exham's
visit was very pleasant. I enjoyed both; but Mr. North's news was so
very surprising."
"To be sure. What dost thou think of it?"
"Of course, Edgar is on the other side, Father. In some respects that
is a pity."
"It is a shame! It is a great shame!"
"Nay, nay, Father! We won't have 'shame' mixed up with Edgar. He
is in dead earnest, and he has taken luck with him. Just think of our
Edgar being one of Lord Durham's favourites, of him speaking all over
England and Scotland for Reform. Mr. North says there is no one like
him in the drawing-rooms of the Reform ladies; and no one like him on
the Reform platforms; and he was made a member of the new Reform Club in
London by acclamation. And Earl Grey will get him a seat in Parliament
next election."
"Who is this Mr. North?"
"Why, Father! You heard him speak, and you 'threw' him down on the
Green, you know."
"_Oh! Him!_ Dost thou believe all this palaver on the word of a
travelling mountebank?"
"He is not a travelling mountebank. I am sure he is a gentleman. You
shouldn't call a man names that you have 'thrown' fairly. You know
better than that."
"I know nothing about the lad. And he does not seem to have told thee
anything about himself. As for thy mother--" and then he hesitated, and
looked at Kate meaningly and inquiringly.
"Mother liked him. She liked him very much indeed. He brought both
mother and me a ring from Edgar," and she put out her hand and showed
the Squire the little gold circle.
"Trumpery rubbish!" he said scornfully. "It didn't cost half a crown.
Give it to me, and I will get thee a ring worth wearing,--sapphires or
rubies."
"I would not part with it for loops and hoops of sapphires and rubies.
Edgar sent it as a love-token; he wants his money for nobler things than
rubies--but, dear me! you can't buy love for any money. Oh, Father!
I do wish you would be friends with Edgar."
"My little lass, I cannot be friends with any one if he goes against
the land, and the King, and the Constitution. I am loyal straight
through; up and down to-day, and to-morrow, and every day; and I can't
bear traitors,--men that would sell their country for a bit of mob
power or mob glory. All of Edgar's friends and neighbours are for the
King and the Laws; and it shames me and pains me beyond everything to
have a rascal and a Radical in my family. The Duke and his son are
finger and thumb, buckle and belt; and Edgar and I ought to be the
same. And it stands to reason that a father knows more than his own
lad of twenty-six years old. What dost thou think of Lord Exham?"
The question was asked at a venture; but Kate had no suspicion, and
she answered frankly, "I think very well of him. He talked mostly of
politics; but every one does that. It was pleasant to see him at our
tea-table again."
"To be sure. So he stayed to tea?"
"Yes; did not mother tell you?"
"Nay, we were talking of other things. What does he look like?"
"I think he is much improved."
"Well, he ought to be. He must have learned a little, and he has seen
a lot since we saw him. Come, let us go and find out what kind of a
breakfast mother can give us. I am hungry enough for two."
So Kate lifted the herbs which she had cut into her garden apron, and
cruddling close to her father's side, they went in together, with the
smell of the thyme and marjoram all about them. Mrs. Atheling drew it in
as they entered the parlour, and then turned to them with a smile. The
Squire went to her side, and promptly kissed her. It was one of his ways
to ignore their little tiffs; and this morning Mrs. Atheling was also
agreeable. She looked into his eyes, and said:
"Why, John! are you really awake. You lay like the Seven Sleepers when I
got up, and I said to myself, 'John will sleep the clock round,' so
Kate and I will have our breakfasts."
"Nay, I have too much to look after, Maude." Then he turned the
conversation to the farms, and talked of the draining to be done, and
the meadows to be left for grass; but he eschewed politics altogether,
and, greatly to Mrs. Atheling's wonder, never alluded to the information
she had given him about their son Edgar. Did he really think she had
been telling him a made-up story? She could not otherwise understand
this self-control in her curious lord. However, sometime during the
morning, Kate told her about the conversation in the herb garden; then
she was content. She knew just where she had her husband; and the little
laugh with which she terminated the conversation was her expression of
conscious power over him, and of a retaliation quite within her reach.