"No, Father."

"I thought not."

"After what the Duke has said to me, there can be no thought of marriage between Piers and thee. Give him up, now and forever."

"I cannot."

"But thou must."

"It will kill me."

"Not if thou art the good, brave girl I think thee. Piers is only one little bit of the happy life thy good G.o.d has given thee. Thou wilt still have thy mother, and thy brother, and thy sweet home, and all the honour and blessings of thy lot in life--_and thy father, too_, Kitty. Is thy father n.o.body?"

Then she laid her head on his breast and sobbed bitterly; and the Squire could not speak. He wept with her. And sitting a little apart, but watching them, Mrs. Atheling wept a little also. Yet, in spite of his emotion, the Squire was inexorable; and he continued, with stern and steady emphasis, "Thou art not to see him. Thou art not to write to him. Thou art not even to look at him. Get him out of thy life, root and branch. It is the only way. Come now, give me thy promise."

"Let me see him once more."

"I will not. What for? To pity one another, and abuse every other person, right or wrong. The Richmoors don't want thee among them at any price; and if I was thee I would stay where I was wanted."

"Piers wants me."

"Now then, if you must have the whole bitter truth, take it. I don't believe Piers will have any heartache wanting thee. He was here, there, and everywhere with Miss Vyner, after thou hadst left London; and I saw the ring thou loanedst him on her finger."

Then Kate looked quickly up. Once, when Annabel had removed her glove, and instantly replaced it, a vague suspicion of this fact had given her a shock that she had named to no one. It seemed so incredible she could not tell her mother. And now her father's words brought back that moment of sick suspicion, and confirmed it.

"Are you sure of what you say, Father?"

"I will wage my word and honour on it."

There was a moment's intense silence. Kate glanced at her mother, who sat with dropped eyes, unconsciously knitting; but there was not a shadow of doubt or denial on her face. Then she looked at her father. His large countenance, usually so red and beaming, was white and drawn with feeling, and his troubled, aching soul looked at her pathetically from the misty depths of his tearful eyes. Her mother she might have argued and pleaded with; but the love and anguish supplicating her from that bending face was not to be denied. She lifted her own to it.

She kissed the pale cheeks and trembling lips, and said, clearly,--

"I promise what you wish, Father. I will not speak to Piers, nor write to him, nor even look at him again--until you say I may," and with the words she put her hand in his for surety.

He rose to his feet then and put her in his chair; but he could not speak a word. Tremblingly, he lifted his hat and stick and went out of the room; and Mrs. Atheling threw down her knitting, and followed him to the door, and watched him going slowly through the long, flagged pa.s.sageway. Her face was troubled when she returned to Kate. She lifted her knitting and threw it with some temper into her work-basket, and then flung wide open the cas.e.m.e.nt and let the fresh air into the room.

Kate did not speak; her whole air and manner was that of injury and woe-begone extremity.

"Kate," said her mother at last, "Kate, my dear! This is your first lesson in this world's sorrow. Don't be a coward under it. Lift up your heart to Him who is always sufficient."

"Oh, Mother! I think I shall die."

"I would be ashamed to say such words. Piers was good and lovesome, and I do not blame you for loving him as long as it was right to do so. But when your father's word is against it, you may be very sure it is _not_ right. Father would not give you a moment's pain, if he could help it."

"It is too cruel! I cannot bear it!"

"Are you asked to bear anything but what women in all ages, and in all countries, have had to bear? To give up what you love is always hard. I have had to give up three fine sons, and your dear little sister Edith. I have had to give up father, and mother, and brothers, and sisters; but I never once thought of dying. Whatever happens, happens with G.o.d's will, or with G.o.d's permission; so if you can't give up cheerfully to your father's will, do try and say to G.o.d, as pleasantly as you can, _Thy_ Will be my will."

"I thought you would pity me, Mother."

"I do, Kate, with all my heart. But life has more loves and duties than one. If, in order to have Piers, you had to relinquish every one else, would you do so? No, you would not. Kate, I love you, and I pity you in your great trial; and I will help you to bear it as well as I can. But you must bear it cheerfully. I will not have father killed for Piers Exham. He looked very queerly when he went out. Be a brave girl, and if you are going to keep your promise, do it cheerfully--or it is not worth while."

"How can I be cheerful, Mother?"

"As easy as not, if you have a good, unselfish heart. You will say to yourself, 'What right have I to make every one in the house miserable, because I am miserable?' Troubles must come to all, Kitty, but troubles need not be wicked; and _it is wicked to be a destroyer of happiness_. I think G.o.d himself may find it hard to forgive those who selfishly destroy the happiness of others, just because they are not satisfied, or have not the one thing they specially want. When you are going to be cross and unhappy, say to yourself, "I will not be cross! I will not be unhappy! I will not make my good father wretched, and fill his pleasant home with a tearful drizzle, because I want to cry about my own loss.' And, depend upon it, Kitty, you will find content and happiness in making others happy. Good comes to hearts prepared for good; but it cannot come to hearts full of worry, and fear, and selfish regrets."

"You are setting me a hard lesson, Mother."

"I know it is hard, Kate. Life is all a task; yet we may as well sing, as we fulfil it. Eh, dear?"

Kate did not answer. She lifted her habit over her arm, and went slowly upstairs. Sorrow filled her to the ears and eyes; but her mother heard her close and then turn the key in her door.

"That is well," she thought. "Now her good angel will find her alone with G.o.d."

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH

NOT YET

"Mothering" is a grand old word for a quality G.o.d can teach man as well as woman; and the Squire really "mothered" his daughter in the first days of her great sorrow. He was always at her side. He was constantly needing her help or her company; and Kate was quite sensible of the great love with which he encompa.s.sed her. At first she was inexpressibly desolate. She had been suddenly dislodged from that life in the heart of Piers which she had so long enjoyed, and she felt homeless and forsaken. But Kate had a sweet and beautiful soul, nothing in it could turn to bitterness; and so it was not long before she was able to carry her misfortune as she had carried her good fortune, with cheerfulness and moderation.

For her confidence in Piers was unbroken. Not even her father's a.s.sertion about the lost ring could affect it. On reflection, she was sure there was a satisfactory explanation; if not, it was a momentary infidelity which she was ready to forgive. And in her determination to be faithful to her lover, Mrs. Atheling encouraged her. "Time brings us our own, Kitty dear," she said; "you have a true t.i.tle to Piers's love; so, then, you have a true t.i.tle to his hand. I have not a doubt that you will be his wife."

"I think that, Mother; but why should we be separated now, and both made to suffer?"

"That is earth's great mystery, my dear,--the prevalence of pain and suffering; no one is free from it. But then, in the midst of this mystery, is set that Heavenly Love which helps us to bear everything. I know, Kitty, I know!"

"Father is very hard."

"He is not. When Piers's father and mother say they will not have you in their house, do you want to slip into it on the sly, or even in defiance of them? Wait, and your hour will come."

"There is only one way that it can possibly come; and that way I dare not for a moment think of."

"No, indeed! Who would wish to enter the house of marriage by the gates of death? If such a thought comes to you, send it away with a prayer for the Duke's life. G.o.d can give you Piers without killing his father.

He would be a poor G.o.d if He could not. Whatever happens in your life that you cannot change, that is the Will of G.o.d; and to will what G.o.d wills is sure to bring you peace, Kitty. You have your Prayer-Book; go to the Blessed Collects in it. You will be sure to find among them just the prayer you need. They never once failed me,--never once!"

"If I could have seen him just for an hour, Mother."

"Far better not. Your last meeting with him in London was a very happy, joyous one. That is a good memory to keep. If you met him now, it would only be to weep and lament; and I'll tell you what, Kitty, no crying woman leaves a pleasant impression. I want Piers to remember you as he saw you last,--clothed in white, with flowers in your hair and hands, and your face beaming with love and happiness."

Many such conversations as this one held up the girl's heart, and enabled her, through a pure and steadfast faith in her lover, to enter--

"----that finer atmosphere, Where footfalls of appointed things, Reverberant of days to be, Are heard in forecast echoings; Like wave-beats from a viewless sea."

The first week of her trouble was the worst; but it was made tolerable by a long letter from Piers on the second day. It came in the Squire's mail-bag, and he could easily have retained it. But such a course would have been absolutely contradictious to his whole nature. He held the thick missive a moment in his hand, and glanced at the large red seal, lifting up so prominently the Richmoor arms, and then said,--

"Here is a letter for you, Kitty. It is from Piers. What am I to do with it?"