There is always in every life some little part which even those dearer
than life to us cannot enter. Kate had become conscious of this fact. She
hoped her mother would not talk of Lord Exham; for she did not as yet
understand anything about the feelings his return had evoked. She would
have needed the uncertain, enigmatical language which comes in dreams
to explain the "yes" and the "no" of the vague, trembling memories,
prepossessions, and hopes which fluttered in her breast.
Fortunately Mrs. Atheling had some dim perception of this condition, and
without analysing her reasons, she was aware "it was best not to
meddle" between two lives so surrounded by contradictious circumstances
as were those of her daughter and Lord Exham. Besides, as she said to
her husband, "It was no time for love-making, with the King dying,
and the country on the quaking edge of revolution, and starvation and
misery all over the land." And the Squire answered: "Exham has not one
thought of love-making. He is far too much in with a lot of men who
have the country and their own estates to save. He won't bother himself
with women-folk now, whatever he may do in idle times."
They had both forgotten, or their own love affair had been of such
Arcadian straightness and simplicity that they had never learned Love's
ability to domineer all circumstances that can stir this mortal frame.
Exham had indeed enlisted himself with passionate earnestness in the
cause of his class, which he called the cause of his country--but as the
drop of
"lucent sirup tinct with cinnamon"
is forever flavoured and perfumed by the spice, so Exham's life was
coloured and prepossessed by the thought of the sweet girl who had been
blended with so many of his purest and happiest hours.
It was then of Kate he thought as he wandered about the stately rooms and
beautiful gardens of Exham Hall. He was not oblivious of his engagements
with the Duke and the tenants; but he was considering how best to keep
these engagements, and yet not miss a visit to her. The dying King,
the riotous land, were accidentals of his life and condition; his love
for Kate Atheling was at the root of his existence; it was a fundamental
of the past and of the future. For five years of constant change and
movement, it had lain in abeyance; but old love is a dangerous thing
to awaken; and Piers Exham found in doing this thing that every event
of the past strengthened the influence of the present, and fixed his
heart more passionately on the girl he had first found fair; the
--"rosebud set with little, wilful thorns,
And sweet as English airs could make her,"
that had sung and swung herself into his affection when she was only
twelve years old.
He was however quite aware that any proposal to marry Kate Atheling
would meet with prompt opposition from his family; indeed the Duke had
already mentioned a very different alliance; and in that case, he did
not doubt but that Squire Atheling would be equally resolved never to
allow his daughter to enter a home where she would be regarded by any
member of it as an intruder. But he put all such considerations for
the present behind him. He said to himself, "The first thing to do, is
to win Kate's love; with that sweet consciousness, I shall be ready for
all opposition." For his heart kept assuring him that every trouble
and obstacle has an hour in which it may be conquered,--an hour when
Fate and Will become One, and are then as irresistible as a great force
of Nature. He was sure the hour for this conflict had not yet come.
It was the day for a different fight. His home, his estate, his title,
and all the privileges of his nobility were in danger. When they were
placed beyond peril, then he would fight for the wife he wanted, and
win her against all opposition. And who could tell in what way the
first conflict would bring forth circumstances to insure victory to the
last?
He was deeply in love; he was full of hope; he was at Atheling some part
of every day. If he came in the afternoon, Kate's pony was saddled, and
they rode far and away, to where the shadows and sunshine elbowed
one another on the moors. The golden gorse shed its perfume over their
heads; the linnets sang to them of love; they talked, and laughed, and
rode swiftly until their pace brought them among the mountains that
looked like a Titanic staircase going up to the skies. There, they always
drew rein, and went slower, and spoke softer, and indeed often became
quite silent, and knew such silence to be the sweetest eloquence. Then
after a little interval Piers would say one word, "_Kate!_" and
Kate only answer with a blush, and a smile, and an upturned face. For
Love can put a volume in four letters; and souls say in a glance what
a thousand words would only blunder about. Then there was the gallop
home, and the merry cup of tea, and the saunter in the garden, and the
long tender "good-bye" at the threshold where the damask roses made
the air heavy with their sweetness.
So Lord Exham did not find his politics hard to bear with such delicious
experiences between whiles. And Kate? What were Kate's experiences?
Oh, any woman who has once loved, any pure girl who longs to love, may
divine them! For Love is always the same. The tale he told Kate on the
Atheling moors and under the damask roses was the very same tale he
told high in Paradise by the four rivers where the first roses blew.
As the summer advanced, startling notes from the outside world forced
themselves into this heavenly solitude. On the twenty-sixth of June,
King George died; and this death proved to be the first of a series of
great events. Piers felt it to be a warning bell. It said to him, "The
charming overture of Love, with its restless pleasure, its delicate
hopes and fears, is nearly at an end." He had been with Kate for
three divine hours. They had sat among the brackens at the foot of the
mountains, and been twenty times on the very point of saying audibly
the word "Love!" and twenty times had felt the delicious uncertainty
of non-confession to be too sweet for surrender. Nay, they did not
reason about it; they simply obeyed that wise, natural self-restraint
which knew its own hour, and would not hurry it.
[Illustration:]
With a sigh of rapture, they rose as the sun began to wester, and rode
slowly back to Atheling. No one was at the door to receive them, and
Kate wondered a little; but when they entered the hall, the omission
was at once understood. There was a large open fireplace at the
northern extremity, and over it the Atheling arms, with their motto,
"_Feare God! Honour the Kinge! Laus Deo!_" Squire Atheling was
draping this panel with crape; and Mrs. Atheling stood near him with
some streamers of the gloomy fabric in her hands. She pointed to the
King's picture--which already wore the emblem of mourning--and said,
"The King is dead."
"The King lives! God save the King!" replied the Squire, instantly.
"God save King William the Fourth!"
Then all the clocks in the house were stopped, and draped, and when this
ceremony was over, they had tea together. And as it is a Yorkshire
custom to make funeral feasts, Mrs. Atheling gave to the meal an air
of special entertainment. The royal Derby china added its splendour
to the fine old silver and delicate damask. There were delicious
cheese-cakes, and Queen's-cakes, and savoury potted meats, and fresh
crumpets; and the ripe red strawberries filled the room with their
ethereal scent. No one was at all depressed by the news. If King George
was dead, King William was alive; and the Squire thought, "Everything
might be hoped from 'The Sailor King.' Why!" he said, "he is that
good-natured he won't say a bad word about the Reformers; though, God
knows, they are a disgrace to themselves, and to all that back them up."
"There will now be a general election," said Exham positively.
"To be sure," answered the Squire. "And it is to be hoped we may get
together a few men that will take the Bull of Reform by the horns, and
put a stop to that nonsense forever in England."
"Before they do that," said Mrs. Atheling, "they will have to consider
the swarms of people they have brought up in dirt, and rags, and misery.
For if they don't, they will bring ruin to the nation that owns them."
"King William is a fighter. He will back the Law with bayonets, if he
thinks it right," said the Squire.
Mrs. Atheling looked at him indignantly. Then, putting her cup down
with unmistakable emphasis, she exclaimed, "The Lord forgive thee,
John Atheling! I'll say one thing, and I'll say it now, and forever,
it isn't law backed with bayonets that has saved England so far; it is
the bit of religion in every man's heart, and his trust that somehow
God will see him righted. If it wasn't for that it would have been all
up with our set long ago."
"That is just the way women talk politics," said the Squire, with some
contempt. "If there was nothing else in this Reform business to make a
man sick, the way they have given in to women, and got them to form clubs
and make speeches, is enough to set any sensible person against Reform;
and if there is no way of talking people into doing what is right--then
they must be _made_ to do right; and that's all there is about it."
"Very well, John; but there are two sides to play at making other
people do right. I'll tell you one thing, the Government will have to
take a lot of things into consideration before they put their trust in
backing law with bayonets. It won't work! Let them start doing it, and
we shall all find ourselves in a wrong box."
"I think there is much good sense in what Mrs. Atheling believes," said
Lord Exham.
"And as for the Reformers getting round the women of the country,"
she continued, "that is as it should be. Men have done all the governing
for six thousand years; and, in the main, they have made a very bad job
of it. Happen, a few kind-hearted women would help things forwarder.
There is going to be some alterations, you may depend upon it, John."
"Father," said Kate, "you had better not argue with mother. She knows
a deal more about the country than you think she does; and mother is
always right."
"To be sure, Kate. To hear mother talk, she knows a lot; but if she
would take my advice, she would forget a lot, and try and learn
something better." Then touching his wife's hand, he continued,
"Maude, I always did believe thou wert in favour of the land, and
the law, and the King."
"I don't know that I ever said such a thing, John; but thou mayst have
believed it. What I _thought_, was another matter. And I am beginning
to think aloud now, that makes all the difference."
Such divided opinions were in every household; and yet, upon the
whole, the death of the selfish, intolerant George was a hopeful
event. When people are desperate, any change is a promise; and William
had a reputation not only for good nature, but also for that love of
fair play which is the first article of an Englishman's personal
creed. He came to the throne on the twenty-sixth of June; and on the
twenty-ninth Parliament resumed its sittings. Mr. Brougham led the
opposition, and violent debates and unmeasured language distinguished
the short session. The Duke of Wellington, representing the Government,
was prominently bitter against Reform of every kind; and Mr. Brougham
boldly declared that any Minister now hoping to rule either by royal
favour or military power would be overwhelmed. In less than a month
the King prorogued Parliament in person, and in so doing, congratulated
his country on the tranquillity of Europe. Forty-eight hours afterwards,
France was insurgent, and Paris in arms. Three days of most determined
fighting followed; and then Charles the Tenth was driven from his
throne, and the white flag of the Bourbon tyranny gave place to the
Tri-colour of Liberty.
Now if there had been a direct electric or magnetic current between
England and the Continent, the effect could not have been more
sympathetically startling; and these three memorable "Days of
July" in Paris impelled forward, with an irresistible impetus, the
cause of freedom in England. The nobility and the landed gentry were
gravely aware of this effect; and the great middle class, and the
working men in every county, were stirred to more hopeful and united
action. Far and wide the people began anew to express, in various
ways, their determination to have the Tory Ministers dismissed, and a
Liberal Government in favour of Reform inaugurated.
For the first time the Squire was anxious. For the first time he saw
and felt positive symptoms of insubordination among his own people.
Pickering's barns were burnt one night; and a few nights afterwards,
Rudby's hay-ricks. Squire Atheling was a man of prompt action; one
well disposed to do in his own manor what he expected the Government
to do in the country,--take the Reform bull by the horns. He sent for
all his labourers to meet him in the farm court at Atheling; and when
they were gathered there, he stood up on the stone wall which enclosed
one side of it and said in his strong, resonant voice,--
"Now, men of Atheling manor and village, you have been sulky and ugly
for two or three weeks. You aren't sulky and ugly without knowing _why_
you are so. If you are Yorkshiremen worth your bread and bacon, you will
out with your grievance--whatever it is. Tom Gisburn, what is it?"
"We can't starve any longer, Squire. We want two shillings a week more
wages. Me and mine would hev been in t' churchyard if thy Missis hed
been as hard-hearted as thysen."
"I will give you all one shilling a week more."
"Nay, but a shilling won't do. Thy Missis is good, and Miss Kate is
good; but we want our rights; and we hev made up our minds that two
shillings a week more wage will nobbut barely cover them. We are varry
poor, Squire! Varry poor indeed!"
The man spoke sadly and respectfully; and the Squire looked at him,
and at the stolid, anxious faces around with an angry pity. "I'll tell
you what, men," he continued; "everything in England is going to the
devil. Englishmen are getting as ill to do with as a lot of grumbling,
contrary, bombastic Frenchers. If you'll promise me to stand by the
King, and the land, and the laws, and give these trouble-making Reformers
a dip in the horse-pond if any of them come to Atheling again--why, then,
I will give you all--every one of you--two shillings a week more wage."
"Nay, Squire, we'll not sell oursens for two shillings a week; not one
of us--eh, men?" and Gisburn looked at his fellows interrogatively.
"Sell oursens!" replied the Squire's blacksmith, a big, hungry-looking
fellow in a leather apron; "no! no, Squire! Thou oughtest to know us
better. Sell oursens! Not for all the gold guineas in Yorkshire! We'll
sell thee our labour for two shilling a week more wage, and thankful;
but our will, and our good-will, thou can't buy for any money."
There was a subdued cheer at these words from the men, and the Squire's
face suddenly lightened. His best self put his lower self behind him.
"Sawley," he answered, "thou art well nicknamed 'Straight-up!' and I
don't know but what I'm very proud of such an independent, honourable
lot of men. Such as you won't let the land suffer. Remember, you were
all born on it, and you'll like enough be buried in it. Stand by the
land then; and if two shillings a week more wage will make you happy, you
shall have it,--if I sell the gold buttons off my coat to pay it. Are
we friends now?"
A hearty shout answered the question, and the Squire continued, "Then go
into the barn, and eat and drink your fill. You'll find a barrel of old
ale, and some roast beef, and wheat bread there."
In this way he turned the popular discontent from Atheling, and doubtless
saved his barns and hay-ricks; but he went into his house angry at the
men, and angry at his wife and daughter. They had evidently been aiding
and succouring these discontents and their families; and--as he took
care to point out to Kate--evil and not good had been the result. "I
have to give now as a right," he said, "what thee and thy mother have
been giving as a kindness!" And his temper was not improved by hearing
from the barn the noisy "huzzas" with which the name of "the young
Squire" was received, and his health drank.
"Wife, and son, and daughter! all of them against me! I wonder what
I have done to be served in such a way?" he exclaimed sorrowfully.
And then Kate forgot everything about politics. She said all kinds of
consoling words without any regard for the Reform Bill, and, with the
sweetest kisses, promised her father whatever she thought would make him
happy. It is an unreasonable, delightful way that belongs to loving
women; and God help both men and women when they are too wise for such
sweet deceptions!
Yet the Squire carried a hot, restless heart to the Duke's meeting that
night; and he was not pleased to find that the tactics he had used with
his labourers met with general and great disapproval. Those men who had
already suffered loss, and those who knew that they had gone beyond a
conciliating policy, said some ugly words about "knuckling down,"
and it required all the Duke's wisdom and influence to represent it as
"a wise temporary concession, to be recalled as soon as the election
was over, and the Tory Government safely reinstalled."
Upon the whole, then, Squire Atheling had not much satisfaction in his
position; and every day brought some new tale of thrilling interest. All
England was living a romance; and people got so used to continual
excitement that they set the homeliest experiences of life to great
historical events. During the six weeks following the death of King
George the Fourth occurred the new King's coronation, the dissolution
of Parliament, the "Three Days of July," and the landing of the
exiled French King in England; all of these things being accompanied
by agrarian outrages in the farming districts, the destruction of
machinery in the manufacturing towns, and constant political tumults
wherever men congregated.
The next six weeks were even more restless and excited. The French
King was a constant subject of interest to the Reformers; for was he
not a stupendous example of the triumph of Liberal principles? He was
reported first at Lulworth Castle in Devonshire. Then he went to Holyrood
Palace in Edinburgh. The Scotch Reformers resented his presence, and
perpetually insulted him, until Sir Walter Scott made a manly appeal for
the fallen tyrant. And while the Bourbon sat in Holyrood, a sign and
a text for all lovers of Freedom, England was in the direst storm and
stress of a general election. The men of the Fen Country were rising.
The Universities were arming their students. There was rioting in this
city and that city. The Tories were gaining. The Reformers were gaining.
Both sides were calling passionately on the women of the country to come
to their help, without it seeming to occur to either that if women had
political influence, they had also political rights.
But the end was just what all these events predicated. When the election
was over, the Tory Government had lost fifty votes in the House of
Commons; but Piers Exham was Member of Parliament for the borough of
Gaythorne, and Squire Atheling was the Representative of the Twenty-two
Tory citizens of the village of Asketh.