So he kissed her and told her again how dear she was to him and how much he relied on her judgment, and they went to the parlor like lovers, or like something far better. For if they had been only lovers, they could not have known the sweetness, and strength, and unity of a married love twenty-six years old. And as they drank their tea, Annis made clear to his wife the condition of affairs in The Commons, and she quickly became as much interested in the debate going on as himself. “It hes been going on now,” he said, “for three nights, and will probably continue all this night and mebbe longer.”
“Then will it be settled?”
“Nothing is settled, Annie, till it is settled right, and if The Commons settle it right the lords may turn it out altogether again —if they dare. However, thou hes given me a far lighter heart and I’ll mebbe hev a word or two to say mysen to-night, for the question of workmen’s wages is coming up and I’d like to give them my opinion on that subject.”
“It would be a good thing if the government fixed the wages of the workers. It might put a stop to strikes.”
“Not it! Workingmen’s wages are as much beyond the control of government as the fogs of the Atlantic. Who can prevent contractors from underselling one another? Who can prevent workmen from preferring starvation wages, rather than no wages at all? The man who labors knows best what his work is worth and you can’t blame him for demanding what is just and fair. Right is right in the devil’s teeth. If you talk forever, you’ll niver get any forrarder than that; but I have always noticed that when bad becomes bad enough, right returns.”
“The last time we talked about The Bill, Antony, you said you were anxious that the Scotch Bill should take exactly the same position that the English Bill does. Will the Scotch do as you wish them?”
“It’s hard to get a Scotchman to confess that he is oppressed by anyone, or by any law. He doesn’t mind admitting a sentimental grievance about the place that the lion hes on the flag; but he’s far too proud to allow that anything wrong with the conditions of life is permissible in Scotland. Yet there are more socialists in Scotland than anywhere else, which I take as a proof that they are as dissatisfied as any other workingmen are.”
“What is it that the socialists are continually talking about?”
“They are talking about a world that does not exist, Annie, and that niver did exist, and promising us a world that couldn’t by any possibility exist. But I’ll tell thee what I hev found out just since I came here; that is, that if we are going to continue a Protective Government we’re bound to hev Socialism flourish. Let England stop running a government to protect rich and noble land owners, let her open her ports and give us Free Trade, and we’ll hear varry little more of socialism.”
“Will you go to The House to-night, Antony?”
“I wouldn’t miss going for a good deal. Last night’s session did not close till daylight and I’ll niver forget as long as I live the look of The House at that time. Grey had been speaking for an hour and a half, though he is now in his sixty-eighth year; and I could not help remembering that forty years previously, he had stood in the same place, pleading for the same Bill, Grey being at that date both its author and its advocate. My father was in The House then and I hev often heard him tell how Lord Wharncliffe moved that Grey’s Reform Bill should be rejected altogether; and how Lord Brougham made one of the grandest speeches of his life in its favor, ending it with an indescribable relation of the Sybil’s offer to old Rome. Now, Annie, I want to see the harvest of that seed sowed by Grey and Brougham forty years ago, and that harvest may come to-night. Thou wouldn’t want me to miss it, would thou?”
“I would be very sorry indeed if thou missed it; but what about the Sybil?”
“Why-a! this old Roman prophetess was called up by Brougham to tell England the price she would hev to pay if her rulers persisted in their abominable husbandry of sowing injustice and reaping rebellion. ‘Hear the parable of the Sybil!’ he cried. ‘She is now at your gate, and she offers you in this Bill wisdom and peace. The price she asks is reasonable; it is to restore the franchise, which you ought voluntarily to give. You refuse her terms and she goes away. But soon you find you cannot do without her wares and you call her back. Again she comes but with diminished treasures – the leaves of the book are partly torn away by lawless hands, and in part defaced with characters of blood. But the prophetic maid has risen in her demands – it is Parliament by the year – it is vote by the ballot – it is suffrage by the million now. From this you turn away indignant, and for the second time she departs. Beware of her third coming, for the treasure you must have, and who shall tell what price she may demand? It may even be the mace which rests upon that woolsack. Justice deferred enhances the price you must pay for peace and safety and you cannot expect any other crop than they had who went before you and who, in their abominable husbandry, sowed injustice and reaped rebellion.’”
Antony was declaiming the last passages of this speech when the door opened and Mrs. Temple entered. She sat down and waited until her brother ceased, then she said with enthusiasm:
“Well done, Antony! If thou must quote from somebody’s fine orations, Brougham and the Sybil woman were about the best thou could get, if so be thou did not go to the Scriptures. In that book thou would find all that it is possible for letters and tongues to say against the men who oppress the poor, or do them any injustice; and if I wanted to make a speech that would beat Brougham’s to a disorganized alphabet, I’d take ivery word of it out of the sacred Scriptures. I would that!”
“Well, Josepha, I hope I may see The Bill pass the Commons to-night.”
“Then thou hes more to wish for than to hope for. Does Brougham and Palmerston iver speak to each other now?”
“It is as much as they can do to lift their hats. They niver speak, I think. Why do you ask me?”
“Because I heard one water man say to another, as I was taking a boat at my awn water house —
“‘If the Devil hes a son,
Then his name is Palmerston.’”
“Such rhymes against a man do him a deal of harm, Josepha. The rhyme sticks and fastens, whether it be true or false, but there is nothing beats a mocking, scornful story for cutting nation wide and living for centuries after it. That rhyme about Palmerston will not outlive him in any popular sense, but the mocking scornful story through which Canon Sydney Smith of St. Paul’s derided the imbecility of The Lords will live as long as English history lives.”
“I do not remember that story, Antony. Do you, Josepha?”
“Ay, I remember it; but I’ll let Antony tell it to thee and then thou will be sure to store it up as something worth keeping. What I tell thee hes not the same power of sticking.”
“It may be that you are right, Josepha. Men do speak with more authority than women do. What did Canon Sydney Smith say, Antony?”
“He said the attempt of the Lords to stop Reform reminded him of the great storm at Sidmouth and of the conduct of Mrs. Partington on that occasion. Six or seven winters ago there was a great storm upon that town, the tide rose to an incredible height, and the waves rushed in upon the beach, and in the midst of this terrible storm she was seen at the door of her house with her dress pinned up, and her highest pattens on her feet, trundling her mop, squeezing out the sea water, and vigorously pushing away the Atlantic Ocean. The Atlantic Ocean was roused. Mrs. Partington’s spirit was up, but I need not tell you the contest was unequal. The Atlantic Ocean beat Mrs. Partington. You see, Annie, the Canon really compared the Lords to a silly old woman and all England that were not in the House of Lords screamed with laughter. In that day, The House of Lords lost more of its dignity and prestige than it has yet regained; and Mrs. Partington did far more for Reform than all the fine speeches that were made.”
“Annie,” said Josepha, “we may as well take notice that it was a woman who went, or was sent, to the old Roman world with the laws of justice and peace; and Sydney Smith knew enough about Reform to be aware it would be best forwarded by putting his parable in the pluck and spirit of Dame Partington. It seems, then, that both in the old and the present world, there were men well aware of womanly influence in politics.”
“Well, dear women, I must away. I want to be in at the finish.”
“Nothing will finish to-night. And thou will lose thy sleep.”
“I lost it last night. The day was breaking when I left The House. The candles had been renewed just before daylight and were blazing on after the sunshine came in at the high windows, making a varry singular effect on their crimson draperies and on the dusky tapestries on the wall. I may be as late home to-morrow morning. Good night!” and he bent and kissed both ladies, and then hurried away, anxious and eager.
And the women were silent a moment watching him out of sight in the twilight and then softly praising his beauty, manliness, and his loving nature. On this subject Annie and Josepha usually agreed, though at last Josepha said with a sigh – “It is a pity, however, that his purse strings are so loose. He spends a lot of money.” And Annie replied: “Perhaps so, but he is such a good man I had forgotten that he had a fault.”
“And as a politician it is very eccentric – not to say foolish – for him to vote for justice and principle, not to speak of feelings, instead of party.”
“If those things in any shape are faults, I am glad he has them. I could not yet live with a perfect man.”
“I don’t suppose thou could. It would be a bit beyond thee. Is all ready for to-morrow?”
“Yes, but I have lost heart on the subject. Are you going to Jane’s now?”
“I may do that. I heard that Agatha De Burg was home and I would like to warn Katherine to take care of every word she says in Agatha’s presence. She tells all she hears to that cousin of hers.”
“Have you seen De Burg lately?”
“Two or three times at Jane’s house. He seems quite at home there now. He is very handsome, and graceful, and has such fine manners.”
“Then I hev no more to say and it is too late for me to take the water way home. Will tha order me a carriage?”
Annie’s readiness to fulfill this request did not please Josepha and she stood at the window and was nearly silent until she saw a carriage stop at the hotel door. Then she said, “I think I’ll go and see if Jane hes anything like a welcome to offer me. Good-by to thee, Annie.”
“We shall see you early to-morrow, I hope, Josepha.”
“Nay, then, thou hopes for nothing of that kind but I’ll be at Jane’s sometime before I am wanted.”
“You should not say such unkind words, Josepha. You are always welcome wherever you go. In some way I have lost myself the last ten minutes. I do not feel all here.”
“Then thou hed better try and find thysen. Thou wilt need all there is of thee to bother with Antony about t’ House of Commons, and to answer civilly the crowd of strangers that will come to see thy daughter to-morrow.”
“It is neither the Bill nor the strangers that trouble me. My vexations lie nearer home.”
“I must say that thou ought to hev learned how to manage them by this time. It is all of twenty-seven years since Antony married thee.”
“It is not Antony. Antony has not a fault. Not one!”
“I am glad thou hes found that out at last. Well, the carriage is waiting and I’ll bid thee good-bye; and I hope thou may get thysen all together before to-morrow at this time.”
With these words Josepha went and Annie threw herself into her chair with a sense of relief. “I know she intended to stay for dinner,” she mentally complained, “and I could not bear her to-night. She is too overflowing – she is too much every way. I bless myself for my patience for twenty-seven years. Is it really twenty-seven years?” And with this last suggestion she lost all consciousness of the present hour.
In the meantime Josepha was not thinking any flattering things of her sister-in-law. “She wanted me to go away! What a selfish, cross woman she is! Poor Antony! I wonder how he bears her,” and in a mood of such complaining, Josepha with all her kindly gossiping hopes dashed, went almost tearfully home.
Annie, however, was not cross. She was feeling with her husband the gravity of public affairs and was full of anxious speculation concerning Katherine. A change had come over the simple, beautiful girl. Without being in the least disobedient or disrespectful, she had shown in late days a thoroughly natural and full grown Annis temper. No girl ever knew better just what she wanted and no girl ever more effectually arranged matters in such wise as would best secure her all she wanted. About Harry Bradley she had not given way one hair’s breadth, and yet evidently her father was as far as ever from bearing the thought of Harry as a son-in-law. His kindness to him in the weaving shop was founded initially on his appreciation of good work and of a clever business tactic and he was also taken by surprise, and so easily gave in to the old trick of liking the lad. But he was angry at himself for having been so weak and he felt that in some way Harry had bested him, and compelled him to break the promises he had made to himself regarding both the young man and his father.
For a couple of hours these subjects occupied her completely, then she rose and went to her room and put away her new gown. It was a perfectly plain one of fawn-colored brocade with which she intended to wear her beautiful old English laces. As she was performing this duty she thought about her own youth. It had been a very commonplace one, full of small economies. She had never had a formal “coming out,” and being the eldest of five girls she had helped her mother to manage a household, constantly living a little above its income. Yet she had many sweet, loving thoughts over this life; and before she was aware her cheeks were wet with tears, uncalled, but not unwelcome.
“My dear mother,” she whispered, “in what land of God art thou now resting? Surely thou art thinking of me! We are near to each other, though far, far apart. Now, then, I will do as thou used to advise, ‘let worries alone, and don’t worry over them.’ Some household angel will come and put everything right. Oh, mother of many sorrows, pray for me. Thou art nearer to God than I am.” This good thought slipped through her tears like a soft strain of music, or a glint of sunshine, and she was strengthened and comforted. Then she washed her face and put on her evening cap and went to the parlor and ordered dinner.
Just as she sat down to her lonely meal the door was hastily opened, and Dick Annis and Harry Bradley entered. And oh! how glad she was to see them, to seat them at the table, and to plentifully feed the two hungry young men who had been traveling all day.
“Dick, wherever have you been, my dear lad? I hevn’t had a letter from you since you were in Edinburgh.”
“I wrote you lots of letters, mother, but I had no way of posting them to you. After leaving Edinburgh we sailed northward to Lerwick and there I mailed you a long letter. It will be here in a few days, no doubt, but their mail boat only carries mail ‘weather permitting,’ and after we left Lerwick, all the way to Aberdeen we had a roaring wind in our teeth. I don’t think it was weather the ill-tempered Pentland Firth would permit mail to be carried over it. How is father?”
“As well as he will be until the Reform Bill is passed. You are just in time for Katherine’s party.”
“I thought I might be so, for father told me he was sure dress and mantua-makers would not have you ready for company in two weeks.”
“Father was right. We may get people to weave the cloth by steam but when it comes to sewing the cloth into clothes, there is nothing but fingers and needles and some woman’s will.”
Then they talked of the preparations made and the guests that were expected, and the evening passed so pleasantly that it was near midnight when the youths went away. And before that time the squire had sent a note to his wife telling her he would not leave The House until the sitting broke up. This note was brought by a Commons Messenger, for the telegraph was yet a generation away.
So Mistress Annis slept well, and the next day broke in blue skies and sunshine. After breakfast was over she went to the Leyland Mansion to see if her help was required in any way. Not that she expected it, for she knew that Jane was far too good an organizer to be unready in any department. Indeed she found her leisurely drinking coffee and reading The Court Circular. Its news also had been gratifying, for she said to her mother as she laid down the paper, “All is very satisfactory. There are no entertainments to-night that will interfere with mine.”
Katherine was equally prepared but much more excited and that pleased her mother. She wished Katherine to keep her girlish enthusiasms and extravagant expectations as long as possible; Jane’s composure and apparent indifference seemed to her unnatural and later she reflected that “Jane used to flurry and worry more than enough. Why!” she mentally exclaimed, “I have not forgot how she routed us all out of our beds at five o’clock on the morning of her wedding day, and was so nervous herself that she made the whole house restless as a whirlpool. But she says it is now fashionable to be serenely unaffected by any event, and whatever is the fashionable insanity, Jane is sure to be one of the first to catch it.”
On this occasion her whole household had been schooled to the same calm spirit, and while it had a decided air of festivity, there was also one of order, and of everything going on as it ought to do. No hurrying servants or belated confectionery vans impeded the guests’ arrival. The rooms were in perfect order. The dinner would be served at the minute specified, and the host and hostess were waiting to perform every hospitable duty with amiable precision.
Katherine did not enter the reception parlors until the dinner guests had arrived and expectation was at a pleasant point of excitement. Then the principal door was thrown open with obvious intent and Squire Annis and his family were very plainly announced. Katherine was walking between her father and mother, and Mrs. Josepha Temple, leaning on the arm of her favorite nephew Dick, was a few steps behind them.
There was a sudden silence, a quick assurance of the coming of Katherine, and immediately the lovely girl made a triumphant entry into their eyes and consciousness. She was dressed in white radiant gauze,2 dotted with small silver stars. It fell from her belt to her feet without any break of its beauty by ruffle or frill. The waist slightly covered the shoulders, the sleeves were full and gathered into a band above the elbows. Both waist and sleeves were trimmed with lace traced out with silver thread, and edged with a thin silver cord. Her sandals were of white kid embroidered with silver stars, her gloves matched them. She was without jewelry of any kind, unless the wonderfully carved silver combs for the hair which Admiral Temple had brought from India can be so called. Thus clothed, all the mystery and beauty of the flesh was accentuated. Her fine eyes were soft and shining, with that happy surprise in them that belongs only to the young enthusiast, and yet her eyes were hardly more lambent than the rest of her face, for at this happy hour all the ancient ecstasy of Love and Youth transfigured her and she looked as if she had been born with a smile.
Without intent Katherine’s association with her father and mother greatly added to the impression she made. The squire was handsomely attired in a fashionable suit of dark blue broadcloth, trimmed with large gilt buttons, a white satin vest, and a neck piece of soft mull and English lace. And not less becoming to Katherine as a set off was her mother’s plain, dark, emphatic costume. Yes, even the rather showy extravagance of the aunt as a background was an advantage, and could hardly have been better considered, for Madam Temple on this occasion had discarded her usual black garments and wore a purple velvet dress and all her wonderful diamonds. Consistent with this luxury, her laces were of old Venice point de rose, arranged back and front in a Vandyke collar with cuffs of the same lace, high as the elbows, giving a cachet to her whole attire, which did not seem to be out of place on a woman so erect and so dignified that she never touched the back of a chair, and with a temper so buoyant, so high-spirited, and so invincible.
When dinner was served, Katherine noticed that neither De Burg nor Harry Bradley were at the table and after the meal she questioned her sister with some feeling about this omission. “I do not mind De Burg’s absence,” she said, “he is as well away as not, but poor Harry, what has he done!”
“Harry is all right, Kitty, but we have to care for father’s feelings first of all and you know he has no desire to break bread with Harry Bradley. Why! he considers ‘by bread and salt’ almost a sacred obligation, and if he eats with Harry, he must give him his hand, his good will, and his help, when the occasion asks for it. Father would have felt it hard to forgive me if I had forced such an obligation on him.”
“And De Burg? Is he also beyond the bread and salt limit?”
“I believe father might think so, but that is not the reason in his case. He sent an excuse for dinner but promised to join the dancers at ten o’clock and to bring his cousin Agatha with him.”
“How interesting! We shall all be on the qui-vive for her début.”
“Don’t be foolish, Kitty. And do not speak French, until you can speak it with a proper accent.”
“I have no doubt it is good enough for her.”
“As for her début, it occurred six or seven years ago. Agatha had the run of society when you were in short frocks. Come, let us go to the ballroom. Your father is sure to be prompt.”
When they reached the ballroom, they found Lord Leyland looking for Katherine. “Father is waiting,” he said, “and we have the quadrilles nearly set,” and while Leyland was yet speaking, Squire Annis bowed to his daughter and she laid her hand in his with a smile, and they took the place Leyland indicated. At the same moment, Dick led his mother to a position facing them and there was not a young man or a young woman in the room who might not have learned something of grace and dignity from the dancing of the elderly handsome couple.
After opening the ball the squire went to his place in The House of Commons and Madam went to the card room and sat down to a game of whist, having for her partner Alexander Macready, a prominent London banker. His son had been in the opening quadrille with Katherine and in a moment had fallen in love with her. Moreover, it was a real passion, timid yet full of ardor, sincere, or else foolishly talkative, and Katherine felt him to be a great encumbrance. Wearily listening to his platitudes of admiration, she saw Harry Bradley and De Burg and his cousin enter. Harry was really foremost, but courtesy compelled him for the lady’s sake to give precedence to De Burg and his cousin; consequently they reached Katherine’s side first. But Katherine’s eyes, full of love’s happy expectation, looked beyond them, and Miss De Burg saw in their expression Katherine’s preference for the man behind her brother.
“Stephen need not think himself first,” she instantly decided, “this new girl was watching for the man Stephen put back. A handsome man! He’ll get ahead yet! He’s made that way.”
Then Lady Leyland joined them and De Burg detained her as long as possible, delighting himself with the thought of Harry’s impatience. When they moved forward he explained his motive and laughed a little over it; but Agatha quickly damped his self-congratulation.
“Stephen,” she said, “the young man waiting was not at all uncomfortable. I saw Miss Annis give him her hand and also a look that some men would gladly wait a day for.”
“Why, Gath, I saw nothing of the kind. You are mistaken.”
“You were too much occupied in reciting to her the little speech you had composed for the occasion. You know! I heard you saying it over and over, as you walked about your room last night.”
“What a woman you are! You hear and see everything.”
“That I am not wanted to hear and see, eh?”
“In this house I want you to see and hear all you can. What do you think of the young lady?”
“Why should I think of her at all?”
“For my sake.”
“That plea is worn out.” She smiled as she spoke and then some exigency of the ball separated them.
Miss De Burg was not a pretty woman and yet people generally looked twice at her. She had a cold, washed-out face, a great deal of very pale brown hair and her hair, eyebrows, and eyes were all the same color. There was usually no look in her eyes and her mouth told nothing. It was a firm and silent mouth and if her face had any expression it was one of reserve or endurance. And Katherine in the very flush of her own happy excitement divined some tragedy below this speechless face, and she held Agatha’s hand and looked into her eyes with that sympathy which is one of youth’s kindest moods. This feeling hesitated a moment between the two women; then Agatha surrendered, and took it into her heart and memory.
Now balls are so common and so natural an expression of humanity that they possess both its sameness and its variability. They are all alike and all different, all alike in action, all different in the actors; and the only importance of this ball to Katherine Annis was that it introduced her to the mere physical happiness that flows from fresh and happy youth. In this respect it was perhaps the high tide of her life. The beautiful room, the mellow transfiguring light of wax candles, the gayly gowned company, the intoxicating strains of music, and the delight of her motion to it, the sense of her loveliness, and of the admiration it brought, made her heart beat high and joyfully, and gave to her light steps a living grace no artist ever yet copied. She was queen of that company and took out what lovers she wished with a pretty despotism impossible to describe; but
Joy’s the shyest bird,
Mortals ever heard.
And ere anyone had asked “What time is it?” daylight was stealing into the candle light and then there was only the cheerful hurry of cloaking and parting left, and the long-looked-for happiness was over. Yet after all it was a day by itself and the dower of To-morrow can never be weighed by the gauge of Yesterday.
“Right! There is a battle cry in the word. You feel as if you had drawn a sword. A royal word, a conquering word, which if the weakest speak, they straight grow strong.”