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“To-morrow some new light may come, and you will see things another way, Kitty.” This was Mrs. Atheling’s final opinion, and Kitty was inclined to take all the comfort there was in it. She was sitting then in her mother’s room, watching her dress for dinner, and admiring, as good daughters will always do, everything she could find to admire about the yet handsome woman.
“You have such beautiful hair, Mother. I wouldn’t wear a cap if I was you,” she said.
“Your father likes a bit of lace on my head, Kitty. He says it makes me look more motherly.”
She was laying the “bit of lace” on her brown hair as she spoke. Then she took from her open jewel case, two gold pins set with turquoise, and fastened the arrangement securely. Kitty watched her with loving smiles, and finally changed the whole fashion of the bit of lace, declaring that by so doing she had made her mother twenty years younger. And somehow in this little toilet ceremony, all Kitty’s sorrow passed away, and she said, “I wonder where my fears are gone to, Mother; for it does not now seem hard to hope that all is just as it was.”
“To be sure, Kitty, I never worry much about fears. Fears are mostly made of nothing; and in the long run they are often a blessing. Without fears, we couldn’t have hopes; now could we?”
“Oh, you dear, sweet, good Mother! I wish I was just like you!”
“Time enough, Kitty.” Then a look of love flashed from face to face, and struck straight from heart to heart; and there was a little silence that needed no words. Kitty lifted a ring and slipped it on her finger. It was a hoop of fine, dark blue sapphires, set in fretted gold, and clasped with a tiny padlock, shaped like a heart.
“What a lovely ring!” she cried. “Why do you not wear it, Mother?”
“Because it is a good bit too small now, Kitty.”
“Miss Vyner’s hands are always covered with rings, and she says every one of them has a romance.”
“I’ve heard, or read, something like that. There was a woman in the story-book, was there not, who kept a tally of her lovers on a string of rings they had given her? I don’t think it was anything to her credit. I shouldn’t wonder if that is a bit ill-natured. I ought not to say such a thing, so don’t mind it, Kitty.”
“Is this sapphire band yours, Mother?”
“To be sure it is.”
“Well, Kitty, I think a deal of that ring. You must take great care of it.”
“So then, Mother, one of your rings has a story too, has it?” And there was a little laugh for answer, and Kitty slipped the coveted trinket on her finger, and held up her hand to admire the gleam of the jewels, as she said, musingly, “I wonder what Piers is doing?”
“I wouldn’t ‘wonder,’ dearie. Little troubles are often worrited into big troubles. If things are let alone, they work themselves right. I’ll warrant Piers is unhappy enough.”
But Mrs. Atheling’s warrant was hardly justified. Piers should have gone to the House; but he went instead to his room, threw himself among the cushions of a divan, and with a motion of his head indicated to his servant that he wanted his Turkish pipe. The strange inertia and indifference that had so suddenly assailed, still dominated him, and he had no desire to combat it. He was neither sick nor weary; yet he seemed to have lost all control over his feelings. Had the man within the man “gone off guard”? Have we not all–yes, we have all of us succumbed to just such intervals of supreme, inexpressible listlessness and insensibility? We are “not all there,” but where has our inner self gone to? And what is it doing? It gives us no account of such lapses.
Piers asked no questions of himself. He was like a man dreaming; for if his Will was not asleep, it was at least quiescent. He made no effort to control his thoughts, which drifted from Annabel to Kate, and from Kate to Annabel, in the vagrant, inconsequent manner which acknowledges neither the guidance of Reason or Will. And as the Levantine vapour lulled his brain, he felt a pleasure in this surrender of his noblest attributes. He thought of Annabel as he had seen her the previous evening, dressed in a shaded satin of blue and green, trimmed with the tips of peacock feathers. The same resplendent ornaments were in her strong, wavy, black hair, and round her throat was a necklace of emeralds and amethysts. “What a Duchess of Richmoor she would make!” he thought. “How stately and proud! How well she would wear the coronet and the gold strawberry leaves, and the crimson robe and ermine of her state dress! Yes, Annabel would be a proper Duchess; but–but–” and then he was sitting with Kate among the tall brackens, where the Yorkshire hills threw miles of shadow. She was in her riding dress; but her little velvet cap was in her hand, and the fresh wind was blowing her brown hair into bewitching tendrils about her lovely face. How well he knew the sweet seriousness of her downcast eyes, the rich bloom of her cheeks and lips, the tender smile with which she always answered his “ Kate! Sweet Kate! ”
Even through all his listlessness, this vision moved him, and he heard his heart say, “Oh, Kate, wife of my soul! Oh, Beloved! Love of my life, who can part us? Thou and I, Kate! Thou and I–”
“And the Other One.”
From whom or from where came the words? Piers heard them with his spiritual sense plainly, and their suggestion annoyed him. Now if we stir under a nightmare, it is gone; and this faint rebellion broke the chain of that mental inertia which had held him at least three hours under its spell. He moved irritably, and in so-doing threw down the lid of the tobacco jar, and then rose to his feet. In a moment, he was “all there.”
“I ought to be in the House,” he muttered, and he touched the bell for his valet, and dressed with less deliberation than was his wont. And during the toilet he was aware of a certain mental anger that longed to expend itself: “If Mr. Brougham is as insufferably dictatorial as he was last night, if Mr. O’Connell only plays the buffoon again, we shall meet in a narrow path–and one of us will fare ill,” he muttered.
The hour generally comes when we are ready for it; and Piers found both gentlemen in the tempers he detested. He gladly accepted his own challenge, and the Squire was so interested in the wordy fight that he did not return home to dinner. Mrs. Atheling neither worried nor waited. She knew that the Squire’s vote might be wanted at any inconvenient hour; and, besides, the night had set stormily in, and she said cheerfully to Kate, “It wouldn’t do for father to get a wetting and then be hours in damp clothes. He is far better sitting to-day’s business out while he is there.”
But the evening dragged wearily, in spite of the efforts of both women to make little pleasantries. Kate’s whole being was in her sense of hearing. She was listening for a step that did not come. On other nights there had been visitors; she heard the roll of carriages and the clash of the heavy front door; but this dreary night no roll of wheels broke the stillness of the aristocratic Square; and she listened for the sound of the closing door until she was ready to cry out against the strain and the suspense. However, the longest, saddest day wears to its end; and though it does not appear likely that a loving girl’s anxiety about a coolness in her lover should teach us how far deeper, even than mother-love, is our trust in God’s love, yet little Kitty’s behaviour on this sorrowful evening did show forth this sublime fact.
For the girl left undone none of her usual duties, left unsaid none of the pleasant words she knew her mother expected from her; she even followed her–as she always did when the Squire was late–to her bedroom, and helped her lay away her laces and jewels ere she bid her a last “good-night.” But as soon as she had closed the door of her own room, she felt she might give herself some release. If she did not read the whole of the Evening Service, God would understand . She could trust His love to excuse, to pity, to release her from all ceremonies. She knelt down, she bowed her head, and said only the two or three words which opened her heart and let the rain of tears wash all her anxieties away.
And though sorrow may endure for a night, joy comes in the morning; and this is specially true in youth. When Kate awoke, the sun was shining, and the care and ache was gone from her heart. “He giveth His Beloved sleep,” and thus some angel had certainly comforted her, though she knew it not. With a cheerful heart she dressed and went into the breakfast-room, and there she saw her father standing on the hearthrug, with The Times open in his hand. He looked at her over its pages with beaming eyes, and she ran to him and took the paper away, and nestling to his heart, said, “she would have no rival, first thing in the morning.”
And the proud father stroked her hair, and kissed her lips, and answered her, “Rival was not born yet, and never would be born; and that he was only seeing if them newspaper fellows had told lies about Piers.”
“Piers!” cried Mrs. Atheling, entering the room at the moment, “what about Piers?”
“Well, Mother, the lad had his say last night; but, Dal it! Mr. Brougham went at the Government and the Electors as if they were all of them wearing the devil’s livery. I call it scandalous! It was nothing else. He let on to be preaching for Reform, but he was just preaching for Henry Brougham.”
“What was Mr. Brougham talking about, Father?”
“Mr. Brougham can talk about nothing but Reform, Kitty, the right of every man to vote as seems good in his own eyes. He said peers and landowners influenced and prejudiced votes in a way that was outrageous and not to be borne, and a lot more words of the same kind; for Henry Brougham would lose his speech if he had anything pleasant to say. I was going to get up and give him a bit of my mind, when Piers rose; and the cool way in which he fixed his eye-glass, and looked Mr. Brougham up and down, and straight in the face, set us all by the ears. He was every inch of him, then and there, the future Duke of Richmoor; and he told Brougham, in a very sarcastic way, that his opinions were silly, and would neither bear the test of reason nor of candid examination.”
“But, Father, I thought Mr. Brougham was the great man of the Commons, and held in much honour.”
“Well, my little maid, he may be; but I’ll warrant it is only by people who have their own reasons for worshipping the devil.”
“Come, come, John! If I was thee, I would be silent until I could be just.”
“Not thou, Maude! Right or wrong, thou wouldst say thy say. I think I ought to know thee by this time.”
“Never mind me, John. We want to hear what Piers said.”
“Brougham’s words had come rattling off in full gallop. Piers, after looking at him a minute, began in that contemptuous drawl of his,–you’ve heard it I’ve no doubt,–‘Mr. Brougham affords an example of radical opinions degrading a statesman into a politician. He cannot but know that it is the positive, visible duty of every landowner to influence and prejudice votes. It is the business and the function of education and responsibility to enlighten ignorance, and to influence the misguided and the misled. If it is the business and the function of the clergy to influence and prejudice people in favour of a good life; if it is the business and function of a teacher to influence and prejudice scholars in favour of knowledge,–it is just as certainly the business and function of the landowner to influence his tenants in favour of law and order, and to prejudice them against men who would shatter to pieces the noblest political Constitution in the world.’”
The Squire read this period aloud with great emphasis, and added, “Well, Maude, you never heard such a tumult as followed. Cries of ‘ Here! Here! ’ and ‘ Order! Order! ’ filled the House; and the Speaker had work enough to make silence. Piers stood quite still, watching Brougham, and as soon as all was quiet, he went on,–
“‘If you take the peers, the gentry, the scholars, the men of enterprise and wealth, from our population, what kind of a government should we get from the remainder? Would they be fit to select and elect?’ Then there was another uproar, and Piers sat down, and O’Connell jumped up. He put his witty tongue in his laughing cheek, and, buttoning his coat round him, held up his right hand. And the Reform members cheered, and the Tory members shrugged their shoulders, and waited for what he would say.”
“I don’t want to hear a word from him ,” answered Mrs. Atheling. “Come and get your coffee, John. A cup of good coffee costs a deal now, and it’s a shame to let it get cold and sloppy over Dan O’Connell’s blackguarding.”
“Tell us what he said, Father,” urged Kate, who really desired to know more about Piers’s efforts. “You can drink your coffee to his words. I don’t suppose they will poison it.”
“I wouldn’t be sure of that,” said Mrs. Atheling, with a dubious shake of her head; while the Squire lifted his cup, and emptied it at a draught.
“What did he say, Father? Did he attack Piers?”
“To be sure he did. He took the word ‘Remainder,’ and said Piers had called the great, substantial working men of England, Scotland, and Ireland Remainders . He said these ‘ Remainders ’ might only be farmers, and bakers, and builders, and traders; but they were the backbone of the nation; and the honourable gentleman from Richmoor Palace had called them ‘Remainders.’ And then he gave Piers a few of such stinging, abusive names as he always keeps on hand,–and he keeps a good many kinds of them on hand,–and Piers was like a man that neither heard nor saw him. He looked clean through the member for Kilkenny as if he wasn’t there at all. And then Mr. Scarlett got up, and asked the Speaker if such unparliamentary conduct was to be permitted? And Mr. Dickson called upon the House to protect itself from the browbeating, bullying ruffianism of the member for Kilkenny; and Dan O’Connell sat laughing, with his hat on one side of his head, till Dickson sat down; then he said, he ‘considered Mr. Dickson’s words complimentary;’ and the shouts became louder and louder, and the Speaker had hard work to get things quieted down.”
“Why, John! I never heard tell of such carryings on.”
“Then, Maude, I thought I would say a word or two; and I got the Speaker’s eye, and he said peremptorily, ‘The member for Asketh!’ and I rose in my place and said I thought the honourable member for Kilkenny–”
“John! I wouldn’t have called him ‘honourable.’”
“I know thou wouldst not, Maude. Well, I said honourable, and I went on to say that Mr. O’Connell had mistaken the meaning Lord Exham attached to the word ‘Remainder.’ I said it wasn’t a disrespectful word at all, and that there were plenty of ‘remainders,’ we all of us thought a good deal of; but, I said, I would come to an instance which every man could understand,–the remainder of a glass of fine, old October ale. The rich, creamy, bubbling froth might stand for the landowners; but it was part of the whole; and the remainder was all the better for the froth, and the more froth, and the richer the froth, the better the ale below it. And I went on to say that Lord Exham, and every man of us, knew right well, that the great body of the English nation wasn’t made up of knaves, and scoundrels, and fools, but of good men and women. And then our benches cheered me, up and down, till I felt it was a good thing to be a Representative of the Remainder, and I said so.”
Then Mrs. Atheling and Kitty cheered the Squire more than a little, with smiles, and kisses, and proud words; and he went on with increased animation, “In a minute O’Connell was on his feet again, and he called me a lot of names I needn’t repeat here; until he said, ‘My example of a glass of ale was exactly what anybody might expect from such a John Bull as the member for Asketh.’ And, Maude and Kitty, I could not stand that. The House was shouting, ‘Order! Order!’ and I cried, ‘Mr. Speaker!’ and the Speaker said, ‘Order, the member for Kilkenny is speaking!’ ‘But, Mr. Speaker,’ I said, ‘I only want to say to the member for Kilkenny that I would rather be a John Bull, than a bully.’ And that was the end. There was no ‘Order’ after it. Our side cheered and roared, and, Maude, what dost thou think?–the one to cheer loudest was thy son Edgar. He must have got in by the Speaker’s favour; but there he was, and when I came through the lobby, with Piers and Lord Althorp, and a crowd after me, he was standing with that young fellow I threw on Atheling Green; and he looked at me so pleased, and eager, and happy, that I thought for a moment he was going to shake hands; but I kept my hands in my pockets–yet I’ll say this,–he has thy fine eyes, Maude,–I most felt as if thou wert looking at me.”
“John! John! How couldst thou keep thy hands in thy pockets? How couldst thou do such an unfatherly thing? I’m ashamed of thee! I am.”
“Give me a slice of ham, and don’t ask questions. I want my breakfast now. I can’t live on talk, as if I was a woman.”
Fortunately at this moment a servant entered with the morning’s mail. He gave Mrs. Atheling a letter, and Kate two letters; and then offered the large salver full of matter to the Squire. He looked at the pile with indignation. “Put it out of my sight, Dobson,” he said angrily. “Do you think I want letters and papers to my breakfast? I’m astonished at you!” He was breaking his egg-shell impatiently as he spoke, and he looked up with affected anger at his companions. Kitty met his glance with a smile. She could afford to do so, for both her letters lay untouched at her side. She tapped the upper one and said, “It is from Miss Vyner, Father; it can easily wait.”
“And the other, Kitty? Who is it from?”
“From Piers, I don’t want to read it yet.”
“To be sure.” Then he looked at Mrs. Atheling, and was surprised. Her face was really shining with pleasure, her eyes misty with happy tears. She held her letter with a certain pride and tenderness that her whole attitude also expressed; and the Squire had an instant premonition as to the writer of it.
“Well, Maude,” he said, “I would drink my coffee, if I was thee. A cup of coffee costs a deal now; and it’s a shame to let it get cold and sloppy over a bit of a letter–nobody knows who from.”
“It is from Edgar,” said Mrs. Atheling, far too proud and pleased to keep her happiness to herself. “And, John, I am going to have a little lunch-party to-day at two o’clock; and I do wish thou wouldst make it in thy way to be present.”
“I won’t. And I would like to know who is coming here. I won’t have all kinds and sorts sitting at my board, and eating my bread and salt–and I never heard tell of a good wife asking people to do that without even mentioning their names to her husband–and–”
“I am quite ready to name everybody I ask to thy board, John. There will be thy own son Edgar Atheling, and Mr. Cecil North, and thy wife Maude Atheling, and thy daughter Kitty. Maybe, also, Lord Exham and Miss Vyner. Kitty says she has a letter from her.”
“I told thee once and for all, I had forbid Edgar Atheling to come to my house again until I asked him to do so.”
“This isn’t thy house, John. It is only a rented roof. Thou mayst be sure Edgar will never come near Atheling till God visits thee and gives thee a heart like His own to love thy son. Thou hast never told Edgar to keep away from the Vyner mansion, and thou hadst better never try to do so; for I tell thee plainly if thou dost–”
“Keep threats behind thy teeth, Maude. It isn’t like thee, and I won’t be threatened either by man or woman. If thou thinkest it right to set Edgar before me, and to teach him not to ‘Honour his father’–”
“Didn’t he ‘honour’ thee last night! Wasn’t he proud of thee? And he wanted to tell thee so, if thou wouldst have let him. Poor Edgar!” And Edgar’s mother covered her face, and began to cry softly to herself.
“Nay, Maude, if thou takest to crying I must run away. It isn’t fair at all. What can a man say to tears? I wish I could have a bit of breakfast in peace; I do that!”–and he pushed his chair away in a little passion, and lifted his mail, and was going noisily out of the room, when he found Kitty’s arms round his neck. Then he said peevishly, “Thou art spilling my letters, Kitty. Let me alone, dearie! Thou never hast a word to say on thy father’s side. It’s too bad!”
“I am all for you, father,–you and you first of all. There is nobody like you; nobody before you; nobody that can ever take your place.” Then she kissed him, and whispered some of those loving, senseless little words that go right to the heart, if Love sends them there. And the Squire was comforted by them, and whispered back to her, “God love thee, my little maid! I’ll do anything I can to give thee pleasure.”
“Then just think about Edgar as you saw him last night, think of him with mother’s eyes watching you, listening to you, full of pride and loving you so much–oh, yes, Father! loving you so much.”
“Well, well,–let me go now, Kitty. I have all these bothering letters and papers to look at; they are enough to make any man cross.”
“Let me help you.”
“Go to thy mother. Listen, Kitty,” and he spoke very low, “tell her, thou art sure and certain thy father does not object to her seeing her son, if it makes her happy–thou knowest my bark is a deal worse than my bite–say–thou believest I would like to see Edgar myself–nay, thou needest not say that–but say a few words just to please her; thou knowest what they should be better than I do,”–then, with a rather gruff “good-morning,” he went out of the room; and Kitty turned to her mother.
Mrs. Atheling was smiling, though there were indeed some remaining evidences of tears. “He went without bidding me ‘good-morning,’ Kitty. What did he say? Is he very angry?”
“Not at all angry. All put on, Mother. He loves Edgar quite as much as you do.”
“He can’t do that, Kitty. There is nothing like a mother’s love.”
“Except a father’s love. Don’t you remember, that God takes a father’s love to express His own great care for us? And when the Prodigal Son came home, Christ makes his father, not his mother, go to meet him.”
“That was because Christ knew children were sure and certain of their mother’s love and forgiveness. He wasn’t so sure of the fathers. So he gave the lesson to them; he knew that mothers did not need it. Mothers are always ready to forgive, Kitty; but there is nothing to forgive in Edgar.”
“Is he really coming to-day?”
“Listen to what he says, Kitty. ‘Darling Mother, I cannot live another day without seeing you. Let me come to-morrow at two o’clock, and put my arms round you, and kiss you, and talk to you for an hour. Ask father to let me come. London is not Atheling. If he counts his passionate words as forever binding between him and me, surely they are not binding between you and me. Let me see you anyway, Mother. Sweet, dear Mother! When father forgives the rest, he will forgive this also. Your loving son, Edgar.’ Now, Kitty, if Edgar was your son, what would you say?”
“I would say, Come at once, Edgar, and dearly welcome!”
“To be sure you would. So shall I. What is Miss Vyner writing about?”
Then Kitty lifted the squarely folded letter with its great splash of white wax stamped with the Vyner crest, and after a rapid glance at its contents said, “There is likely to be a great House to-night; and the Duchess has three seats in the Ladies Gallery. One is for Annabel, the other for me; and she asks you to take her place. Do go, Mother.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It is all I will say just yet. Did you have a letter from Piers?”
“Yes.”
“I knew you would. Go and read it, and tell Dobson to send the cook to me. We want the best lunch that can be made; and put on a pretty dress, Kitty. Edgar must feel that nothing is too good for him.”
In accordance with this intent, Mrs. Atheling took particular pains with her own dress; and Kitty thought she had never seen her mother so handsome. Soft brown satin, and gold ornaments, and the bit of lace on her head set off her large, blonde, stately beauty to perfection; while the look of love and anxiety, as the clock moved on to two, gave to her countenance that “something more” without which beauty is only flesh and blood.
She had said to herself that Edgar might be detained, that he might not be able to keep his time, and that she would not feel disappointed if he was a bit behind two o’clock. But fully ten minutes before the hour, she heard his quick, firm knock; and as she stood trembling with joy in the middle of the room, he took her in his arms, and, between laughing and crying, they knew not, either of them, what they said. And then Kitty ran into the room, all a flutter with pale-blue ribbons, and it was a good five minutes before the two women found time to see, and to speak to Cecil North, who stood watching the scene with his kind heart in his face.
Evidently the meeting had bespoke a fortunate hour. The weather, though it was November, was sunny; the lunch was perfection, and they were in the midst of the merriest possible meal when Annabel Vyner and Piers Exham joined them. Annabel had expected nothing better from this visit than an opportunity to show off her familiar relations with Lord Exham, and torment Kitty, as far as she thought it prudent to do so; but Fate had prepared motives more personal and delightful for her,–two handsome young men, whom she at once determined to conquer. Cecil North made no resistance; he went over heart and head in love with her. Her splendid vitality, her manner,–so demanding and so caressing,–her daring dress, and dazzling jewelry, her altogether unconventional air charmed and vanquished him, and he devoted himself to pleasing her.
During the lunch hour the conversation was general, and very animated. Annabel excelled herself in her peculiar way of saying things which appeared singularly brilliant, but which really derived all their point from her looks, and shrugs, and flashing movements. The good mother was in an earthly heaven, watching, and listening, and attending to every one’s wants, actual and possible. Laughter and repartee and merry jests mingled with bits of social and parliamentary gossip, though politics were instinctively avoided. Piers knew well the opinions of the two men with whom he was sitting; and he was quite capable of respecting them. Besides, he had an old friendship for Edgar Atheling; and he loved his sister, and was well aware that she had much sympathy with her brother’s views. So all Annabel’s attempts to make a division were futile; no one took up the little challenges she flung into their midst, and the parliamentary talk drifted no nearer dangerous ground than the Ladies Gallery. Piers knew of the invitation given to the Athelings, and he proposed to meet the ladies in the courtyard near the entrance to the exclusive precinct.
“Too exclusive by far,” said Annabel. “Why do English ladies submit to that grating? It is a relic of the barbarous ages. I intend to move in the matter. Let us get up a petition, or an act, or an agitation of some kind for its removal. I think we should succeed. What do you say, Lord Exham?”
“I think you would not succeed,” answered Piers. “I have heard the Duke say that the proposition is frequently made in the House; that it is always enthusiastically cheered; but that every time the question comes practically up, there is a dexterous count out.”
“Well, then, I will propose that the front Treasury Bench be taken away, and twenty-four ladies’ seats put in its place. Do you see, Mr. North, what I intend by that?”
“I am sure it is something wise and good, Miss Vyner.”
“My idea is, that twenty-four ladies should sit there as representatives of the women of England. Twenty-four bishops in lovely lawn sit as representatives of the clergy of England; why should not English women have their representation? I hope while Reformers are correcting the abuses of Representation, they will consider this abuse. Mr. Atheling, what do you say?”
“I am at your service, Miss Vyner.”
“Indeed, sir, just at present you are hand and heart in the service of Mrs. Atheling. I must turn to Mr. North.”
Then Mrs. Atheling perceived that in her interesting conversation with Edgar, she was keeping her guests at table; and she rose with an apology, and led the way into the parlour. There was a large conservatory opening out of this room, and Kate and Piers, on some pretext of rosebuds, went into it.
“My dear Kate, I have been so unhappy!” he said, taking her hand.
“But why, Piers?”
“We parted so strangely yesterday. I do not know how it happened.”
“We were both tired, I think. I was as much in fault as you. Is not this an exquisite flower?” That was the end of the trouble. He drew her to his side, and kissed the hand that touched the flower; and so all explanations were over; and they took up their love-story where the shadow of yesterday had broken it off. And as their hands wandered among the shrubs, it was natural for Piers to notice the ring on Kate’s finger. “It is a very singular jewel,” he said; “I never saw one like it.”
“It is my mother’s,” answered Kate. “She told me this morning it was her betrothal ring and that father bought it in Venice.”
“Kate dear, I wish to get you a ring just like it. Let us ask Mrs. Atheling if I may show it to my jeweller, and have one made for you.”
“I am sure mother will be willing,” and she slipped the shining circle from her finger, and gave it to Piers; and he whispered fondly, as he placed it on his own hand, “Will you take it from me, Kate, as a love gage?–never to leave your finger until I put the wife’s gold ring above it?”
And what she said need not be told. Many happy words grew from her answer; and they forgot the rosebuds they had come to gather, and the company they had left, and the flight of time, until Edgar came into the conservatory to bid his sister “good-bye.” There had been a slight formality between Piers and Edgar at their first meeting; but with Kate standing between them, all the good days on the Yorkshire hills and moors came into their memories, and they clasped hands with their old boyish fervour, and it was “Piers” and “Edgar” again. So the parting was the real meeting; and they went back to the parlour in an unmistakable enthusiasm of good fellowship.
Annabel was then quite ready to leave, and the question of the Ladies Gallery came up for settlement. Mrs. Atheling declared she was too weary to go out; and Kate preferred her own happy thoughts to the tumult of a political quarrel. Annabel was equally indifferent. She had discovered that Mr. North was a son of the Earl of Westover, and might with propriety be asked to the Richmoor opera-box, that there was even an acquaintance strong enough between the families to enable her new lover to pay his respects to the Duchess in the interludes, and, in fact, an understanding to that effect had been made for that very night, if the offer of the seats in the Ladies Gallery was not accepted. So their refusal caused no regret; for when politics come in competition with youth and love, they have scarcely a hearing. But during the slight discussion, Piers found time to speak to Mrs. Atheling about the ring; and the direction of three pair of eyes to the trinket caught Annabel’s attention. Her face flamed when she saw that it had passed from Kate’s hand to the hand of Exham; and for the first time, she had a feeling of active dislike against Kate. Her sweet, calm, innocent beauty, her happy eyes and ingenuous girlish expression, offended her, and set all the worst forces of her soul in revolt.
She did not dare to trust herself with Piers. In her present mood, she knew she would be sure to say something that would hamper her future actions. She declared she would only accept Mr. North’s escort to Richmoor House; for she was sure the Duke was expecting Piers to be in his place in the Commons when the vote was taken.
Piers had a similar conviction, and he looked at his watch almost guiltily, and went hurriedly away. Then the little party was soon dispersed; but Mrs. Atheling and Kate were both far too happy to need outside aids. They talked of Edgar and Cecil North, and Annabel’s witcheries, and Piers’s great and good qualities, and the promised ring, and the excellent lunch, and the general success of the impromptu little feast. Everything had been pleasant, and the Squire’s absence was not thought worth worrying about.
“He will come round, bit by bit,” said the happy mother. “I know John Atheling. The first thing Edgar does to please him, will put all straight; and Edgar is on the very road to please him most of all.”
“What road is that, Mother?”
“Nay, I can’t tell you, Kitty; for just yet it is a secret between Edgar and me. He was glad to meet Piers again; and, if I am any judge, they will be better friends than ever before.”
Thus the two women talked the evening away, and were by no means sorry to be at their own fireside. “We could have done no good by going to the House,” said Kate. “If we were men, it would be different. They like it. Father says the House is the best club in London.”
“It gives men a lot of excuses,” said Mrs. Atheling, with a sigh. “I dare say your father won’t get home till late. You had better go to bed, Kitty.”
“Perhaps Piers may come with him.”
“I don’t think he will. He looked tired when he left here; he will be worse tired when he gets away from the Commons. He said he was going to speak again, if he got the opportunity,–that is, if he could find anything to contradict in Mr. Brougham’s speech. Piers likes saying, ‘No, sir!’ his spurs are always in fighting trim. Go to bed, Kitty. Piers won’t be back to-night, and I can say to father whatever I think proper.”
Mrs. Atheling judged correctly. Piers sat a long time before his opportunity came, and then he did not get the best of it. Brougham’s followers overflowed the Opposition benches, the Government side, and the gangway, and Piers exhausted himself vainly in an endeavour to get a hearing. It was late when he returned to Richmoor House, but the Duke was still absent, and the Duchess and Annabel at the opera. He went to the Duke’s private parlour, for there were some things he felt he must discuss before another day’s sitting; and the warmth and stillness, added to his own mental and physical weariness, soon overcame all the resistance he could make. The couch on which he had thrown himself was also a drowsy place; it seemed to sink softly down, and down, until Piers was far below the tide of thought, or even dreams.
It was then that Annabel returned. She came slowly and rather thoughtfully along the silent corridor. She had exhausted for the time being her fine spirits, her wit, almost her good looks. She hoped she would not meet Piers, and was glad in passing the door of his apartments to see no man in attendance, nor any sign of wakeful life. A little further on she noticed a band of light from the Duke’s private parlour; the door was a trifle open, left purposely so by Piers in order that his father might not be tempted to pass it. Tired as she was, she could not resist the opportunity it offered. She liked to show herself in her fineries to her guardian, for he always had a compliment for her beauty; and although she had listened for hours to compliments her vanity was still unsatiated. With a coquettish smile she pushed wider the door and saw Lord Exham. There could be no doubt of his profound insensibility; his face, his attitude, his breathing, all expressed the deep sleep of a thoroughly-exhausted man.
For one moment she looked at him curiously, then, at the instigation of the Evil One, her eyes saw the ring upon his hand, and her heart instantly desired it; for what reason she did not ask. At the moment she perhaps had no reason, except the wicked hope that its loss might make trouble between Kitty and her lover. With the swift, noiseless step that Nature gives to women who have the treachery and cruelty of the feline family, she reached Piers’s side. But rapid as her movement had been, her thought had been more rapid. “If I am caught, I will say I won a pair of gloves, and took the ring as the gage of my victory.”
She stooped to the dropped hand, but never touched it. The ring was large, and it was only necessary for her to place her finger and thumb on each side of it. It slipped off without pressing against the flesh, and in a moment it was in her palm. She waited to see if the movement had been felt. There was no evidence of it, and she passed rapidly out of the room. Outside the door, she again waited for a movement, but none came, and she walked leisurely, and with a certain air of weariness, to her own apartments. Once there all was safe; she dropped it into the receptacle in which she kept the key of her jewel-case, and went smiling to bed.
Not ten minutes after her theft the Duke entered the room. He did not scruple to awaken his son, and to discuss with him the tactics of a warfare which was every day becoming more bitter and violent. Piers was full of interest, and eager to take his part in the fray. Suddenly he became aware of his loss. Then he forgot every other thing. He insisted, then and there, on calling his valet and searching every inch of carpet in the room. The Duke was disgusted with this radical change of interest. He went pettishly away in the middle of the search, saying,–
“The Reformers might well carry all before them, when peers who had everything to lose or gain thought more of a lost ring than a lost cause.”
And Piers could not answer a word. He was confounded by the circumstance. That the ring was on his hand when he entered the room was certain. He searched all his pockets with frantic fear, his purse, the couch on which he had slept. There was no part of the room not examined, no piece of furniture that was not moved; and the day began to dawn when the useless search was over. He went to his room, sleepless and troubled beyond belief. Government might be defeated, Ministers might resign, Reform might spell Revolution, the estates and titles of nobles might be in jeopardy,–but Kitty’s ring was lost, and that was the first, and the last, and the only thought Piers Exham could entertain.