"LIFE COMES AND GOES THE OLD, OLD WAY!"
Annabel had purposely kept out of Kitty's way. She had more than a
suspicion of the probable interview between the Duchess and Kitty; and
she wished to avoid any unpleasantness with the Athelings. They gave
her the most reliable opportunities with Cecil North; and besides, she
was so little of a general favourite as to have no other acquaintances as
intimate. She was also really sick and unhappy; and the first occurrence
of the day did not tend to make her less so. She wished to see the Duke
about some matter relating to her finances; and, as soon as she left her
room, she went to the apartment in which she was most likely to find him.
The Duke was not there, but Squire Atheling was waiting for him. He
said he "had an appointment at two o'clock," and then, looking at the
time-piece on the mantel, added, "I always give myself ten minutes or so
to come and go on." Annabel knew this peculiarity of the Squire, and
made her little joke on the matter; and then the conversation turned a
moment on Kitty, and her probable return home. Annabel assured the Squire
she had already gone home, and then, offering her hand in adieu, was
about to leave the room. The little brown-gemmed hand roused a sudden
memory and anxiety in his heart. He detained it, as he said, "Miss
Vyner, I have a question to ask you. Do you remember untying a parcel
for me the other day?"
"I should think so," she replied with a laugh. "A more impatient man
to do anything for I never saw."
"I am a bit impatient. But that is not what I am thinking of. You wore
a ring that day--a sapphire ring with a little sapphire padlock--and that
ring interests me very much. Will you tell me where you got it?"
"No, sir. Even if I knew, I might have excellent reasons for not telling
you. Why, Squire, I am astonished at your asking such a question! Rings
have mostly a story--a love-story too; you might be asking for secrets!"
"I beg pardon. To be sure I might. But you see a ring exactly like the
one you wore, holds a secret of my own."
"Perhaps you are mistaken about the ring. So many rings look alike."
"I could not be mistaken. I do wish you would tell me--I am afraid you
think me rude and inquisitive--"
"Indeed I do, sir! And, if you please, we will forget this conversation.
It is too personal to be pleasant."
With these words she bowed and withdrew, and the Squire got up and
walked about the room until the Duke entered it. By that time, he had
worried himself into an impatient, suspicious temper, and was touchy
as tinder when his political chief asked him to sit down and discuss
the situation with him.
"Exham has gone to see a number of our party; but I thought I would
outline to you personally the course we intend to pursue with regard to
this infamous Bill." The Squire bowed but said not a word; and the Duke
proceeded, "We have resolved to worry and delay it to the death. In
the Commons, the Opposition will go over and over the same arguments,
and ask again, and again, and again, the same questions. This course
will be continued week after week--month after month if necessary.
Obstruction, Squire, obstruction, that is the word!"
"What do you mean exactly by 'obstruction'?"
"I will explain. Lord Exham will move, 'That the Speaker do now
leave the Chair.' When this motion is lost, some other member of the
Opposition will move, 'That the debate be now adjourned.' That being
lost, some other member will again move, 'That the Speaker do now leave
the Chair,' and so, with alternations of these motions, the whole
night can be passed--and night after night--and day after day. It is
quite a legitimate parliamentary proceeding."
"It may be," answered the Squire; "but I am astonished at your asking
John Atheling to take any part in such ways. I will fight as well as any
man, on the square and the open; if I cannot do this, I will not fight
at all. I would as soon worry a vixen fox, as run a doubling race of that
kind. No, Duke, I will not worry, and nag, and tease, and obstruct.
Such tactics are fitter for old women than for reasoning men, sure of a
good cause, and working to win it."
"I did not expect this obstruction from you, Squire; and, I must say, I
am disappointed--very much disappointed."
"I don't know, Duke Richmoor, that I have ever given you cause to think
I would fight in any other way than in a square, stand-up, face-to-face
manner. Wasting time is not fighting, and it is not reasoning. It is just
tormenting an angry and impatient nation; it is playing with fire; it
is a dangerous, deceitful, cowardly bit of business, and I will have
nothing to do with it."
"You remember that I gave you your seat?"
"You can have it back and welcome. I took my seat from you; but when
it comes to right and wrong, I take orders only from my own conscience."
"Advice, Squire, advice; I did not think of giving you orders."
"Well, Duke, I am perhaps a little hasty; but I do not understand
obstructing warfare. I am ready to attack the Bill, tooth and nail.
I am ready to vote against it; but I do not think what you call
'obstructing' is fair and manly."
"All things are fair in love and war, Squire; and this is a war to the
knife-hilt for our own caste and privileges."
Here there was a light tap at the door, and, in answer to the Duke's
"enter," Annabel came in. She said a few words to him in a low voice,
gave him a paper, and disappeared. But, short as the interview was,
it put the Duke in a good temper. He looked after her with pride and
affection, and said pleasantly,--
"Fight in your own way, Squire Atheling; it is sure to be a good,
straight-forward fight. But the other way will be the tactics of our
party, and you need not interfere with them. By-the-bye, Miss Vyner is a
good deal at your house, I think."
"She is always welcome. My daughter likes her company. We all do. She is
both witty and pretty."
"She is a great beauty--a particularly noble-looking beauty. She will
make a fine Duchess, and my son is most fortunate in such an alliance;
for she has money,--plenty of money,--and a dukedom is not kept up
on nothing a year. Perhaps, however, this Reform Bill will eventually
get rid of dukedoms and dukes, as it proposes to do with boroughs and
members."
The Squire did not immediately answer. He wanted a definite assertion
about Lord Exham and Miss Vyner, and could not decide on words which
would unsuspiciously bring it. Finally, he blurted out an inquiry as to
the date of a marriage between them; and the Duke answered carelessly,--
"It may occur soon or late. We have not yet fixed the time. Probably
as soon as this dreadful Reform question is settled. But as the ceremony
will surely take place at the Castle, Atheling Manor will be an important
factor in the event."
He was shifting and folding up papers as he spoke, and the Squire _felt_,
more than understood, that the interview had better be closed. Ostensibly
they parted friends; but the Squire kept his right hand across his back
as he said "good-morning," and the Duke understood the meaning of
this action, though he thought it best to take no notice of it.
"What a fractious, testy, touchy fellow this is!" he said irritably
to himself, when he was alone. "A perfect John Bull, absolutely sure
of his own infallibility; sure that he knows everything about everything;
that he is always right, and always must be right, and that any one who
doubts his always being right is either a knave or a fool. _Tush!_ I am
glad I gave him that thrust about Piers and Annabel. It hurt. I could
see it hurt, though he kept his hand to cover the wound."
The Duke was quite right. Squire Atheling was hurt. He went straight
home. In any trouble, his first medicine was his wife; for though he
pretended to think little of her advice, he always took it--or regretted
that he had not taken it. He found her half-asleep in the chair by the
window which she had taken in order to watch Lord Exham and Kitty ride
down the street together. She was at rest and happy; but the Squire's
entrance, at an hour not very usual, interested her. "Why, John!"
she asked, "what has happened? I thought you went to the House at three
o'clock."
"I have some questions to ask in my own house, first," he answered.
"Maude, I am sure you remember the ring I gave you one night at
Belward,--the ring you promised to marry me on, the sapphire ring with
the little padlock?"
"To be sure I remember it, John."
"You used to wear it night and day. I have not seen it on your hand for
a long time."
"It became too small for me. I had to take it off. Whatever has brought
it into your thoughts at this time?"
"I saw one just like it. Where did you put your ring?"
"In my jewel-case."
"Is it there now."
She hesitated a moment, but a life-time of truth is not easily turned
aside. "John," she answered, "it is not there. It is gone."
"I thought so. Did you sell it for Edgar, some time when he wanted
money?"
"Edgar never asked me for a shilling. I never gave him a shilling
unknown to you. And I did not sell the ring at all. I would never have
done such a thing."
"But I have seen the ring on a lady's hand."
"Do you know the lady?"
"I think I could find her."
"I will tell you about it, John. I loaned it to Kitty, and Piers saw it
and wanted one made like it for Kitty, and so he took it away to show
it to his jeweller, and lost it that very night. He has moved heaven and
earth to find it, but got neither word nor sight of it. You ought to
tell him where you saw it."
"Not yet, Maude."
"Tell me then."
"To be sure! I saw it on Miss Vyner's hand."
"Impossible!"
"Sure!"
"But how?"
"Thou mayst well ask 'how.' Piers gave it to her."
"I wouldn't believe such a thing, not on a seven-fold oath."
"Thou knowest little about men. There are times when they would give
their souls away. Thou knowest nothing about such women as Miss Vyner.
They have a power that while it lasts is omnipotent. Antony lost a world
for Cleopatra, and Herod would have given half, yes, the whole of his
kingdom to a dancing woman, if she had asked him for it."
"Those men were pagans, John, and lived in foreign countries. Christian
men in England--"
"Christian men in England, in proportion to their power, do things just
as reckless and wicked. Piers Exham has never learned any control; he
has always given himself, or had given him, whatever he wanted. And I can
tell thee, there is a perfect witchery about Miss Vyner in some hours.
She has met Exham in a favourable time, and begged the ring from him."
"I cannot believe it. Why should she do such a thing? She must have had
a reason."
"Certainly she had a reason. It might be pure mischief, for she is
mischievous as a cat. It might be superstition; she is as superstitious
as an Hindoo fakir. She has charms and signs for everything. She orders
her very life by the stars of heaven. I have watched her, and listened to
her, and never trusted her about Kitty--not a moment. Now this is a
secret between thee and me. I asked her to-day about the ring, and she
would say neither this nor that; yet somehow she gave me to understand
it was a love token."
"She is a liar, if she means that Piers gave it to her as a love token.
I saw the young man half an hour ago. If ever a man loved a maid, he
loves our Kitty."
"Yet he is going to marry Miss Vyner."
"He is not. I am sure he is not. He will marry Kate Atheling."
"The Duke told me this afternoon that Lord Exham would marry Miss Vyner
as soon as this Reform question is settled. He said the marriage would
take place at the Castle."
"The Duke has been talking false to you for some purpose of his own."
"Not he. Richmoor has faults--more than enough of them; but he treads
his shoes straight. A truthful man, no one can say different."
"I wouldn't notice a thing he said for all that. Pass it by. Leave
Kitty to manage her own affairs."
"No, I will not! Thou must tell Kitty to give the man up. He is going to
marry another woman."
"I don't believe a word of it."
"His father said so. What would you have?"
"Fathers don't know everything."
"Now, Maude Atheling, my girl shall not marry where she is not wanted.
I would rather see her in her death shroud than in her wedding gown, if
things were in that way."
"John, I have always been open as the day with you, and I will not
change now. The Duchess said something like it to Kitty this morning,
so you see there has been a plan between the Duke and Duchess to make
trouble about Piers. Kitty came home very troubled."
"And you let her go out with the man! I am astonished at you!"
"She asked me what she ought to do, and I told the dear girl to be happy
until _you_ told her to be miserable. If you think it is right to do so,
tell her when she comes home never to see Piers again."
"You had better tell her. I cannot."
"I cannot, and I will not, for the life of me." "Don't you believe
what I say?"
"Yes--with a grain of salt. Piers is to hear from yet."
"Well, you must speak to her, Mother. My heart is too soft. It is _your_
place to do it."
"My heart is as soft as yours, John. I say, let things alone. We are
going to Atheling soon--we cannot go too soon now. If it must be told
her, Kate will hear it, and bear it best in her own home; and, besides,
he will not be within calling distance. John, this thing cannot be done
in a hurry. God help the dear girl--to find Piers false--to give him
up--it will break her heart, Father!"
"Kitty's heart is made of better stuff. When she finds out that Piers
has been false to her, she will despise him."
"She will make excuses for him."
"No good woman will care about an unworthy man."
"Then, God help the men, John! If that were so, there would be lots of
them without any good woman to care for them."
"Show Kitty that Piers is unworthy of her love, and I tell you she will
put him out of her heart very quickly. I think I know Kitty."
"Women do not love according to deserts, John. If a woman has a bad
son or daughter, does she take it for comfort when they go away from
her? No, indeed! She never once says, 'They were nothing but a sorrow
and an expense, and I am glad to be rid of them.' She weeps, and she
prays all the more for them, just because they were bad. And one kind of
love is like another; so I will not speak ill of Piers to Kate; besides,
I do not think ill of him. If she has to give him up, it will not be
his fault; and I could not tell her 'he is no loss, Kate,'--and such
nonsense as that,--for it would be nonsense."
"What will you say then?"
"I shall help her to remember everything pleasant about him, and to make
excuses for him. Even if you put comfort on the lowest ground possible,
no woman likes to think she has been fooled and deceived, and given her
heart for worse than nothing. Nine hundred and ninety-nine women out
of a thousand would rather blame Fate or father or Fortune, or some
other man or woman, than their own lover."
"Women are queer. A man in such a case whistles or sings his heartache
away with the thought,--
"'If she be not fair for me,
What care I how fair she be?'"
"You are slandering good men, John. Plenty of men would not give
heart-room to such selfish love. They can live for the woman they
love, and yet live apart from her. My advice is that we go back to
Atheling at once. My heart is there already. Kitty and I were talking
yesterday of the garden. The trees will soon be in blossom, and the
birds busy building in them. Oh, John,--
"'The Spring's delight,
In the cowslip bright,
As she laughs to the warbling linnet!
And a whistling thrush,
On a white May bush,
And his mate on the nest within it!'"
And both caught the joy of the spring in the words, and the Squire,
smiling, stooped and kissed his wife; and she knew then that she had
permission to carry her daughter out of the way of immediate sorrow. As
for the future, Mrs. Atheling never went into an enemy's country in
search of trouble. She thought it time enough to meet misfortune when
it came to her.
Kate was not averse to the change. Her conversation with the Duchess
naturally affected her feeling towards Annabel. She could not imagine
her quite ignorant of it; and it was, therefore, a trial to have the
girl intruding daily into her life. Yet self-respect forbade her to make
any change in their relationship to each other. Annabel, indeed, appeared
wishful to nullify all the Duchess had said by her behaviour to Cecil
North. Never had she been so familiar and so affectionate towards him,
and she evidently desired Mrs. Atheling and Kate to understand that she
was sincerely in love, and had every intention of marrying for love.
But yet she was unable to disguise her pleasure when she was suddenly
told of their proposed return to the country. A vivid wave of crimson
rushed over her face and throat; and though she said she "was sorry,"
there was an uncontrollable note of satisfaction in her voice. She was
really sorry in one respect; but she had become afraid of the Squire. He
asked such point-blank questions. His suspicions were wide awake and
veering to the truth. He was another danger in her situation, and she
felt Justine to be all she could manage. Mrs. Atheling and Kate being
gone, her visits to the Vyner house could naturally cease; and, as
the winter was nearly over, she could arrange some other place for
her meetings with Cecil North. Indeed, he had already joined her in a
few early morning gallops; and, besides which, she reflected, "Love
always finds out a way." Cecil was a quite manageable factor.
[Illustration:]
About the middle of March, one fine spring evening, Mrs. Atheling and
Kate came once more near to their own home. The road was a beautiful
one, bordered with plantations of feathery firs on each side; and the
pure resinous odour was to these two northern women sweeter than a
rose garden. And, oh, what a home-like air the long, rambling old Manor
House had, and how bright and comfortable were its low-ceiled rooms!
When Kate went to her own chamber, a robin on a spray of sweet-briar
was singing at her window. She took it for her welcome back to the
happy place. To be sure, the polished oak floor with its strips of
bright carpet, the little tent-bed with its white dimity curtains, and
the low, latticed windows, full of rosemary pots and monthly roses, were
but simple surroundings; yet Kate threw herself with joyful abandon into
her white chair before the blazing logs, and thought, without regret,
of the splendid rooms of the Vyner mansion, and the tumult of men and
horses in the thousand-streeted city outside it.
Certainly Piers was in the city, and she had no hope of his speedy
return to the country. But, equally, she had no doubts of his true
affection; and the passing days and weeks brought her no reasons for
doubting. She had frequent letters from him, and many rich tokens of
his constant remembrance. And, as the spring advanced, the joy of her
heart kept pace with it. Never before had she taken such delight in the
sylvan life around her. The cool sweetness of the dairy; the satiny
sides of the milking-pails; the trig beauty of the dairymaids, waiting
for the cows, coming slowly out of the stable,--the beautiful cows, with
their indolent gait and majestic tramp, their noble, solemn faces, and
their peaceful breathing,--why had she never noticed these things
before? Was it because we must lose good things--though but for a
time--in order to find them? And very soon the bare, brown garden was
aflame with gold and purple crocus buds, and the delicious woody perfume
of wallflowers, and the springtide scent of the sweet-briar filled all
its box-lined paths. The trees became misty with buds and plumes and
tufts and tassels; and in the deep, green meadow-grass the primroses
were nestling, and the anemones met her with their wistful looks.
And far and wide the ear was as satisfied as the eye with the tones of
waterfalls, the inland sounds of caves and woods, the birds twittering
secrets in the tree-tops, and the running waters that were the tongue
of life in many a silent place. Oh, how beautiful, and peaceful, and
happy were these things! Often the mother and daughter wondered to each
other how they could ever have been pleased to exchange them for the
gilt and gewgaws and the social smut of the great city. Thus they fell
naturally into the habit of pitying the Squire, and Edgar, and Piers,
and wishing they were all back at Atheling to share the joy of the
spring-time with them.
One night towards the close of April, Kate was very restless. "I cannot
tell what is the matter, Mother," she said. "My feet go of their own
will to the garden gates. It is as if my soul knew there was somebody
coming. Can it be father?"
"I think not, Kitty. Father's last letter gave no promise of any let-up
in the Reform quarrel. You know the Bill was read for the second time as
we left London; and Earl Grey's Ministry had then only a majority of
one. Your father said the Duke was triumphant about it. He was sure that
a Bill which passed its second reading by only a majority of one, could
be easily mutilated in Committee until it would be harmless. The Lords
mean to kill it, bit by bit,--that will take time."
"But what then, Mother?"
"God knows, child! I do not believe the country will ever settle to work
again until it gets what it wants."
"Then will the House sit all summer?"
"I think it will."
At these words a long, cheerful "_hallo!_"--the Squire's own call in
the hunting-field--was heard; and Kate, crying, "I told you so!" ran
rapidly into the garden. The Squire was just entering the gates at a
gallop. He drew rein, threw himself off his horse, and took his daughter
in his arms.
"I am so glad, Father!" she cried. "So happy, Father! I knew you were
coming! I knew you were coming! I did that!"
"Nay, not thou! I told nobody."
"Your heart told my heart. Ask mother. Here she comes."
Then, late as it was, the quiet house suddenly became full of noise
and bustle; and the hubbub that usually followed the Squire's advent
was everywhere apparent. For he wanted all at once,--his meat and his
drink, his easy coat and his slippers, his pipe and his dogs, and his
serving men and women. He wanted to hear about the ploughing, and the
sowing, and the gardening; about the horses, and the cattle, and the
markets; the farm hands, and the tenants of the Atheling cottages. He
wanted his wife's report, and his steward's report, and his daughter's
petting and opinions. The night wore on to midnight before he would
speak of London, or the House, or the Bill.
"I may surely have a little bit of peace, Maude," he said
reproachfully, when she ventured to introduce the subject; "it has
been the Bill, and the Bill, and the Bill, till my ears ache with the
sound of the words."
"Just tell us if it has passed, John."
"No, it has _not_ passed; and Parliament is dissolved again; and the
country has taken the bit in its teeth, and the very mischief of hell
is let loose. I told the Duke what his 'obstructing' ways would do.
Englishmen like obstructions. They would put them there, if they were
absent, for the very pleasure of getting over them. Many a man that was
against the Bill is now against the 'obstructions' and bound to get
over them."
"Did Piers come down with you, Father?" asked Kate. She had waited long
and patiently, and the Squire had not named him; and she felt a little
wounded by the neglect.
"No. He did not come down with me, Kitty. But I dare say he is at the
Castle. The Duke spoke of returning to Yorkshire at once."
"He might have come with you, I think."
"I think not. A man's father and mother cannot always be put aside
for his sweetheart. Lovers think they can run the world to their own
whim-whams. 'Twould be a God's pity if they could!"
"What are you cross about, Father? Has Piers vexed you?"
"Am I cross, Kitty? I did not know it. Go to bed, child. England stands
where she did, and Piers is yet Lord of Exham Hall. I dare say he will
be here to-morrow. I came at my own pace. He would have to keep the pace
of two fine ladies. And I'll be bound he fretted like a race-horse yoked
in a plough."
And Kitty was wise enough to know that she had heard all she was likely
to hear that night; nor was she ill-pleased to be alone with her hopes.
Piers was at hand. To-morrow she might see him, and hear him speak, and
feel the tenderness of his clasp, and meet the love in his eyes. So
she sat at the open casement, breathing the sweetness and peace of the
night, and shaping things for the future that made her heart beat quick
with many thoughts not to be revealed. The faint smile of the loving,
dreaming of the loved one, was on her lips; and if a doubt came to her,
she put it far away. In fear she would not dwell, and, besides, her
heart had given her that insight which changes faith into knowledge.
She _knew_ that Piers loved her.
The Squire had no such clear confidence. When Kitty had gone away, he
said plainly, "I am not pleased with Piers. I do not like his ways; I
do not like them at all. After Kate left London, he was seen everywhere,
and constantly, with Miss Vyner."
"Why not? She is one of his own household."
"They were very confidential together. I noticed them often for Kitty's
sake."
"I do wish, Squire, that you would leave Kitty's love-affairs alone."
"_That_ I will not, Maude. If I have any business now, it is to pay
attention to them. I have taken your 'let-alone' plan, far too long.
My girl shall not be courted in any such underhand, mouse-in-the-corner
way. Her engagement to Lord Exham must be publicly acknowledged, or else
broken entirely off."
"The man loves Kate. He will do right to her."
"Loves Kate! Very good. But what of the Other One? He cannot do right to
both."
"Yes, he can. Their claims are different. You may depend on that. Kate
is the love of his soul; the Other One is like a sister."
"I do not trust either Piers or the Other One--and I wish she would give
me my ring."
"You do not certainly know that she has your ring."
"I will ask her to let me see it."
"Now, John Atheling, you will meddle with things that concern you, and
let other things alone. It may be your duty to interfere about your
daughter. You may insist on having her recognised as the future Duchess
of Richmoor,--it will be a feather in your own cap; you may say to the
Duke, you must accept my daughter, or I will--"
"Maude! You are just trying to stand me upon my pride. You cannot do
that any longer. If you are willing to let Kate 'drift,' I am not. It
is my duty to insist on her proper recognition."
"Then do your duty. But it is _not_ your duty to catechise Miss Vyner
about _my_ ring. When that inquiry is to be made, I will make it myself.
If Piers has to give up Kate, it will be to him a knock-down blow; it
will be a shot in the backbone; you need not sting him at the same time."
"I will speak to him to-morrow, and see the Duke afterwards. I owe my
little Kate that much."
"And the Duke and yourself will be the upper and the nether millstones,
and your little Kate between them. I know! I know!"
"I will do what is right, Maude, and I will be as kind as I can in doing
it. Who loves Kitty as I do? There is a deal said about mother love;
but, I tell thee, a father's love is bottomless. I would lay my life
down for my little girl, this minute."
"But not thy pride."
"Not my honour--which is her honour also. Honour must stand with love,
or else--nay, I will not give thee any more reasons. I know my decision
is right; but it is thy way to make out that all my reasons are wrong. I
wish thou wouldst prepare her a bit for what may come."
"There is no preparation for sorrow, John. When it comes it smites."
Then the Squire lit his pipe, and the mother went softly upstairs to look
at her little girl. And, as she did so, Kate's arms enfolded her, and
she whispered, "Piers is coming to-morrow. Are you glad, Mother?"
Then, so strange and contrary is human nature, the mother felt a
moment's angry annoyance. "Can you think of no one but Piers, Kate?"
she asked. And the girl was suddenly aware of her selfish happiness,
and ashamed of it. She ran after her mother, and brought her back to
her bedside, and said sorrowfully, "I know, Mother, that about Piers
I am a little sinner." And then Mrs. Atheling kissed her again, and
answered, "Never mind, Kitty. I have often seen sinners that were
more angel-like than saints--" and the shadow was over. Oh, how good it
is when human nature reaches down to the perennial!
[Illustration:]