"I shouldn't wonder. Wellington does not know the difference between a field-marshal and a Cabinet Minister. What did he say?"

"He said that as long as he held any office in the Government, he would resist Reform. He said there was no need of Reform; that we had the best government in the world. The Duke of Devonshire, whom I have just seen, told me that this statement produced a feeling of the utmost dismay, even in the calm atmosphere of the House of Lords."

"Calm!" interrupted the Squire. "You had better say, Incurable prosiness."

"Wellington noticed the suppressed excitement, the murmur, and the movement, and asked Devonshire in a whisper, 'What can I have said to cause such great disturbance?' And Devonshire shrugged his shoulders and answered candidly, 'You have announced the fall of your government, that is all.'"

"Wellington considers the nation as a mutinous regiment," answered the Squire. "He thinks the arguments for Reformers ought to be cannon b.a.l.l.s; but Englishmen will not endure a military government."

"It would be better than a mob government, Squire. Remember France."

"Englishmen are not Frenchmen," said Kate. "You ought to remember _that_, Piers. Englishmen are the most fair, just, reasonable, brave, loyal, honourable people on the face of the earth!"

"Well done, Kitty!" cried the Squire. "It takes a little la.s.s like thee to find adjectives plenty enough, and good enough, for thy own. My word! I wish thou couldst tell the Duke of Wellington what thou thinkest of his fellow-citizens. He would happen trust them more, and treat them better."

"There is Mr. Peel too," she continued. "Both he and the Duke of Wellington are always down on the people. And yet the Duke has led these same people from one victory to another; and Mr. Peel is one of the people. His father was a day-labourer, and he ought to be proud of it; William Cobbett is, and William Cobbett is a greater man than Robert Peel."

"Now then, Kitty, that is far enough; for thou art wrong already.

Cobbett isn't a greater man than Peel; he isn't a great man at all, he is only a clever man. But the man for my money is Henry Brougham. He drives the world before him. He is a mult.i.tude. He had just one idea to-day,--Reform and again Reform. He played that tune finely to the House, and they danced to it like a miracle. Much good it will do them!"

"He was scarcely decent," said Piers. "He gave notice, as you must have heard, in the most aggressive manner that he should bring 'Reform'

to an immediate issue."

"Yes," answered the Squire. "There is doubtless a big battle before us. But, mark my words, it will not be with Wellington and Peel. They signed their own resignation this afternoon."

"That is what my father thinks," said Piers.

"If Wellington could only have held his tongue!" said the Squire, bitterly.

"And if Daniel O'Connell would only cease making fun of the Government."

"That man! He is n.o.body!"

"You mistake, Squire. His buffoonery is fatal to our party. I tell you that Ridicule is the lightning that kills. Has not Aristophanes tossed his enemies for the scorn and laughter of a thousand cities for a thousand years? I fear O'Connell's satire and joking, far more than I fear Grey's statesmanship, or Durham's popularity."

Then Piers turned to Kate, and asked if she had seen the royal procession. And she told him about her visit, and about Mr. North's interference for her safety, and his escort of her home. Piers was much annoyed at this incident. He begged her not to venture into the streets until public feeling had abated, or was controlled, and asked with singular petulance, "Who is this Mr. North? He plays the mysterious Knight very well. He interferes too much."

"I was grateful for his interference."

"Why did you not remain at Richmoor until I returned? I expected it, Kate."

"I was afraid; and I knew my mother would be anxious--and I felt so sad among strangers. You know, Piers, I have always lived among my own people--among those who loved me."

This little bit of conversation had taken place while the tray was being removed, and the Squire and Mrs. Atheling were talking about the engagements for the next day, so that definite orders might be given concerning the carriage and horses. The movements of the servants had enabled Piers and Kate, quite naturally, to withdraw a little from the fireside group; and when Kate made her tender a.s.sertion, about living with those who loved her, Piers's heart was full to overflowing. This girl of sweet nature, with her innocent beauty and ingenuous expressions, possessed his n.o.blest feelings. He clasped her hands in his, and said,--

"Oh, Kate! I loved you when you were only twelve years old; I love you now beyond all measure of words. And you love me? Speak, Dear One!"

"I love none but thee!"

The next moment she was standing before her father and mother. Piers held her hand. He was talking to them in low but eager tones, yet she did not realise a word, until he said,--

"Give her to me, my friends. We have loved each other for many years.

We shall love each other for ever. She is the wife of my soul. Without her, I can only half live." Then bending to Kate, he asked her fondly, "Do you love me, Kate? Do you love me? Ask your heart about it. Tell us truly, do you love me?"

Then she lifted her sweet eyes to her lover, her father, and her mother, and answered, "I love Piers with all my heart."

The Squire was much troubled and affected. "This is taking a bit of advantage, Piers," he said. "There is a time for everything, and this is not my time for giving my little girl away."

"Speak for us, Mrs. Atheling," said Piers.

"Nay, I think the Squire is quite right," she replied. "Love isn't worth much if Duty does not stand with it."

"And there is far more, Piers," continued the Squire, "in such a marriage as you propose than a girl's and a lover's 'yes.' When the country has settled a bit, we will talk about love and wedding. I can't say more for my life, can I, Mother?"

"It is enough," answered Mrs. Atheling. "Why, we might have a civil war, and what not! To choose a proper mate is good enough; but it is quite as important to choose a proper time for mating. Now then, this is not a proper time, when everything is at ups-and-downs, and this way and that way, and great public events, that no one can foretell, crowding one on the neck of the other. Let things be as they are, children. If you only knew it, you are in the Maytime of your lives. I wouldn't hurry it over, if I was you. It won't come back again."

Then Kate kissed her father, and her mother, and her lover; and Piers kissed Kate, and Mrs. Atheling, and put his hand into the Squire's hand; and the solemn joy of betrothal was there, though it was not openly admitted.

In truth the Squire was much troubled at events coming to any climax.

He would not suffer his daughter to enter into an engagement not openly acknowledged and approved by both families; and yet he was aware that at the present time the Duke would consider any subject--not public or political--as an interruption, perhaps as an intrusion. Besides which, the Squire's own sense of honour and personal pride made him averse to force an affair so manifestly to the preferment of his daughter.

It looked like taking advantage of circ.u.mstances--of presuming upon a kindness; in fact, the more Squire Atheling thought of the alliance, the less he was disposed to sanction it. Under no circ.u.mstances, could he give Kate such a fortune as the heir of a great Dukedom had a right to expect. She must enter the Richmoor family at a disadvantage--perhaps even on sufferance.

"No! by the Lord Harry, no!" he exclaimed. "I'll have none of the Duke's toleration on any matter. I am sorry I took his seat. I wish Edgar was here--he ought to be here, looking after his mother and sister, instead of setting up rogues on Glasgow Green against their King and Country! Of course, there is Love to reckon with, and Love does wonders--but it is money that makes marriage."

With such reflections, and many others growing out of them, the Squire hardened his heart, and strengthened his personal sense of dignity, until he almost taught himself to believe the Duke had already wounded it. In this temper he was quite inclined to severely blame his wife for not "putting a stop to the nonsense when it first began."

"John," she answered, "we are both of a piece in that respect."

"On my honour, Mother."

"Don't say it, John. You used to laugh at the little la.s.s going off with Edgar and Piers fishing. You used to tease her about the gold brooch Piers gave her. Many a time you have called her to me, 'the little d.u.c.h.ess.'"

"Wilt thou be quiet?"

"I am only reminding thee."

"Thou needest not. I wish thou wouldst remind thy son that he has a sister that he might look after a bit."

"I can look after Kate without his help. He is doing far better business than hanging around Dukes."

"If thou wantest a quarrel this morning, Maude, I'm willing to give thee one. I say, Edgar ought to be here."

"What for? He is doing work that we will all be proud enough of some day. Thou oughtest to be helping him, instead of abusing him. I want thee to open this morning's _Times_, and read the speech he made in Glasgow City Hall. Thou couldst not have made such a speech to save thy life."

"Say, I _would not_ have made it, and then thou wilt say the very truth."

"Read it."