I, Thou, and the Other One: A Love Story

At this exclamation, a turn in the road brought him in sight of two horsemen. “Whew! I am having a night of it!” he muttered. For he recognised immediately the portly figure of the great Duke of Richmoor, and he did not doubt that the slighter man at his side was his son, Lord Exham. The recognition was mutual; and on the Duke’s side very satisfactory. He quickened his horse’s speed, and cried out as he neared the Squire,–

“Well met, Atheling! You are the very man I wished to see! Do you remember Exham?”

There was a little complimentary speaking, and then the Duke said earnestly: “Squire, if there is one thing above another that at this time the landed interest ought to do, it is to stand together. The country is going to the devil; it is on the verge of revolution. We must have a majority in the next Parliament; and we want you for the borough of Asketh. Exham has come back from Italy purposely to take Gaythorne. What do you say?”

It was the great ambition of the Squire to go to Parliament, and the little dispute he had just had with the stranger on the green had whetted this desire to a point which made the Duke’s question a very interesting one to him; but he was too shrewd to make this satisfaction apparent. “There are younger men, Duke,” he answered slowly; “and they who go to the next Parliament will have a trying time of it. I hear queer tales, too, of Parliament men; and the House keeps late hours; and late hours never did suit my constitution.”

“Come, Atheling, that is poor talk at a crisis like this. There will be a meeting at the Castle on Friday–a very important meeting–and I shall expect you to take the chair. We are in for such a fight as England has not had since the days of Oliver Cromwell; and it would not be like John Atheling to keep out of it.”

“It wouldn’t. If there is anything worth fighting for, John Atheling will be thereabouts, I’ll warrant him.”

“Then we may depend upon you–Friday, and two in the afternoon, is the day and the hour. You will not fail us?”

“Duke, you may depend upon me.” And so the men parted; the Squire, in the unexpected proposal just made him, hardly comprehending the messages of friendly courtesy which Lord Exham charged him to deliver to Mrs. and Miss Atheling.

“My word! My word!” he exclaimed, as soon as the Duke and he were far enough back to back. “Won’t Maude be set up? Won’t little Kitty plume her wings?” and in this vague, purposeless sense of wonder and elation he reached his home. The gates to the large, sweet garden stood open, but after a moment’s thought, he passed them, and went round to the farm court at the back of the house. The stables occupied one side of this court, and he left his horse there, and proceeded to the kitchen. The girls were starting the fires under the coppers for the quarterly brewing; they said “the Missis was in the houseplace,” and the Squire opened the door between the two rooms, and went into the houseplace. But the large room was empty, though the lattices were open, and a sudden great waft of honeysuckle fragrance saluted him as he passed them. He noticed it, and he noticed also the full moonlight on the rows of shining pewter plates and flagons, though he was not conscious at the time that these things had made any impression upon him.

Two or three steps at the west end of this room led to a door which opened into Mrs. Atheling’s parlour; and the Squire passed it impatiently. The news of the night had become too much for him; he wanted to tell his wife. But Mrs. Atheling was not in her parlour. A few ash logs were burning brightly on the hearth, and there was a round table spread for supper, and the candles were lit, and showed him the mistress’s little basket containing her keys and her knitting, but neither wife nor daughter were to be seen.

“It is always the way,” he muttered. “It is enough to vex any man. Women are sure to be out of the road when they are wanted; and in the road when nobody cares to see them. Wherever has Maude taken herself?” Then he opened a door and called “Maude! Maude!” in no gentle voice.

In a few minutes the call was answered. Mrs. Atheling came hurriedly into the room. There was a pleasant smile on her large, handsome face, and she carried in her hands a bowl of cream and a loaf of white bread. “Why, John!” she exclaimed, “whatever is to do? I was getting a bit of supper for you. You are late home to-night, aren’t you?”

“I should think I was–all of an hour-and-a-half late.”

“But you are not ill, John? There is nothing wrong, I hope?”

“If things go a bit out of the common way, women always ask if they have gone wrong. I should think, they might as well go right.”

“So they might. Here is some fresh cream, John. I saw after it myself; and the haver-cake is toasted, and–”

“Nay, but I’ll have my drinking to-night, Maude. I have been flustered more than a little, I can tell thee that.”

“Then you shall have your drinking. We tapped a fresh barrel of old ale an hour ago. It is that strong and fine as never was; by the time you get to your third pint, you will be ready to make faces at Goliath.”

“Well, Maude, if making faces means making fight, there will be enough of that in every county of England soon,–if Dukes and Radical orators are to be believed.”

“Have you seen the Duke to-night?”

“I have. He has offered me a seat in the next Parliament. He thinks there is a big fight before us.”

“Parliament! And the Duke of Richmoor to seat you! Why, John, I am astonished!”

“I felt like I was dreaming. Now then, where is Kate? I want to tell the little maid about it. It will be a grand thing for Kate. She will have some chances in London, and I’ll warrant she is Yorkshire enough to take the best of them.”

“Kate was at Dashwood’s all the afternoon; and they were riding races; and she came home tired to death. I tucked her up in her bed an hour ago.”

“I am a bit disappointed; but things are mostly ordered that way. There is something else to tell you, Maude. I saw a stranger on the green throw Bill Verity and Adam Sedbergh; and I could not stand such nonsense as that, so I off with my coat and settled him.”

“You promised me that you would not ‘stand up’ any more, John. Some of them youngsters will give you a ‘throw’ that you won’t get easy over. And you out of practice too.”

“Out of practice! Nothing of the sort. What do you think I do with myself on wet afternoons? What could I do with myself, but go to the granary and have an hour or two’s play with Verity and Sedbergh, or any other of the lads that care to feel my grip? I have something else to tell you, Maude. I had a talk with this strange lad. He began some Reform nonsense; and I settled him very cleverly.”

“Poor lad!” She spoke sadly and absently, and it nettled the Squire. “I know what you are thinking, Mistress,” he said; “but the time has come when we are bound to stick to our own side.”

“The poor are suffering terribly, John. They are starved and driven to the last pinch. There never was anything like it before.”

“Women are a soft lot; it would not do to give up to their notions.”

“If you mean that women have soft hearts, it is a good thing for men that women are that way made.”

“I have not done with my wonders yet. Who do you think was with the Duke?”

“I don’t know, and I can’t say that I care.”

“Yes, but you do. It was Lord Exham. He said this and that about you, but I did not take much notice of his fine words.” Then he rose and pushed his chair aside, and as he left the room added,–

“That stranger lad I had the tussle with to-night says he knows your son Edgar–that they have lived and worked together for a year,–a very unlikely thing.”

“Stop a minute, Squire. Are you not ashamed of yourself to keep this news for a tag-end? Why it is the best thing I have heard to-night; and I’ll be bound you let it go past you like a waft of wind. What did you ask the stranger about my son?”

“Nothing. Not a word.”

“It was like your stubborn heart. My son indeed! If ever you had a son, it is Edgar. You were just like him when I married you–not as handsome–but very near; and you are as like as two garden peas in your pride, and self-will, and foolish anger. Don’t talk to me of Dukes, and Lords, and Parliaments, and wrestling matches. I want to hear about my son. If you have nothing to say about Edgar, I care little for your other news.”

“Why, Maude! Whatever is the matter with you? I have lived with you thirty years, and it seems that I have never known you yet.”

“But I know you, John Atheling. And I am ashamed of myself for having made nothing better out of you in thirty years. I thought I had you better shaped than you appear to be.”

“I shall need nothing but my shroud, when thou, or any other mortal, shapest me.”

“Fiddlesticks! Go away with your pride! I have shaped everything for you,–your house, and your eating; your clothes, and your religion; and if I had ever thought you would have fallen into Duke Richmoor’s hands, I would have shaped your politics before this time of day.”

“Now, Maude, thou canst easily go further than thou canst come back, if thou dost not take care. Thou must remember that I am thy lord and husband.”

“To be sure, thou hast that name. But thou hast always found it best to do as thy lady and mistress told thee to do; and if ever thou didst take thy own way, sorry enough thou hast been for it. Talk of clay in the hands of the potter! Clay is free and independent to what a man is in the hands of his wife. Now, John, go to bed. I won’t speak to thee again till I find out something about my son Edgar.”

“Very well, Madame.”

“I have been thy guardian angel for thirty years”–and Mrs. Atheling put her head in her hands, and began to cry a little. The Squire could not bear that argument; he turned backward a few steps, and said in a more conciliatory voice,–

“Come now, Maude. Thou hast been my master for thirty years; for that is what thou meanest by ‘guardian angel.’ But there is nothing worth crying about. I thought I had brought news that would set thee up a bit; but women are never satisfied. What dost thou want more?”

“I want thee to go in the morning and find out all about Edgar. I want thee to bring his friend up here. I would like to question him myself.”

“I will not do it.”

“Then thou oughtest to be ashamed of thyself for as cruel, and stubborn, and ill-conditioned a father as I know of. John, dear John, I am very unhappy about the lad. He went away without a rag of his best clothes. There’s the twelve fine linen shirts Kitty made him, backstitched and everything, lying in his drawers yet, and his top-coat hanging on the peg in his room, and his hat and cane so natural like; and he never was a lad to take care of his health; and so–”