Barr Amelia E.
I, Thou, and the Other One: A Love Story

When he arrived at this decision Mrs. Atheling came into the room. She was rosy and smiling, and put aside with sweet good nature the Squire’s complaints about both her and Kitty being out of the house when he was in it. “Not a soul to say a word to me, or to see that I had a bit of comfortable eating,” he said in a tone of injury.

“Never mind, John!”

“Oh, but I do mind! I mind a great deal, Maude.”

“You see, it was Kitty wanted me. She had to have a new clasp to the pearl necklace your mother left her; and she was sure you would like me to choose it, so I went with her. I thought we should certainly be home before you got back.”

“Well, never mind, then. Nothing suits me so much as to see Kitty suited. I hope you bought a clasp good enough for the necklace.”

“I did not forget that she was going with you to-morrow night.”

“But you are going too, Maude?”

“Nay, I am not. When I can shut my ears as easy as my eyes, I can afford to be less particular about the company I keep. I know beforehand what the women in that crowd will say about their own danger, and about the murmuring poor who won’t starve in peace, and I know that I would be sure to answer them with a little bit of plain truth.”

“And the truth is not always pleasant, eh, Maude?”

“In this case I’m sure it wouldn’t be pleasant. So, then, the outside of Richmoor House is the best side for me.”

“I must say I’m getting a bit tired myself of the Duke’s masterful way, and of his everlasting talk about the ‘noble memories of the past.’”

“Then tell him, John, that the noble hopes of the future are something better than the noble memories of the past. The country is in a bad condition as ever was. Something must be done, and done quickly.”

“I’m saying nothing to the contrary, Maude. But even if Reform was right, it cannot be carried. We must drive the nail that will go. That is only good common-sense, Maude.”

“Mark my words, John. Reform will have to come, and better now than later. That which fools do in the end, wise men do in the beginning. I know, I know.”

“On this subject thou knowest nothing whatever, Maude. Now, then, I am going to have a bit of sleep. But I will say thus far–as soon as ever I am sure that I am on a wrong road I won’t go a step further. John Atheling is not the man to carry a candle for the devil.”

With these words he threw his bandana handkerchief over his head, adding, “He hoped now he had a ‘right’ to a bit of sleep.” Then Mrs. Atheling went softly out of the room. There was a tolerant smile on her face, for she was not deceived by the Squire’s habit of dignifying his self-assertions and his self-indulgences with the name of “rights.”

CHAPTER TENTH
TROUBLE COMES UNSUMMONED

Never had the ducal palace of Richmoor been more splendidly prepared for festivity than on the night of the first of March, 1831. And yet every guest present knew that it was not a festival, but a gathering of men and women moved by the gravest fears for the future. The long suites of parlours, brilliantly lighted, were crowded with peers and noble ladies, wearing, indeed, the smiles of conventional pleasure; but all of them eager to discuss the portentous circumstances by which they were environed.

Annabel stood at the right hand of the Duchess, but was strangely distrait and silent. Everything had gone wrong with her. It had been a day of calamity. She began it with a fret and a scold, and her maid Justine had been from that moment in a temper calculated to provoke to extremities her impatient mistress. Then her costume did not arrive till some hours after it was due; and when examined, it was found to be very unbecoming. She had been persuaded to select a pale blue satin, simply because she had tired of every other colour; and she was disgusted with the effect of its cold beauty against her olive-tinted skin. She wore out Justine’s temper with the variety of her suggestions, and her angry impatience with every effort. The girl became sulkily silent, then defiantly silent, then, after a most unreasonable burst of anger, actively impertinent, so much so that she left Annabel only one way of retaliation–an instant dismissal. She lifted her purse passionately, counted out the money due, and, pushing it contemptuously towards the girl, told her “to leave the house instantly.”

To her utter amazement, Justine pushed back the money. “I will not take it,” she said. “I have no intention of leaving the house until I see the ring in your possession–the ring in your purse, Miss–returned to the owner of it.”

If Annabel had been struck to the ground, she could not have been more confounded and bewildered; and Justine saw and pushed her advantage. “Miss knows,” she continued, “that police detectives are watching night and day the innocent men whose duties are on this corridor. Any hour some little thing may cause one of them to be suspected and arrested; and then who but I could save him from the gallows? No, Miss, I shall not leave till you give up the ring–till the real th–the real taker of it is known.”

These words terrified Annabel. She felt her heart stop beating; a strange sickness overwhelmed her; she sunk speechless into a chair, and closed her eyes. With an attention utterly devoid of sympathy, Justine put between her lips a tea-spoonful of aniseed cordial which she brought from her own apartment.

In a few minutes Annabel recovered herself physically; but her prostration, and the hysterical mood which followed it, were admissions she could not by any future word, or act, contradict. She had been taken by surprise, and surrendered. If she had had but ten minutes to survey the situation, she would have defied it; but such an emergency had never occurred to her. Over and over again she had supposed every other likelihood of discovery; this one, never! She was at the mercy of her maid; but for the time being the maid was not inclined to extremities. She only insisted that Annabel should use her influence to place the men under suspicion out of the danger of arrest; and when Annabel had explained, with a wretched little laugh, that the ring had been taken “as a means of forwarding her love-affair with Lord Exham,” the maid assured her “she was on her side in that matter.” Then she pocketed the sovereigns Annabel offered as a peace gift, and “hoped Miss would think no more of what she had said.”

But Annabel could not dismiss the subject. Under her magnificent but singularly unbecoming gown, she carried a heart heavy with apprehension. The shadow of the gallows, which Justine had evoked for the suspected culprit, fell upon her own consciousness. In those days, the most trifling theft was punished with death; and Annabel had a terror of that mysterious Law of which she was so profoundly ignorant. How it would regard her position, she could not imagine. Would even her confession and restoration exonerate her? In this respect, she suffered from fright, as an ignorant child suffers. Besides which, when the subject of “confession” came close to her, she felt that it was impossible. Constantly she had flattered her conscience with this promise; but if it was to come to actuality, she thought she would rather die.

So it was with a wretched heart she took the place the Duchess had assigned her at her own right hand. This position associated her intimately with Lord Exham, and it was for this very reason the Duchess had decided upon it. She knew the value of the popular voice; she wished the popular voice to unite Lord Exham and her rich and beautiful ward; and she felt sure that their association at her right hand would give all the certainty necessary to such a belief. Heart-sick with her strange, new terror, Annabel stood in that brilliant throng. Just before the dinner hour, she saw Squire Atheling and Kate approaching to pay their respects to the Duchess. She saw also the quick, joyful lifting of Exham’s eyelids, the bright flush of pleasure that gave sudden life to his pale cheeks, and the irrepressible gladness that made his voice musical, as he said softly, “How beautiful she is!”

“Miss Atheling?”

“Yes.”

Then Annabel considered her rival’s approach. Her eyes fell first on the Squire, whose splendid physique arrested every one’s attention. He wore a coat of dark-blue broadcloth, trimmed with gold buttons, a long, white satin vest, and exquisitely fine linen, rather ostentatiously ruffled. On his arm Kate’s hand just rested. Her gown of rich white silk was soft as lawn, and resplendent as moonbeams; and around her throat lay one string of Oriental pearls. Her bright, brown hair was dressed high, without any ornament; but there were silver buckles, set with pearls, on the front of her white satin sandals. A pause, a murmur of admiration was perceptible; for conversation ceased a moment as a creature so fresh, so pure, so exquisite, and so suitably protected, moved among them. Lord Exham, forgetting all ceremonies, went eagerly forward to meet these favoured guests; and the Duchess also had a momentary pleasure in Kate’s well-gowned loveliness. She was very friendly to the Squire; and she took his daughter under her own protection.

After dinner–which was specially early for that night–the majority of the gentlemen went to the House. The Reform Bill, about which all England was in agonising suspense, was to be read for the first time. Never, within the memory of Englishmen, had there been so great a crowd eager to get into the House. Every inch of space on the floor was filled; and troops of eager politicians, from all parts of the country, were waiting at the doors of the various galleries. When they were opened, the clamour, the struggle, and the confusion was so indescribable that the Speaker threatened to have all the galleries cleared. Even among the members, there was great confusion and complaining; for their seats, though marked with their cards, had in many instances been taken by others.

Outside, the streets were packed with men wrought up to feverish excitement and anxiety; and in all the great centres of society, and in every club in London, there were restless crowds waiting for news from Westminster. The Duchess of Richmoor’s parlours were the central point of Tory interest. Not one of the company there present but believed with Sir Robert Inglis–an orator of their party–that “Reform would sweep the House of Lords clear in ten years.” This night was, to them, their salvation or their ruin. Below their jewelled bodices, their hearts trembled with anxious terror. After the departure of the members for the House, they gathered in little knots, wondering, and fearing, and listening to the noises in the crowded streets, with an agitation not quite devoid of pleasurable stimulation. For they were not without comforters and encouragers. The Duke of Wellington went from group to group, assuring them that Lord Grey’s Ministry must go down, and that no Reform Bill which could injure the nobility would be permitted to pass the House of Lords.

Annabel was almost glad to see every one so unhappy. She had a perverse desire to say contradictious things. Her heart was heavy with fear, and it was burning with envy and jealousy. Kate’s beauty, and Lord Exham’s undisguised admiration, made her realise all the bitterness of failure. She wandered about making evil prophecies, or saying irritating truths, and watching Kate the while, till she was ready to cry out with mental pain and mortification. For the great Duke–never insensible to female loveliness–had given Kate his arm, and was walking about the parlours with her. Why had such honour not fallen to her lot? Never had she been so desirous to lead, to be admired, to enforce her eminent fitness to wear the Richmoor coronet. Never had she so signally failed. Even her wit had deserted her; she said malapropos clever things, and got snubbed for them. In her anger, and fear, and disappointment, she wished Reform might make a clean sweep of such a selfish crowd of so-called nobility. She had arrived at that point when her misery demanded company.

About ten o’clock, the Duke and Lord Exham returned. The large lofty rooms, with their moving throngs of splendidly attired men and women, were yet crowded; but their atmosphere was charged with an electric tension, generated by the unusual pitch to which every one’s thoughts, and feelings, and words were set. Many were almost hysterical; some had subsided into mere waiting, conscious of requiring all their strength for simple endurance of the suspense; others, more hopeful, were restless and watching,–but all alike became instantly and breathlessly silent as the two men appeared. For a moment no one spoke; then the Duke of Wellington asked, with an assumption of cheerfulness, “What news? Has the Bill been read?”

“It has been read,” answered Richmoor. “Lord John Russell introduced it in a speech lasting more than two hours.”

“And pray what are its provisions.”

“This infamous Bill proposes that every borough of less than two thousand inhabitants shall lose the right to send a member to Parliament.”

“What a scandalous robbery of our privileges!” ejaculated some one of the listeners.

“It is nothing else!” answered the Duke. “It robs me of the gift of seven boroughs.”

“What excuse did he make for such an act?”

“He supposed the case of a stranger, coming to England to investigate our method of representation, being taken to a green mound, and told that green mound sent two members to Parliament; or to a stone wall with three niches in it, and told that those three niches sent two members to Parliament; or to a green park with no signs of human habitation, and told that green park sent two members to Parliament; and then pictured the amazement of the stranger at this condition of things. ‘But,’ he cried, ‘how much greater would be his amazement if he were then taken to large and populous cities, full of industry, enterprise, and intelligence, and containing vast magazines of every kind of manufactures, and was then told that these cities did not send a single man to represent their rights and their necessities in the great national council.’ It was really a very effective passage.”

“We have heard that argument before; it is stale and unprofitable,” said the Duchess.

“Listen! This Bill proposes to give every man paying taxes for houses of the yearly value of ten pounds and upward–a vote.”

“What an absurdity!”

“It proposes to give Manchester, Birmingham, Leeds, Sheffield, and three other large towns, each two members, and London eight additional members.”

“Infamous! It will give us a mob government.”

“This so-called Reform Bill gives the franchise to one hundred and ten thousand people in the counties of England who never had it before; in the provincial towns, it gives it to fifty thousand; in London, it gives it to ninety-five thousand; in Scotland, to fifty thousand; and in Ireland, to forty thousand: in all, half a million of persons are to be added to the constituency of the House of Commons.”

At this information the tendency of the whole company was to laughter. Indeed the Duke’s face, and voice, and manner was that of a man telling an utterly absurd story. Such sweeping alterations were not conceivable; their very excess doomed them to ridicule and failure, in the opinion of the privileged class; but the Duke of Wellington’s face expressed an anxiety not consonant with this feeling; and he asked gloomily:

“Did Lord John Russell dare to read the names of the boroughs he intends to disfranchise, with their members present?”

“He read them with the greatest emphasis and deliberation.”

“And the result? What was the result? How did they take being robbed of their seats in this summary way?”

“The excitement in the House was incredible. He was derisively interrupted by shouts of laughter, and by cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’ and by constant questions across the table from the members of those boroughs. The wisest statesmen in the House were aghast at proposals so sweeping and so revolutionary.”

“What did Peel say?”

“Nothing. He sat rigid as a statue, his face working with emotion, his brow wrinkled and sombre. His supporters, who were gathered round him, burst again and again into uncontrollable laughter. Peel tried to make them behave like gentlemen, and could not. Every one is sure such a measure predicts a speedy downfall of Grey’s Ministry.”

“Of course it does,” said the Duchess, with a contemptuous laugh. The laugh was contagious, and the majority of the company burst into merriment and ridicule.

“It is really a good joke,” said an aged Marquis who had the idea that England was the birthright of her nobles.

“A good joke!” answered the Duke of Wellington, sternly. “I can tell you it is no joke. You will find it no laughing matter.”

“I am weary of it all,” whispered Annabel to Kate; “let us go into the conservatory.” Kate was willing also, and as they entered the sweet, green place, with its tender lights and restful peace, she sighed with pleasure and said, “I wonder, Annabel, if the roses and camellias think themselves better than the violets and daisies.”

“I dare say they do. Let us sit down here. I have had such a wretched day, and I am worn out;” and for a moment, as she looked in Kate’s gentle face, she had a mind to tell her the whole truth about the unfortunate ring. But while she hesitated, there was a footstep; and in a moment, Piers pushed aside the fronds of the gigantic ferns and joined them.

“It is allowable,” said Annabel, “provided you do do not mention Reform.”

“There is no necessity here,” he answered gallantly. “How could perfection be reformed?” Gradually the conversation fell into a more serious mood, and they began to speak of Yorkshire, and to long after its breezy wolds and lovely dales; and Annabel listened and said, “She would be delighted when they went down there.” Kate also acknowledged that she was impatient to return to Atheling; and Piers watched her every movement,–the smile parting her lips, the light coming and going on her cheeks from dropped or lifted eyes, the graceful movements of her hands, the noble poise of her head,–all these things were fresh enchantments to him. What was the noisy, dusty Senate chamber to this green spot filled with the charming presence of the woman he adored?

Very quickly Annabel perceived that she was the one person not necessary; and she was too depressed to resent this position. With a whisper to Kate, she went away, promising to return in ten minutes. She did not return; but in half an hour–which had seemed as five minutes–the Duchess came in her stead, and said blandly, “Annabel has a headache, and has gone to sleep it away. I have sent the Squire home, Miss Atheling; I told him I should keep you here to-night. Indeed he was glad for you to remain; the streets are not in a very pleasant condition. London has lost its senses. It has gone mad; in the morning it may be saner.”

So the sweet interval was over; but one secret glance between the lovers showed how delicious it had been. Kate went away with the Duchess; and waiting women led her to a splendid sleeping apartment. There, all night long, she kept the sense of Piers holding her hand in his; and, faintly smiling with this interior bliss, she dreamed away the hours until late in the morning.

Her first thought on awakening was, “What shall I wear? I cannot go to breakfast in a white silk gown.” Then, as she rose, she saw a street costume laid ready for her use. “Mrs. Atheling sent it very early this morning,” said the maid; and Kate thought with a blessing of the good mother who never forgot her smallest necessities. At breakfast, the Duchess was particularly gracious to her; she affected an entire oblivion of Piers’s evident devotion, and talked incessantly of the stupidity of the Grey Ministry; but as she rose from the table, she said,–

“My dear Miss Atheling, will you do me the favour to come to my private parlour before you leave?”

Kate stood up, curtsied slightly, and made the required promise. But she did not at once attend the Duchess, as that lady certainly expected. She had promised Piers to walk with him in the conservatory, and finish their interrupted conversation of the previous night; and a gentle pressure of her hand reminded her of this previous engagement. So it was near the noon hour when she went to the room which the Duchess had selected for their interview.

She entered it without a suspicion of the sorrow waiting there for her, though the first glance at the cold, haughty face that greeted her made her a little indignant. “I expected you an hour ago, Miss Atheling,” said the Duchess.

“I am sorry if I have detained you, Duchess. I did not think my interview with you could be of much importance.”

“Perhaps not as important to you as the interview you put before it–and yet, perhaps, far more so. For I must tell you that such entirely personal companionship with Lord Exham, must cease from this very hour.”

Kate had taken the seat the Duchess indicated on her entering the room; she now rose to her feet, and answered, “If so, Duchess, it is proper for me to leave your home at once. My mother is waiting to see me. She will tell me what it is right for me to do.”

“In this case, I am a better adviser than your mother. I believe you to be a girl of noble principles, so I tell you frankly that Lord Exham is bound, by every honourable tie, to marry Miss Vyner. When you are not present, he is quite happy in her society; when you are present, you seem to exert some unaccountable influence over him. Miss Vyner has often complained of this. I thought it was simple jealousy on her part, until I observed you with Lord Exham last night. I am now compelled, by my duty to my son and his affianced wife, to tell you how impossible a marriage between you and Lord Exham is and must be. I believe this information to be all that is necessary to a girl of your birth and breeding.”

“What information, Duchess?” She asked the question with a dignity that irritated a woman who thought her word, without her reasons, was quite sufficient.

“If you persist in having the truth, I must give it to you. Remember, I would gladly have spared you and myself this humiliation. Know, then, that many years ago the late General Vyner rendered the Duke a great service. When Annabel was born, the Duke offered himself as her godfather and guardian, and his son as her husband. It is not necessary to go into details; the facts ought to be sufficient for you. There are circumstances which make the fulfilment of this promise imperative; and, if you do not interfere, my son will very willingly perform his part of it. Pardon me if I also remind you that your birth and fortune make any hopes you may entertain of being the future Duchess of Richmoor very presumptuous hopes. I assure you that I have spoken reluctantly, and with sincere kindness; and I do not desire this conversation to interfere with our future intercourse. If you will give me your promise, I know that I may trust you absolutely.”

“What do you wish me to promise?”

“That you will allow no love-making between Lord Exham and yourself; that you will not in any way interfere between Lord Exham and Miss Vyner,–in fact, promise me, in a word, that you will never marry Lord Exham. I assure you, such a marriage would be most improper and unfortunate.”

Kate stood for a moment still and white as a marble statue; and when she spoke, her words dropped slowly and with an evident effort. And yet her self-control and dignity of manner was remarkable, as she answered,–

“Duchess, I have always done exactly what my dear wise father and mother have told me to do. I shall ask their advice on this matter before I make any promise. If they tell me to do as you wish me to do, I shall know that they are right, and obey them. I do not recognise any other human authority than theirs.”

She was leaving the room after these words; but the Duchess cried angrily, “Your father must not at present be asked to interfere. There are interests–grave, political interests–between him and the Duke that cannot be imperilled for some love-nonsense between you and Lord Exham.”

“There are no grave political interests between my mother and the Duke; and I shall, at all events, take my mother’s counsel.”

She had stood with the door open in her hand; she now passed outside. So far she had kept herself from any exhibition of feeling; but, oh, how wronged and unhappy and offended she felt! She went down and down the splendid stairway, erect as a reed; but her heart was like a wounded bird: it fluttered wildly in her bosom, and would not be comforted until she reached that nest of all nests,–her mother’s breast.

There she poured out all her grief and indignation; and Mrs. Atheling never interrupted the relation by a single word. She clasped the weeping girl to her heart, and stroked her hands, and soothed her in those tender little ways that are closer and sweeter than any words can be. But when Kate had wept her passionate sense of wrong and affront away, the good mother withdrew herself a little, and began to question her child.

“Let me understand plainly, Kitty dear,” she said. “Her Grace–Grace indeed!–wishes you to promise her that you will give up Piers to Annabel.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And that you will never marry Piers under any circumstances?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And she thinks you ‘presumptuous’ in hoping to marry her son?”

“Yes, dear Mother. She said ‘presumptuous.’ Am I; ought I to do as she wishes me? Oh, I cannot give up Piers! Only this morning he told me that he would never marry any woman but me.”

“Have I or your good father told you to give up Piers?”

“No, Mother.”

“When we do, you will of course know we have good reasons for such an order, and you will give him up. But as yet, father hasn’t said such a word; and I haven’t. Kitty darling, the Fifth Commandment only asks you to obey your own father and mother. Let the Duchess put the ‘giving up’ where it ought to be. Let her tell her son to give you up–that is quite as far as her authority extends. She has nothing to say to Kate Atheling; nor has my little Kitty any obligation to obey her. She must give such orders to Piers Exham. It is the duty of his heart and conscience to decide whether he will obey or not.”

“Then I can go on loving him, Mother, without wronging myself or others?”

“Go on loving him, dearie.”

“He said he was coming to ride with me at three o’clock.”

“Ride with him, and be happy while you can, dear child. Let mother kiss such foolish tears away. I can tell you father was proud of your beauty last night. He said you were the loveliest woman in London.”

“The Duke of Wellington told me I was a beautiful girl; and he said many wise and kind things to me, Mother. What did father think about the Reform Bill?”

“It troubled him, Kitty; it troubled him very much. He said, ‘It meant civil war;’ but I said, ‘Nonsense, John Atheling, it will prevent civil war.’ And so it will, dearie. The people will have it, or else they will have far more. Your father said all London was shouting till daybreak, ‘The Bill! The whole Bill! Nothing but the Bill!’ Now then, run away and wash your eyes bright, and put on your habit. I’ll warrant Piers outruns the clock.”

“Have you seen Edgar this morning?”

“For a few minutes just before you came. Cecil was with him. They had been up all night; but Cecil would have stayed if Annabel had been here. How he does love that girl!”

“I think she loves him. She looked ill last night, and I did not see her this morning. What a tangle it is! Annabel loves Cecil–Piers loves me–and the Duchess–”

“Never mind the Duchess, nor the tangle either, Kitty. To-day is yours; to-morrow is not born; and you are not told to unravel any tangle. There are them whose business it is; and they know all the knots and snarls, and will wind the ball all right in the end.”

“Oh, Mother, how I love you!”

“Oh, Kitty, how I love you!”

“Piers loves me too, Mother.”

“I’ll warrant he does. Who could help loving thee, Kitty? But men’s love isn’t mother’s love; it is a good bit more selfish. God Almighty made thy father, John Atheling, of the best of human elements; but John Atheling has his shabby moments. Piers Exham won’t be different; so don’t expect it.” Then the two women looked at each other and smiled.

They understood.