I, Thou, and the Other One Part 36

"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, G.o.d 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"_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 gla.s.s 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 encompa.s.sed 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 cl.u.s.ters of the damask roses! Even parting under such circ.u.mstances 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 s.h.i.+ning, 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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. G.o.d 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 "G.o.d 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 Lancas.h.i.+re and Yorks.h.i.+re 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 suns.h.i.+ne in the house for many days afterwards,--letters from Boston, New York, Baltimore, Was.h.i.+ngton, 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 suns.h.i.+ne! What moons.h.i.+ne! 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 n.o.ble 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 ravis.h.i.+ng 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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.