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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We would rather grow our own wheat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH
LADY OF EXHAM HALL AT LAST

The three weeks’ recess was full of grave anxiety; and the Squire had many fears they were to be the last weeks of peace and home before civil war called him to fulfil the promise he had made to his working-men. The Birmingham Political Union declared that if there was any further delay after Easter, two hundred thousand men would go forth from their shops and forges, and encamp in the London squares, till they knew the reason why the Reform Bill was not passed. The Scots Greys, who were quartered at Birmingham, had been employed the previous Sabbath in grinding their swords; and it was asserted that the Duke of Wellington stood pledged to the Government to quiet the country in ten days. These facts sufficiently indicated to the Squire the temper of the people; and he set himself, as far as he could, to take all the sweetness out of his home life possible. The memory of it might have to comfort him for many days.

With his daughter always by his side, he rode up and down the lands he loved; unconsciously giving directions that might be serviceable if he had to go to a stormier field than the House of Commons. To Mrs. Atheling he hardly suggested the possibility; for if he did, she always answered cheerfully, “Nonsense, John! The Bill will pass; and if it does not pass, Englishmen have more sense than they had in the days of Cromwell. They aren’t going to kill one another for an Act of Parliament.”

But to Kate, as they rode and walked, he could worry and grumble comfortably. She was always ready to sympathise with his fears, and to encourage and suggest any possible hope of peace and better days. To see her bright face answering his every thought filled the father’s heart with a joy that was complete.

“Bless thy dear soul!” he would frequently say to her. “God’s best gift to a man is a daughter like thee. Sons are well enough to carry on the name and the land, and bring honour to the family; but the man God loves isn’t left without a daughter to sweeten his days and keep his heart fresh and tender. Kitty! Kitty, how I do love thee!” And Kitty knew how to answer such true and noble affection; for,–

“Down the gulf of his condoled necessities,

She cast her best: she flung herself.”

Oh, sweet domestic love! Surely it is the spiritual world, the abiding kingdom of heaven, not far from any one of us.

With a heavy heart the Squire went back to London. Mrs. Atheling took his gloom for a good sign. “Your father is always what the Scotch call ‘fay’ before trouble,” she said to Kate. “The day your sister Edith died his ways made me angry. You would have thought some great joy had come to Atheling. He said he was sure Edith was going to live; and I knew she was going to die. I am glad he has gone to London sighing and shaking his head; it is a deal better sign than if he had gone laughing and shaking his bridle. He will meet Edgar in London, and Edgar won’t let him look forward to trouble.”

But the Squire found Edgar was not in London when he arrived there; and Piers was as silent and as gloomy a companion as a worrying man could desire. He came to dine with his friend, and he listened to all his doleful prognostications; but his interest was forced and languid. For he also had lost the convictions that made the contest possible to him, and there was at the bottom of all his reasoning that little doubt as to the justice of his cause which likewise infected the Squire’s more pronounced opinions.

They were sitting one evening, after dinner, almost silent, the Squire smoking, Piers apparently reading the Times, when Edgar, with an almost boyish demonstrativeness, entered the room. He drew a chair between them, and sat down, saying, “I have just returned from the great Newhall Hill meeting. Father, think of two hundred thousand men gathered there for one united purpose.”

“I hope I have a few better thoughts to keep me busy, Edgar.”

Piers looked up with interest. “It must have been an exciting hour or two,” he said.

“I hardly knew whether I was in the body or out of the body,” answered Edgar. “For a little while, at least, I was not conscious of the flesh. I had a taste of how the work of eternity may be done with the soul.”

“The Times admits the two hundred thousand,” said Piers, “and also that it was a remarkably orderly meeting. Who opened it? Was it Mr. O’Connell?”

“The meeting was opened by the singing of a hymn. There were nine stanzas in it, and every one was sung with the most enthusiastic feeling. I remember only the opening lines:

 
“‘Over mountain, over plain,
    Echoing wide from sea to sea,
Peals–and shall not peal in vain–
    The trumpet call of Liberty!’
 

But can you imagine what a majestic volume of sonorous melody came from those two hundred thousand hearts? It was heard for miles. The majority of the singers believed, with all their souls, that it was heard in heaven.”

“Well, I never before heard of singing a hymn to open a political meeting,” said the Squire. “It does not seem natural.”

“But, Father, you are used to political meetings opened by prayer, for the House has its chaplain. The Rev. Hugh Hutton prayed after the hymn.”

“I never heard of the Rev. Hugh Hutton.”

“I dare say not, Father. He is an Unitarian minister; for it is only the Unitarians that will pray with, or pray for, Radicals. I should not quite say that. There is a Roman Catholic priest who is a member of the Birmingham Union,–a splendid-looking man, a fine orator, and full of the noblest public spirit; but a Birmingham meeting would never think of asking him to pray. They would not believe a Catholic could get a blessing down from heaven if he tried.”³

“What of O’Connell?” said the Squire; “he interests me most.”

“O’Connell outdid himself. About four hundred women in one body had been allowed to stand near the platform, and the moment his eyes rested on them his quick instinct decided the opening sentence of his address. He bowed to them, and said, ‘Surrounded as I am by the fair, the good, and the gentle.’ They cheered at these words; and then the men behind them cheered, and the crowds behind cheered, because the crowds before cheered; and then he launched into such an arraignment of the English Government as human words never before compassed. And in it he was guilty of one delightful bull. It was in this way. Among other grave charges, he referred to the fact that births had decreased in Dublin five thousand every year for the last four years, and then passionately exclaimed, ‘I charge the British Government with the murder of those twenty thousand infants!’ and really, for a few moments, the audience did not see the delightful absurdity.”

“Twenty thousand infants who were never born,” laughed the Squire. “That is worthy of O’Connell. It is worthy of Ireland.”

“And did he really manage that immense crowd?” asked Piers. “I see the Times gives him this credit.”

“Sir Bulwer Lytton in a few lines has painted him for all generations at this meeting. Listen!” and Edgar took out of his pocket a slip of paper, and read them:–

 
“‘Once to my sight the giant thus was given–
Walled by wide air, and roofed by boundless heaven;
Methought, no clarion could have sent its sound
Even to the centre of the hosts around.
And as I thought, rose the sonorous swell
As from some church tower swings the silver bell.
Aloft and clear, from airy tide to tide,
It glided easy as a bird may glide,
To the last verge of that vast audience.’”
 

“After O’Connell, who would try to manage such a crowd?” asked Piers.

“They behaved splendidly whoever spoke; and finally Mr. Salt stood forward, and, uncovering his head, bid them all uncover, and raise their right hands to heaven while they repeated, after him, the comprehensive obligation which had been given in printed form to all of them:

“‘With unbroken faith, through every peril, through every privation, we here devote ourselves, and our children, to our country’s cause!’

And while those two hundred thousand men were taking that oath together, I find the House of Lords was going into Committee on the Reform Bill. This time it must pass.”

“It will not pass,” said Piers, “without the most extreme measures are resorted to.”

“You mean that the King will be compelled to create as many new peers as will carry it through the House of Lords.”

“Yes; but can the King be ‘compelled’?”

“He will find that out.”

“Now, Edgar, that is as far as I am going to listen.”

Then Piers put down his paper, and said, “The House was in session, and would the Squire go down to it?” And the Squire said, “No. If there is to be any ‘compelling’ of His Majesty, I will keep out of it.”

The stress of this compulsion came the very next day. Lord Lyndhurst began the usual policy by proposing important clauses of the Bill should be postponed; and the Cabinet at once decided to ask the King to create more peers. Sydney Smith had written to Lady Grey that he was, “For forty, in order to make sure;” but the number was not stipulated. The King promptly refused. The Reform Ministry tendered their resignation, and it was accepted. For a whole week the nation was left to its fears, its anger, and its despair. It was, however, almost insanely active. In Manchester twenty-five thousand people, in the space of three hours, signed a petition to the King, telling him in it that “the whole North of England was in a state of indignation impossible to be described.” Meanwhile, the Duke of Wellington had failed to form a Cabinet, and Peel had refused; and the King was compelled to recall Lord Grey to power, and to consent to any measures necessary to pass the Reform Bill. It was evident, even to royalty, that it had at length become–The Bill or The Crown. For His Majesty was now aware that he was denounced from one end of England to the other; and several painful experiences convinced him that his carriage could not appear in London without being surrounded by an indignant, hooting, shrieking crowd.

Yet it was in a very wrathful mood he sent for Grey and Brougham, so wrathful that he kept them standing during the whole audience, although this attitude was contrary to usage. “My people are gone mad,” he said, “and must be humoured like mad people. They will have Reform. Very well. I give you my royal assent to create a sufficient number of new peers to carry Reform through the House of Lords. It is an insult to my loyal and sensible peers; but they will excuse the circumstances that force me to such a measure.” His manner was extremely sullen, and became indignantly so when Lord Brougham requested this permission to be given them in the King’s handwriting. The request was, however, necessary, and was reluctantly granted.

With the King’s concession, the great struggle virtually ended. For the creation of new peers was not necessary. A private message from the King to the House of Lords effected what the long-continued protestations and entreaties of the whole nation had failed to effect. Led by the Duke of Wellington, those Lords who were determined not to vote for Reform left the House until the Bill was passed; and thus a decided majority for its success was assured. They felt it to be better for their order to retire to their castles, than to suffer the “swamping of the House of Lords” by a force of new peers pledged to Reform, and sure to control all their future deliberations. Consequently, in about two weeks, the famous Bill was triumphantly carried by a majority of eighty-four; and three days afterwards it received the royal assent.

The long struggle was over; and the tremendous strain on the feelings of the nation relieved itself by an universal and unbounded rejoicing. All night long, the church bells answered one another from city to city, and from hamlet to hamlet. It was said to be impossible to escape, from one end of the country to the other, the tin-tan-tabula of their jubilation. Illuminations must have made the Island at night a blaze of light; the people went about singing and congratulating each other; and for a few hours the tie of humanity was a tie of brotherhood, even when men and women were perfect strangers.

The Duke of Richmoor retired with the majority of his peers, and shut himself up in his Yorkshire Castle, a victim to the most absurd but yet the most sincere despondency. The Squire applied for the Chiltern Hundreds, and returned to Atheling as soon as possible. Edgar remained in the House until its dissolution in August. As for Piers, he had taken the turn of affairs with a composure that had produced decided differences between the Duke and himself; and he lingered in London until he heard of the Squire’s departure for the North. Then he sought him with a definite purpose. “Squire,” he said, “may I go back to Exham in your company?”

“I’ll be glad if you do, Piers,” was the answer.

The young man laid his hand on the Squire’s hand, and looked at him steadily and entreatingly. “Squire, I am going away from England. Let me see Kate before I go.”

“You are asking me to break my word, Piers.”

“The law of kindness may sometimes be greater than the law of truth; the greatest of these is charity–is love. I love her so! I love her so that I am only half alive without her. I do entreat you to have pity on me–on us both! She loves me!” and Piers pleaded until the Squire’s eyes were full of tears. He could not resist words so hot from a true and loving heart; and he finally said,–

“It may be that my word, and my pride in my word, are of less consequence than the trouble of two suffering human hearts; Piers, right or wrong, you may see Kitty. I am not sure I am doing right, but I will risk the uncertainty–this time.”

However, if the Squire had any qualms of conscience on the subject, they were driven away by Kitty’s gratitude and delight. He arrived at Atheling about the noon hour, and Kitty was the first to see and to welcome him. She had been gathering cherries, and was coming through the garden with her basket full of the crimson drupes, when he entered the gates. She set the fruit on the ground, and ran to meet him, and took him proudly in to her mother, and fussed over his many little comforts to his heart’s content and delight.

Nothing was said about Piers until after dinner, which was hurried forward at the Squire’s request; but afterwards, when he sat at the open casement smoking, he called Kate to him. He took her on his knee and whispered, “Kate, there is somebody coming this afternoon.”

“Yes,” she said, “we have sent word to Annie. She will be here.”

“I was not thinking of Annie. I was thinking of thee, my little maid. There is somebody coming to see thee.”

“You can’t mean Piers? Oh, Father, do you mean Piers?”

“I do.”

Then she laid her cheek against his cheek. She kissed him over and over, answering in low, soft speech, “Oh, my good Father! Oh, my dear Father! Oh, Father, how I love you!”

“Well, Kitty,” he answered, “thou dost not throw thy love away. I love thee, God knows it. Now run upstairs and don thy prettiest frock.”

“White or blue, Father?”

“Well, Kitty,” he answered, with a thoughtful smile, “I should say white, and a red rose or two to match thy cheeks, and a few forget-me-nots to match thy eyes. Bless my heart, Kitty! thou art lovely enough any way. Stay with me.”

“No, Father, I will go away and come again still lovelier;” and she sped like a bird upstairs. “It may be all wrong,” muttered the Squire; “but if it is, then I must say, wrong can make itself very agreeable.”

“Piers is coming!” That was the song in Kitty’s heart, the refrain to which her hands and feet kept busy until she stood before her glass lovelier than words can paint, her exquisite form robed in white lawn, her cheeks as fresh and blooming as the roses at her girdle, her eyes as blue as the forget-me-nots in her hair, her whole heart in every movement, glance, and word, thrilling with the delight of expectation, and shining with the joy of loving.

So Piers found her in the garden watching for his approach. And on this happy afternoon, Nature was in a charming mood; she had made the garden a Paradise for their meeting. The birds sang softly in the green trees above them; the flowers perfumed the warm air they breathed; and an atmosphere of inexpressible serenity encompassed them. After such long absence, oh, how heavenly was this interview without fear, or secrecy, or self-reproach, or suspicion of wrong-doing! How heavenly was the long, sweet afternoon, and the social pleasure of the tea hour, and the soft starlight night under the drooping gold of the laburnums and the fragrant clusters of the damask roses! Even parting under such circumstances was robbed of its sting; it was only “such sweet sorrow.” It was glorified by its trust and hope, and was without the shadow of tears.

Kitty came to her father when it was over; and her eyes were shining, and there was a little sob in her heart; but she said only happy words. With her arms around his neck she whispered, “Thank you, dear!” And he answered, “Thou art gladly welcome! Right or wrong, thou art welcome, Kitty. My dear little Kitty! He will come back; I know he will. A girl that puts honour and duty before love, crowns them with love in the end–always so, dear. That is sure. When will he be back?”

“When the Duke and Duchess want him more than they want their own way. He says disputing will do harm, and not good; but that if a difference is left to the heart, the heart in the long run will get the best of the argument. I am sure he is right. Father, he is going to send you and mother long letters, and so I shall know where he is; and with the joy of this meeting to keep in my memory, I am not going to fret and be miserable.”

“That is right. That is the way to take a disappointment. Good things are worth waiting for, eh, Kitty?”

“And we shall have so much to interest us, Father. There is Edgar’s marriage coming; and it would not do to have two weddings in one year, would it? Father, you like Piers? I am sure you do.”

“I would not have let him put a foot in Atheling to-day if I had not liked him. He has been very good company for me in London, very good company indeed–thoughtful and respectful. Yes, I like Piers.”

“Because–now listen, Father–because, much as I love Piers, I would not be his wife for all England if you and mother did not like him.”

“Bless my heart, Kitty! Is not that saying a deal?”

“No. It would be no more than justice. If you should force on me a husband whom I despised or disliked, would I not think it very wicked and cruel? Then would it not be just as wicked and cruel if I should force on you a son-in-law whom you despised and disliked? There is not one law of kindness for the parents, and another law, less kind, for the daughter, is there?”

“Thou art quite right, Kitty. The laws of the Home and the Family are equal laws. God bless thee for a good child.”

And, oh, how sweet were Kitty’s slumbers that night! It is out of earth’s delightful things we form our visions of the world to come; and Kate understood, because of her own pure, true, hopeful love, how “God is love,” and how, therefore, He would deny her any good thing.

So the summer went its way, peacefully and happily. In the last days of August, Edgar was married with great pomp and splendour; and afterwards the gates of Gisbourne stood wide-open, and there were many signs and promises of wonderful improvements and innovations. For the young man was a born leader and organiser. He loved to control, and soon devised means to secure what was so necessary to his happiness. The Curzons had made their money in manufactures; and Annie approved of such use of money. So very soon, at the upper end of Gisbourne, a great mill, and a fine new village of cottages for its hands, arose as if by magic,–a village that was to example and carry out all the ideas of Reform.