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

“Oh, Mother! Mother! Mother!”

“Yes! you and your mother have brought all this on, with your ‘let things alone, be happy to-day, and to-morrow will take care of itself’ ways. If you were a milk-maid, that plan might do; but a girl with your lineage has to look behind and before; she can’t live for herself and herself only.”

“I wish I was a milk-maid!”

“To be sure. Let me have the lover I want, and my father, and my mother, and my brother, and my home, and all that are behind me, and all that are to come after, and all honour, and all gratitude, and all decent affection can go to the devil!” and with these words, the Squire lifted his hat, and went passionately out of the room.

Though he had given Kate the hope that Piers would influence his father, he had no such expectation. There was a very strained political feeling between the Duke and himself; and, apart from that, the Squire had failed to win any social liking from the Richmoors. He was so independent; he thought so much of the Athelings, and was so indifferent to the glory of the Richmoors. He had also strong opinions of all kinds, and did not scruple to express them; and private opinions are just the one thing not wanted and not endurable in society. In fact, the Duke and Duchess had both been subject to serious relentings for having any alliance, either political or social, with their opinionated, domineering neighbour.

And Piers, driven by the anguish of his unexpected calamity, went into his father’s presence without any regard to favourable circumstances. Previously he had considered them too much; now he gave them no consideration at all. The Duke had premonitory symptoms of an attack of gout; and the Duchess had just told him that her brother Lord Francis Gower was going to Germany, and that she had decided to accompany his party. “Annabel looks ill,” she added; “the season has been too much for a girl so emotional; and as for myself, I am thoroughly worn out.”

“I do not like separating Piers and Annabel,” answered the Duke. “They have just become confidential and familiar; and in the country too, where Miss Atheling will have everything in her favour!”

“Annabel is resolved to go abroad. She says she detests England. You had better make the best of the inevitable, Duke. I shall want one thousand pounds.”

“I cannot spare a thousand pounds. My expenses have been very great this past winter.”

“Still, I shall require a thousand pounds.”

The Duchess had just left her husband with this question to consider. He did not want to part with a thousand pounds, and he did not want to part with Annabel. She was the brightest element in his life. She had become dear to him, and the thought of her fortune made his financial difficulties easier to bear. For the encumbrances which the times forced him to lay on his estate need not embarrass Piers; Annabel’s money would easily remove them.

He was under the influence of these conflicting emotions, when Piers entered the room, with a brusque hurry quite at variance with his natural placid manner. The Duke started at the clash of the door. It gave him a twinge of pain; it dissipated his reveries; and he asked petulantly, “What brings you here so early, and so noisily, Piers?”

“I am in great trouble, sir. Squire Atheling–”

“Squire Atheling again! I am weary of the man!”

“He has forbidden me to see Miss Atheling.”

“He has done quite right. I did not expect so much propriety from him.”

“Until you give your consent to our marriage.”

“Why, then, you will see her no more, Piers. I will never give it. Never! We need not multiply words. You will marry Annabel.”

“Suppose Annabel will not marry me?”

“The supposition is impossible, therefore unnecessary.”

“If I cannot marry Miss Atheling, I will remain unmarried.”

“That threat is as old as the world; it amounts to nothing.”

“On all public and social questions, I am your obedient son and successor. I claim the right to choose my wife.”

“A man in your position, Piers, has not this privilege. I had not. If I had followed my youthful desires, I should have married an Italian woman. I married, not to please myself, but for the good of Richmoor; and I am glad to-day that I did so. Your duty to Richmoor is first; to yourself, secondary.”

“Have you anything against Miss Atheling?”

“I object to her family–though they are undoubtedly in direct descent from the royal Saxon family of Atheling; I object to her poverty; I object to her taking the place of a young lady who has every desirable qualification for your wife.”

“Is there no way to meet these objections, sir?”

“No way whatever.” At these words the Duke stood painfully up, and said, with angry emphasis, “I will not have this subject mentioned to me again. It is dead. I forbid you to speak of it.” Then he rang the bell for his Secretary, and gave him some orders. Lord Exham leaned against the mantelpiece, lost in sorrowful thought, until the Duke turned to him and said,–

“I am going to ride; will you go with me? There are letters from Wetherell and Lyndhurst to talk over.”

“I cannot think of politics at present. I should be no help to you.”

“Your mother and Annabel are thinking of going to Germany. I wish you would persuade them to stop at home. Is Annabel sick? I am told she is.”

“I do not know, sir.”

“You might trouble yourself to inquire.”

“Father, I have never at any time disobeyed you. Permit me to marry the woman I love. In all else, I follow where you lead.”

“Piers, my dear son, if my wisdom is sufficient for ‘all else,’ can you not trust it in this matter? Miss Atheling is an impossibility,–mind, I say an impossibility,–now, and to-morrow, and in all the future. That is enough about Miss Atheling. Good-afternoon! I feel far from well, and I will try what a gallop may do for me.”

Piers bowed; he could not speak. His heart beat at his lips; he was choking with emotion. The very attitude of the Duke filled him with despair. It permitted of no argument; it would allow of no hope. He knew the Squire’s mood was just as inexorable as his father’s. Mrs. Atheling had defined the position very well, when she called the two men, “upper and nether millstones.” Kate and he were now between them. And there was only one way out of the situation supposable. If Kate was willing, they could marry without permission. The Rector of Belward would not be difficult to manage; for the Duke had nothing to do with Belward; it was in the gift of Mrs. Atheling. On some appointed morning Kate could meet him before the little altar. Love has ways and means and messengers; and his face flushed, and a kind of angry hope came into his heart as this idea entered it. Just then, he did not consider how far Kate would fall below his best thoughts if it were possible to persuade her to such clandestine disobedience.

The Duke was pleased with himself. He felt that he had settled the disagreeable question promptly and kindly; and he was cantering cheerfully across Belward Bents, when he came suddenly face to face with Squire Atheling. The surprise was not pleasant; but he instantly resolved to turn it to service.

“Squire,” he said, with a forced heartiness, “well met! I thank you for your co-operation. In forbidding Lord Exham your daughter’s society, you have done precisely what I wished you to do.”

“There is no ‘co-operation’ in the question, Duke. I considered only Miss Atheling’s rights and happiness. And what I have done, was not done for any wish of yours, but to satisfy myself. Lord Exham is your business, not mine.”

“I have just told him that a marriage with Miss Atheling is out of all consideration; that both you and I are of this opinion; and, I may add, that my plans for Lord Exham’s future would be utterly ruined by a mésalliance at this time.”

“You will retract the word ‘mésalliance,’ Duke. You know Miss Atheling’s lineage, and that a duke of the reigning family would make no ‘mésalliance’ in marrying her. I say retract the word!” and the Squire involuntarily gave emphasis to the order by the passionate tightening of his hand on his riding-whip.

“I certainly retract any word that gives you offence, Squire. I meant no reflection on Miss Atheling, who is a most charming young lady–”

“There is no more necessity for compliments than for–the other thing. I have told Miss Atheling to see Lord Exham no more. I will make my order still more positive to her.”

“Yet, Squire, lovers will often outwit the wisest fathers.”

“My daughter will give me her word, and she would not be an Atheling if she broke it. I shall make her understand that I will never forgive her if she allies herself with the house of Richmoor.”

“Come, come, Squire! You need not speak so contemptuously of the house of Richmoor. The noblest women in England would gladly ally themselves with my house.”

“I cannot prevent them doing so; but I can keep my own daughter’s honour, and I will. Good-afternoon, Duke! I hope this is our last word on a subject so unpleasant.”

“I hope so. Squire, there are some important letters from Lyndhurst and Wetherell; can you come to the Castle to-morrow and talk them over with me.”

“I cannot, Duke.”

Then the Duke bowed haughtily, and gave his horse both rein and whip; and the angry thoughts in his heart were, “What a proud, perverse unmanageable creature! He was as ready to strike as to speak. If I had been equally uncivilised, we should have come to blows as easily as words. I am sorry I have had any dealings with the fellow. Julia warned me–a man ought to take his wife’s advice wherever women are factors in a question. Confound the whole race of country squires!–they make all the trouble that is made.”

Squire Atheling had not any more pleasant thoughts about dukes; but they were an undercurrent, his daughter dominated them. He dreaded his next interview with her, but was not inclined to put it off, even when he found her, on his return home, with Mrs. Atheling. She had been weeping; she hardly dried her tears on his approach. Her lovely face was flushed and feverish; she had the look of a rose blown by a stormy wind. He pushed his chair to her side, and gently drew her on to his knees, and put his arm around her, as he said,–

“My little girl, I am sorry! I am sorry! But it has to be, Kitty. There is no hope, and I will not fool thee with false promises. I have just had a talk with Richmoor. He was very rude, very rude indeed, to thy father.” She did not speak or lift her eyes; and the Squire continued, “He used a word about a marriage with thee that I would not permit. I had to bring him to his senses.”

“Oh, Father!”

“Would you have me sit quiet and hear the Athelings made little of.”

“No, Father.”

“I thought not.”

“After what the Duke has said to me, there can be no thought of marriage between Piers and thee. Give him up, now and forever.”

“I cannot.”

“But thou must.”

“It will kill me.”

“Not if thou art the good, brave girl I think thee. Piers is only one little bit of the happy life thy good God has given thee. Thou wilt still have thy mother, and thy brother, and thy sweet home, and all the honour and blessings of thy lot in life–and thy father, too, Kitty. Is thy father nobody?”

Then she laid her head on his breast and sobbed bitterly; and the Squire could not speak. He wept with her. And sitting a little apart, but watching them, Mrs. Atheling wept a little also. Yet, in spite of his emotion, the Squire was inexorable; and he continued, with stern and steady emphasis, “Thou art not to see him. Thou art not to write to him. Thou art not even to look at him. Get him out of thy life, root and branch. It is the only way. Come now, give me thy promise.”

“Let me see him once more.”

“I will not. What for? To pity one another, and abuse every other person, right or wrong. The Richmoors don’t want thee among them at any price; and if I was thee I would stay where I was wanted.”

“Piers wants me.”

“Now then, if you must have the whole bitter truth, take it. I don’t believe Piers will have any heartache wanting thee. He was here, there, and everywhere with Miss Vyner, after thou hadst left London; and I saw the ring thou loanedst him on her finger.”

Then Kate looked quickly up. Once, when Annabel had removed her glove, and instantly replaced it, a vague suspicion of this fact had given her a shock that she had named to no one. It seemed so incredible she could not tell her mother. And now her father’s words brought back that moment of sick suspicion, and confirmed it.

“Are you sure of what you say, Father?”

“I will wage my word and honour on it.”

There was a moment’s intense silence. Kate glanced at her mother, who sat with dropped eyes, unconsciously knitting; but there was not a shadow of doubt or denial on her face. Then she looked at her father. His large countenance, usually so red and beaming, was white and drawn with feeling, and his troubled, aching soul looked at her pathetically from the misty depths of his tearful eyes. Her mother she might have argued and pleaded with; but the love and anguish supplicating her from that bending face was not to be denied. She lifted her own to it. She kissed the pale cheeks and trembling lips, and said, clearly,–

“I promise what you wish, Father. I will not speak to Piers, nor write to him, nor even look at him again–until you say I may,” and with the words she put her hand in his for surety.

He rose to his feet then and put her in his chair; but he could not speak a word. Tremblingly, he lifted his hat and stick and went out of the room; and Mrs. Atheling threw down her knitting, and followed him to the door, and watched him going slowly through the long, flagged passageway. Her face was troubled when she returned to Kate. She lifted her knitting and threw it with some temper into her work-basket, and then flung wide open the casement and let the fresh air into the room. Kate did not speak; her whole air and manner was that of injury and woe-begone extremity.

“Kate,” said her mother at last, “Kate, my dear! This is your first lesson in this world’s sorrow. Don’t be a coward under it. Lift up your heart to Him who is always sufficient.”

“Oh, Mother! I think I shall die.”

“I would be ashamed to say such words. Piers was good and lovesome, and I do not blame you for loving him as long as it was right to do so. But when your father’s word is against it, you may be very sure it is not right. Father would not give you a moment’s pain, if he could help it.”

“It is too cruel! I cannot bear it!”

“Are you asked to bear anything but what women in all ages, and in all countries, have had to bear? To give up what you love is always hard. I have had to give up three fine sons, and your dear little sister Edith. I have had to give up father, and mother, and brothers, and sisters; but I never once thought of dying. Whatever happens, happens with God’s will, or with God’s permission; so if you can’t give up cheerfully to your father’s will, do try and say to God, as pleasantly as you can, Thy Will be my will.”

“I thought you would pity me, Mother.”

“I do, Kate, with all my heart. But life has more loves and duties than one. If, in order to have Piers, you had to relinquish every one else, would you do so? No, you would not. Kate, I love you, and I pity you in your great trial; and I will help you to bear it as well as I can. But you must bear it cheerfully. I will not have father killed for Piers Exham. He looked very queerly when he went out. Be a brave girl, and if you are going to keep your promise, do it cheerfully–or it is not worth while.”

“How can I be cheerful, Mother?”

“As easy as not, if you have a good, unselfish heart. You will say to yourself, ‘What right have I to make every one in the house miserable, because I am miserable?’ Troubles must come to all, Kitty, but troubles need not be wicked; and it is wicked to be a destroyer of happiness. I think God himself may find it hard to forgive those who selfishly destroy the happiness of others, just because they are not satisfied, or have not the one thing they specially want. When you are going to be cross and unhappy, say to yourself, ”I will not be cross! I will not be unhappy! I will not make my good father wretched, and fill his pleasant home with a tearful drizzle, because I want to cry about my own loss.’ And, depend upon it, Kitty, you will find content and happiness in making others happy. Good comes to hearts prepared for good; but it cannot come to hearts full of worry, and fear, and selfish regrets.”

“You are setting me a hard lesson, Mother.”

“I know it is hard, Kate. Life is all a task; yet we may as well sing, as we fulfil it. Eh, dear?”

Kate did not answer. She lifted her habit over her arm, and went slowly upstairs. Sorrow filled her to the ears and eyes; but her mother heard her close and then turn the key in her door.

“That is well,” she thought. “Now her good angel will find her alone with God.”

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH

NOT YET

“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.”

“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.