In the first joy of their return home, Squire Atheling and his son
had not chosen to alarm the women of the family; yet the condition of
the country was such as filled with terror every thoughtful mind. The
passionate emotion evoked by the second rejection of the Reform Bill did
not abate. Tumultuous meetings were held in every town and village as
the news reached them; houses were draped in black; shops were closed;
and the bells of the churches tolled backward. In London the populace
was quite uncontrollable. Vast crowds filled the streets, cheering the
Reform leaders, and denouncing with furious execrations the members of
either House who had opposed the Bill. The Duke of Newcastle, the
Marquis of Londonderry, and many other peers were not saved from the
anger of the people without struggle and danger. Nottingham Castle,
the seat of the Duke of Newcastle, was burnt to the ground; and Belvoir
Castle, the seat of the Duke of Rutland, was barely saved. Bristol saw
a series of riots, and during them suffered greatly from fire, and the
Bishop's palace was reduced to ashes.
Everywhere the popular fury settled with special bitterness and hatred
upon the bishops; because, as teachers of the doctrines of Jesus of
Nazareth, the "common people" expected sympathy from them. A cry
arose, from one end of England to the other, for their expulsion from
the Upper Chamber; and proposals even for the abolition of the House
of Lords were constant and very popular. For such extreme measures no
speaker was so eloquent and so powerful as Mr. O'Connell. In addressing
a great meeting at Charing Cross one day, he pointed in the direction of
Whitehall Palace, and reminded his hearers that, "A King had lost his
head there. Why," he asked, "did this doom come on him? It was," he
cried, "because he refused to listen to his Commons and his people, and
obeyed the dictation of a foreign wife." And this allusion to the
Queen's bad influence over William the Fourth was taken up by the
crowd with vehement cheering.
While Bristol was burning, the cholera appeared in England; and its
terrors, new and awful and apparently beyond human help or skill, added
the last element of supernatural fear to the excited and hopeless
people. It is hard to realise at this day, and with our knowledge of the
disease, the frantic and abject despair which seized all classes. The
churches were kept open, supplications ascended night and day from the
altars; and on the sixth of November, at one hour, from every place of
worship in England, hundreds of thousands knelt to utter aloud a form
of prayer which was constantly broken by sobs of anguish:--
"Lord, have pity on thy people! Withdraw thy heavy hand from
those who are suffering under thy judgments; and turn away from
us that grievous calamity against which our only security is
Thy Compassion."
In the presence of this scourge, Mrs. Atheling found it impossible to
persuade the Squire to let his family go up with him and Edgar to London.
About the cholera, the Squire had the common fatalistic ideas.
"You may escape through God's mercy," he said; "but if you are to
die of this fearsome, outlandish sickness, then it is best to face death
in your own home."
"But if you should take it in London, and me not near even to bid you
'good-bye,' John! I should die of grief."
"I do hope thou wouldst have more sense, Maude."
"I would follow thee beyond the grave, very quickly, John."
"No, no! Stay where thou art. Thou knowest what Yorkshire is," and
though he spoke gruffly, his eyes were dim with unshed tears for the
dreadful possibility he thought it right to face.
Kate was specially averse to return to London. It was full of memories
she did not wish to revive. Piers was there; and how could she bear
to meet him, and neither speak to nor even look at her lover? There was
Annabel's marriage also to consider. If she did not attend it, how
many unpleasant inquiries and suppositions there would be? If she did
accept the formal invitation sent her, how was she to conduct herself
towards Piers in the presence of those who knew them both intimately?
The marriage was to take place shortly before the opening of Parliament;
and, owing to the wretched condition of the country, it was thought best
to give it only a private character. The management of the social
arrangements were in Piers's hands, and during these last days a very
brotherly and confidential affection sprang up in his heart for the
brilliant girl who was so soon to leave them forever. One morning he
returned to Richmoor House with some valuable jewels for Annabel. He
sent a servant to tell her that he was in the small east parlour and
desired her company. Then, knowing her usual indifference to time,
he sat down and patiently awaited her coming. She responded almost
immediately. But her entrance startled and troubled him. She came in
hastily, and shut the door with a perceptible nervous tremour. Her face
was flushed with anger; she looked desperate and defiant, and met his
curious glance with one of mingled fear and entreaty and reckless
passion. He led her to a seat, and taking her hands said,--
"My dear Bella, what has grieved you?"
"Oh, Piers! Piers!" she sobbed. "If you have one bit of pity in your
heart, give it to me. I am the most miserable woman in the world."
"Bella, if you do not love Cecil--if you want to break off this
marriage--"
"Love Cecil? I love him better than my life! My love for Cecil is the
best thing about me. It is not Cecil."
"Who is it then?"
"I will tell you, though you may hate me for my words. Piers, I took
the ring you lost. I meant no harm in the first moment; mischief and
jealousy were then so mixed, I don't know which of them led me. I saw
you asleep. I slipped the ring off your finger. I told myself I would
give it to you in the morning, and claim my forfeit. In the morning,
the Duchess was cross; and you were cross; and the constables were in
the house; and I was afraid. And I put it off and off, and every day my
fear of trouble--and perhaps my hope of doing mischief with it--grew
stronger. I had then hours of believing that I should like to be your
wife, and I hated and envied Kate Atheling. I hesitated until I lost
the desire to explain things; and then one day my maid Justine flew in
a passion at me, and accused me of stealing the ring. She said it was
in my purse--_and it was_. She threatened to call in the whole household
to see me found out; and it was the night of the great dinner; and I
bought her off."
"Oh, Bella! Bella! that was very foolish."
"I know. She has tortured and robbed me ever since. I have wasted
away under her threats. Look at my arms, Piers, and my hands. I have
a constant fever. Last week she promised me, if I would give her two
hundred pounds, she would go away, and I should never see or hear of
her again. I gave her the money. Now she says she has made up her mind to
go to India with me. That I cannot endure. She has kept me on the rack
with threats to tell Cecil. He is the soul of Honour; he would certainly
cease to love me; and if I was his wife, how terrible that would be!
What am I to do? What am I to do? Oh, Piers, help me!"
"Where is the woman now?"
"In my apartments."
"Can I go with you to your parlour?"
"Yes--but, Piers, why?"
"Where is the ring, Bella dear?"
"In her possession. She was afraid I would give it to you."
"Why did you not tell me all this before? Come, I will soon settle the
affair."
When they reached the room, Annabel sank almost lifeless on a sofa; and
Piers touched a hand-bell. Justine called from an inner room:
"I will answer at my leisure, Miss."
Piers walked to the dividing door, and threw it open. "You will answer
_now_, at my command. Come here, and come quickly."
"My lord--I did not mean--"
"Stand there, and answer truly the questions I shall ask; or I promise
you a few years on the treadmill, if not a worse punishment. Do you know
that you are guilty of black-mailing, and of obtaining money on false
pretences?--both crimes to be expiated on the gallows."
"My lord, it is a true pretence. Miss Vyner stole your ring. She knows
she did."
"She could not steal anything I have; she is welcome to whatever of mine
she desires. How much money have you taken from Miss Vyner?"
"I have not taken one half-penny," answered Justine, sulkily. "She
gave me the money; she dare not say different. Speak, Miss, you know
you gave it to me." But Annabel had recovered something of her old
audacity. She felt she was safe, and she was not disposed to mercy.
She only smiled scornfully, and re-arranged the satin cushions under her
head more comfortably.
"Quick! How much money have you taken?"
Justine refused to answer; and Piers said, "I give you two minutes. Then
I shall send for a constable."
"And Miss Vyner's wedding will be put off."
"For your crime? Oh, no! Miss Vyner's wedding is far beyond your
interference. She will have nothing to do with this affair. _I_ shall
prosecute you. You have my ring. Will you give it to me, or to a
constable?"
"I did not take the ring."
"It is in your possession. I will send now for an officer." He rose
to touch the bell-rope, keeping his eyes on the woman all the time; and
she darted forward and arrested his hand.
"I will do what you wish," she said.
"How much money have you taken from Miss Vyner?"
"Eight hundred and ninety pounds."
"Where is it?"
"In my room."
"Go and get it--stay, I will go with you."
In a few minutes Justine returned with her ill-gotten treasure; and then
she condescended to explain, and entreat,--
"Oh, my lord," she said, "don't be hard on me. I wanted the money for
my poor old mother who is in Marylebone Workhouse. I did, indeed I did!
It was to make her old age comfortable. She is sick and very poor, and
I wanted it for her."
"We shall see about that. If your story is true, you shall give the
money to your poor old sick mother. If it is not true, you shall give my
ring and the money to a constable, and sleep in prison this very night."
With impetuous passion he ordered a carriage, and Justine was driven to
the Marylebone Workhouse. By the time they reached that institution,
she was thoroughly humbled and afraid; her fear being confirmed by the
subservience of the Master to the rank and commands of Lord Exham. For
a moment she had an idea of denying her own statement; but the futility
of the lie was too evident to be doubted; and, very reluctantly, she
admitted her mother's name to be Margaret Oddy. In a few minutes--during
which Lord Exham ordered Justine to count out the money in her bag to the
Master--Margaret appeared. She was not an old woman in years, being but
little over forty; but starvation, sorrow, and hard work had made her
prematurely aged. When she entered the room, she looked around anxiously;
but as soon as she saw Justine, she covered her face with her thin hands,
and began to weep.
"Is this your daughter?" asked the Master, pointing to Justine.
"I am her mother, sure enough, sir; but she have cast me off long ago.
Oh, Justine girl, speak a word to me! You are my girl, for all that's
past and gone."
"Justine has come to make you some amends for her previous neglect,
Mother," said Lord Exham. "She has brought you eight hundred and ninety
pounds for your old age. To-morrow my lawyer will call here, and give
you advice concerning its care and its use. Until then, the Master will
take it in charge."
"Let me see it! Let me touch it with my hands! No more hunger! No more
cold! No more hard work! It can't be true! It can't be true! Is it
true, Justine? Kiss me with the money, girl, for the sake of the happy
days we have had together!" With these words she went to her daughter,
and tried to take her hands, and draw her to her breast. But Justine
would not respond. She stood sullen and silent, with eyes cast on the
ground.
"Why, then," said Margaret, with just anger, "why, then, keep the
money, Justine. I would rather eat peas and porridge, and sleep on straw,
than take a shilling with such ill-will from you, girl." Then, turning
to Piers, she added, "Thank you, good gentleman, but I'll stay where
I am. Let Justine keep her gold. I don't want such an ill-will gift."
"Mother," answered Piers. "You may take the money from my hands,
then. It is yours. Justine's good or ill-will has now nothing to do
with it. I give it to you from the noble young lady whom your daughter
has wronged so greatly that the gallows would be her just desert. She
gives up this money--which she has no right to--as some atonement for
her crime. Is not this the truth, Justine?" he asked sternly; and the
woman answered, "Yes." Then turning to the Master, he added, "To
this fact, and to Justine's admission of it, you are witness."
The Master said, "I am." Then addressing Margaret, he told her to
go back to her place, and think over the good fortune that had so
unexpectedly come to her; what she wished to do with her money; and where
she wished to make her future home. And the mother curtsied feebly and
again turned to her child,--
"If I go back to the old cottage in Downham--the old cottage with the
vines, and the bee skeps, and the long garden, will you come with me,
and we will share all together?"
"No."
"Let her alone, Mother," said Exham. "She is going to the furthest
American colony she can reach. Only in some such place, will she be safe
from the punishment of her wrong-doing."
"Justine, then, my girl, good-bye!"
No answer.
"Justine, good-bye!"
No answer.
"Why, then, my girl, God be with you, and God forgive you!"
Then Justine turned to Lord Exham, "I have done what you demanded. May I
now go my own way?"
"Not just yet. You will return with me."
He gave his card to the Master, and followed the woman, keeping her
constantly under his hand and eye until they returned to Annabel's
parlour. Annabel was in a dead sleep; but their entrance awakened her,
and it pained Piers to see the look of fear that came into her face when
she saw her cruel tormentor. She was speedily relieved, however; for
the first words she heard, was an order from Piers, bidding her to be
ready to leave the house in twenty minutes. He took out his watch as he
gave the order, and then added, "First of all, return to me my ring."
"I did not take your ring, my lord."
"You have it in your possession. Return it at once."
"Miss Vyner stole it--"
"Give it to me! You know the consequences of _one_ more refusal."
Then Justine took from her purse the long missing ring. She threw it on
the table, and, with tears of rage, said,--
"May ill-luck and false love go with it, and follow all who own it!"
"The bad wishes of the wicked fall on themselves, Justine," said Lord
Exham, as he lifted the trinket. "How much money does your mistress owe
you?"
"I have no 'mistress.' Miss Vyner owes me a quarter's wage, and a
quarter's notice, that is eight pounds."
"Is that correct, Annabel?"
"The woman says so. Pay her what she wants--only get her out of my
sight."
"Oh, Miss, I can tell you--"
"Go. Pack your trunk, and be back here in fifteen minutes. And, mind
what I say, leave England at once--the sooner the better."
Before the time was past, the woman was outside the gates of Richmoor
House, and Piers returned to Annabel. "That trouble is all over and
gone forever," he said to her; "now, dear Bella, lift up your heart to
its full measure of love and joy! Let Cecil see you to-night in your
old beauty. He is fretting about your health; show him the marvellously
bright Annabel that captured his heart with a glance."
"I will! I will, Piers! This very night you shall see that Annabel is
herself again."
"And in three days you are to be Cecil's wife!"
"In three days," she echoed joyfully. "Leave me now, Piers. I want to
think over your goodness to me. I shall never forget it."
Smiling, they parted; and then Annabel opened all the doors of her
rooms, and looked carefully around them, and assured herself that her
tyrant was really gone. "In three days!" she said, "in three days I am
going away from all this splendour and luxury,--going to dangers of
all kinds; to a wild life in camps and quarters; perhaps to deprivations
in lonely places--and I am happy! Happy! transcendently happy! Oh,
Love! Wonderful, Invincible, Omnipotent Love! Cecil's love! It will
be sufficient for all things."
Certainly she was permeated with this idea. It radiated from her
countenance; it spoke in her eyes; it made itself visible in the
glory of her bridal attire. The wedding morning was one of the darkest
and dreariest of London's winter days. A black pouring rain fell
incessantly; the atmosphere was heavy, and loaded with exhalations;
and the cholera terror was on every face. For at this time it was
really "a destruction walking at noon-day" and leaving its ghastly sign
of possession on many a house in the streets along which the bridal
party passed.
It came into the gloomy church like a splendid dream: officers in
gay uniforms, ladies in beautiful gowns and nodding plumes, and at the
altar,--shining like some celestial being,--the radiant bride in
glistening white satin, and sparkling gems. And Cecil, in his new
military uniform, tall, handsome, soldierly, happy, made her a fitting
companion. The church was filled with a dismal vapour; the rain plashed
on the flagged enclosure; the wind whistled round the ancient tower:
there was only gloom, and misery, and sudden death outside; but over
all these accidents of time and place, the joy of the bride and the
bridegroom was triumphant. And later in the day, when the Duke and
Piers went with them to the great three-decked Indiaman waiting for
their embarkation, they were still wondrously exalted and blissful.
Dressed in fine dark-blue broadcloth, and wrapped in costly furs,
Annabel watched from the deck the departure of her friends, and then
put her hand in Cecil's with a smile.
"For weal or woe, Bella, my dear one," he said.
"For weal or woe, for life or death, Cecil beloved," she answered,
having no idea then of what that promise was to bring her in the future;
though she kept it nobly when the time of its redemption came.
Three days after this event, Mrs. Atheling received by special messenger
from Lord Exham a letter, and with it the ring which had caused so
much suspicion and sorrow. But though the letter was affectionate and
confidential, and full of tender messages which he "trusted in her to
deliver for him," nothing was said as to the manner of its recovery,
or the personality of the one who had purloined it.
"Your father has been right, no doubt, Kate," she said. "In some weak
moment Annabel has got the ring from him, and on her marriage has given
it back. That is clear to me."
"Not to me, Mother. I am sure Piers did not give Annabel--did not give
any one the ring. I will tell you what I think. Annabel got it while he
was asleep, or he inadvertently dropped it, and she picked it up--and
kept it, hoping to make mischief."
"You may be wrong, Kitty."
"I may--but I _know_ I am right."
_No Diviner like Love!_
On this same day, with the cholera raging all around, Parliament was
re-opened; and Lord John Russell again brought in the Reform Bill. There
was something pathetic in this persistence of a people, hungry and
naked, and overshadowed by an unknown pestilence, swift and malignant
as a Fate. It was evident, immediately, that the same course of
"obstruction" which had proved fatal to the two previous Bills was to
be pursued against the third attempt. Yet the temper of the House of
Commons, sullenly, doggedly determined, might even thus early have
warned its opposers. All the unfairness and pertinacity of Peel and his
associates was of no avail against the inflexible steadiness of Lord
Althorp and the cold impassibility of Lord John Russell.
Week after week passed in debating, while the press and people waited
in alternating fits of passionate threats and still more alarming
silence,--a silence, Lord Grey declared to be, "Most ominous of trouble,
and of the most vital importance to the obstructing force." The Squire
was weary to death. He found it impossible to take a dutiful interest
in the proceedings. The tactics of the fight did not appeal to his
nature. He thought they were neither fair nor straightforward; and,
unconsciously, his own opinions had been much leavened by his late
familiar intercourse with Lord Ashley and his son.
In these days his chief comfort came from the friendship of Piers Exham.
The young man frequently sought his company; and it became almost a
custom for them to dine together at the Tory Club. And at such times
words were dropped that neither would have uttered, or even thought
of, at the beginning of the contest. Thus one night Piers said, in his
musing way, as he fingered his glass, rather than drank the wine in it,--
"I have been wondering, Squire, whether the wish of a whole nation,
gradually growing in intensity for sixty years, until it has become,
to-day, a command and a threat, is not something more than a wish?"
"I should say it was, Piers," answered the Squire. "Very likely the
wish has grown to--a right."
"Perhaps."
Then both men were silent; and the next topic discussed was the new
sickness, and Piers anxiously asked if "it had reached Atheling."
"No, it has not, thank the Almighty!" replied the Squire. "There has
not been a case of it. My family are all well."
Allusions to Kate were seldom more definite than this one; but Piers
found inexpressible comfort in the few words. Such intercourse might not
seem conducive to much kind feeling; but it really was. The frequent
silences; the short, pertinent sentences; the familiar, kindly touch
of the young man's hand, when it was time to return to the House; the
little courteous attentions which it pleased Piers to render, rather
than let the Squire be indebted to a servant for them,--these, and other
things quite as trivial, made a bond between the two men that every day
strengthened.
[Illustration:]
It was nearly the end of March when the Bill once more got through
the Commons; and hitherto the nation had waited as men wait the
preliminaries of a battle. But they were like hounds held by a leash
when the great question as to whether the Lords would now give way, or
not, was to be determined. The Squire was an exceedingly sensitive man;
for he was exceedingly affectionate, and he was troubled continually by
the hungry, wretched, anxious crowds through which he often picked
his way to Westminster, the more so, as his genial, bluff, thoroughly
English appearance seemed to please and encourage these non-contents. At
every step he was urged to vote on the right side. "God bless you,
Squire!" was a common address. "Pity the poor! Vote for the right!
Go for Reform, Squire! Before God, Squire, we must win this time, or
die for it!" And the Squire, distressed, and half-convinced of the
justice of their case, would lift his hat at such words, and pass a
sovereign into the hand of some lean, white-faced man, and answer,
"God defend the Right, friends!" He could not tell them, as he had
done in his first session, to "go home and mind their business." He
could not say, as he did then, a downright "No;" could not bid them,
"Reform themselves, and let the Government alone," or ask, "If
they were bereft of their senses?" If he answered at all now, it was in
the motto so familiar to them, "God and my Right;" or, if much urged,
"I give my word to do my best." Or he would bow courteously, and
say, "God grant us all good days without end." Before the Bill
passed the Commons, at the end of March, it had, at any rate, come to
this,--he was not only averse to vote against the Bill, he was also
averse to tell these waiting sufferers that he intended to vote
against it.
On the night of the thirteenth of April, when the Bill was before the
Lords, the Squire was too excited to go to bed, though prevented from
occupying his seat in the Commons by a smart attack of rheumatism. He sat
in his club, waiting for intelligence, and watching the passing crowds
to try and glean from their behaviour the progress of events. Piers had
promised to bring him word as soon as the vote was taken. He did not
arrive until eight o'clock the next morning. The Squire was drinking
his coffee, and making up his mind to return to Atheling, "whatever
happened," when Piers, white and exhausted, drew his chair to the table.
"The Bill has passed this reading by nine votes," he said wearily;
"and Parliament has adjourned for the Easter recess; that is, until
the seventh of May. Three weeks of suspense! I do not know how it is
to be endured."
"I am going to Atheling. Edgar will very likely go to Ashley, and I
think you had better go with us. Three weeks of Exham winds will make a
new man of you."
At this point Edgar joined them, and, greatly to his father's annoyance,
declared both Atheling and Ashley out of the question. "This three
weeks," he said, "will decide the fate of England. I have promised
my leader to visit Warwick, Worcester, Stafford, and Birmingham. At
the latter place there will be the greatest political meeting ever held
in this world."
"And what will Annie say?" asked the Squire.
"Annie thinks I am doing right. Annie does not put me before the hundred
of thousands to whom the success of Reform will bring happiness."
"It beats all and everything," said the Squire. "I wouldn't like
my wife to put me back of hundreds and thousands. Have you been up all
night--you and Piers?"
"All night," answered Edgar. "We were among the three hundred members
from the Commons who filled the space around the throne, and stood in
a row three deep below the bar. I was in the second row; but I heard
all that passed very well. Earl Grey did not begin to speak until five
o'clock this morning, and he spoke for an hour and a half. It was an
astonishing argument."
"It was a most interesting scene, altogether," said Piers. "I shall
never forget it. The crowded house, its still and solemn demeanour, and
the broad daylight coming in at the high windows while Grey was speaking.
Its blue beams mixed with the red of the flaring candles, and the two
lights made strange and startling effects on the crimson draperies and
the dusky tapestries on the walls. I felt as if I was in a vision. I kept
thinking of Cromwell and old forgotten things; and it was like waking out
of a dream when the House began to dissolve. I was not quite myself until
I had drunk a cup of coffee."
"It was very exciting," said the more practical Edgar; "and the small
majority is only to keep the people quiet. At the next reading the Bill
will be so mutilated as to be practically rejected, unless we are ready
to meet such an emergency."
Piers rose at these words. He foresaw a discussion he had no mind
for; and he said, with a touching pathos in his voice, as he laid his
hand on the Squire's shoulder, "Give my remembrance to the ladies at
Atheling,--my heart's love, if you will take it."
"I will take all I may, Piers. Good-bye! You have been a great comfort
to me. I am sure I don't know what I should have done without you; for
Edgar, you see, is too busy for anything."
"Never too busy to be with you, if you need me, Father. But you are such
a host in yourself, and I never imagined you required help of any kind."
"Only a bit of company now and then. You were about graver business.
It suited Piers and me to sit idle and say a word or two about Atheling.
Come down to Exham, Piers, _do_; it will be good for you."
"No, I should be heart-sick for Atheling. I am better away."
The Squire nodded gravely, and was silent; and Piers passed quietly out
of the room. His listless serenity, and rather drawling speech, always
irritated the alert Edgar; and he sighed with relief when he was rid of
the restraining influence of a nature so opposite to his own.
"So you are going to Atheling, Father?" he said. "How?"
"As quick and quiet as I can. I shall take the mail-coach to York, or
further; and then trot home on as good a nag as I can hire."
In this way he reached Atheling the third day afterwards, but without any
of the usual _eclat_ and bustle of his arrival. Kate had gone to bed;
Mrs. Atheling was about to lock the big front door, when he opened it.
She let the candlestick in her hand fall when she saw him enter, crying,--
"John! Dear John! How you did frighten me! I _am_ glad to see you."
"I'll believe it, Maude, without burning the house for an illumination.
My word! I am tired. I have trotted a hack horse near forty miles
to-day."
Then she forgot everything but the Squire's refreshment and comfort;
and the house was roused, and Kitty came downstairs again, and for an
hour there was at least the semblance of rejoicing. But Mrs. Atheling
was not deceived. She saw her lord was depressed and anxious; and she
was sure the Reform Bill had finally passed; and after a little while
she ventured to say so.
"No, it has not passed," answered the Squire; "it has got to its worst
bit, that's all. After Easter the Lords will muster in all their power,
and either throw it out, or change and cripple it so much that it will be
harmless."
"Now, then, John, what do you think, _really_?"
"I think, really, that we land-owners are all of us between the devil
and the deep sea. If the Bill passes, away go the Corn Laws; and then how
are we to make our money out of the land? If it does not pass, we are in
for a civil war and a Commonwealth, and no Cromwell to lead and guide
it. It is a bad look-out."
"But it might be worse. We haven't had any cholera here. We must trust
in God, John."
"It is easy to trust in God when you don't see the doings of the devil.
You wouldn't be so cheerful, Maude, if you had lived in the sight of his
handiwork, as I have for months. I think surely God has given England
into his power, as he did the good man of Uz."
"Well, then, it was only for a season, and a seven-fold blessing after
it. It is wonderful how well your men have behaved; they haven't taken
a bit of advantage of your absence. That is another good thing."
"I am glad to hear that. I will see them, man by man, before I go back
to London."
The villagers, however, sent a deputation as soon as they heard of
the Squire's arrival, asking him to come down to Atheling Green, and
tell them something about Reform. And he was pleased at the request,
and went down, and found they had made a temporary platform out of two
horse-blocks for him; and there he stood, his fine, imposing, sturdy
figure thrown clearly into relief by the sunny spring atmosphere. And
it was good to listen to his strong, sympathetic voice, for it had the
ring of truth in all its inflections, as he said,--
"Men! Englishmen! Citizens of no mean country! you have asked me to
explain to you what this Reform business means. You know well I will tell
you no lies. It will give lots of working-men votes that never hoped for
a vote; and so it is like enough working-men will be able to send to
Parliament members who will fight for their interests. Maybe that is
in your favour. It will open all our ports to foreign wheat and corn.
You will get American wheat, and Russian wheat, and French wheat--"
"We won't eat French wheat," said Adam Sedbergh.
"And then, wheat will be so cheap that it will not pay English
land-owners to sow it. Will that help you any?"
"We would rather grow our own wheat."
"To be sure. Reform will, happen, give you shorter hours of work."
"That would be good, Master," said the blacksmith.
"It will depend on what you do with the extra hours of leisure."
"We can play skittles, and cricket, and have a bit of wrestling."
"Or sit in the public house, and drink more beer. I don't think
your wives will like that. Besides, if you work less time won't you
get less wage? Do you think I am going to pay for twelve hours' work
and get ten? Would you? Will the mill-owners run factories for the fun
of running them? Would you? And they say they hardly pay with twelve
hours' work. Men, I tell you truly, I know no more than the babe
unborn what Reform will bring us. It may be better times; it may be
ruin. But I can say one thing, sure and certain, you will get more
trouble than you bargain for if you take to rioting about it. Your
grandfathers and your fathers fought this question; and they left it
to you to quarrel over. Very well, as long as you keep your quarrel
in the Parliament Houses, I want you to have fair play. But if ever
you should forget that there is the great Common Law behind all of us,
rich and poor, and think to right yourselves with fire and blood, then
I--your true friend--would be the first to answer you with cannon,
and turn my scythes and shares into swords against you. Wait patiently a
bit longer. In a few more weeks I do verily believe you will have
Reform, and then I hope, in my soul, you will be pleased with your
bargain. I don't think, as far as I am concerned, Reform will change me
or my ways one particle."
"We don't want you changed, Squire; you are good enough as you are."
"I'm glad you think so, very glad. Now here is Atheling and Belward
meadows and corn-fields. We can raise our wheat and cattle and wool, and
carry on our farms--you and I together, for I could not do without you;
and if I do right by you is there any reason to want better than right?
And if I do not do right, then shout 'Reform,' and come and tell me
what you want, and we will pass our own Reform Bill. Will that suit you?"
And they answered him with cheers, and he sent them into the Atheling
Arms for a good dinner, and then rode slowly home. But a great sadness
came over him, and he said to himself:
"It is not capital; it is not labour; it is not land: it is a bit of
human kindness and human relations that lie at the root of all Reform.
Maude says true enough, that we don't know the people, and don't feel
for them, and don't care for them. A word of reason, a word of truth
and trust and of mutual good-will, and how pleased them poor fellows
were! Reform has nothing on earth to do with Toryism or Whigism. God
bless my soul! what kind of a head must the man have that could think
so? _I begin to see_--_I begin to see!_"