"Mothering" is a grand old word for a quality God can teach man as
well as woman; and the Squire really "mothered" his daughter in
the first days of her great sorrow. He was always at her side. He was
constantly needing her help or her company; and Kate was quite sensible
of the great love with which he encompassed her. At first she was
inexpressibly desolate. She had been suddenly dislodged from that life
in the heart of Piers which she had so long enjoyed, and she felt
homeless and forsaken. But Kate had a sweet and beautiful soul, nothing
in it could turn to bitterness; and so it was not long before she was
able to carry her misfortune as she had carried her good fortune, with
cheerfulness and moderation.
For her confidence in Piers was unbroken. Not even her father's
assertion about the lost ring could affect it. On reflection, she was
sure there was a satisfactory explanation; if not, it was a momentary
infidelity which she was ready to forgive. And in her determination
to be faithful to her lover, Mrs. Atheling encouraged her. "Time
brings us our own, Kitty dear," she said; "you have a true title to
Piers's love; so, then, you have a true title to his hand. I have not a
doubt that you will be his wife."
"I think that, Mother; but why should we be separated now, and both made
to suffer?"
"That is earth's great mystery, my dear,--the prevalence of pain
and suffering; no one is free from it. But then, in the midst of this
mystery, is set that Heavenly Love which helps us to bear everything. I
know, Kitty, I know!"
"Father is very hard."
"He is not. When Piers's father and mother say they will not have
you in their house, do you want to slip into it on the sly, or even
in defiance of them? Wait, and your hour will come."
"There is only one way that it can possibly come; and that way I dare
not for a moment think of."
"No, indeed! Who would wish to enter the house of marriage by the gates
of death? If such a thought comes to you, send it away with a prayer
for the Duke's life. God can give you Piers without killing his father.
He would be a poor God if He could not. Whatever happens in your life
that you cannot change, that is the Will of God; and to will what God
wills is sure to bring you peace, Kitty. You have your Prayer-Book; go to
the Blessed Collects in it. You will be sure to find among them just the
prayer you need. They never once failed me,--never once!"
"If I could have seen him just for an hour, Mother."
"Far better not. Your last meeting with him in London was a very happy,
joyous one. That is a good memory to keep. If you met him now, it would
only be to weep and lament; and I'll tell you what, Kitty, no crying
woman leaves a pleasant impression. I want Piers to remember you as he
saw you last,--clothed in white, with flowers in your hair and hands,
and your face beaming with love and happiness."
Many such conversations as this one held up the girl's heart, and
enabled her, through a pure and steadfast faith in her lover, to enter--
"----that finer atmosphere,
Where footfalls of appointed things,
Reverberant of days to be,
Are heard in forecast echoings;
Like wave-beats from a viewless sea."
The first week of her trouble was the worst; but it was made tolerable
by a long letter from Piers on the second day. It came in the Squire's
mail-bag, and he could easily have retained it. But such a course would
have been absolutely contradictious to his whole nature. He held the
thick missive a moment in his hand, and glanced at the large red seal,
lifting up so prominently the Richmoor arms, and then said,--
"Here is a letter for you, Kitty. It is from Piers. What am I to do with
it?"
"Please, Father, give it to me."
"Give it to her, Father," said Mrs. Atheling; and Kate's eager face
pleaded still more strongly. Rather reluctantly, he pushed the letter
towards Kate, saying, "I would as leave not give it to thee, but I can
trust to thy honour."
"You may trust me, Father," she answered. And the Squire was satisfied
with his relenting, when she came to him a few hours later, and said,
"Thank you for giving me my letter, Father. It has made my trouble a
great deal lighter. Now, Father, will you do me one more favour?"
"Well, dear, what is it?"
"See Piers for me, and tell him of the promise I made to you. Say I
cannot break it, but that I send, by you, my thanks for his letter, and
my love forever more."
"I can't tell him about 'love forever more,' Kitty. That won't do
at all."
"Tell him, then, that all he says to me I say to him. Dear Father, make
that much clear to him."
"John, do what Kitty asks thee. It isn't much."
"A man can't have his way in this house with two women to coax or bully
him out of it. What am I to do?"
"Just what Kitty asks you to do."
[Illustration:]
"Please, Father!" And the two words were sent straight to the father's
heart with a kiss and a caress that were irresistible. Three days
afterwards the Squire came home from a ride, very much depressed. He
was cross with the servant who unbuttoned his gaiters, and he looked
resentfully at Mrs. Atheling as she entered the room.
"A nice message I was sent," he said to her as soon as they were
alone. "That young man has given me a heart-ache. He has made me think
right is wrong. He has made me feel as if I was the wickedest father
in Yorkshire. And I know, in my soul, that I am doing right; and that
there isn't a better father in the three kingdoms."
"Whatever did he say?"
"He said I was to tell Kate that from the East to the West, and from
the North to the South, he would love her. That from that moment to the
moment of death, and throughout all eternity, he would love her. And
I stopped him there and then, and said I would carry no message that
went beyond the grave. And he said I was to tell her that neither for
father nor mother, nor for the interests of the dukedom, nor for the
command of the King, would he marry any woman but her. And I was fool
enough to be sorry for him, and to promise I would give him Kate, with
my blessing, when his father and mother asked me to do so."
"I don't think that was promising very much, John."
"Thou knowest nothing of how I feel, Maude. But he is a good man, and
true; I think so, at any rate."
"Tell Kitty what he said."
"Nay, you must tell her if you want her to know. I would rather not
speak of Piers at all. Tell her, also, that the Duchess and Miss Vyner
are going to Germany, and that Piers goes with them as far as London. I
am very glad of this move, for we can ride about, then, without fear
of meeting them."
All the comfort to be got from this conversation and intelligence was
given at once to Kate; and perhaps Mrs. Atheling unavoidably made it
more emphatic than the Squire's manner warranted. She did not overstep
the truth, however, for Piers had spoken from his very heart, and with
the most passionate love and confidence. Indeed, the Squire's transcript
had been but a bald and lame translation of the young man's fervent
expressions of devotion and constancy.
Kate understood this, and she was comforted. Invincible Hope was at
the bottom of all her sorrow, and she soon began to look on the
circumstances as merely transitory. Yet she had moments of great trial.
One evening, while walking with her mother a little on the outskirts of
Atheling, the Duke's carriage, with its splendid outriders, suddenly
turned into the little lane. There was no escape, and they looked at
each other bravely, and stood still upon the turf bordering the
road. Then the Duchess gave an order to the coachman. There was
difficulty in getting the horses to the precise spot which was best
for conversation; but Mrs. Atheling would not take a step forward or
backward to relieve it. She stood with her hand on Kate's arm,
Kate's hands being full of the blue-bells which she had been gathering.
The carriage contained only the Duchess and Annabel. There had been no
overt unpleasantness between the ladies of the two families, and Mrs.
Atheling would not take the initiative, especially when the question was
one referring to the most delicate circumstances of her daughter's
life. She talked with the Duchess of her German trip, and Kate gave
Annabel the flowers, and hoped she would enjoy her new experience.
In five minutes the interview was over; nothing but courteous words had
been said, and yet Mrs. Atheling and Kate had, somehow, a sense of
intense humiliation. The Duchess's manner had been politely patronising,
Annabel's languid and indifferent; and, in some mysterious way, the
servants echoed this covert atmosphere of disdain. Little things are so
momentous; and the very attitude of the two parties was against the
Athelings. From their superb carriage, as from a throne, the Duchess
and her companion looked down on the two simply-dressed ladies who had
been gathering wild flowers on the roadside.
"How provoking!" was Kate's first utterance. "Mother, I will not walk
outside the garden again until they go away; I will not!"
"I am ashamed of you!" answered Mrs. Atheling, angrily. "Will you
make yourself a prisoner for these two women? _Tush!_ Who are they? Be
yourself, and who is better than you?"
"It is easy talking, Mother. You are as much annoyed as I am. How did
they manage to snub us so politely?"
"Position is everything, Kate. A woman in a Duke's carriage, with
outriders in scarlet, and coachmen and footmen in silver-laced liveries,
would snub the Virgin Mary if she met her in a country lane, dressed in
pink dimity, and gathering blue-bells. Try and forget the affair."
"Annabel looked ill."
"It was her white dress. A woman with her skin ought to know better than
to wear white."
"Oh, Mother! if Piers had been with them, what should I have done?"
"I wish he had been there! You were never more lovely. I saw you for
a moment, standing at the side of the carriage; with your brown hair
blowing, and your cheeks blushing, and your hands full of flowers, and I
thought how beautiful you were; and I wish Piers had been there."
"They go away on Saturday. I shall be glad when Saturday is over. I
do not think I could bear to see Piers. I should make a little fool of
myself."
"Not you! Not you! But it is just as well to keep out of danger."
Certainly neither the Squire nor Kate had any idea of meeting Piers on
the following Saturday night when they rode along Atheling lane together.
Both of them believed Piers to be far on the way to London. They had
been to the village, and were returning slowly homeward in the gloaming.
A light like that of dreamland was lying over all the scene; and the
silence of the far-receding hills was intensified by the murmur of the
streams, and the sleepy piping of a solitary bird. The subtle, fugitive,
indescribable fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley was in the air; and a
sense of brooding power, of mystical communion between man and nature,
had made both the Squire and Kate sympathetically silent.
Suddenly there was the sound of horse's feet coming towards them; and
the figure of its rider loomed large and spectral in the gray, uncertain
light. Kate knew instantly who it was. In a moment or two they must needs
pass each other. She looked quickly into her father's face, and he said
huskily, "Be brave, Kate, be brave!"
The words had barely been spoken, when Piers slowly passed them. He
removed his hat, and the Squire did the same; but Kate sat with dropped
eyes, white as marble. From her nerveless hands the reins had fallen; she
swayed in her saddle, and the Squire leaned towards her with encouraging
touch and words. But she could hear nothing but the hurrying flight of
her lover, and the despairing cry which the wind brought sadly back
as he rode rapidly up the little lane,--
"_Kate! Kate! Kate!_"
Fortunately, news of Miss Curzon's and Edgar's arrival at Ashley Hall
came to Atheling that very hour; and the Squire and Mrs. Atheling were
much excited at their proposal to lunch at Atheling Manor the next day.
Kate had to put aside her own feelings, and unite in the family joy of
reunion. There was a happy stir of preparation, and the Squire dressed
himself with particular care to meet his son and his new daughter. As
soon as he heard of their approach, he went to the open door to meet them.
To Edgar he gave his right hand, with a look which cancelled every hard
word; and then he lifted little Annie Curzon from her horse, and kissed
her on the doorstep with fatherly affection. And between Kate and Annie a
warm friendship grew apace; and the girls were continually together,
and thus, insensibly, Kate's sorrow was lightened by mutual confidence
and affection.
Early in June the Squire and Edgar were to return to London, for
Parliament re-opened on the fourteenth; and a few days before their
departure Mrs. Atheling asked her husband one afternoon to take a
drive with her. "To be sure I will, Maude," he answered. "It isn't
twice in a twelvemonth thou makest me such an offer." She was in her
own little phaeton, and the Squire settled himself comfortably at her
side, and took the reins from her hands. "Which way are we to go?" he
asked.
"We will go first to Gisbourne Gates, and maybe as far as Belward."
The Squire wondered a little at her direction, for she knew Gisbourne was
rather a sore subject with him. As they approached the big iron portals,
rusty on all their hinges from long neglect, he could not avoid saying,--
"It is a shame beyond everything that I have not yet been able to buy
Gisbourne. The place has been wanting a master for fifteen years; and
it lays between Atheling and Belward as the middle finger lays between
the first and the third. I thought I might manage it next year; but this
Parliament business has put me a good bit back."
"Many things have put you back, John. There was Edgar's college
expenses, and the hard times, and what not beside. Look, John! the gates
are open. Let us drive in. It is twenty years since I saw Gisbourne
Towers."
"The gates are open. What does that mean, Maude?"
"I suppose somebody has bought the place."
"I'm afraid so."
"Never mind, John."
"But I do mind. The kind of neighbour we are to have is a very important
thing. They will live right between Atheling and Belward. The Gisbournes
were a fine Tory family. Atheling and Gisbourne were always friends. My
father and Sir Antony went to the hunt and the hustings together. They
were finger and thumb in all county matters. It will be hard to get as
good a master of Gisbourne as Sir Antony was."
"John, I have a bit of right good news for thee. Edgar is going to take
Sir Antony's place. Will Edgar do for a neighbour?"
"Whatever art thou saying, Maude?"
"The very truth. Miss Curzon has bought Gisbourne. Lord Ashley advised
her to do so; and she has brought down a big company of builders and
such people, and the grand old house is to be made the finest home in
the neighbourhood. She showed me the plans yesterday, and I promised
her to bring thee over to Gisbourne this afternoon to meet her architect
and Lord Ashley and Edgar. See, they are waiting on the terrace for thee;
for they want thy advice and thy ideas."
It was, indeed, a wonderful afternoon. The gentlemen went into
consultation with the architect, and a great many of the Squire's
suggestions were received with enthusiastic approval. Mrs. Atheling,
Kate, and Annie went through the long-deserted rooms, and talked of
what should be done to give them modern convenience and comfort, without
detracting from their air of antique splendour. Then at five o'clock
the whole party met in the faded drawing-room and had tea, with sundry
additions of cold game and pasties, and discussed, together, the
proposed plans. At sunset the parties separated at Gisbourne Gates,
Kate going with Miss Curzon to Ashley, and the Squire and Mrs.
Atheling returning to their own home. The Squire was far too much excited
to be long quiet.
"They were very glad of my advice, Maude," he said, as soon as the last
good-bye had been spoken. "Ashley seconded nearly all I proposed. He is
a fine fellow. I wish I had known him long ago."
"Well, John, nobody can give better advice than you can."
"And you see I know Gisbourne, and what can be done with it. Bless
your soul! I used to be able to tell every kind of bird that built in
Gisbourne Chase, and where to find their nests--though I never robbed a
nest; I can say that much for myself. Well, Edgar _has_ done a grand
thing for Atheling, and no mistake."
"I told you Edgar--"
"Now, Maude, Edgar and me have washed the slate between us clean. It
is not thy place to be itemising now. I say Edgar has done well for
Atheling, and I don't care who says different. I haven't had such a day
since my wedding day. Edgar in Gisbourne! An Atheling in Gisbourne! My
word! Who would have thought of such a thing? I couldn't hardly have
asked it."
"I should think not. There are very few of us, John, would have the face
to _ask_ for half of the good things the good God gives us without a
'please' or a 'thank you.'"
"Belward! Gisbourne! Atheling! It will be all Atheling when I am gone."
"Not it! I do not want Belward to be sunk in that way. Belward is as old
as Atheling."
"In a way, Maude, in a way. It was once a part of Atheling; so was
Gisbourne. As for sinking the name, thou sunkest thy name in Atheling;
why not sink the land's name, eh, Maude?"
And until the Squire and Edgar left for London, such conversations were
his delight; indeed, he rather regretted his Parliamentary obligations,
and envied his wife and daughter the delightful interest that had come
into their lives. For they really found it delightful; and all through
the long, sweet, summer days it never palled, because it was always a
fresh wing, or a fresh gallery, cabinet-work in one parlour, upholstery
work in another, the freshly laid-out gardens, the cleared chase, the
new stables and kennels. Even the gates were a subject of interesting
debate as to whether the fine old ones should be restored or there
should be still finer new ones.
Thus between Atheling, Ashley, and Gisbourne, week after week passed
happily. Kate did not forget, did not cease to love and to hope; she
just bided her time, waiting, in patience, for Fortune to bring in the
ship that longed for the harbour but could not make it. And with so
much to fill her hours joyfully, how ungrateful she would have been
to fret over the one thing denied her! The return of the Squire and
Edgar was very uncertain. Both of them, in their letters, complained
bitterly of the obstructive policy which the Tories still unwaveringly
carried out. It was not until the twelfth of July that the Bill got
into Committee; and there it was harassed and delayed night after night
by debates on every one of its clauses. This plan of obstructing it
occupied thirty-nine sittings, so that it did not reach the House of
Lords until the twenty-second of September. The Squire's letter at
this point was short and despondent:--
DEAR WIFE,--The Bill has gone to the Lords. I expect they will
send it to the devil. I am fairly tired out; and, with all my
heart, I wish myself at Atheling. It may be Christmas before I
get there. Do as well as you can till I come. Tell Kitty, I
would give a sovereign for a sight of her.
Your affectionate Husband,