Kitabı oku: «I, Thou, and the Other One: A Love Story», sayfa 13
“Let me see him once more.”
“I will not. What for? To pity one another, and abuse every other person, right or wrong. The Richmoors don’t want thee among them at any price; and if I was thee I would stay where I was wanted.”
“Piers wants me.”
“Now then, if you must have the whole bitter truth, take it. I don’t believe Piers will have any heartache wanting thee. He was here, there, and everywhere with Miss Vyner, after thou hadst left London; and I saw the ring thou loanedst him on her finger.”
Then Kate looked quickly up. Once, when Annabel had removed her glove, and instantly replaced it, a vague suspicion of this fact had given her a shock that she had named to no one. It seemed so incredible she could not tell her mother. And now her father’s words brought back that moment of sick suspicion, and confirmed it.
“Are you sure of what you say, Father?”
“I will wage my word and honour on it.”
There was a moment’s intense silence. Kate glanced at her mother, who sat with dropped eyes, unconsciously knitting; but there was not a shadow of doubt or denial on her face. Then she looked at her father. His large countenance, usually so red and beaming, was white and drawn with feeling, and his troubled, aching soul looked at her pathetically from the misty depths of his tearful eyes. Her mother she might have argued and pleaded with; but the love and anguish supplicating her from that bending face was not to be denied. She lifted her own to it. She kissed the pale cheeks and trembling lips, and said, clearly,–
“I promise what you wish, Father. I will not speak to Piers, nor write to him, nor even look at him again–until you say I may,” and with the words she put her hand in his for surety.
He rose to his feet then and put her in his chair; but he could not speak a word. Tremblingly, he lifted his hat and stick and went out of the room; and Mrs. Atheling threw down her knitting, and followed him to the door, and watched him going slowly through the long, flagged passageway. Her face was troubled when she returned to Kate. She lifted her knitting and threw it with some temper into her work-basket, and then flung wide open the casement and let the fresh air into the room. Kate did not speak; her whole air and manner was that of injury and woe-begone extremity.
“Kate,” said her mother at last, “Kate, my dear! This is your first lesson in this world’s sorrow. Don’t be a coward under it. Lift up your heart to Him who is always sufficient.”
“Oh, Mother! I think I shall die.”
“I would be ashamed to say such words. Piers was good and lovesome, and I do not blame you for loving him as long as it was right to do so. But when your father’s word is against it, you may be very sure it is not right. Father would not give you a moment’s pain, if he could help it.”
“It is too cruel! I cannot bear it!”
“Are you asked to bear anything but what women in all ages, and in all countries, have had to bear? To give up what you love is always hard. I have had to give up three fine sons, and your dear little sister Edith. I have had to give up father, and mother, and brothers, and sisters; but I never once thought of dying. Whatever happens, happens with God’s will, or with God’s permission; so if you can’t give up cheerfully to your father’s will, do try and say to God, as pleasantly as you can, Thy Will be my will.”
“I thought you would pity me, Mother.”
“I do, Kate, with all my heart. But life has more loves and duties than one. If, in order to have Piers, you had to relinquish every one else, would you do so? No, you would not. Kate, I love you, and I pity you in your great trial; and I will help you to bear it as well as I can. But you must bear it cheerfully. I will not have father killed for Piers Exham. He looked very queerly when he went out. Be a brave girl, and if you are going to keep your promise, do it cheerfully–or it is not worth while.”
“How can I be cheerful, Mother?”
“As easy as not, if you have a good, unselfish heart. You will say to yourself, ‘What right have I to make every one in the house miserable, because I am miserable?’ Troubles must come to all, Kitty, but troubles need not be wicked; and it is wicked to be a destroyer of happiness. I think God himself may find it hard to forgive those who selfishly destroy the happiness of others, just because they are not satisfied, or have not the one thing they specially want. When you are going to be cross and unhappy, say to yourself, ”I will not be cross! I will not be unhappy! I will not make my good father wretched, and fill his pleasant home with a tearful drizzle, because I want to cry about my own loss.’ And, depend upon it, Kitty, you will find content and happiness in making others happy. Good comes to hearts prepared for good; but it cannot come to hearts full of worry, and fear, and selfish regrets.”
“You are setting me a hard lesson, Mother.”
“I know it is hard, Kate. Life is all a task; yet we may as well sing, as we fulfil it. Eh, dear?”
Kate did not answer. She lifted her habit over her arm, and went slowly upstairs. Sorrow filled her to the ears and eyes; but her mother heard her close and then turn the key in her door.
“That is well,” she thought. “Now her good angel will find her alone with God.”
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH
NOT YET
“Mothering” is a grand old word for a quality God can teach man as well as woman; and the Squire really “mothered” his daughter in the first days of her great sorrow. He was always at her side. He was constantly needing her help or her company; and Kate was quite sensible of the great love with which he encompassed her. At first she was inexpressibly desolate. She had been suddenly dislodged from that life in the heart of Piers which she had so long enjoyed, and she felt homeless and forsaken. But Kate had a sweet and beautiful soul, nothing in it could turn to bitterness; and so it was not long before she was able to carry her misfortune as she had carried her good fortune, with cheerfulness and moderation.
For her confidence in Piers was unbroken. Not even her father’s assertion about the lost ring could affect it. On reflection, she was sure there was a satisfactory explanation; if not, it was a momentary infidelity which she was ready to forgive. And in her determination to be faithful to her lover, Mrs. Atheling encouraged her. “Time brings us our own, Kitty dear,” she said; “you have a true title to Piers’s love; so, then, you have a true title to his hand. I have not a doubt that you will be his wife.”
“I think that, Mother; but why should we be separated now, and both made to suffer?”
“That is earth’s great mystery, my dear,–the prevalence of pain and suffering; no one is free from it. But then, in the midst of this mystery, is set that Heavenly Love which helps us to bear everything. I know, Kitty, I know!”
“Father is very hard.”
“He is not. When Piers’s father and mother say they will not have you in their house, do you want to slip into it on the sly, or even in defiance of them? Wait, and your hour will come.”
“There is only one way that it can possibly come; and that way I dare not for a moment think of.”
“No, indeed! Who would wish to enter the house of marriage by the gates of death? If such a thought comes to you, send it away with a prayer for the Duke’s life. God can give you Piers without killing his father. He would be a poor God if He could not. Whatever happens in your life that you cannot change, that is the Will of God; and to will what God wills is sure to bring you peace, Kitty. You have your Prayer-Book; go to the Blessed Collects in it. You will be sure to find among them just the prayer you need. They never once failed me,–never once!”
“If I could have seen him just for an hour, Mother.”
“Far better not. Your last meeting with him in London was a very happy, joyous one. That is a good memory to keep. If you met him now, it would only be to weep and lament; and I’ll tell you what, Kitty, no crying woman leaves a pleasant impression. I want Piers to remember you as he saw you last,–clothed in white, with flowers in your hair and hands, and your face beaming with love and happiness.”
Many such conversations as this one held up the girl’s heart, and enabled her, through a pure and steadfast faith in her lover, to enter–
“–that finer atmosphere,
Where footfalls of appointed things,
Reverberant of days to be,
Are heard in forecast echoings;
Like wave-beats from a viewless sea.”
The first week of her trouble was the worst; but it was made tolerable by a long letter from Piers on the second day. It came in the Squire’s mail-bag, and he could easily have retained it. But such a course would have been absolutely contradictious to his whole nature. He held the thick missive a moment in his hand, and glanced at the large red seal, lifting up so prominently the Richmoor arms, and then said,–
“Here is a letter for you, Kitty. It is from Piers. What am I to do with it?”
“Please, Father, give it to me.”
“Give it to her, Father,” said Mrs. Atheling; and Kate’s eager face pleaded still more strongly. Rather reluctantly, he pushed the letter towards Kate, saying, “I would as leave not give it to thee, but I can trust to thy honour.”
“You may trust me, Father,” she answered. And the Squire was satisfied with his relenting, when she came to him a few hours later, and said, “Thank you for giving me my letter, Father. It has made my trouble a great deal lighter. Now, Father, will you do me one more favour?”
“Well, dear, what is it?”
“See Piers for me, and tell him of the promise I made to you. Say I cannot break it, but that I send, by you, my thanks for his letter, and my love forever more.”
“I can’t tell him about ‘love forever more,’ Kitty. That won’t do at all.”
“Tell him, then, that all he says to me I say to him. Dear Father, make that much clear to him.”
“John, do what Kitty asks thee. It isn’t much.”
“A man can’t have his way in this house with two women to coax or bully him out of it. What am I to do?”
“Just what Kitty asks you to do.”
“Please, Father!” And the two words were sent straight to the father’s heart with a kiss and a caress that were irresistible. Three days afterwards the Squire came home from a ride, very much depressed. He was cross with the servant who unbuttoned his gaiters, and he looked resentfully at Mrs. Atheling as she entered the room.
“A nice message I was sent,” he said to her as soon as they were alone. “That young man has given me a heart-ache. He has made me think right is wrong. He has made me feel as if I was the wickedest father in Yorkshire. And I know, in my soul, that I am doing right; and that there isn’t a better father in the three kingdoms.”
“Whatever did he say?”
“He said I was to tell Kate that from the East to the West, and from the North to the South, he would love her. That from that moment to the moment of death, and throughout all eternity, he would love her. And I stopped him there and then, and said I would carry no message that went beyond the grave. And he said I was to tell her that neither for father nor mother, nor for the interests of the dukedom, nor for the command of the King, would he marry any woman but her. And I was fool enough to be sorry for him, and to promise I would give him Kate, with my blessing, when his father and mother asked me to do so.”
“I don’t think that was promising very much, John.”
“Thou knowest nothing of how I feel, Maude. But he is a good man, and true; I think so, at any rate.”
“Tell Kitty what he said.”
“Nay, you must tell her if you want her to know. I would rather not speak of Piers at all. Tell her, also, that the Duchess and Miss Vyner are going to Germany, and that Piers goes with them as far as London. I am very glad of this move, for we can ride about, then, without fear of meeting them.”
All the comfort to be got from this conversation and intelligence was given at once to Kate; and perhaps Mrs. Atheling unavoidably made it more emphatic than the Squire’s manner warranted. She did not overstep the truth, however, for Piers had spoken from his very heart, and with the most passionate love and confidence. Indeed, the Squire’s transcript had been but a bald and lame translation of the young man’s fervent expressions of devotion and constancy.
Kate understood this, and she was comforted. Invincible Hope was at the bottom of all her sorrow, and she soon began to look on the circumstances as merely transitory. Yet she had moments of great trial. One evening, while walking with her mother a little on the outskirts of Atheling, the Duke’s carriage, with its splendid outriders, suddenly turned into the little lane. There was no escape, and they looked at each other bravely, and stood still upon the turf bordering the road. Then the Duchess gave an order to the coachman. There was difficulty in getting the horses to the precise spot which was best for conversation; but Mrs. Atheling would not take a step forward or backward to relieve it. She stood with her hand on Kate’s arm, Kate’s hands being full of the blue-bells which she had been gathering.
The carriage contained only the Duchess and Annabel. There had been no overt unpleasantness between the ladies of the two families, and Mrs. Atheling would not take the initiative, especially when the question was one referring to the most delicate circumstances of her daughter’s life. She talked with the Duchess of her German trip, and Kate gave Annabel the flowers, and hoped she would enjoy her new experience. In five minutes the interview was over; nothing but courteous words had been said, and yet Mrs. Atheling and Kate had, somehow, a sense of intense humiliation. The Duchess’s manner had been politely patronising, Annabel’s languid and indifferent; and, in some mysterious way, the servants echoed this covert atmosphere of disdain. Little things are so momentous; and the very attitude of the two parties was against the Athelings. From their superb carriage, as from a throne, the Duchess and her companion looked down on the two simply-dressed ladies who had been gathering wild flowers on the roadside.
“How provoking!” was Kate’s first utterance. “Mother, I will not walk outside the garden again until they go away; I will not!”
“I am ashamed of you!” answered Mrs. Atheling, angrily. “Will you make yourself a prisoner for these two women? Tush! Who are they? Be yourself, and who is better than you?”
“It is easy talking, Mother. You are as much annoyed as I am. How did they manage to snub us so politely?”
“Position is everything, Kate. A woman in a Duke’s carriage, with outriders in scarlet, and coachmen and footmen in silver-laced liveries, would snub the Virgin Mary if she met her in a country lane, dressed in pink dimity, and gathering blue-bells. Try and forget the affair.”
“Annabel looked ill.”
“It was her white dress. A woman with her skin ought to know better than to wear white.”
“Oh, Mother! if Piers had been with them, what should I have done?”
“I wish he had been there! You were never more lovely. I saw you for a moment, standing at the side of the carriage; with your brown hair blowing, and your cheeks blushing, and your hands full of flowers, and I thought how beautiful you were; and I wish Piers had been there.”
“They go away on Saturday. I shall be glad when Saturday is over. I do not think I could bear to see Piers. I should make a little fool of myself.”
“Not you! Not you! But it is just as well to keep out of danger.”
Certainly neither the Squire nor Kate had any idea of meeting Piers on the following Saturday night when they rode along Atheling lane together. Both of them believed Piers to be far on the way to London. They had been to the village, and were returning slowly homeward in the gloaming. A light like that of dreamland was lying over all the scene; and the silence of the far-receding hills was intensified by the murmur of the streams, and the sleepy piping of a solitary bird. The subtle, fugitive, indescribable fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley was in the air; and a sense of brooding power, of mystical communion between man and nature, had made both the Squire and Kate sympathetically silent.
Suddenly there was the sound of horse’s feet coming towards them; and the figure of its rider loomed large and spectral in the gray, uncertain light. Kate knew instantly who it was. In a moment or two they must needs pass each other. She looked quickly into her father’s face, and he said huskily, “Be brave, Kate, be brave!”
The words had barely been spoken, when Piers slowly passed them. He removed his hat, and the Squire did the same; but Kate sat with dropped eyes, white as marble. From her nerveless hands the reins had fallen; she swayed in her saddle, and the Squire leaned towards her with encouraging touch and words. But she could hear nothing but the hurrying flight of her lover, and the despairing cry which the wind brought sadly back as he rode rapidly up the little lane,–
“Kate! Kate! Kate!”
Fortunately, news of Miss Curzon’s and Edgar’s arrival at Ashley Hall came to Atheling that very hour; and the Squire and Mrs. Atheling were much excited at their proposal to lunch at Atheling Manor the next day. Kate had to put aside her own feelings, and unite in the family joy of reunion. There was a happy stir of preparation, and the Squire dressed himself with particular care to meet his son and his new daughter. As soon as he heard of their approach, he went to the open door to meet them.
To Edgar he gave his right hand, with a look which cancelled every hard word; and then he lifted little Annie Curzon from her horse, and kissed her on the doorstep with fatherly affection. And between Kate and Annie a warm friendship grew apace; and the girls were continually together, and thus, insensibly, Kate’s sorrow was lightened by mutual confidence and affection.
Early in June the Squire and Edgar were to return to London, for Parliament re-opened on the fourteenth; and a few days before their departure Mrs. Atheling asked her husband one afternoon to take a drive with her. “To be sure I will, Maude,” he answered. “It isn’t twice in a twelvemonth thou makest me such an offer.” She was in her own little phaeton, and the Squire settled himself comfortably at her side, and took the reins from her hands. “Which way are we to go?” he asked.
“We will go first to Gisbourne Gates, and maybe as far as Belward.”
The Squire wondered a little at her direction, for she knew Gisbourne was rather a sore subject with him. As they approached the big iron portals, rusty on all their hinges from long neglect, he could not avoid saying,–
“It is a shame beyond everything that I have not yet been able to buy Gisbourne. The place has been wanting a master for fifteen years; and it lays between Atheling and Belward as the middle finger lays between the first and the third. I thought I might manage it next year; but this Parliament business has put me a good bit back.”
“Many things have put you back, John. There was Edgar’s college expenses, and the hard times, and what not beside. Look, John! the gates are open. Let us drive in. It is twenty years since I saw Gisbourne Towers.”
“The gates are open. What does that mean, Maude?”
“I suppose somebody has bought the place.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Never mind, John.”
“But I do mind. The kind of neighbour we are to have is a very important thing. They will live right between Atheling and Belward. The Gisbournes were a fine Tory family. Atheling and Gisbourne were always friends. My father and Sir Antony went to the hunt and the hustings together. They were finger and thumb in all county matters. It will be hard to get as good a master of Gisbourne as Sir Antony was.”
“John, I have a bit of right good news for thee. Edgar is going to take Sir Antony’s place. Will Edgar do for a neighbour?”
“Whatever art thou saying, Maude?”
“The very truth. Miss Curzon has bought Gisbourne. Lord Ashley advised her to do so; and she has brought down a big company of builders and such people, and the grand old house is to be made the finest home in the neighbourhood. She showed me the plans yesterday, and I promised her to bring thee over to Gisbourne this afternoon to meet her architect and Lord Ashley and Edgar. See, they are waiting on the terrace for thee; for they want thy advice and thy ideas.”
It was, indeed, a wonderful afternoon. The gentlemen went into consultation with the architect, and a great many of the Squire’s suggestions were received with enthusiastic approval. Mrs. Atheling, Kate, and Annie went through the long-deserted rooms, and talked of what should be done to give them modern convenience and comfort, without detracting from their air of antique splendour. Then at five o’clock the whole party met in the faded drawing-room and had tea, with sundry additions of cold game and pasties, and discussed, together, the proposed plans. At sunset the parties separated at Gisbourne Gates, Kate going with Miss Curzon to Ashley, and the Squire and Mrs. Atheling returning to their own home. The Squire was far too much excited to be long quiet.
“They were very glad of my advice, Maude,” he said, as soon as the last good-bye had been spoken. “Ashley seconded nearly all I proposed. He is a fine fellow. I wish I had known him long ago.”
“Well, John, nobody can give better advice than you can.”
“And you see I know Gisbourne, and what can be done with it. Bless your soul! I used to be able to tell every kind of bird that built in Gisbourne Chase, and where to find their nests–though I never robbed a nest; I can say that much for myself. Well, Edgar has done a grand thing for Atheling, and no mistake.”
“I told you Edgar–”
“Now, Maude, Edgar and me have washed the slate between us clean. It is not thy place to be itemising now. I say Edgar has done well for Atheling, and I don’t care who says different. I haven’t had such a day since my wedding day. Edgar in Gisbourne! An Atheling in Gisbourne! My word! Who would have thought of such a thing? I couldn’t hardly have asked it.”
“I should think not. There are very few of us, John, would have the face to ask for half of the good things the good God gives us without a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you.’”
“Belward! Gisbourne! Atheling! It will be all Atheling when I am gone.”
“Not it! I do not want Belward to be sunk in that way. Belward is as old as Atheling.”
“In a way, Maude, in a way. It was once a part of Atheling; so was Gisbourne. As for sinking the name, thou sunkest thy name in Atheling; why not sink the land’s name, eh, Maude?”
And until the Squire and Edgar left for London, such conversations were his delight; indeed, he rather regretted his Parliamentary obligations, and envied his wife and daughter the delightful interest that had come into their lives. For they really found it delightful; and all through the long, sweet, summer days it never palled, because it was always a fresh wing, or a fresh gallery, cabinet-work in one parlour, upholstery work in another, the freshly laid-out gardens, the cleared chase, the new stables and kennels. Even the gates were a subject of interesting debate as to whether the fine old ones should be restored or there should be still finer new ones.
Thus between Atheling, Ashley, and Gisbourne, week after week passed happily. Kate did not forget, did not cease to love and to hope; she just bided her time, waiting, in patience, for Fortune to bring in the ship that longed for the harbour but could not make it. And with so much to fill her hours joyfully, how ungrateful she would have been to fret over the one thing denied her! The return of the Squire and Edgar was very uncertain. Both of them, in their letters, complained bitterly of the obstructive policy which the Tories still unwaveringly carried out. It was not until the twelfth of July that the Bill got into Committee; and there it was harassed and delayed night after night by debates on every one of its clauses. This plan of obstructing it occupied thirty-nine sittings, so that it did not reach the House of Lords until the twenty-second of September. The Squire’s letter at this point was short and despondent:–
Dear Wife, – The Bill has gone to the Lords. I expect they will send it to the devil. I am fairly tired out; and, with all my heart, I wish myself at Atheling. It may be Christmas before I get there. Do as well as you can till I come. Tell Kitty, I would give a sovereign for a sight of her.
Your affectionate Husband,
John Atheling.
About a couple of weeks after this letter, one evening in October, Mrs. Atheling, Kate, and Annie were returning to Atheling House from Gisbourne, where they had been happily busy all the afternoon. They were easy-hearted, but rather quiet; each in that mood of careless stillness which broods on its own joy or sorrow. The melancholy of the autumn night influenced them,–calm, pallid, and a little sad, with a dull, soft murmur among the firs,–so they did not hurry, and it was nearly dark when they came in sight of the house. Then Mrs. Atheling roused herself. “How good a cup of tea will taste,” she said; “and I dare say it is waiting, for Ann has lighted the room, I see.” Laughing and echoing her remark, they reached the parlour. On opening the door, Mrs. Atheling uttered a joyful cry.
“Why, John! Why, Edgar!”
“To be sure, Maude,” answered the Squire, leaping up and taking her in his arms. “I wonder how thou feelest to have thy husband come home and find thee out of the house, and not a bit of eating ready for him.”
Then Mrs. Atheling pointed to the table, and said, “I do not think there is any need for complaint, John.”
“No; we managed, Edgar and me, by good words and bad words, to get something for ourselves–” and he waved his hand complacently over the table, loaded with all kinds of eatables,–a baron of cold beef, cold Yorkshire pudding, a gypsy pie, Indian preserves, raspberry tarts, clotted cream, roast apples, cheese celery, fine old ale, strong gunpowder tea, and a variety of condiments.
“What do you call this meal, John?”
“I call it a decent kind of a tea, and I want thee to try and learn something from its example.” Then he kissed her again, and looked anxiously round for Kitty.
“Come here, my little girl,” he cried; and Kitty, who had been feeling a trifle neglected, forgot everything but the warmth and gladness of her father’s love and welcome. Edgar had found Annie a seat beside his own, and the Squire managed to get his place between his wife and his daughter. Then the “cup of tea” Mrs. Atheling had longed for became a protracted home festival. But they could not keep politics out of its atmosphere; they were, indeed, so blended with the life of that time that their separation from household matters was impossible, and the Squire was no more anxious to hear about his hunters and his harvest, than Mrs. Atheling was to know the fate of the Reform Bill.
“It has passed at last, I suppose, John,” she said, with an air of satisfied certainty.
“Thou supposest very far wrong, then. It has been rejected again.”
“Never! Never! Never! Oh, John, John! It is not possible!”
“The Lords did, as I told thee they would,–that is, the Lords and the bishops together.”
“The bishops ought to be unfrocked,” cried Edgar, with considerable temper. “Only one in all their number voted for Reform.”
“I’ll never go to church again,” said Mrs. Atheling, in her unreasonable anger.
“Tell us about it, Father,” urged Kate.
“Well, you see, Mr. Peel and Mr. Croker led our party against the Bill; and Croker is clever, there is no doubt of that.”
“Not to be compared to Lord Althorp, our leader,–so calm, so courageous, so upright,” said Edgar.
“Nobody denies it; but Croker’s practical, vigorous views–”
“You mean his ‘sanguine despondency,’ his delight in describing England as bankrupt and ruined by Reform.”
“I mean nothing of the kind, Edgar; but–”
“Did the Bill pass the Commons, Father?” asked Kate.
“It did; although in fifteen days Peel spoke forty-eight times against it, and Croker fifty-seven times, and Wetherell fifty-eight times. But all they could say was just so many lost words.”
“Think of such men disputing the right of Manchester, Leeds, and Birmingham to be represented in the House of Commons! What do you say to that, Mother?”
“I only hope father wasn’t in such a stupid bit of business, Edgar.” And the Squire drank a glass of ale, and pretended not to hear.
“But,” continued Edgar, “we never lost heart; for all over the country, and in every quarter of London, they were holding meetings urging us not to give way,–not to give way an inch. We were fighting for all England; and, as Lord Althorp said, we were ready to keep Parliament sitting till next December, or even to next December twelvemonth.”
“I’ll warrant you!” interrupted the Squire. “Well, Edgar, you passed your Bill in a fine uproar of triumph; all London in the street, shouting thanks to Althorp and the others–Edgar Atheling among them.” Then the Squire paused and looked at his son, and Mrs. Atheling asked, impatiently,–
“What then, John?”
“Why, then, Lord John Russell and Lord Althorp carried the Bill to the House of Lords. It was a great scene. The Duke told me about it. He said nearly every peer was in his seat; and a large number of peeresses had been admitted at the bar, and every inch of space in the House was crowded. The Lord Chancellor took his seat at the Woolsack; and the Deputy Usher of the Black Rod threw open the doors, crying, ‘A Message from the Commons.’ Then Lord John Russell and Lord Althorp, at the head of one hundred Members of the House of Commons, entered, and delivered the Bill to the Lord Chancellor.”
“Oh, how I should have liked to have been present!” said Kate.
“Well, some day thou–” and then the Squire suddenly stopped; but the unfinished thought was flashed to every one present,–“some day thou mayst be Duchess of Richmoor, and have the right to be present;” and Kate was pleased, and felt her heart warm to conscious hope. She caught her mother watching her, and smiled; and Mrs. Atheling, instantly sensitive to the unspoken feeling, avoided comment by her eager inquiry,–
