In the happy privacy of the evening hours, Piers told them over again the wild, exciting story he had been living; and the Duke acknowledged that to have aided in any measure such an heroic struggle was an event to dignify life. "But now, Piers," he said, "now you will remain in your own home. If you still wish to marry Miss Atheling, your mother and I are pleased that you should do so. We will express this pleasure as soon as you desire us. I wrote you to this effect; but you cannot have received my letter, since it only left for Texas yesterday."

"I am glad I have not received it," answered Piers. "I came home at the call of my mother. It is true. I was sitting one night thinking of many things. It was long past midnight, but the moonlight was so clear I had been reading by it, and the mocking birds were thrilling the air, far and wide, with melody. But far clearer, far sweeter, far more pervading, I heard my mother's voice calling me. And I immediately answered, 'I am coming, Mother!' Here I am. What must I do, now and forever, to please you?"

And she said, "Stay near me. Marry Miss Atheling, if you wish. I will love her for your sake."

And Piers kissed his answer on her lips, and then put his hand in his father's hand. It was but a simple act; but it promised all that fatherly affection could ask, and all that filial affection could give.

Who that has seen in England a sunny morning after a long rain-storm can ever forget the ineffable sweetness and freshness of the woods and hills and fields? The world seemed as if it was just made over when Piers left Richmoor for Atheling. A thousand vagrant perfumes from the spruce and fir woods, from the moors and fields and gardens, wandered over the earth. A gentle west wind was blowing; the sense of rejoicing was in every living thing. The Squire and Kate had been early abroad. They had had a long gallop, and were coming slowly through Atheling lane, talking of Piers, though both of them believed Piers to be thousands of miles away. They were just at the spot where he had pa.s.sed them that miserable night when his cry of "_Kate! Kate! Kate!_" had nearly broken the girl's heart for awhile. She never saw the place without remembering her lover, and sending her thoughts to find him out, wherever he might be. And thus, at this place, there was always a little silence; and the Squire comprehended, and respected the circ.u.mstance.

This morning the silence, usually so perfect, was broken by the sound of an approaching horseman; but neither the Squire nor Kate turned. They simply withdrew to their side of the road, and went leisurely forward.

"_Kate! Kate! Kate!_"

The same words, but how different! They were full of impatient joy, of triumphant hope and love. Both father and daughter faced round in the moment, and then they saw Piers coming like the wind towards them. It was a miracle. It was such a moment as could not come twice in any life-time.

It was such a meeting as defies the power of words; because our diviner part has emotions that we have not yet got the speech and language to declare.

Imagine the joy in Atheling Manor House that night! The Squire had to go apart for a little while; and tears of delight were in the good mother's eyes as she took out her beautiful Derby china for the welcoming feast. As for Kate and Piers, they were at last in earth's Paradise. Their lives had suddenly come to flower; and there was no canker in any of the blossoms. They had waited their full hour. And if the angels in heaven rejoice over a sinner repenting, how much more must they rejoice in our happiness, and sympathise in our innocent love!

Surely the guardian angels of Piers and Kate were satisfied. Their dear charges had shown a n.o.ble restraint, and were now reaping the joy of it. Do angels talk in heaven of what happens among the sons and daughters of men whom they are sent to minister unto, to guide, and to guard? If so, they must have talked of these lovers, so dutiful and so true, and rejoiced in the joy of their renewed espousals.

Their marriage quickly followed. In a few weeks Piers had made Exham Hall a palace of splendour and beauty for his bride, and Kate's wedding garments were all ready. And far and wide there was a most unusual interest taken in these lovers, so that all the great county families desired and sought for invitations to the marriage ceremony, and the little church of Atheling could hardly contain the guests. Even to this day it is remembered that nearly one hundred gentlemen of the North Riding escorted the bride from Atheling to Exham.

But at last every social duty had been fulfilled, and they sat alone in the gloaming, with their great love, and their great joy. And as they spoke of the days when this love first began, Kate reminded Piers of the swing in the laurel walk, and her girlish rhyming,--

"It may so happen, it may so fall, That I shall be Lady of Exham Hall."

And Piers drew her beautiful head closer to his own, and added,--

"Weary wishing, and waiting past, _Lady of Exham Hall_ at last!"

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH

AFTER TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS

After twenty years have pa.s.sed away, it is safe to ask if events have been all that they promised to be; and one morning in August of 1857, it was twenty years since Kate Atheling became Lady Exham. She was sitting at a table writing letters to her two eldest sons, who were with their tutor in the then little known Hebrides. Lord Exham was busy with his mail. They were in a splendid room, opening upon a lawn, soft and green beyond description; and the August sunshine and the August lilies filled it with warmth and fragrance. Lady Exham was even more beautiful than on her wedding day. Time had matured without as yet touching her wonderful loveliness, and motherhood had crowned it with a tender and bewitching n.o.bility. She had on a gown of lawn and lace, white as the flowers that hung in cl.u.s.ters from the Worcester vase at her side. Now and then Piers lifted his head and watched her for a moment; and then, with the faint, happy smile of a heart full and at ease, he opened another letter or paper. Suddenly he became a little excited. "Why, Kate," he said, "here is my speech on the blessings which Reform has brought to England. I did not expect such a thing."

"Read it to me, Piers."

"It is entirely too long; although I only reviewed some of the notable works that followed Reform."

"Such as--"

"Well, the abolition of both black and white slavery; the breaking up of the gigantic monopoly of the East India Company, and the throwing open of our ports to the merchants of the world; the inauguration of a system of national education; the reform of our cruel criminal code; the abolition of the press gang, and of chimney sweeping by little children, and such brutalities; the postal reform; and the spread of such good, cheap literature as the _Penny Magazine_ and _Chambers's Magazine_. My dear Kate, it would require a book to tell all that the Reform Bill has done for England. Think of the misery of that last two years' struggle, and look at our happy country to-day."

"Prosperous, but not happy, Piers. How can we be happy when, all over the land, mothers are weeping because their children are not. If this awful Sepoy rebellion was only over; then!"

"Yes," answered Piers; "if it was only over! Surely there never was a war so full of strange, unnatural cruelties. I wonder where Cecil and Annabel are."

"Wherever they are, I am sure both of them will be in the way of honour and duty."

There was a pause, and then Piers asked, "To whom are you writing, dear Kate?"

"To d.i.c.k and John. They do not want to return to their studies this winter; they wish to travel in Italy."

"Nonsense! They must go through college before they travel. Tell them so."

The Duke had entered as Piers was speaking, and he listened to his remark. Then, even as he stooped to kiss Kate, he contradicted it. "I don't think so, Piers," he said decisively. "Let the boys go. Give them their own way a little. I do not like to see such spirited youths snubbed for a trifle."

"But this is not a trifle, Father."

"Yes, it is."

"You insisted on my following the usual plan of college first, and travel afterwards."

"That was before the days of Reform. The boys are my grandsons. I think I ought to decide on a question of this kind. What do you say, my dear?"

and he turned his kindly face, with its crown of snowy hair, to Kate.

"It is to be as you say, Father," she answered. "Is there any Indian news?"

"Alas! Alas!" he answered, becoming suddenly very sorrowful, "there is calamitous news,--the fort in which Colonel North was shut up, has fallen; and Cecil and Annabel are dead."

"Oh, not ma.s.sacred! Do not tell us _that_!" cried Kate, covering her ears with her hands.

"Not quite as bad. A Sepoy who was Cecil's orderly, and much attached to him, has been permitted to bring us the terrible news, with some valuable gems and papers which Annabel confided to him. He told me that Cecil held out wonderfully; but it was impossible to send him help.

Their food and ammunition were gone; and the troops, who were mainly Sepoys, were ready to open the gates to the first band of rebels that approached. One morning, just at daybreak, Cecil knew the hour had come. Annabel was asleep; but he awakened her. She had been expecting the call for many days; and, when Cecil spoke, she knew it was death. But she rose smiling, and answered, 'I am ready, Love.' He held her close to his breast, and they comforted and strengthened one another until the tramp of the brutes entering the court was heard. Then Annabel closed her eyes, and Cecil sent a merciful bullet through the brave heart that had shared with him, for twenty-five years, every trial and danger. Her last words were, 'Come quickly, Cecil,' and he followed her in an instant. The man says he hid their bodies, and they were not mutilated. But the fort was blown up and burned; and, in this case, the fiery solution was the best."

"And her children?" whispered Kate.

"The boys are at Rugby. The little girl died some weeks ago."

The Duke was much affected. He had loved Annabel truly, and her tragic death powerfully moved him. "The d.u.c.h.ess," he said, "had wept herself ill; and he had promised her to return quickly." But as he went away, he turned to charge Piers and Kate not to disappoint his grandsons.

"They are such good boys," he added; "and it is not a great matter to let them go to Italy, if they want to--only send Stanhope with them."

No further objection was then made. Kate had learned that it is folly to oppose things yet far away, and which are subject to a thousand unforeseen influences. When the time for decision came, d.i.c.k and John might have changed their wishes. So she only smiled a present a.s.sent, and then let her thoughts fly to the lonely fort where Cecil and Annabel had suffered and conquered the last great enemy. For a few minutes, Piers was occupied in the same manner; and when he spoke, it was in the soft, reminiscent voice which memory--especially sad memory--uses.

"It is strange, Kate," he said, "but I remember Annabel predicting this end for herself. We were sitting in the white-and-gold parlour in the London House, where I had found her playing with the cat in a very merry mood. Suddenly she imagined the cat had scratched her, and she spread out her little brown hand, and looked for the wound. There was none visible; but she pointed to a certain spot at the base of her finger, and said, '>Look, Piers. There is the sign of my doom,--my death-token. I shall perish in fire and blood.' Then she laughed and quickly changed the subject, and I did not think it worth pursuing.

Yet it was in her mind, for a few minutes afterwards, she opened her hand again, held it to the light, and added, 'An old Hindoo priest told me this. He said our death-warrant was written on our palms, and we brought it into life with us.'"

"You should have contradicted that, Piers."

"I did. I told her, our death-warrant was in the Hand of Him with whom alone are the issues of life and death."

"She was haunted by the prophecy," said Kate. "She often spoke of it.

Oh, Piers, how merciful is the veil that hides our days to come!"

"I feel wretched. Let us go to Atheling; it will do us good."