The three weeks' recess was full of grave anxiety; and the Squire had
many fears they were to be the last weeks of peace and home before civil
war called him to fulfil the promise he had made to his working-men. The
Birmingham Political Union declared that if there was any further
delay after Easter, two hundred thousand men would go forth from their
shops and forges, and encamp in the London squares, till they knew the
reason why the Reform Bill was not passed. The Scots Greys, who were
quartered at Birmingham, had been employed the previous Sabbath in
grinding their swords; and it was asserted that the Duke of Wellington
stood pledged to the Government to quiet the country in ten days. These
facts sufficiently indicated to the Squire the temper of the people; and
he set himself, as far as he could, to take all the sweetness out of his
home life possible. The memory of it might have to comfort him for many
days.
With his daughter always by his side, he rode up and down the lands
he loved; unconsciously giving directions that might be serviceable
if he had to go to a stormier field than the House of Commons. To
Mrs. Atheling he hardly suggested the possibility; for if he did,
she always answered cheerfully, "Nonsense, John! The Bill _will_ pass;
and if it does not pass, Englishmen have more sense than they had in
the days of Cromwell. They aren't going to kill one another for an Act
of Parliament."
But to Kate, as they rode and walked, he could worry and grumble
comfortably. She was always ready to sympathise with his fears, and to
encourage and suggest any possible hope of peace and better days. To see
her bright face answering his every thought filled the father's heart
with a joy that was complete.
"Bless thy dear soul!" he would frequently say to her. "God's best
gift to a man is a daughter like thee. Sons are well enough to carry on
the name and the land, and bring honour to the family; but the man God
loves isn't left without a daughter to sweeten his days and keep his
heart fresh and tender. Kitty! Kitty, how I do love thee!" And Kitty
knew how to answer such true and noble affection; for,--
"Down the gulf of his condoled necessities,
She cast her best: she flung herself."
Oh, sweet domestic love! Surely _it is_ the spiritual world, the abiding
kingdom of heaven, not far from any one of us.
With a heavy heart the Squire went back to London. Mrs. Atheling took
his gloom for a good sign. "Your father is always what the Scotch call
'fay' before trouble," she said to Kate. "The day your sister Edith
died his ways made me angry. You would have thought some great joy had
come to Atheling. He said he was sure Edith was going to live; and I
knew she was going to die. I am glad he has gone to London sighing and
shaking his head; it is a deal better sign than if he had gone laughing
and shaking his bridle. He will meet Edgar in London, and Edgar won't
let him look forward to trouble."
But the Squire found Edgar was not in London when he arrived there; and
Piers was as silent and as gloomy a companion as a worrying man could
desire. He came to dine with his friend, and he listened to all his
doleful prognostications; but his interest was forced and languid. For he
also had lost the convictions that made the contest possible to him,
and there was at the bottom of all his reasoning that little doubt as to
the justice of his cause which likewise infected the Squire's more
pronounced opinions.
They were sitting one evening, after dinner, almost silent, the Squire
smoking, Piers apparently reading the _Times_, when Edgar, with an almost
boyish demonstrativeness, entered the room. He drew a chair between
them, and sat down, saying, "I have just returned from the great Newhall
Hill meeting. Father, think of two hundred thousand men gathered there
for one united purpose."
"I hope I have a few better thoughts to keep me busy, Edgar."
Piers looked up with interest. "It must have been an exciting hour or
two," he said.
"I hardly knew whether I was in the body or out of the body," answered
Edgar. "For a little while, at least, I was not conscious of the flesh.
I had a taste of how the work of eternity may be done with the soul."
"The _Times_ admits the two hundred thousand," said Piers, "and also
that it was a remarkably orderly meeting. Who opened it? Was it Mr.
O'Connell?"
"The meeting was opened by the singing of a hymn. There were nine
stanzas in it, and every one was sung with the most enthusiastic feeling.
I remember only the opening lines:
"'Over mountain, over plain,
Echoing wide from sea to sea,
Peals--and shall not peal in vain--
The trumpet call of Liberty!'
But can you imagine what a majestic volume of sonorous melody came from
those two hundred thousand hearts? It was heard for miles. The majority
of the singers believed, with all their souls, that it was heard in
heaven."
"Well, I never before heard of singing a hymn to open a political
meeting," said the Squire. "It does not seem natural."
"But, Father, you are used to political meetings opened by prayer, for
the House has its chaplain. The Rev. Hugh Hutton prayed after the hymn."
"I never heard of the Rev. Hugh Hutton."
"I dare say not, Father. He is an Unitarian minister; for it is only
the Unitarians that will pray with, or pray for, Radicals. I should
not quite say that. There is a Roman Catholic priest who is a member
of the Birmingham Union,--a splendid-looking man, a fine orator, and
full of the noblest public spirit; but a Birmingham meeting would never
think of asking him to pray. They would not believe a Catholic could
get a blessing down from heaven if he tried."[3]
------
[Footnote 3: This intolerance, general and common in the England of that
day, is now happily much mitigated.]
"What of O'Connell?" said the Squire; "he interests me most."
"O'Connell outdid himself. About four hundred women in one body had
been allowed to stand near the platform, and the moment his eyes
rested on them his quick instinct decided the opening sentence of his
address. He bowed to them, and said, 'Surrounded as I am by the fair,
the good, and the gentle.' They cheered at these words; and then the
men behind them cheered, and the crowds behind cheered, because the
crowds before cheered; and then he launched into such an arraignment
of the English Government as human words never before compassed. And
in it he was guilty of one delightful bull. It was in this way. Among
other grave charges, he referred to the fact that births had decreased
in Dublin five thousand every year for the last four years, and then
passionately exclaimed, 'I charge the British Government with the
murder of those twenty thousand infants!' and really, for a few
moments, the audience did not see the delightful absurdity."
"Twenty thousand infants who were never born," laughed the Squire.
"That is worthy of O'Connell. It is worthy of Ireland."
"And did he really manage that immense crowd?" asked Piers. "I see
the _Times_ gives him this credit."
"Sir Bulwer Lytton in a few lines has painted him for all generations at
this meeting. Listen!" and Edgar took out of his pocket a slip of paper,
and read them:--
"'Once to my sight the giant thus was given--
Walled by wide air, and roofed by boundless heaven;
Methought, no clarion could have sent its sound
Even to the centre of the hosts around.
And as I thought, rose the sonorous swell
As from some church tower swings the silver bell.
Aloft and clear, from airy tide to tide,
It glided easy as a bird may glide,
To the last verge of that vast audience.'"
"After O'Connell, who would try to manage such a crowd?" asked Piers.
"They behaved splendidly whoever spoke; and finally Mr. Salt stood
forward, and, uncovering his head, bid them all uncover, and raise their
right hands to heaven while they repeated, after him, the comprehensive
obligation which had been given in printed form to all of them:
"'_With unbroken faith, through every peril, through every
privation, we here devote ourselves, and our children, to our
country's cause!_'
And while those two hundred thousand men were taking that oath together,
I find the House of Lords was going into Committee on the Reform Bill.
This time it _must_ pass."
"It will _not_ pass," said Piers, "without the most extreme measures
are resorted to."
"You mean that the King will be compelled to create as many new peers as
will carry it through the House of Lords."
"Yes; but can the King be 'compelled'?"
"He will find that out."
"Now, Edgar, that is as far as I am going to listen."
Then Piers put down his paper, and said, "The House was in session, and
would the Squire go down to it?" And the Squire said, "No. If there
is to be any 'compelling' of His Majesty, I will keep out of it."
The stress of this compulsion came the very next day. Lord Lyndhurst
began the usual policy by proposing important clauses of the Bill
should be postponed; and the Cabinet at once decided to ask the King
to create more peers. Sydney Smith had written to Lady Grey that he
was, "For forty, in order to make sure;" but the number was not
stipulated. The King promptly refused. The Reform Ministry tendered
their resignation, and it was accepted. For a whole week the nation
was left to its fears, its anger, and its despair. It was, however,
almost insanely active. In Manchester twenty-five thousand people, in
the space of three hours, signed a petition to the King, telling him in
it that "the whole North of England was in a state of indignation
impossible to be described." Meanwhile, the Duke of Wellington had
failed to form a Cabinet, and Peel had refused; and the King was
compelled to recall Lord Grey to power, and to consent to any measures
necessary to pass the Reform Bill. It was evident, even to royalty,
that it had at length become--The Bill or The Crown. For His Majesty was
now aware that he was denounced from one end of England to the other;
and several painful experiences convinced him that his carriage could
not appear in London without being surrounded by an indignant, hooting,
shrieking crowd.
Yet it was in a very wrathful mood he sent for Grey and Brougham, so
wrathful that he kept them standing during the whole audience, although
this attitude was contrary to usage. "My people are gone mad," he
said, "and must be humoured like mad people. They will have Reform.
Very well. I give you my royal assent to create a sufficient number of
new peers to carry Reform through the House of Lords. It is an insult to
my loyal and sensible peers; but they will excuse the circumstances
that force me to such a measure." His manner was extremely sullen,
and became indignantly so when Lord Brougham requested this permission
to be given them in the King's handwriting. The request was, however,
necessary, and was reluctantly granted.
With the King's concession, the great struggle virtually ended. For
the creation of new peers was not necessary. A private message from the
King to the House of Lords effected what the long-continued protestations
and entreaties of the whole nation had failed to effect. Led by the
Duke of Wellington, those Lords who were determined _not_ to vote for
Reform left the House until the Bill was passed; and thus a decided
majority for its success was assured. They felt it to be better for
their order to retire to their castles, than to suffer the "swamping
of the House of Lords" by a force of new peers pledged to Reform,
and sure to control all their future deliberations. Consequently, in
about two weeks, the famous Bill was triumphantly carried by a majority
of eighty-four; and three days afterwards it received the royal assent.
The long struggle was over; and the tremendous strain on the feelings
of the nation relieved itself by an universal and unbounded rejoicing.
All night long, the church bells answered one another from city to city,
and from hamlet to hamlet. It was said to be impossible to escape, from
one end of the country to the other, the _tin_-_tan_-_tabula_ of their
jubilation. Illuminations must have made the Island at night a blaze of
light; the people went about singing and congratulating each other; and
for a few hours the tie of humanity was a tie of brotherhood, even when
men and women were perfect strangers.
The Duke of Richmoor retired with the majority of his peers, and shut
himself up in his Yorkshire Castle, a victim to the most absurd but
yet the most sincere despondency. The Squire applied for the Chiltern
Hundreds, and returned to Atheling as soon as possible. Edgar remained
in the House until its dissolution in August. As for Piers, he had
taken the turn of affairs with a composure that had produced decided
differences between the Duke and himself; and he lingered in London
until he heard of the Squire's departure for the North. Then he sought
him with a definite purpose. "Squire," he said, "may I go back to
Exham in your company?"
"I'll be glad if you do, Piers," was the answer.
The young man laid his hand on the Squire's hand, and looked at him
steadily and entreatingly. "Squire, I am going away from England. Let me
see Kate before I go."
"You are asking me to break my word, Piers."
"The law of kindness may sometimes be greater than the law of truth;
the greatest of these is charity--is love. I love her so! I love her so
that I am only half alive without her. I do entreat you to have pity on
me--on us both! She loves me!" and Piers pleaded until the Squire's
eyes were full of tears. He could not resist words so hot from a true
and loving heart; and he finally said,--
"It may be that my word, and my pride in my word, are of less
consequence than the trouble of two suffering human hearts; Piers,
right or wrong, you may see Kitty. I am not sure I am doing right, but
I will risk the uncertainty--this time."
However, if the Squire had any qualms of conscience on the subject,
they were driven away by Kitty's gratitude and delight. He arrived at
Atheling about the noon hour, and Kitty was the first to see and to
welcome him. She had been gathering cherries, and was coming through the
garden with her basket full of the crimson drupes, when he entered the
gates. She set the fruit on the ground, and ran to meet him, and took
him proudly in to her mother, and fussed over his many little comforts to
his heart's content and delight.
Nothing was said about Piers until after dinner, which was hurried
forward at the Squire's request; but afterwards, when he sat at the open
casement smoking, he called Kate to him. He took her on his knee and
whispered, "Kate, there is somebody coming this afternoon."
"Yes," she said, "we have sent word to Annie. She will be here."
"I was not thinking of Annie. I was thinking of thee, my little maid.
There is somebody coming to see _thee_."
"You can't mean Piers? Oh, Father, do you mean Piers?"
"I do."
Then she laid her cheek against his cheek. She kissed him over and over,
answering in low, soft speech, "Oh, my good Father! Oh, my dear Father!
Oh, Father, how I love you!"
"Well, Kitty," he answered, "thou dost not throw thy love away. I love
thee, God knows it. Now run upstairs and don thy prettiest frock."
"White or blue, Father?"
"Well, Kitty," he answered, with a thoughtful smile, "I should
say white, and a red rose or two to match thy cheeks, and a few
forget-me-nots to match thy eyes. Bless my heart, Kitty! thou art lovely
enough any way. Stay with me."
"No, Father, I will go away and come again still lovelier;" and she
sped like a bird upstairs. "It may be all wrong," muttered the Squire;
"but if it is, then I must say, wrong can make itself very agreeable."
[Illustration]
"_Piers is coming!_" That was the song in Kitty's heart, the refrain
to which her hands and feet kept busy until she stood before her glass
lovelier than words can paint, her exquisite form robed in white lawn,
her cheeks as fresh and blooming as the roses at her girdle, her eyes
as blue as the forget-me-nots in her hair, her whole heart in every
movement, glance, and word, thrilling with the delight of expectation,
and shining with the joy of loving.
So Piers found her in the garden watching for his approach. And on
this happy afternoon, Nature was in a charming mood; she had made the
garden a Paradise for their meeting. The birds sang softly in the green
trees above them; the flowers perfumed the warm air they breathed; and
an atmosphere of inexpressible serenity encompassed them. After such
long absence, oh, how heavenly was this interview without fear, or
secrecy, or self-reproach, or suspicion of wrong-doing! How heavenly was
the long, sweet afternoon, and the social pleasure of the tea hour,
and the soft starlight night under the drooping gold of the laburnums
and the fragrant clusters of the damask roses! Even parting under such
circumstances was robbed of its sting; it was only "such sweet sorrow."
It was glorified by its trust and hope, and was without the shadow of
tears.
Kitty came to her father when it was over; and her eyes were shining,
and there was a little sob in her heart; but she said only happy words.
With her arms around his neck she whispered, "Thank you, dear!" And
he answered, "Thou art gladly welcome! Right or wrong, thou art welcome,
Kitty. My dear little Kitty! He will come back; I know he will. A girl
that puts honour and duty before love, crowns them with love in the
end--always so, dear. That _is sure_. When will he be back?"
"When the Duke and Duchess want him more than they want their own way.
He says disputing will do harm, and not good; but that if a difference
is left to the heart, the heart in the long run will get the best of
the argument. I am sure he is right. Father, he is going to send you
and mother long letters, and so I shall know where he is; and with the
joy of this meeting to keep in my memory, I am not going to fret and be
miserable."
"That is right. That is the way to take a disappointment. Good things
are worth waiting for, eh, Kitty?"
"And we shall have so much to interest us, Father. There is Edgar's
marriage coming; and it would not do to have two weddings in one year,
would it? Father, you like Piers? I am sure you do."
"I would not have let him put a foot in Atheling to-day if I had not
liked him. He has been very good company for me in London, very good
company indeed--thoughtful and respectful. Yes, I like Piers."
"Because--now listen, Father--because, much as I love Piers, I would
not be his wife for all England if you and mother did not like him."
"Bless my heart, Kitty! Is not that saying a deal?"
"No. It would be no more than justice. If you should force on me a
husband whom I despised or disliked, would I not think it very wicked
and cruel? Then would it not be just as wicked and cruel if I should
force on you a son-in-law whom you despised and disliked? There is not
one law of kindness for the parents, and another law, less kind, for
the daughter, is there?"
"Thou art quite right, Kitty. The laws of the Home and the Family are
_equal_ laws. God bless thee for a good child."
And, oh, how sweet were Kitty's slumbers that night! It is out of
earth's delightful things we form our visions of the world to come; and
Kate understood, because of her own pure, true, hopeful love, how "God
is love," and how, therefore, He would deny her any good thing.
So the summer went its way, peacefully and happily. In the last days of
August, Edgar was married with great pomp and splendour; and afterwards
the gates of Gisbourne stood wide-open, and there were many signs and
promises of wonderful improvements and innovations. For the young
man was a born leader and organiser. He loved to control, and soon
devised means to secure what was so necessary to his happiness. The
Curzons had made their money in manufactures; and Annie approved of
such use of money. So very soon, at the upper end of Gisbourne, a great
mill, and a fine new village of cottages for its hands, arose as if by
magic,--a village that was to example and carry out all the ideas of
Reform.
"Edgar is making a lot of trouble ready for himself," said the Squire
to his wife; "but Edgar can't live without a fight on hand. I'll
warrant that he gets more fighting than he bargains for; a few hundreds
of those Lancashire and Yorkshire operatives aren't as easy to manage
as he seems to think. They have 'reformed' their lawgivers; and they
are bound to 'reform' their masters next."
The Squire had said little about this new influx into his peaceful
neighbourhood, but it had grieved his very soul; and his wife wondered at
his reticence, and one day she told him so.
"Well, Maude," he answered, "when Edgar was one of my household, I had
the right to say this and that about his words and ways; but Edgar is now
Squire, and married man, and Member of Parliament. He is a Reformer too,
and bound to carry out his ideas; and, I dare say, his wife keeps the
bit in his mouth hard enough, without me pulling on it too. I have taken
notice, Maude, that these sweet little women are often very masterful."
"I am sure his grandfather Belward would never have suffered that mill
chimney in his sight for any money."
"Perhaps he could not have helped it."
"Thou knowest different. My father always made everything go as he
wanted it. The Belwards know no other road but their own way."
"I should think thou needest not tell me that. I have been learning it
for a quarter of a century."
"Now, John! When I changed my name, I changed my way also. I have been
Atheling, and gone Atheling, ever since I was thy wife."
"Pretty nearly, Maude. But Edgar's little, innocent-faced, gentle wife
will lead Edgar, Curzon way. She has done it already. Fancy an Atheling,
land lords for a thousand years, turning into a loom lord. Maude, it
hurts me; but then, it is a bit of Reform, I suppose."
For all this interior dissatisfaction, the Squire and his son were good
friends and neighbours; and, in a kind of a way, the father approved
the changes made around him. They came gradually, and he did not have
to swallow the whole dose at once. Besides he had his daughter. And
Kitty never put him behind Gisbourne or any other cause. They were
constant companions. They threw their lines in the trout streams together
through the summer mornings; and in the winter, she was with him in
every hunting field. About the house, he heard her light foot and her
happy voice; and in the evenings, she read the papers to him, and helped
forward his grumble at Peel, or his anger at Cobbett.
At not very long intervals there came letters to the Squire, or to
Mrs. Atheling, which made sunshine in the house for many days
afterwards,--letters from Boston, New York, Baltimore, Washington,
New Orleans, and finally from an outlandish place called Texas. Here
Piers seemed to have found the life he had been unconsciously
longing for. "The people were fighting," he said, "for Liberty: a
handful of Americans against the whole power of Mexico; fighting, not
in words--he was weary to death of words--but with the clang of iron on
iron, and the clash of steel against steel, as in the old world
battles." And he filled pages with glowing encomiums of General
Houston, and Colonels Bowie and Crockett, and their wonderful courage and
deeds. "And, oh, what a Paradise the land was! What sunshine! What
moonshine! What wealth of every good thing necessary for human
existence!"
When such letters as these arrived, it was holiday at Atheling; it
was holiday in every heart there; and they were read, and re-read, and
discussed, till their far-away, wild life became part and parcel of
the calm, homely existence of this insular English manor. So the years
went by; and Kate grew to a glorious womanhood. All the promise of her
beauteous girlhood was amply redeemed. She was the pride of her county,
and the joy of all the hearts that knew her. And if she had hours of
restlessness and doubt, or any fears for Piers's safety, no one was
made unhappy by them. She never spoke of Piers but with hope, and with
the certainty of his return. She declared she was "glad that he should
have the experience of such a glorious warfare, one in which he had
made noble friends, and done valiant deeds. Her lover was growing in
such a struggle to his full stature." And, undoubtedly, the habit of
talking hopefully induces the habit of feeling hopefully; so there were
no signs of the love-lorn maiden about Kate Atheling, nor any fears
for her final happiness in Atheling Manor House.
The fears and doubts and wretchedness were all in the gloomy castle of
Richmoor, where the Duke and Duchess lived only to bewail the dangers
of the country, and their deprivation of their son's society,--a
calamity they attributed also to Reform. Else, why would Piers have
gone straight to a wild land where outlawed men were also fighting
against legitimate authority.
One evening, nearly four years after Piers had left England, the Duke
was crossing Belward Bents, and he met the Squire and his daughter,
leisurely riding together in the summer gloaming. He touched his hat, and
said, "Good-evening, Miss Atheling! Good-evening, Squire!" And the
Squire responded cheerfully, and Kate gave him a ravishing smile,--for
he was the father of Piers, accordingly she already loved him. There
was nothing further said, but each was affected by the interview; the
Duke especially so. When he reached his castle he found the Duchess
walking softly up and down the dim drawing-room, and she was weeping. His
heart ached for her. He said tenderly, as he took her hand,--
"Is it Piers, Julia?"
"I am dying to see him," she answered, "to hear him speak, to have
him come in and out as he used to do. I want to feel the clasp of his
hand, and the touch of his lips. Oh, Richard, Richard, bring back my boy!
A word from you will do it."
"My dear Julia, I have just met Squire Atheling and his daughter.
The girl has grown to a wonder of beauty. She is marvellous; I simply
never saw such a face. Last week I watched her in the hunting field
at Ashley. She rode like an Amazon; she was peerless among all the
beauties there. I begin to understand that Piers, having loved her, could
love no other woman; and I think we might learn to love her for Piers's
sake. What do you say, my dear? The house is terribly lonely. I miss
my son in business matters continually; and if he does not marry, the
children of my brother Henry come after him. He is in constant danger; he
is in a land where he must go armed day and night. Think of our son
living in a place like that! And his last letters have had such a tone
of home-sickness in them. Shall I see Squire Atheling, and ask him for
his daughter?"
"Let him come and see you."
"He will never do it."
"Then see him, Richard. Anything, anything, that will give Piers back
to me."
The next day the Duke was at Atheling, and what took place at that
interview, the Squire never quite divulged, even to his wife. "It was
very humbling to him," he said, "and I am not the man to brag about
it." To Kate nothing whatever was said. "Who knows just where Piers
is? and who can tell what might happen before he learns of the change
that has taken place?" asked the Squire. "Why should we toss Kitty's
mind hither and thither till Piers is here to quiet it?"
In fact the Squire's idea was far truer than he had any conception
of. Piers was actually in London when the Duke's fatherly letter sent
to recall his self-banished son left for Texas. Indeed he was on his way
to Richmoor the very day that the letter was written. He came to it one
afternoon just before dinner. The Duchess was dressed and waiting for
the Duke and the daily ceremony of the hour. She stood at the window,
looking into the dripping garden, but really seeing nothing, not even
the plashed roses before her eyes. Her thoughts were in a country far
off; and she was wondering how long it would take Piers to answer their
loving letter. The door opened softly. She supposed it was the Duke, and
said, fretfully, "This climate is detestable, Duke. It has rained for
a week."
"_Mother! Mother! Oh, my dear Mother!_"
Then, with a cry of joy that rung through the lofty room, she turned,
and was immediately folded in the arms she longed for. And before her
rapture had time to express itself, the Duke came in and shared it.
They were not an emotional family; and high culture had relegated any
expression of feeling far below the tide of their daily life; but, for
once, Nature had her way with the usually undemonstrative woman. She
wept, and laughed, and talked, and exclaimed as no one had ever seen
or heard her since the days of her early girlhood.
In the happy privacy of the evening hours, Piers told them over again
the wild, exciting story he had been living; and the Duke acknowledged
that to have aided in any measure such an heroic struggle was an event to
dignify life. "But now, Piers," he said, "now you will remain in your
own home. If you still wish to marry Miss Atheling, your mother and I
are pleased that you should do so. We will express this pleasure as
soon as you desire us. I wrote you to this effect; but you cannot
have received my letter, since it only left for Texas yesterday."
"I am glad I have not received it," answered Piers. "I came home at
the call of my mother. It is true. I was sitting one night thinking
of many things. It was long past midnight, but the moonlight was so
clear I had been reading by it, and the mocking birds were thrilling
the air, far and wide, with melody. But far clearer, far sweeter, far
more pervading, I heard my mother's voice calling me. And I immediately
answered, 'I am coming, Mother!' Here I am. What must I do, now and
forever, to please you?"
And she said, "Stay near me. Marry Miss Atheling, if you wish. I will
love her for your sake."
And Piers kissed his answer on her lips, and then put his hand in his
father's hand. It was but a simple act; but it promised all that
fatherly affection could ask, and all that filial affection could give.
Who that has seen in England a sunny morning after a long rain-storm
can ever forget the ineffable sweetness and freshness of the woods and
hills and fields? The world seemed as if it was just made over when Piers
left Richmoor for Atheling. A thousand vagrant perfumes from the spruce
and fir woods, from the moors and fields and gardens, wandered over the
earth. A gentle west wind was blowing; the sense of rejoicing was in
every living thing. The Squire and Kate had been early abroad. They
had had a long gallop, and were coming slowly through Atheling lane,
talking of Piers, though both of them believed Piers to be thousands of
miles away. They were just at the spot where he had passed them that
miserable night when his cry of "_Kate! Kate! Kate!_" had nearly
broken the girl's heart for awhile. She never saw the place without
remembering her lover, and sending her thoughts to find him out, wherever
he might be. And thus, at this place, there was always a little silence;
and the Squire comprehended, and respected the circumstance.
This morning the silence, usually so perfect, was broken by the sound
of an approaching horseman; but neither the Squire nor Kate turned. They
simply withdrew to their side of the road, and went leisurely forward.
"_Kate! Kate! Kate!_"
The same words, but how different! They were full of impatient joy, of
triumphant hope and love. Both father and daughter faced round in the
moment, and then they saw Piers coming like the wind towards them. It was
a miracle. It was such a moment as could not come twice in any life-time.
It was such a meeting as defies the power of words; because our diviner
part has emotions that we have not yet got the speech and language to
declare.
Imagine the joy in Atheling Manor House that night! The Squire had to
go apart for a little while; and tears of delight were in the good
mother's eyes as she took out her beautiful Derby china for the
welcoming feast. As for Kate and Piers, they were at last in earth's
Paradise. Their lives had suddenly come to flower; and there was no
canker in any of the blossoms. They had waited their full hour. And if
the angels in heaven rejoice over a sinner repenting, how much more
must they rejoice in our happiness, and sympathise in our innocent love!
Surely the guardian angels of Piers and Kate were satisfied. Their
dear charges had shown a noble restraint, and were now reaping the
joy of it. Do angels talk in heaven of what happens among the sons and
daughters of men whom they are sent to minister unto, to guide, and to
guard? If so, they must have talked of these lovers, so dutiful and
so true, and rejoiced in the joy of their renewed espousals.
Their marriage quickly followed. In a few weeks Piers had made Exham
Hall a palace of splendour and beauty for his bride, and Kate's wedding
garments were all ready. And far and wide there was a most unusual
interest taken in these lovers, so that all the great county families
desired and sought for invitations to the marriage ceremony, and the
little church of Atheling could hardly contain the guests. Even to this
day it is remembered that nearly one hundred gentlemen of the North
Riding escorted the bride from Atheling to Exham.
But at last every social duty had been fulfilled, and they sat alone in
the gloaming, with their great love, and their great joy. And as they
spoke of the days when this love first began, Kate reminded Piers of the
swing in the laurel walk, and her girlish rhyming,--
"It may so happen, it may so fall,
That I shall be Lady of Exham Hall."