I, Thou, and the Other One Part 24

Then, late as it was, the quiet house suddenly became full of noise and bustle; and the hubbub that usually followed the Squire's advent was everywhere apparent. For he wanted all at once,--his meat and his drink, his easy coat and his slippers, his pipe and his dogs, and his serving men and women. He wanted to hear about the ploughing, and the sowing, and the gardening; about the horses, and the cattle, and the markets; the farm hands, and the tenants of the Atheling cottages. He wanted his wife's report, and his steward's report, and his daughter's petting and opinions. The night wore on to midnight before he would speak of London, or the House, or the Bill.

"I may surely have a little bit of peace, Maude," he said reproachfully, when she ventured to introduce the subject; "it has been the Bill, and the Bill, and the Bill, till my ears ache with the sound of the words."

"Just tell us if it has pa.s.sed, John."

"No, it has _not_ pa.s.sed; and Parliament is dissolved again; and the country has taken the bit in its teeth, and the very mischief of h.e.l.l 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 G.o.d'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 cas.e.m.e.nt, 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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!

[Ill.u.s.tration:]

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."