“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 circumstances–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 circumstances, 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.”