Amelia Barr - I, Thou, and the Other One - A Love Story

“It has been such a day as never was, Kate; and you must be tired. Now then, go to bed, my girl, and sleep; for goodness knows when your father will get home!”

So Kate kissed her mother–kissed her twice–as if she was dimly conscious of unfairly keeping back some pleasure, and would thus atone for her selfishness. And Mrs. Atheling sat down in the chimney-corner with the gray stocking she was knitting, and pondered her son’s good fortune for a while. Then she rose and sent the maids to bed, putting the clock an hour forward ere she did so, and excusing the act by saying, “If I don’t set it fast, we shall soon be on the wrong side of everything.”

Another hour she sat calmly knitting, while in the dead silence of the house the clock’s regular “ tick! tick! ” was like breathing. It seemed to live, and to watch with her. As the Squire came noisily into the room it struck eleven. “My word, Maude!” he said with great good humour, “I am sorry to keep you waiting; but there has been some good work done to-night, so you won’t mind it, I’ll warrant.”

“Well now, John, if you and your friends have been at Pickering’s, and have done any ‘good’ work there, I will be astonished! You may warrant that with every guinea you have.”

“We were at Rudby’s. There were as many as nine landed men of us together; and for once there was one mind in nine men.”

“That is, you were all for yourselves.”

“No! Dal it, we were all for old England and the Constitution! The Constitution, just as it is, and no tinkering with it.”

“I wonder which of the nine was the biggest fool among you?”

“Thou shouldst not talk in that way, Maude. The country is in real danger with this Reform nonsense. Every Reformer ought to be hung, and I wish they were hung.”

“I would be ashamed to say such words, John. Thou knowest well that thy own son is a Reformer.”

“More shame to him, and to me, and to thee! I would have brought up a better lad, or else I would hold my tongue about him. It was thy fault he went to Cambridge. I spent good money then to spoil a fine fellow.”

“Now, John Atheling, I won’t have one word said against Edgar in this house.”

“It is my house.”

“Nay, but it isn’t. Thou only hast the life rent of it. It is Edgar’s as much as thine. He will be here, like enough, when I and thou have gone the way we shall never come back.”

“Maybe he will–and maybe he will not. I can break the entail if it suits me.”

“Thou canst not. For, with all thy faults, thou art an upright man, and thy conscience wouldn’t let thee do anything as mean and spiteful as that. How could we rest in our graves if there was any one but an Atheling in Atheling?”

“He is a disgrace to the name.”

“He is nothing of that kind. He will bring the old name new honour. See if he does not! And as for the Constitution of England, it is about as great a ruin as thy constitution was when thou hadst rheumatic fever, and couldn’t turn thyself, nor help thyself, nor put a morsel of bread into thy mouth. But thou hadst a good doctor, and he set thee up; and a good House of Commons–Reforming Commons–will happen do as much for the country; though when every artisan and every farm labourer is hungry and naked, it will be hard to spread the plaster as far as the sore. It would make thy heart ache to hear what they suffer.”

“Don’t bother thy head about weavers, and cutlers, and artisans. If the Agriculture of the country is taken care of–”

“Now, John, do be quiet. There is not an idiot in the land who won’t talk of Agriculture.”

“We have got to stick by the land, Maude.”

“The land will take care of itself. If thou wouldst only send for thy son, and have a little talk with him, he might let some light and wisdom into thee.”

“I have nothing to say on such subjects to Edgar Atheling–not a word.”

“If thou goest to Parliament, thou mayst have to ‘say’ to him, no matter whether thou wantest to or not; that is, unless thou art willing to let Edgar have both sides of the argument.”

“What tom-foolery art thou talking?”

“I am only telling thee that Edgar is as like to go to Parliament as thou art.”

“To be sure–when beggars are kings.”

“Earl Grey will seat him–or Lord Durham; and I would advise thee to study up things a bit. There are new ideas about, John; and thou wouldst look foolish if thy own son had to put any of thy mistakes right for thee.”

“I suppose, Maude, thou still hast a bit of faith left in the Bible. And I’ll warrant thou knowest every word it says about children obeying their parents, and honouring their parents, and so on. And I can remember thee telling Edgar, when he was a little lad, about Absalom going against his father, and what came of it; now then, is the Bible, as well as the Constitution, a ruin? Is it good for nothing but to be pitched into limbo, or to be ‘reformed’? I’m astonished at thee!”

“The Bible has nothing to do with politics, John. I wish it had! Happen then we would have a few wise-like, honest politicians. The Bible divides men into good men and bad men; but thou dividest all men into Tories and Radicals; and the Bible has nothing to do with either of them. I can tell thee that. Nay, but I’m wrong; it does say a deal about doing justice, and loving mercy, and treating your neighbour and poor working-folk as you would like to be treated yourself. Radicals can get a good deal out of the New Testament.”

“I don’t believe a word of what thou art saying.”

“I don’t wonder at that. Thou readest nothing but the newspapers; if thou didst happen to read a few words out of Christ’s own mouth, thou wouldst say, ‘Thou never heardest the like,’ and thou wouldst think the man who quoted them wrote them out of his own head, and call him a Radical. Get off to thy bed, John. I can always tell when thou hast been drinking Rudby’s port-wine. It is too heavy and heady for thee. As soon as thou art thyself again, I will tell thee what a grand son thou art the father of. My word! If the Duke gives thee a seat at his mahogany two or three times a year, thou art as proud as a peacock; now then, thy son Edgar is hob-nobbing with earls and lords every day of his life, and they are proud of his company.”

The Squire laughed boisterously. “It is time, Maude,” he said, “I went to my bed; and it is high time for thee to wake up and get thy head on a feather pillow; then, perhaps, thou will not dream such raving nonsense.”

With these scornful words he left the room, and Mrs. Atheling rose and put away her knitting. She was satisfied with herself. She expected her mysterious words to keep the Squire awake with curiosity; and in such case, she was resolved to make another effort to reconcile her husband to his son. But the Squire gave her no opportunity; he slept with an indifferent continuity that it was useless to interrupt. Perhaps there was intention in this heavy sleep, for when he came downstairs in the morning he went at once to seek Kate. He soon saw her in the herb garden; for she had on a white dimity gown, and was standing upright, shading her eyes with her hands to watch his approach. A good breeze of wind from the wolds fluttered her snowy skirts, and tossed the penetrating scents of thyme and marjoram, mint and pennyroyal upward, and she drew them through her parted lips and distended nostrils.

“They are so heavenly sweet!” she said with a smile of sensuous pleasure. “They smell like Paradise, Father.”

“Ay, herbs are good and healthy. The smell of them makes me hungry. I didn’t see thee last night, Kitty; and I wanted to see thee.”

“I was so tired, Father. It was a day to tire any one. Was it not?”