CHAPTER FOURTEENTH
AT THE WORST

In the first joy of their return home, Squire Atheling and his son had not chosen to alarm the women of the family; yet the condition of the country was such as filled with terror every thoughtful mind. The passionate emotion evoked by the second rejection of the Reform Bill did not abate. Tumultuous meetings were held in every town and village as the news reached them; houses were draped in black; shops were closed; and the bells of the churches tolled backward. In London the populace was quite uncontrollable. Vast crowds filled the streets, cheering the Reform leaders, and denouncing with furious execrations the members of either House who had opposed the Bill. The Duke of Newcastle, the Marquis of Londonderry, and many other peers were not saved from the anger of the people without struggle and danger. Nottingham Castle, the seat of the Duke of Newcastle, was burnt to the ground; and Belvoir Castle, the seat of the Duke of Rutland, was barely saved. Bristol saw a series of riots, and during them suffered greatly from fire, and the Bishop’s palace was reduced to ashes.

Everywhere the popular fury settled with special bitterness and hatred upon the bishops; because, as teachers of the doctrines of Jesus of Nazareth, the “common people” expected sympathy from them. A cry arose, from one end of England to the other, for their expulsion from the Upper Chamber; and proposals even for the abolition of the House of Lords were constant and very popular. For such extreme measures no speaker was so eloquent and so powerful as Mr. O’Connell. In addressing a great meeting at Charing Cross one day, he pointed in the direction of Whitehall Palace, and reminded his hearers that, “A King had lost his head there. Why,” he asked, “did this doom come on him? It was,” he cried, “because he refused to listen to his Commons and his people, and obeyed the dictation of a foreign wife.” And this allusion to the Queen’s bad influence over William the Fourth was taken up by the crowd with vehement cheering.

While Bristol was burning, the cholera appeared in England; and its terrors, new and awful and apparently beyond human help or skill, added the last element of supernatural fear to the excited and hopeless people. It is hard to realise at this day, and with our knowledge of the disease, the frantic and abject despair which seized all classes. The churches were kept open, supplications ascended night and day from the altars; and on the sixth of November, at one hour, from every place of worship in England, hundreds of thousands knelt to utter aloud a form of prayer which was constantly broken by sobs of anguish:–

In the presence of this scourge, Mrs. Atheling found it impossible to persuade the Squire to let his family go up with him and Edgar to London. About the cholera, the Squire had the common fatalistic ideas.

“You may escape through God’s mercy,” he said; “but if you are to die of this fearsome, outlandish sickness, then it is best to face death in your own home.”

“But if you should take it in London, and me not near even to bid you ‘good-bye,’ John! I should die of grief.”

“I do hope thou wouldst have more sense, Maude.”

“I would follow thee beyond the grave, very quickly, John.”

“No, no! Stay where thou art. Thou knowest what Yorkshire is,” and though he spoke gruffly, his eyes were dim with unshed tears for the dreadful possibility he thought it right to face.

Kate was specially averse to return to London. It was full of memories she did not wish to revive. Piers was there; and how could she bear to meet him, and neither speak to nor even look at her lover? There was Annabel’s marriage also to consider. If she did not attend it, how many unpleasant inquiries and suppositions there would be? If she did accept the formal invitation sent her, how was she to conduct herself towards Piers in the presence of those who knew them both intimately?

The marriage was to take place shortly before the opening of Parliament; and, owing to the wretched condition of the country, it was thought best to give it only a private character. The management of the social arrangements were in Piers’s hands, and during these last days a very brotherly and confidential affection sprang up in his heart for the brilliant girl who was so soon to leave them forever. One morning he returned to Richmoor House with some valuable jewels for Annabel. He sent a servant to tell her that he was in the small east parlour and desired her company. Then, knowing her usual indifference to time, he sat down and patiently awaited her coming. She responded almost immediately. But her entrance startled and troubled him. She came in hastily, and shut the door with a perceptible nervous tremour. Her face was flushed with anger; she looked desperate and defiant, and met his curious glance with one of mingled fear and entreaty and reckless passion. He led her to a seat, and taking her hands said,–

“My dear Bella, what has grieved you?”

“Oh, Piers! Piers!” she sobbed. “If you have one bit of pity in your heart, give it to me. I am the most miserable woman in the world.”

“Bella, if you do not love Cecil–if you want to break off this marriage–”

“Love Cecil? I love him better than my life! My love for Cecil is the best thing about me. It is not Cecil.”

“Who is it then?”

“I will tell you, though you may hate me for my words. Piers, I took the ring you lost. I meant no harm in the first moment; mischief and jealousy were then so mixed, I don’t know which of them led me. I saw you asleep. I slipped the ring off your finger. I told myself I would give it to you in the morning, and claim my forfeit. In the morning, the Duchess was cross; and you were cross; and the constables were in the house; and I was afraid. And I put it off and off, and every day my fear of trouble–and perhaps my hope of doing mischief with it–grew stronger. I had then hours of believing that I should like to be your wife, and I hated and envied Kate Atheling. I hesitated until I lost the desire to explain things; and then one day my maid Justine flew in a passion at me, and accused me of stealing the ring. She said it was in my purse– and it was . She threatened to call in the whole household to see me found out; and it was the night of the great dinner; and I bought her off.”

“Oh, Bella! Bella! that was very foolish.”

“I know. She has tortured and robbed me ever since. I have wasted away under her threats. Look at my arms, Piers, and my hands. I have a constant fever. Last week she promised me, if I would give her two hundred pounds, she would go away, and I should never see or hear of her again. I gave her the money. Now she says she has made up her mind to go to India with me. That I cannot endure. She has kept me on the rack with threats to tell Cecil. He is the soul of Honour; he would certainly cease to love me; and if I was his wife, how terrible that would be! What am I to do? What am I to do? Oh, Piers, help me!”

“Where is the woman now?”

“In my apartments.”

“Can I go with you to your parlour?”

“Yes–but, Piers, why?”

“Where is the ring, Bella dear?”

“In her possession. She was afraid I would give it to you.”

“Why did you not tell me all this before? Come, I will soon settle the affair.”

When they reached the room, Annabel sank almost lifeless on a sofa; and Piers touched a hand-bell. Justine called from an inner room:

“I will answer at my leisure, Miss.”

Piers walked to the dividing door, and threw it open. “You will answer now , at my command. Come here, and come quickly.”

“My lord–I did not mean–”

“Stand there, and answer truly the questions I shall ask; or I promise you a few years on the treadmill, if not a worse punishment. Do you know that you are guilty of black-mailing, and of obtaining money on false pretences?–both crimes to be expiated on the gallows.”

“My lord, it is a true pretence. Miss Vyner stole your ring. She knows she did.”

“She could not steal anything I have; she is welcome to whatever of mine she desires. How much money have you taken from Miss Vyner?”

“I have not taken one half-penny,” answered Justine, sulkily. “She gave me the money; she dare not say different. Speak, Miss, you know you gave it to me.” But Annabel had recovered something of her old audacity. She felt she was safe, and she was not disposed to mercy. She only smiled scornfully, and re-arranged the satin cushions under her head more comfortably.

“Quick! How much money have you taken?”

Justine refused to answer; and Piers said, “I give you two minutes. Then I shall send for a constable.”

“And Miss Vyner’s wedding will be put off.”

“For your crime? Oh, no! Miss Vyner’s wedding is far beyond your interference. She will have nothing to do with this affair. I shall prosecute you. You have my ring. Will you give it to me, or to a constable?”

“I did not take the ring.”

“It is in your possession. I will send now for an officer.” He rose to touch the bell-rope, keeping his eyes on the woman all the time; and she darted forward and arrested his hand.

“I will do what you wish,” she said.

“How much money have you taken from Miss Vyner?”

“Eight hundred and ninety pounds.”

“Where is it?”

“In my room.”

“Go and get it–stay, I will go with you.”

In a few minutes Justine returned with her ill-gotten treasure; and then she condescended to explain, and entreat,–

“Oh, my lord,” she said, “don’t be hard on me. I wanted the money for my poor old mother who is in Marylebone Workhouse. I did, indeed I did! It was to make her old age comfortable. She is sick and very poor, and I wanted it for her.”

“We shall see about that. If your story is true, you shall give the money to your poor old sick mother. If it is not true, you shall give my ring and the money to a constable, and sleep in prison this very night.”

With impetuous passion he ordered a carriage, and Justine was driven to the Marylebone Workhouse. By the time they reached that institution, she was thoroughly humbled and afraid; her fear being confirmed by the subservience of the Master to the rank and commands of Lord Exham. For a moment she had an idea of denying her own statement; but the futility of the lie was too evident to be doubted; and, very reluctantly, she admitted her mother’s name to be Margaret Oddy. In a few minutes–during which Lord Exham ordered Justine to count out the money in her bag to the Master–Margaret appeared. She was not an old woman in years, being but little over forty; but starvation, sorrow, and hard work had made her prematurely aged. When she entered the room, she looked around anxiously; but as soon as she saw Justine, she covered her face with her thin hands, and began to weep.

“Is this your daughter?” asked the Master, pointing to Justine.

“I am her mother, sure enough, sir; but she have cast me off long ago. Oh, Justine girl, speak a word to me! You are my girl, for all that’s past and gone.”

“Justine has come to make you some amends for her previous neglect, Mother,” said Lord Exham. “She has brought you eight hundred and ninety pounds for your old age. To-morrow my lawyer will call here, and give you advice concerning its care and its use. Until then, the Master will take it in charge.”

“Let me see it! Let me touch it with my hands! No more hunger! No more cold! No more hard work! It can’t be true! It can’t be true! Is it true, Justine? Kiss me with the money, girl, for the sake of the happy days we have had together!” With these words she went to her daughter, and tried to take her hands, and draw her to her breast. But Justine would not respond. She stood sullen and silent, with eyes cast on the ground.

“Why, then,” said Margaret, with just anger, “why, then, keep the money, Justine. I would rather eat peas and porridge, and sleep on straw, than take a shilling with such ill-will from you, girl.” Then, turning to Piers, she added, “Thank you, good gentleman, but I’ll stay where I am. Let Justine keep her gold. I don’t want such an ill-will gift.”

“Mother,” answered Piers. “You may take the money from my hands, then. It is yours. Justine’s good or ill-will has now nothing to do with it. I give it to you from the noble young lady whom your daughter has wronged so greatly that the gallows would be her just desert. She gives up this money–which she has no right to–as some atonement for her crime. Is not this the truth, Justine?” he asked sternly; and the woman answered, “Yes.” Then turning to the Master, he added, “To this fact, and to Justine’s admission of it, you are witness.”

The Master said, “I am.” Then addressing Margaret, he told her to go back to her place, and think over the good fortune that had so unexpectedly come to her; what she wished to do with her money; and where she wished to make her future home. And the mother curtsied feebly and again turned to her child,–

“If I go back to the old cottage in Downham–the old cottage with the vines, and the bee skeps, and the long garden, will you come with me, and we will share all together?”

“No.”

“Let her alone, Mother,” said Exham. “She is going to the furthest American colony she can reach. Only in some such place, will she be safe from the punishment of her wrong-doing.”

“Justine, then, my girl, good-bye!”

No answer.

“Justine, good-bye!”

No answer.

“Why, then, my girl, God be with you, and God forgive you!”

Then Justine turned to Lord Exham, “I have done what you demanded. May I now go my own way?”

“Not just yet. You will return with me.”

He gave his card to the Master, and followed the woman, keeping her constantly under his hand and eye until they returned to Annabel’s parlour. Annabel was in a dead sleep; but their entrance awakened her, and it pained Piers to see the look of fear that came into her face when she saw her cruel tormentor. She was speedily relieved, however; for the first words she heard, was an order from Piers, bidding her to be ready to leave the house in twenty minutes. He took out his watch as he gave the order, and then added, “First of all, return to me my ring.”

“I did not take your ring, my lord.”

“You have it in your possession. Return it at once.”

“Miss Vyner stole it–”

“Give it to me! You know the consequences of one more refusal.”

Then Justine took from her purse the long missing ring. She threw it on the table, and, with tears of rage, said,–

“May ill-luck and false love go with it, and follow all who own it!”

“The bad wishes of the wicked fall on themselves, Justine,” said Lord Exham, as he lifted the trinket. “How much money does your mistress owe you?”

“I have no ‘mistress.’ Miss Vyner owes me a quarter’s wage, and a quarter’s notice, that is eight pounds.”

“Is that correct, Annabel?”

“The woman says so. Pay her what she wants–only get her out of my sight.”

“Oh, Miss, I can tell you–”

“Go. Pack your trunk, and be back here in fifteen minutes. And, mind what I say, leave England at once–the sooner the better.”

Before the time was past, the woman was outside the gates of Richmoor House, and Piers returned to Annabel. “That trouble is all over and gone forever,” he said to her; “now, dear Bella, lift up your heart to its full measure of love and joy! Let Cecil see you to-night in your old beauty. He is fretting about your health; show him the marvellously bright Annabel that captured his heart with a glance.”

“I will! I will, Piers! This very night you shall see that Annabel is herself again.”

“And in three days you are to be Cecil’s wife!”

“In three days,” she echoed joyfully. “Leave me now, Piers. I want to think over your goodness to me. I shall never forget it.”

Smiling, they parted; and then Annabel opened all the doors of her rooms, and looked carefully around them, and assured herself that her tyrant was really gone. “In three days!” she said, “in three days I am going away from all this splendour and luxury,–going to dangers of all kinds; to a wild life in camps and quarters; perhaps to deprivations in lonely places–and I am happy! Happy! transcendently happy! Oh, Love! Wonderful, Invincible, Omnipotent Love! Cecil’s love! It will be sufficient for all things.”

Certainly she was permeated with this idea. It radiated from her countenance; it spoke in her eyes; it made itself visible in the glory of her bridal attire. The wedding morning was one of the darkest and dreariest of London’s winter days. A black pouring rain fell incessantly; the atmosphere was heavy, and loaded with exhalations; and the cholera terror was on every face. For at this time it was really “a destruction walking at noon-day” and leaving its ghastly sign of possession on many a house in the streets along which the bridal party passed.

It came into the gloomy church like a splendid dream: officers in gay uniforms, ladies in beautiful gowns and nodding plumes, and at the altar,–shining like some celestial being,–the radiant bride in glistening white satin, and sparkling gems. And Cecil, in his new military uniform, tall, handsome, soldierly, happy, made her a fitting companion. The church was filled with a dismal vapour; the rain plashed on the flagged enclosure; the wind whistled round the ancient tower: there was only gloom, and misery, and sudden death outside; but over all these accidents of time and place, the joy of the bride and the bridegroom was triumphant. And later in the day, when the Duke and Piers went with them to the great three-decked Indiaman waiting for their embarkation, they were still wondrously exalted and blissful. Dressed in fine dark-blue broadcloth, and wrapped in costly furs, Annabel watched from the deck the departure of her friends, and then put her hand in Cecil’s with a smile.

“For weal or woe, Bella, my dear one,” he said.

“For weal or woe, for life or death, Cecil beloved,” she answered, having no idea then of what that promise was to bring her in the future; though she kept it nobly when the time of its redemption came.

Three days after this event, Mrs. Atheling received by special messenger from Lord Exham a letter, and with it the ring which had caused so much suspicion and sorrow. But though the letter was affectionate and confidential, and full of tender messages which he “trusted in her to deliver for him,” nothing was said as to the manner of its recovery, or the personality of the one who had purloined it.

“Your father has been right, no doubt, Kate,” she said. “In some weak moment Annabel has got the ring from him, and on her marriage has given it back. That is clear to me.”

“Not to me, Mother. I am sure Piers did not give Annabel–did not give any one the ring. I will tell you what I think. Annabel got it while he was asleep, or he inadvertently dropped it, and she picked it up–and kept it, hoping to make mischief.”

“You may be wrong, Kitty.”

“I may–but I know I am right.”

No Diviner like Love!

On this same day, with the cholera raging all around, Parliament was re-opened; and Lord John Russell again brought in the Reform Bill. There was something pathetic in this persistence of a people, hungry and naked, and overshadowed by an unknown pestilence, swift and malignant as a Fate. It was evident, immediately, that the same course of “obstruction” which had proved fatal to the two previous Bills was to be pursued against the third attempt. Yet the temper of the House of Commons, sullenly, doggedly determined, might even thus early have warned its opposers. All the unfairness and pertinacity of Peel and his associates was of no avail against the inflexible steadiness of Lord Althorp and the cold impassibility of Lord John Russell.

Week after week passed in debating, while the press and people waited in alternating fits of passionate threats and still more alarming silence,–a silence, Lord Grey declared to be, “Most ominous of trouble, and of the most vital importance to the obstructing force.” The Squire was weary to death. He found it impossible to take a dutiful interest in the proceedings. The tactics of the fight did not appeal to his nature. He thought they were neither fair nor straightforward; and, unconsciously, his own opinions had been much leavened by his late familiar intercourse with Lord Ashley and his son.

In these days his chief comfort came from the friendship of Piers Exham. The young man frequently sought his company; and it became almost a custom for them to dine together at the Tory Club. And at such times words were dropped that neither would have uttered, or even thought of, at the beginning of the contest. Thus one night Piers said, in his musing way, as he fingered his glass, rather than drank the wine in it,–

“I have been wondering, Squire, whether the wish of a whole nation, gradually growing in intensity for sixty years, until it has become, to-day, a command and a threat, is not something more than a wish?”

“I should say it was, Piers,” answered the Squire. “Very likely the wish has grown to–a right.”

“Perhaps.”

Then both men were silent; and the next topic discussed was the new sickness, and Piers anxiously asked if “it had reached Atheling.”

“No, it has not, thank the Almighty!” replied the Squire. “There has not been a case of it. My family are all well.”

Allusions to Kate were seldom more definite than this one; but Piers found inexpressible comfort in the few words. Such intercourse might not seem conducive to much kind feeling; but it really was. The frequent silences; the short, pertinent sentences; the familiar, kindly touch of the young man’s hand, when it was time to return to the House; the little courteous attentions which it pleased Piers to render, rather than let the Squire be indebted to a servant for them,–these, and other things quite as trivial, made a bond between the two men that every day strengthened.

It was nearly the end of March when the Bill once more got through the Commons; and hitherto the nation had waited as men wait the preliminaries of a battle. But they were like hounds held by a leash when the great question as to whether the Lords would now give way, or not, was to be determined. The Squire was an exceedingly sensitive man; for he was exceedingly affectionate, and he was troubled continually by the hungry, wretched, anxious crowds through which he often picked his way to Westminster, the more so, as his genial, bluff, thoroughly English appearance seemed to please and encourage these non-contents. At every step he was urged to vote on the right side. “God bless you, Squire!” was a common address. “Pity the poor! Vote for the right! Go for Reform, Squire! Before God, Squire, we must win this time, or die for it!” And the Squire, distressed, and half-convinced of the justice of their case, would lift his hat at such words, and pass a sovereign into the hand of some lean, white-faced man, and answer, “God defend the Right, friends!” He could not tell them, as he had done in his first session, to “go home and mind their business.” He could not say, as he did then, a downright “No;” could not bid them, “Reform themselves, and let the Government alone,” or ask, “If they were bereft of their senses?” If he answered at all now, it was in the motto so familiar to them, “God and my Right;” or, if much urged, “I give my word to do my best.” Or he would bow courteously, and say, “God grant us all good days without end.” Before the Bill passed the Commons, at the end of March, it had, at any rate, come to this,–he was not only averse to vote against the Bill, he was also averse to tell these waiting sufferers that he intended to vote against it.

On the night of the thirteenth of April, when the Bill was before the Lords, the Squire was too excited to go to bed, though prevented from occupying his seat in the Commons by a smart attack of rheumatism. He sat in his club, waiting for intelligence, and watching the passing crowds to try and glean from their behaviour the progress of events. Piers had promised to bring him word as soon as the vote was taken. He did not arrive until eight o’clock the next morning. The Squire was drinking his coffee, and making up his mind to return to Atheling, “whatever happened,” when Piers, white and exhausted, drew his chair to the table.

“The Bill has passed this reading by nine votes,” he said wearily; “and Parliament has adjourned for the Easter recess; that is, until the seventh of May. Three weeks of suspense! I do not know how it is to be endured.”

“I am going to Atheling. Edgar will very likely go to Ashley, and I think you had better go with us. Three weeks of Exham winds will make a new man of you.”

At this point Edgar joined them, and, greatly to his father’s annoyance, declared both Atheling and Ashley out of the question. “This three weeks,” he said, “will decide the fate of England. I have promised my leader to visit Warwick, Worcester, Stafford, and Birmingham. At the latter place there will be the greatest political meeting ever held in this world.”

“And what will Annie say?” asked the Squire.

“Annie thinks I am doing right. Annie does not put me before the hundred of thousands to whom the success of Reform will bring happiness.”

“It beats all and everything,” said the Squire. “I wouldn’t like my wife to put me back of hundreds and thousands. Have you been up all night–you and Piers?”

“All night,” answered Edgar. “We were among the three hundred members from the Commons who filled the space around the throne, and stood in a row three deep below the bar. I was in the second row; but I heard all that passed very well. Earl Grey did not begin to speak until five o’clock this morning, and he spoke for an hour and a half. It was an astonishing argument.”

“It was a most interesting scene, altogether,” said Piers. “I shall never forget it. The crowded house, its still and solemn demeanour, and the broad daylight coming in at the high windows while Grey was speaking. Its blue beams mixed with the red of the flaring candles, and the two lights made strange and startling effects on the crimson draperies and the dusky tapestries on the walls. I felt as if I was in a vision. I kept thinking of Cromwell and old forgotten things; and it was like waking out of a dream when the House began to dissolve. I was not quite myself until I had drunk a cup of coffee.”

“It was very exciting,” said the more practical Edgar; “and the small majority is only to keep the people quiet. At the next reading the Bill will be so mutilated as to be practically rejected, unless we are ready to meet such an emergency.”

Piers rose at these words. He foresaw a discussion he had no mind for; and he said, with a touching pathos in his voice, as he laid his hand on the Squire’s shoulder, “Give my remembrance to the ladies at Atheling,–my heart’s love, if you will take it.”

“I will take all I may, Piers. Good-bye! You have been a great comfort to me. I am sure I don’t know what I should have done without you; for Edgar, you see, is too busy for anything.”

“Never too busy to be with you, if you need me, Father. But you are such a host in yourself, and I never imagined you required help of any kind.”

“Only a bit of company now and then. You were about graver business. It suited Piers and me to sit idle and say a word or two about Atheling. Come down to Exham, Piers, do ; it will be good for you.”

“No, I should be heart-sick for Atheling. I am better away.”

The Squire nodded gravely, and was silent; and Piers passed quietly out of the room. His listless serenity, and rather drawling speech, always irritated the alert Edgar; and he sighed with relief when he was rid of the restraining influence of a nature so opposite to his own.

“So you are going to Atheling, Father?” he said. “How?”

“As quick and quiet as I can. I shall take the mail-coach to York, or further; and then trot home on as good a nag as I can hire.”

In this way he reached Atheling the third day afterwards, but without any of the usual éclat and bustle of his arrival. Kate had gone to bed; Mrs. Atheling was about to lock the big front door, when he opened it. She let the candlestick in her hand fall when she saw him enter, crying,–

“John! Dear John! How you did frighten me! I am glad to see you.”

“I’ll believe it, Maude, without burning the house for an illumination. My word! I am tired. I have trotted a hack horse near forty miles to-day.”

Then she forgot everything but the Squire’s refreshment and comfort; and the house was roused, and Kitty came downstairs again, and for an hour there was at least the semblance of rejoicing. But Mrs. Atheling was not deceived. She saw her lord was depressed and anxious; and she was sure the Reform Bill had finally passed; and after a little while she ventured to say so.

“No, it has not passed,” answered the Squire; “it has got to its worst bit, that’s all. After Easter the Lords will muster in all their power, and either throw it out, or change and cripple it so much that it will be harmless.”

“Now, then, John, what do you think, really ?”

“I think, really, that we land-owners are all of us between the devil and the deep sea. If the Bill passes, away go the Corn Laws; and then how are we to make our money out of the land? If it does not pass, we are in for a civil war and a Commonwealth, and no Cromwell to lead and guide it. It is a bad look-out.”

“But it might be worse. We haven’t had any cholera here. We must trust in God, John.”

“It is easy to trust in God when you don’t see the doings of the devil. You wouldn’t be so cheerful, Maude, if you had lived in the sight of his handiwork, as I have for months. I think surely God has given England into his power, as he did the good man of Uz.”

“Well, then, it was only for a season, and a seven-fold blessing after it. It is wonderful how well your men have behaved; they haven’t taken a bit of advantage of your absence. That is another good thing.”

“I am glad to hear that. I will see them, man by man, before I go back to London.”

The villagers, however, sent a deputation as soon as they heard of the Squire’s arrival, asking him to come down to Atheling Green, and tell them something about Reform. And he was pleased at the request, and went down, and found they had made a temporary platform out of two horse-blocks for him; and there he stood, his fine, imposing, sturdy figure thrown clearly into relief by the sunny spring atmosphere. And it was good to listen to his strong, sympathetic voice, for it had the ring of truth in all its inflections, as he said,–

“Men! Englishmen! Citizens of no mean country! you have asked me to explain to you what this Reform business means. You know well I will tell you no lies. It will give lots of working-men votes that never hoped for a vote; and so it is like enough working-men will be able to send to Parliament members who will fight for their interests. Maybe that is in your favour. It will open all our ports to foreign wheat and corn. You will get American wheat, and Russian wheat, and French wheat–”

“We won’t eat French wheat,” said Adam Sedbergh.

“And then, wheat will be so cheap that it will not pay English land-owners to sow it. Will that help you any?”

“We would rather grow our own wheat.”

“To be sure. Reform will, happen, give you shorter hours of work.”

“That would be good, Master,” said the blacksmith.

“It will depend on what you do with the extra hours of leisure.”

“We can play skittles, and cricket, and have a bit of wrestling.”

“Or sit in the public house, and drink more beer. I don’t think your wives will like that. Besides, if you work less time won’t you get less wage? Do you think I am going to pay for twelve hours’ work and get ten? Would you? Will the mill-owners run factories for the fun of running them? Would you? And they say they hardly pay with twelve hours’ work. Men, I tell you truly, I know no more than the babe unborn what Reform will bring us. It may be better times; it may be ruin. But I can say one thing, sure and certain, you will get more trouble than you bargain for if you take to rioting about it. Your grandfathers and your fathers fought this question; and they left it to you to quarrel over. Very well, as long as you keep your quarrel in the Parliament Houses, I want you to have fair play. But if ever you should forget that there is the great Common Law behind all of us, rich and poor, and think to right yourselves with fire and blood, then I–your true friend–would be the first to answer you with cannon, and turn my scythes and shares into swords against you. Wait patiently a bit longer. In a few more weeks I do verily believe you will have Reform, and then I hope, in my soul, you will be pleased with your bargain. I don’t think, as far as I am concerned, Reform will change me or my ways one particle.”

“We don’t want you changed, Squire; you are good enough as you are.”

“I’m glad you think so, very glad. Now here is Atheling and Belward meadows and corn-fields. We can raise our wheat and cattle and wool, and carry on our farms–you and I together, for I could not do without you; and if I do right by you is there any reason to want better than right? And if I do not do right, then shout ‘Reform,’ and come and tell me what you want, and we will pass our own Reform Bill. Will that suit you?”

And they answered him with cheers, and he sent them into the Atheling Arms for a good dinner, and then rode slowly home. But a great sadness came over him, and he said to himself:

“It is not capital; it is not labour; it is not land: it is a bit of human kindness and human relations that lie at the root of all Reform. Maude says true enough, that we don’t know the people, and don’t feel for them, and don’t care for them. A word of reason, a word of truth and trust and of mutual good-will, and how pleased them poor fellows were! Reform has nothing on earth to do with Toryism or Whigism. God bless my soul! what kind of a head must the man have that could think so? I begin to see – I begin to see! ” neGeqOGUJh7trrZZGTskwcNktYaRYaR7agl0SFtBb0ZQ+U05xCEdQy074kjsBNQJ