I, Thou, and the Other One: A Love Story

“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!

CHAPTER TWELFTH

THE SHADOW OF SORROW STRETCHED OUT

When the Squire entered the breakfast parlour, Kate was just coming in from the garden. The dew of the morning was on her cheeks, the scent of the sweet-briar and the daffodils in her hair, the songs of the thrush and the linnet in her heart. She was beautiful as Hebe, and fresh as Aurora. He clasped her face between his large hands, and she lifted the bunch of daffodils to his face, and asked, “Are they not beautiful? Do you know what Mr. Wordsworth says about them, Father?”

“Not I! I never read his foolishness.”

“His ‘foolishness’ is music; I can tell you that. Listen sir,–

“‘A smile of last year’s sun strayed down the hills,    And lost its way within yon windy wood;Lost through the months of snow–but not for good:    I found it in a clump of daffodils.’

Are they not lovely lines?”

“They sound like most uncommon nonsense, Kitty. Come and sit beside me, I have something far more sensible and important to tell you.”

“About the Bill, Father?”

“Partly about the Bill and partly about Edgar. Which news will you have first?”

“Mother will say ‘Edgar,’ and I go with mother.”

“I do not think you can tell me any news about Edgar, John.”

“Go on, Father, mother is only talking. She is so anxious she cannot pour the coffee straight. What about Edgar?”

“I must tell you that I made a speech two days before the House closed; and the papers said it was a very great speech, and I think it was a tone or two above the average. Did you read it?”

“You never sent us a paper, Father.”

“You wouldn’t have read it if I had sent it. I knew Philip Brotherton would read every word, so it went to him. I was a little astonished at myself, for I did not know that I could bring out the very truth the way I did; but I saw Edgar watching me, and I saw no one else; and I just talked to him, as I used to do,–good, plain, household words, with a bit of Yorkshire now and then to give them pith and power. I was cheered to the echo, and if Edgar, when I used to talk to him for his good, had only cheered me on my hearthstone as he cheered me in the Commons, there wouldn’t have been any ill blood between us. Afterwards, in the crush of the lobby, I saw Edgar a little before me; and Mr. O’Connell walked up to him, and said, ‘Atheling, you ought to take lessons from your father, he strikes every nail on the head. In your case, the old cock crows, but the young one has not learnt his lesson.’ I was just behind, and I heard every word, and I was ready to answer; but Edgar did my work finely.’

‘He should not have noticed him,’ said Mrs. Atheling.

‘Ah, but he did! He said, “Mr. O’Connell, I will trouble you to speak of Squire Atheling respectfully. He is not old; he is in the prime of life; and, in all that makes youth desirable, he is twenty-five years younger than you are. I think you have felt his spurs once, and I would advise you to beware of them.” And what O’Connell answered I cannot tell, but it would be up to mark, I can warrant that! I slipped away before I was noticed, and I am not ashamed to say I was pleased with what I had heard. “Not as old as O’Connell by twenty-five years!” I laughed to myself all the way home; and, in the dark of the night, I could not help thinking of Edgar’s angry face, and the way he stood up for me. I do think, Maude, that somehow it must have been thy fault we had that quarrel–I mean to say, that if thou hadst stood firm by me,–that is, if thou hadst–’

‘John, go on and do not bother thyself to make excuses. Was that the end of it?’

‘In a way. The next afternoon I was sitting by the fireside having a quiet smoke, and thinking of the fine speech I had made, and if it would be safe to try again, when Dobson came in and said, “Squire, Mr. Edgar wishes to see you,” and I said, “Very well, bring Mr. Edgar upstairs.” I had thrown off my coat; but I had on one of my fine ruffled shirts and my best blue waistcoat, and so I didn’t feel so very out of the way when Edgar came in with the loveliest young woman on his arm–except Kitty–that I ever set eyes on; and I was dumfounded when he brought her to me and said, “My dear Father, Annie Curzon, who has promised to be my wife, wants to know you and to love you.” And the little thing–for she is but a sprite of a woman–laid her hand on my arm and looked at me; and what in heaven’s name was I to do?’

‘What did you do?’

‘I just lifted her up and kissed her bonny face, and said I had room enough in my heart and home for her; and that she was gladly welcome, and would be much made of, and I don’t know what else–plenty of things of the same sort. My word! Edgar was set up.’

‘He may well be set up,’ answered Mrs. Atheling; ‘she is the richest and sweetest girl in England; and she thinks the sun rises and sets in Edgar Atheling. He ought to be set up with a wife like that.’

‘He was, with her and me together. I don’t know which of us seemed to please him most. Maude, they are coming down to Lord Ashley’s on a visit, and I asked them here. I could not do any different, could I?’

‘If you had you would have been a poor kind of a father. What did you say?’

‘I said, when you are at Ashley Place come over to Atheling, and I gave Edgar my hand and looked at him; and he looked at me and clasped it tight, and said, “We will come.’”

“That was right.”

“I am glad I have done right for once, Maude. Do you know that Ashley is one of the worst Radicals in the lot of them?”

“Never mind, John. I have noticed that, as a general thing, the worse Radical, the better man; but a Tory cannot be trusted to give a Radical a character. The Tories are very like the poor cat who said, ‘If she only had wings, she would gladly extirpate the whole race of those troublesome sparrows.’”

“There are to be no more Tories now, we have got a new name. Lord John Russell called us ‘Conservatives,’ and we took to the word, and it is as like as not to stick to us. It will be Conservatives and Reformers in the future.”

“But you said the Reform Bill was lost.”

“I said it had not passed. What of that? The rascals have only been downed for this round; they will be up to time, when time is called June the twenty-first; and they will fight harder than ever.”

“How was the Bill lost? By obstructions?”

“Yes; when it was ready to go into Committee, General Gascoigne moved that, ‘The number of members returned to Parliament ought not to be diminished;’ and when the House divided on this motion, Gascoigne’s resolution had a majority of eight.”

“Then Grey’s Ministry have retired?” said Mrs. Atheling, in alarm.

“No, they have not; they should have done so by all decent precedents; but, instead of behaving like gentlemen, they resolved to appeal to the country. We sat all night quarrelling on this subject; but at five in the morning I was worn out with the stifling, roaring House, and sick with the smell of dying candles, and the reek and steam of quarrelling human beings, so I stepped out and took a few turns on Westminster Bridge. It was a dead-calm, lovely morning, and the sun was just rising over the trees of the Abbey and the Speaker’s house, and I had a bit of heart-longing for Atheling.”

“Why did you not run away to Atheling, Father?”

“I could not have done a thing like that, Kitty, not for the life of me. I went back to the House; and for three days we fought like dogs, tooth and nail, over the dissolution. Then Lord Grey and Lord Brougham did such a thing as never was: they went to the King and told him, plump and plain, he must dissolve Parliament or they would resign, and he must be answerable for consequences; and the King did not want to dissolve Parliament; he knew a new House would be still fuller of Reform members; and he made all kinds of excuses. He said, ‘The Crown and Robes were not ready, and the Guards and troops had not been notified;’ and then, to his amazement and anger, Lord Brougham told him that the officers of State had been summoned, that the Crown and Robes were ready, and the Guards and troops waiting.”

“My word, John! That was a daring thing to do.”

“If William the Fourth had been Henry the Eighth, Lord Brougham’s head wouldn’t have been worth a shilling; as it was, William flew into a great passion, and cried out, ‘You! You, my Lord Chancellor! You ought to know that such an act is treason, is high treason, my lord!’ And Brougham said, humbly, that he did know it was high treason, and that nothing but his solemn belief that the safety of the State depended on the act would have made him bold enough to venture on so improper a proceeding. Then the King cooled down; and Brougham took from his pocket the speech which the King was to read; and the King took it with words; that were partly menace, and partly joke at his Minister’s audacity, and so dismissed them.”

“I never heard of such carryings on. Why didn’t Brougham put the Crown on his own head, and be done with it?”

“I do not like Brougham; but in this matter, he acted very wisely. If the King had refused to dissolve a Parliament that had proved itself unable to carry Reform, I do think, Maude, London would have been in flames, and the whole country in rebellion, before another day broke.”

“Were you present at the dissolution, John?”

“I was sitting beside Piers, when the Usher of the Black Rod knocked at the door of the Commons. It had to be a very loud knock, for the House was in a state of turbulence and confusion far beyond the Speaker’s control; while Sir Robert Peel was denouncing the Ministry in the hardest words he could pick out, and being interrupted in much the same manner. I can tell you that a good many of us were glad enough to hear the guns announcing the King’s approach. The Duke told me afterwards that the Lords were in still greater commotion. Brougham was speaking, when there were cries of ‘The King! The King!’ And Lord Londonderry rose in a fury and said, ‘He would not submit to–’ Nobody heard what he would not submit to; for Brougham snatched up the Seals and rushed out of the House. Then there was terrible confusion, and Lord Mansfield rose and was making a passionate oration against the Reform Bill, when the King entered and cut it short. Well, London went mad for a few hours. Nearly every house was illuminated; and the Duke of Wellington, and the Duke of Richmoor, and other great Tories had their windows broken, as a warning not to obstruct the next Parliament. I really don’t know what to make of it all, Maude!”

“Well, John, I think statesmen ought to know what to make of it.”

“I rode down from London on my own nag; and in many a town and village I saw things that made my heart ache. Why, my dears, there has been sixty thousand pounds put into–not bread and meat–but peas and meal to feed the starving women and children; the Government has given away forty thousand garments to clothe the naked; and the Bank of England–a very close concern–is lending money, yes, as much as ten thousand pounds, to some private individuals, in order to keep their factories going. Something is far wrong, when good English workmen are paupers. But I don’t see how Parliamentary Reform is going to help them to bread and meat and decent work.”

“John, these hungry, naked men know what they want. Edgar says a Reform Parliament will open all the ports to free trade, and tear to pieces the infamous Corn Laws, and make hours of work shorter, and wages higher and–”

“Give the whole country to the working men. I see! I see! Now, Maude, men are not going to run factories for fun, nor yet for charity; and farmers are not going to till their fields just to see how little they can get for their wheat.”

“Father, what part did Piers take in all this trouble?”

“He voted with his party. He was very regular in his place.”

“I will go now and put on my habit. Piers sent me word that he would be here soon after eleven o’clock;” and Kate, with a smile, went quickly out of the room. The Squire was nonplussed by the suddenness of her movement, and did not know whether to detain her or not. Mrs. Atheling saw his irresolution, and said,–

“Let her go this time, John. Let her have one last happy memory to keep through the time of trouble you seem bound to give her.”

“Can I help it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You speak as if it was a pleasure to me.”

“What for are you so set on interfering just at this time?”

“Because it is the right time.”

“Who told you it was the right time?”

“My own heart, and my own knowledge of what is right and wrong.”

“You are never liable to make a mistake, I suppose, John?”

“Not on this subject. I never saw such an unreasonable woman! Never! It is enough to discourage any man;” and as Mrs. Atheling rose and began to put away her silver without answering him a word, he grew angry at her want of approval, and put on his hat and went towards the stables.

He had no special intention of watching for Lord Exham, and indeed had for the moment forgotten his existence, when the young man leaped his horse over the wall of the Atheling plantation. The act annoyed the Squire; he was proud of his plantation, and did not like trespassing through it. Such a little thing often decides a great thing; and this trifling offence made it easy for the Squire to say,–

“Good-morning, Piers, I wish you would dismount. I have a few words to speak to you;” and there was in his voice that shivery half-tone which is neither one thing nor the other: and Exham recognised it without applying the change to himself. He was a little annoyed at the delay; but he leaped to the ground, put the bridle over his arm, and stood beside the Squire, who then said,–

“Piers, I have come to the decision not to sanction any longer your attentions to Kate–unless your father also sanctions them. It is high time your engagement was either publicly acknowledged or else put an end to.”

“You are right, Squire; what do you wish me to do? I will make Kate my wife at any time you propose. I desire nothing more earnestly than this.”

“Easy, Piers, easy. You must obtain the Duke’s consent first.”

“I could hardly select a worse time to ask him for it. I am of full age. I am my own master. I will marry Kate in the face of all opposition.”

“I say you will not. My daughter is not for you, if there is any opposition. The Duke and Duchess are at the head of your house; and Kate cannot enter a house in which she would be unwelcome.”

“Kate will reside at Exham.”

“And be a divider between you and your father and mother. No! In the end she would get the worst of it; and, even if she got the best of it, I am not willing she should begin a life of quarrelling and hatred. You can see the Duke at your convenience, and let me know what he says.”

“I will see him to-day,” he had taken out his watch and was looking at it as he spoke. “Will you excuse me now, Squire?” he asked. “I sent Kate a message early this morning promising to call for her about eleven. I am already late.”

“You may turn back. I will make an excuse for you. You cannot ride with Kate to-day.”

“Squire, I made the offer and the promise. Permit me to honour my word.”

“I will honour it for you. There has been enough, and too much, riding and walking, unless you are to ride and walk all your lives together. Good-morning!”

“Squire, give me one hour?”

“I will not.”

“A few minutes to explain.”

“I have told you that I would explain.”

“I never knew you unkind before. Have I offended you? Have I done anything which you do not approve?”

“That is not the question. I will see you again–when you have seen your father.”

“You are very unkind, very unkind indeed, sir.”

“Maybe I am; but when the surgeon’s knife is to use, there is no use pottering with drugs and fine speeches. It is the knife between you and Kate–or it is the ring;” and the word reminded him of the lost love gage, and made his face hard and stern. Then he turned from the young man, and had a momentary pleasure in the sound of his furious galloping in the other direction; for he was in a state of great turmoil. He had suddenly done a thing he had been wishing to do for a long time; and he was not satisfied. In short, passionate ejaculations, he tried to relieve himself of something wrong, and did not succeed. “He deserves it; he was all the time with that Other One,–day by day in the parks, night after night in the House and the opera; he gave her that ring–I’ll swear he did; how else should she have it? My Kate is not going to be second-best–not if I can help it; what do I care for their dukedom?–confound the whole business! A man with a daughter to watch has a heart full of sorrow–and it is all her mother’s fault!”

Setting his steps to such aggravating opinions, he reached the Manor House and went into the parlour. Kate stood at the window in her riding dress. She had lost her usual fine composure, and was nervously tapping the wooden sill with the handle of her whip. On her father’s entrance, she turned an anxious face to him, and asked, “Did you see anything of Piers, Father?”

“I did. I have been having a bit of a talk with him.”

“Then he is at the door? I am so glad! I thought something was wrong!”

“Stop, Kitty. He is not at the door. He has gone home. I sent him home. Now don’t interrupt me. I made up my mind in London that he should not see you again until your engagement was recognised by his father and mother.”

“Should not see me again! Father!”

“That is right.”

“But I must see him! I must see him! Where is mother?”

“Mother thinks as I do, Kate.”

“Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”

“Go upstairs, and take off your habit, and think over things. You know quite well that such underhand courting–”

“Piers is not underhand. He is as straight-forward as you are, Father.”

“There now! Don’t cry. I won’t have any crying about what is only right. Come here, Kitty. Thou knowest thy father loves every hair of thy head. Will he wrong thee? Will he give thee a moment’s pain he can help? Kitty, I heard talk in London that fired me–I saw things that have to be explained.”

“Father, you will break my heart!”

“Well, Kitty, I have had a good many heartaches all winter about my girl. And I have made up my mind, if I die for it, that there shall be no more whispering and wondering about your relationship to Piers Exham. Now don’t fret till you know you have a reason. Piers has a deal of power over the Duke. He will win his way–if he wants to win it. Then I will have a business talk with both men, and your engagement and marriage will be square and above-board, and no nodding and winking and shrugging about it. You are Kate Atheling, and I will not have you sought in any by-way. Before God, I will not! Cry, if you must. But I think better of you.”