Never had the ducal palace of Richmoor been more splendidly prepared
for festivity than on the night of the first of March, 1831. And yet
every guest present knew that it was not a festival, but a gathering
of men and women moved by the gravest fears for the future. The long
suites of parlours, brilliantly lighted, were crowded with peers and
noble ladies, wearing, indeed, the smiles of conventional pleasure; but
all of them eager to discuss the portentous circumstances by which they
were environed.
Annabel stood at the right hand of the Duchess, but was strangely
distrait and silent. Everything had gone wrong with her. It had been a
day of calamity. She began it with a fret and a scold, and her maid
Justine had been from that moment in a temper calculated to provoke to
extremities her impatient mistress. Then her costume did not arrive till
some hours after it was due; and when examined, it was found to be very
unbecoming. She had been persuaded to select a pale blue satin, simply
because she had tired of every other colour; and she was disgusted
with the effect of its cold beauty against her olive-tinted skin. She
wore out Justine's temper with the variety of her suggestions, and her
angry impatience with every effort. The girl became sulkily silent,
then defiantly silent, then, after a most unreasonable burst of anger,
actively impertinent, so much so that she left Annabel only one way of
retaliation--an instant dismissal. She lifted her purse passionately,
counted out the money due, and, pushing it contemptuously towards the
girl, told her "to leave the house instantly."
To her utter amazement, Justine pushed back the money. "I will not take
it," she said. "I have no intention of leaving the house until I see
the ring in your possession--the ring in your purse, Miss--returned to
the owner of it."
If Annabel had been struck to the ground, she could not have been more
confounded and bewildered; and Justine saw and pushed her advantage.
"Miss knows," she continued, "that police detectives are watching
night and day the innocent men whose duties are on this corridor.
Any hour some little thing may cause one of them to be suspected and
arrested; and then who but I could save him from the gallows? No,
Miss, I shall not leave till you give up the ring--till the real th--the
real taker of it is known."
These words terrified Annabel. She felt her heart stop beating; a strange
sickness overwhelmed her; she sunk speechless into a chair, and closed
her eyes. With an attention utterly devoid of sympathy, Justine put
between her lips a tea-spoonful of aniseed cordial which she brought
from her own apartment.
In a few minutes Annabel recovered herself physically; but her
prostration, and the hysterical mood which followed it, were admissions
she could not by any future word, or act, contradict. She had been taken
by surprise, and surrendered. If she had had but ten minutes to survey
the situation, she would have defied it; but such an emergency had
never occurred to her. Over and over again she had supposed every other
likelihood of discovery; this one, never! She was at the mercy of her
maid; but for the time being the maid was not inclined to extremities.
She only insisted that Annabel should use her influence to place the men
under suspicion out of the danger of arrest; and when Annabel had
explained, with a wretched little laugh, that the ring had been
taken "as a means of forwarding her love-affair with Lord Exham,"
the maid assured her "she was on her side in that matter." Then she
pocketed the sovereigns Annabel offered as a peace gift, and "hoped
Miss would think no more of what she had said."
But Annabel could not dismiss the subject. Under her magnificent but
singularly unbecoming gown, she carried a heart heavy with apprehension.
The shadow of the gallows, which Justine had evoked for the suspected
culprit, fell upon her own consciousness. In those days, the most
trifling theft was punished with death; and Annabel had a terror of that
mysterious Law of which she was so profoundly ignorant. How it would
regard her position, she could not imagine. Would even her confession
and restoration exonerate her? In this respect, she suffered from
fright, as an ignorant child suffers. Besides which, when the subject
of "confession" came close to her, she felt that it was impossible.
Constantly she had flattered her conscience with this promise; but if it
was to come to actuality, she thought she would rather die.
So it was with a wretched heart she took the place the Duchess had
assigned her at her own right hand. This position associated her
intimately with Lord Exham, and it was for this very reason the Duchess
had decided upon it. She knew the value of the popular voice; she wished
the popular voice to unite Lord Exham and her rich and beautiful ward;
and she felt sure that their association at her right hand would give
all the certainty necessary to such a belief. Heart-sick with her
strange, new terror, Annabel stood in that brilliant throng. Just
before the dinner hour, she saw Squire Atheling and Kate approaching
to pay their respects to the Duchess. She saw also the quick, joyful
lifting of Exham's eyelids, the bright flush of pleasure that gave
sudden life to his pale cheeks, and the irrepressible gladness that
made his voice musical, as he said softly, "How beautiful she is!"
"Miss Atheling?"
"Yes."
Then Annabel considered her rival's approach. Her eyes fell first on
the Squire, whose splendid physique arrested every one's attention. He
wore a coat of dark-blue broadcloth, trimmed with gold buttons, a long,
white satin vest, and exquisitely fine linen, rather ostentatiously
ruffled. On his arm Kate's hand just rested. Her gown of rich white
silk was soft as lawn, and resplendent as moonbeams; and around her
throat lay one string of Oriental pearls. Her bright, brown hair was
dressed high, without any ornament; but there were silver buckles, set
with pearls, on the front of her white satin sandals. A pause, a murmur
of admiration was perceptible; for conversation ceased a moment as a
creature so fresh, so pure, so exquisite, and so suitably protected,
moved among them. Lord Exham, forgetting all ceremonies, went eagerly
forward to meet these favoured guests; and the Duchess also had a
momentary pleasure in Kate's well-gowned loveliness. She was very
friendly to the Squire; and she took his daughter under her own
protection.
After dinner--which was specially early for that night--the majority
of the gentlemen went to the House. The Reform Bill, about which all
England was in agonising suspense, was to be read for the first time.
Never, within the memory of Englishmen, had there been so great a crowd
eager to get into the House. Every inch of space on the floor was filled;
and troops of eager politicians, from all parts of the country, were
waiting at the doors of the various galleries. When they were opened,
the clamour, the struggle, and the confusion was so indescribable that
the Speaker threatened to have all the galleries cleared. Even among the
members, there was great confusion and complaining; for their seats,
though marked with their cards, had in many instances been taken by
others.
Outside, the streets were packed with men wrought up to feverish
excitement and anxiety; and in all the great centres of society, and in
every club in London, there were restless crowds waiting for news from
Westminster. The Duchess of Richmoor's parlours were the central point
of Tory interest. Not one of the company there present but believed with
Sir Robert Inglis--an orator of their party--that "Reform would sweep
the House of Lords clear in ten years." This night was, to them, their
salvation or their ruin. Below their jewelled bodices, their hearts
trembled with anxious terror. After the departure of the members for
the House, they gathered in little knots, wondering, and fearing, and
listening to the noises in the crowded streets, with an agitation not
quite devoid of pleasurable stimulation. For they were not without
comforters and encouragers. The Duke of Wellington went from group to
group, assuring them that Lord Grey's Ministry must go down, and that
no Reform Bill which could injure the nobility would be permitted to pass
the House of Lords.
Annabel was almost glad to see every one so unhappy. She had a perverse
desire to say contradictious things. Her heart was heavy with fear, and
it was burning with envy and jealousy. Kate's beauty, and Lord Exham's
undisguised admiration, made her realise all the bitterness of failure.
She wandered about making evil prophecies, or saying irritating truths,
and watching Kate the while, till she was ready to cry out with mental
pain and mortification. For the great Duke--never insensible to female
loveliness--had given Kate his arm, and was walking about the parlours
with her. Why had such honour not fallen to her lot? Never had she
been so desirous to lead, to be admired, to enforce her eminent fitness
to wear the Richmoor coronet. Never had she so signally failed. Even
her wit had deserted her; she said _malapropos_ clever things, and got
snubbed for them. In her anger, and fear, and disappointment, she
wished Reform _might_ make a clean sweep of such a selfish crowd of
so-called nobility. She had arrived at that point when her misery
demanded company.
About ten o'clock, the Duke and Lord Exham returned. The large lofty
rooms, with their moving throngs of splendidly attired men and women,
were yet crowded; but their atmosphere was charged with an electric
tension, generated by the unusual pitch to which every one's thoughts,
and feelings, and words were set. Many were almost hysterical; some had
subsided into mere waiting, conscious of requiring all their strength
for simple endurance of the suspense; others, more hopeful, were restless
and watching,--but all alike became instantly and breathlessly silent
as the two men appeared. For a moment no one spoke; then the Duke of
Wellington asked, with an assumption of cheerfulness, "What news? Has
the Bill been read?"
"It has been read," answered Richmoor. "Lord John Russell introduced
it in a speech lasting more than two hours."
"And pray what are its provisions."
"This infamous Bill proposes that every borough of less than two
thousand inhabitants shall lose the right to send a member to
Parliament."
"What a scandalous robbery of our privileges!" ejaculated some one of
the listeners.
"It is nothing else!" answered the Duke. "It robs me of the gift of
seven boroughs."
"What excuse did he make for such an act?"
"He supposed the case of a stranger, coming to England to investigate
our method of representation, being taken to a green mound, and told
that green mound sent two members to Parliament; or to a stone wall
with three niches in it, and told that those three niches sent two
members to Parliament; or to a green park with no signs of human
habitation, and told that green park sent two members to Parliament;
and then pictured the amazement of the stranger at this condition of
things. 'But,' he cried, 'how much greater would be his amazement if
he were then taken to large and populous cities, full of industry,
enterprise, and intelligence, and containing vast magazines of every
kind of manufactures, and was then told that these cities did not send
a single man to represent their rights and their necessities in the
great national council.' It was really a very effective passage."
"We have heard that argument before; it is stale and unprofitable,"
said the Duchess.
"Listen! This Bill proposes to give every man paying taxes for houses
of the yearly value of ten pounds and upward--_a vote_."
"What an absurdity!"
"It proposes to give Manchester, Birmingham, Leeds, Sheffield, and
three other large towns, each two members, and London eight additional
members."
"Infamous! It will give us a mob government."
"This so-called Reform Bill gives the franchise to one hundred and
ten thousand people in the counties of England who never had it before;
in the provincial towns, it gives it to fifty thousand; in London, it
gives it to ninety-five thousand; in Scotland, to fifty thousand; and
in Ireland, to forty thousand: in all, half a million of persons are to
be added to the constituency of the House of Commons."
At this information the tendency of the whole company was to laughter.
Indeed the Duke's face, and voice, and manner was that of a man telling
an utterly absurd story. Such sweeping alterations were not conceivable;
their very excess doomed them to ridicule and failure, in the opinion of
the privileged class; but the Duke of Wellington's face expressed an
anxiety not consonant with this feeling; and he asked gloomily:
"Did Lord John Russell _dare_ to read the names of the boroughs he
intends to disfranchise, with their members present?"
"He read them with the greatest emphasis and deliberation."
"And the result? What was the result? How did they take being robbed of
their seats in this summary way?"
"The excitement in the House was incredible. He was derisively
interrupted by shouts of laughter, and by cries of 'Hear! Hear!' and
by constant questions across the table from the members of those
boroughs. The wisest statesmen in the House were aghast at proposals so
sweeping and so revolutionary."
"What did Peel say?"
"Nothing. He sat rigid as a statue, his face working with emotion,
his brow wrinkled and sombre. His supporters, who were gathered round
him, burst again and again into uncontrollable laughter. Peel tried
to make them behave like gentlemen, and could not. Every one is sure such
a measure predicts a speedy downfall of Grey's Ministry."
"Of course it does," said the Duchess, with a contemptuous laugh.
The laugh was contagious, and the majority of the company burst into
merriment and ridicule.
"It is really a good joke," said an aged Marquis who had the idea that
England was the birthright of her nobles.
"A good joke!" answered the Duke of Wellington, sternly. "I can tell
you it is no joke. You will find it no laughing matter."
"I am weary of it all," whispered Annabel to Kate; "let us go into
the conservatory." Kate was willing also, and as they entered the sweet,
green place, with its tender lights and restful peace, she sighed with
pleasure and said, "I wonder, Annabel, if the roses and camellias think
themselves better than the violets and daisies."
"I dare say they do. Let us sit down here. I have had such a wretched
day, and I am worn out;" and for a moment, as she looked in Kate's
gentle face, she had a mind to tell her the whole truth about the
unfortunate ring. But while she hesitated, there was a footstep; and
in a moment, Piers pushed aside the fronds of the gigantic ferns and
joined them.
"It is allowable," said Annabel, "provided you do do not mention
Reform."
"There is no necessity here," he answered gallantly. "How could
perfection be reformed?" Gradually the conversation fell into a more
serious mood, and they began to speak of Yorkshire, and to long after its
breezy wolds and lovely dales; and Annabel listened and said, "She
would be delighted when they went down there." Kate also acknowledged
that she was impatient to return to Atheling; and Piers watched her
every movement,--the smile parting her lips, the light coming and going
on her cheeks from dropped or lifted eyes, the graceful movements of
her hands, the noble poise of her head,--all these things were fresh
enchantments to him. What was the noisy, dusty Senate chamber to this
green spot filled with the charming presence of the woman he adored?
Very quickly Annabel perceived that she was the one person _not_
necessary; and she was too depressed to resent this position. With a
whisper to Kate, she went away, promising to return in ten minutes.
She did not return; but in half an hour--which had seemed as five
minutes--the Duchess came in her stead, and said blandly, "Annabel has
a headache, and has gone to sleep it away. I have sent the Squire
home, Miss Atheling; I told him I should keep you here to-night.
Indeed he was glad for you to remain; the streets are not in a very
pleasant condition. London has lost its senses. It has gone mad; in the
morning it may be saner."
So the sweet interval was over; but one secret glance between the lovers
showed how delicious it had been. Kate went away with the Duchess; and
waiting women led her to a splendid sleeping apartment. There, all
night long, she kept the sense of Piers holding her hand in his; and,
faintly smiling with this interior bliss, she dreamed away the hours
until late in the morning.
Her first thought on awakening was, "What shall I wear? I cannot go to
breakfast in a white silk gown." Then, as she rose, she saw a street
costume laid ready for her use. "Mrs. Atheling sent it very early this
morning," said the maid; and Kate thought with a blessing of the good
mother who never forgot her smallest necessities. At breakfast, the
Duchess was particularly gracious to her; she affected an entire oblivion
of Piers's evident devotion, and talked incessantly of the stupidity of
the Grey Ministry; but as she rose from the table, she said,--
"My dear Miss Atheling, will you do me the favour to come to my private
parlour before you leave?"
Kate stood up, curtsied slightly, and made the required promise. But
she did not at once attend the Duchess, as that lady certainly expected.
She had promised Piers to walk with him in the conservatory, and finish
their interrupted conversation of the previous night; and a gentle
pressure of her hand reminded her of this previous engagement. So it
was near the noon hour when she went to the room which the Duchess had
selected for their interview.
She entered it without a suspicion of the sorrow waiting there for her,
though the first glance at the cold, haughty face that greeted her made
her a little indignant. "I expected you an hour ago, Miss Atheling,"
said the Duchess.
"I am sorry if I have detained you, Duchess. I did not think my
interview with you could be of much importance."
"Perhaps not as important to you as the interview you put before it--and
yet, perhaps, far more so. For I must tell you that such entirely
personal companionship with Lord Exham, must cease from this very hour."
Kate had taken the seat the Duchess indicated on her entering the room;
she now rose to her feet, and answered, "If so, Duchess, it is proper
for me to leave your home at once. My mother is waiting to see me. She
will tell me what it is right for me to do."
"In this case, I am a better adviser than your mother. I believe you to
be a girl of noble principles, so I tell you frankly that Lord Exham
is bound, by every honourable tie, to marry Miss Vyner. When you are
not present, he is quite happy in her society; when you are present,
you seem to exert some unaccountable influence over him. Miss Vyner has
often complained of this. I thought it was simple jealousy on her part,
until I observed you with Lord Exham last night. I am now compelled,
by my duty to my son and his affianced wife, to tell you how impossible
a marriage between you and Lord Exham is and must be. I believe this
information to be all that is necessary to a girl of your birth and
breeding."
"What information, Duchess?" She asked the question with a dignity that
irritated a woman who thought her word, without her reasons, was quite
sufficient.
"If you persist in having the truth, I must give it to you. Remember,
I would gladly have spared you and myself this humiliation. Know,
then, that many years ago the late General Vyner rendered the Duke a
great service. When Annabel was born, the Duke offered himself as
her godfather and guardian, and his son as her husband. It is not
necessary to go into details; the facts ought to be sufficient for you.
There are circumstances which make the fulfilment of this promise
imperative; and, if you do not interfere, my son will very willingly
perform his part of it. Pardon me if I also remind you that your
birth and fortune make any hopes you may entertain of being the future
Duchess of Richmoor very presumptuous hopes. I assure you that I have
spoken reluctantly, and with sincere kindness; and I do not desire this
conversation to interfere with our future intercourse. If you will give
me your promise, I know that I may trust you absolutely."
"What do you wish me to promise?"
"That you will allow no love-making between Lord Exham and yourself;
that you will not in any way interfere between Lord Exham and Miss
Vyner,--in fact, promise me, in a word, that you will never marry
Lord Exham. I assure you, such a marriage would be most improper and
unfortunate."
Kate stood for a moment still and white as a marble statue; and when she
spoke, her words dropped slowly and with an evident effort. And yet her
self-control and dignity of manner was remarkable, as she answered,--
"Duchess, I have always done exactly what my dear wise father and mother
have told me to do. I shall ask their advice on this matter before I make
any promise. If they tell me to do as you wish me to do, I shall know
that they are right, and obey them. I do not recognise any other human
authority than theirs."
She was leaving the room after these words; but the Duchess cried
angrily, "Your father must not at present be asked to interfere. There
are interests--grave, political interests--between him and the Duke
that cannot be imperilled for some love-nonsense between you and Lord
Exham."
"There are no grave political interests between my mother and the Duke;
and I shall, at all events, take my mother's counsel."
She had stood with the door open in her hand; she now passed outside. So
far she had kept herself from any exhibition of feeling; but, oh, how
wronged and unhappy and offended she felt! She went down and down the
splendid stairway, erect as a reed; but her heart was like a wounded
bird: it fluttered wildly in her bosom, and would not be comforted until
she reached that nest of all nests,--her mother's breast.
There she poured out all her grief and indignation; and Mrs. Atheling
never interrupted the relation by a single word. She clasped the weeping
girl to her heart, and stroked her hands, and soothed her in those tender
little ways that are closer and sweeter than any words can be. But when
Kate had wept her passionate sense of wrong and affront away, the good
mother withdrew herself a little, and began to question her child.
"Let me understand plainly, Kitty dear," she said. "Her Grace--Grace
indeed!--wishes you to promise her that you will give up Piers to
Annabel."
"Yes, Mother."
"And that you will never marry Piers under any circumstances?"
"Yes, Mother."
"And she thinks you 'presumptuous' in hoping to marry her son?"
"Yes, dear Mother. She said 'presumptuous.' Am I; ought I to do as
she wishes me? Oh, I cannot give up Piers! Only this morning he told me
that he would never marry any woman but me."
"Have I or your good father told you to give up Piers?"
"No, Mother."
"When we do, you will of course know we have good reasons for such
an order, and you will give him up. But as yet, father hasn't said
such a word; and I haven't. Kitty darling, the Fifth Commandment only
asks you to obey your own father and mother. Let the Duchess put the
'giving up' where it ought to be. Let her tell her son to give you
up--that is quite as far as her authority extends. She has nothing to
say to Kate Atheling; nor has my little Kitty any obligation to obey
her. She must give such orders to Piers Exham. It is the duty of his
heart and conscience to decide whether he will obey or not."
"Then I can go on loving him, Mother, without wronging myself or
others?"
"Go on loving him, dearie."
"He said he was coming to ride with me at three o'clock."
"Ride with him, and be happy while you can, dear child. Let mother kiss
such foolish tears away. I can tell you father was proud of your beauty
last night. He said you were the loveliest woman in London."
"The Duke of Wellington told me I was a beautiful girl; and he said
many wise and kind things to me, Mother. What did father think about
the Reform Bill?"
"It troubled him, Kitty; it troubled him very much. He said, 'It meant
civil war;' but I said, 'Nonsense, John Atheling, it will prevent civil
war.' And so it will, dearie. The people will have it, or else they
will have far more. Your father said all London was shouting till
daybreak, 'The Bill! The whole Bill! Nothing but the Bill!' Now
then, run away and wash your eyes bright, and put on your habit. I'll
warrant Piers outruns the clock."
"Have you seen Edgar this morning?"
"For a few minutes just before you came. Cecil was with him. They had
been up all night; but Cecil would have stayed if Annabel had been here.
How he does love that girl!"
"I think she loves him. She looked ill last night, and I did not see
her this morning. What a tangle it is! Annabel loves Cecil--Piers loves
me--and the Duchess--"
"Never mind the Duchess, nor the tangle either, Kitty. To-day is yours;
to-morrow is not born; and you are not told to unravel any tangle.
There are _them_ whose business it is; and they know all the knots and
snarls, and will wind the ball all right in the end."
"Oh, Mother, how I love you!"
"Oh, Kitty, how I love you!"
"Piers loves me too, Mother."
"I'll warrant he does. Who could help loving thee, Kitty? But men's
love isn't mother's love; it is a good bit more selfish. God Almighty
made thy father, John Atheling, of the best of human elements; but John
Atheling has his shabby moments. Piers Exham won't be different; so
don't expect it." Then the two women looked at each other and smiled.
They understood.