“Lord of Light why so much darkness? Bread of Life
why so much hunger?”
“The great fight, the long fight, the fight that must be
won, without any further delay.”
IT is not necessary for me to describe the formal introduction of
Katherine to London society. A large number of my readers may have a
personal experience of that uncertain step, which Longfellow says,
the brook takes into the river, affirming also that it is taken “with
reluctant feet”; but Longfellow must be accepted with reservations. Most
girls have all the pluck and courage necessary for that leap into
the dark and Katherine belonged to this larger class. She felt the
constraints of the upper social life. She was ready for the event and
wished it over.
The squire also wished it over. He could not help an uneasy regret about
the days and the money spent in preparing for its few hours of
what seemed to him unnecessary entertaining; not even free from the
possibility of being rudely broken up--the illuminated house, the
adjoining streets filled with vehicles, the glimpses of jewelry and
of rich clothing as the guests left their carriages; the sounds
of music--the very odors of cooking from the open windows of the
kitchens--the calls of footmen--all the stir of revelry and all the
paraphernalia of luxury. How would the hungry, angry, starving men
gathering all over London take this spectacle? The squire feared
there would be some demonstration and if it should be made against
his family’s unfeeling extravagance how could he bear it? He knew that
Englishmen usually,
Through good and evil stand,
By the laws of their own land.
But he knew also, that Hunger knows no law, and that men too poor to
have where to lay their heads do not have much care regarding the heads
of more fortunate men.
Squire Annis was a thoroughly informed man on all historical and
political subjects and he knew well that the English people had not been
so much in earnest since the time of Oliver Cromwell as they then were;
and when he called to remembrance the events between the rejection of
the first Reform Bill and its present struggle, he was really amazed
that people could think or talk of any other thing. Continually he was
arranging in his mind the salient points of moral dispute, as he had
known them, and it may not be amiss for two or three minutes to follow
his thoughts.
They generally went back to the dramatic rejection of the first Reform
Bill, on the sixteenth of August, A. D. 1831. Parliament met again on
the sixth of December, and on the twelfth of December Lord John Russell
brought in a second Reform Bill. It was slightly changed but in all
important matters the same as the first Bill. On the eighteenth of
December, Parliament adjourned for the Christmas holidays but met again
on January the seventeenth, A. D. 1832. This Parliament passed The Bill
ready for the House of Lords on March the twenty-sixth, just two days
after his own arrival in London. He had made a point of seeing this
ceremony, for a very large attendance of peeresses and strangers of mark
were expected to be present. He found the space allotted to strangers
crowded, but he also found a good standing place and from it saw the
Lord Chancellor Brougham take his seat at the Woolsack and the Deputy
usher of the Black Rod announce--“A message from the Commons.” Then
he saw the doors thrown open and Lord Althorp and Lord John Russell,
bearing the Reform Bill in their hands, appeared at the head of one
hundred members of Parliament, and Russell delivered the Bill to the
Lord Chancellor, saying:
“My Lords, the House of Commons have passed an act to amend the
representation of England and Wales to which they desire your Lordship’s
concurrence.”
The great question now was, whether the Lords would concur or not, for
if the populace were ready to back their determination with their lives
the Lords were in the same temper though they knew well enough that
the one stubborn cry of the whole country was “The Bill, The Bill,
and nothing but The Bill.” They knew also that The House of Commons
sympathized with the suffering of the poor and the terrible deeds of the
French Revolution were still green in their memories. Yet they dared to
argue and dispute and put off the men standing in dangerous patience,
waiting, waiting day and night for justice.
During the past week, also, all thoughtful persons had been conscious of
a change in these waiting men, a change which Lord Grey told The Commons
was “to be regarded as ominous and dangerous.” It was, that the crowds
everywhere had become portentously silent. They no longer discussed the
subject. They had no more to say. They were now full ready to do all
their powerful Political Unions threatened. These unions were prepared
to march to London and bivouac in its squares. The powerful Birmingham
Union declared “two hundred thousand men were ready to leave their
forges and shops, encamp on Hampstead Heath, and if The Bill did not
speedily become a law, compel that event to take place.”
At this time also, violent expressions had become common in The House.
Members spoke with the utmost freedom about a fighting duke, and a
military government, and the Duke of Wellington was said to have pledged
himself to the King to quiet the country, if necessary, in ten days. It
was also asserted that, at his orders, the Scots Greys had been employed
on a previous Sabbath Day in grinding their swords.
“As if,” cried the press and the people as with one voice, “as if
Englishmen could be kept from their purpose by swords and bayonets.”
Throughout this period the King was obstinate and ill-tempered and so
ignorant about the character of the people he had been set to govern, as
to think their sudden quietness predicted their submission; though Lord
Grey had particularly warned the Lords against this false idea. “Truly,”
he virtually said, “we have not heard for a few days the thrilling
outcries of a desperate crowd of angry suffering men but I warn you, my
Lords, to take no comfort on that account.”
When Englishmen are ready to fight they don’t scream about it but their
weapons are drawn and they are prepared to strike. The great body of
Englishmen did not consider these poor, unlettered men were any less
English men than themselves. They knew them to be of the same class
and kidney, as fought with Cromwell, Drake, and Nelson, and which made
Wellington victorious; they knew that neither the men who wielded the
big hammers at the forges of Birmingham, nor the men who controlled
steam, nor the men that brought up coal from a thousand feet below sight
and light, nor yet the men who plowed the ground would hesitate much
longer to fight for their rights; for there was not now a man in all
England who was not determined to be a recognized citizen of the land he
loved and was always ready to fight for.
Sentiments like these could not fall from the lips of such men as Grey
and Brougham without having great influence; and in the soul of Antony
Annis they were echoing with potent effect, whatever he did, or wherever
he went. For he was really a man of fine moral and intellectual nature,
who had lived too much in his own easy, simple surroundings, and who had
been suddenly and roughly awakened to great public events. And, oh, how
quickly they were rubbing the rust from his unused talents and feelings!
He missed his wife’s company much at this time, for when he was in The
House he could not have it and when he got back to the hotel Annie was
seldom there. She was with Jane or Josepha, and her interests at this
period were completely centered on her daughter Katherine. So Annis,
especially during the last week, had felt himself neglected; he could
get his wife to talk of nothing but Katherine, and her dress, and the
preparations Jane was making to honor the beauty’s début.
Yet, just now he wanted above all other comforts his wife’s company and
on the afternoon of the day before the entertainment was to take
place he was determined to have it, even if he had to go to Jane’s or
Josepha’s house to get what he wished. Greatly to his satisfaction he
found her in the dressing-room of her hotel apartments. She had been
trying on her own new dress for the great occasion and seemed to be much
pleased and in very good spirits; but the squire’s anxious mood quickly
made itself felt and after a few ineffectual trials to raise her
husband’s spirits, she said, with just a touch of irritability:
“Whatever is the matter with thee, Antony? I suppose it is that
wearisome Bill.”
“Well, Annie, however wearisome it is we aren’t done with it yet, mebbe
we hev only begun its quarrel. The Whole country is in a bad way and I
do wonder how tha can be so taken up with the thoughts of dressing and
dancing. I will tell thee one thing, I am feared for the sound of music
and merry-making in any house.”
“I never before knew that Antony Annis was cowardly.”
“Don’t thee say words like them to me, Annie. I will not hev them. And I
think thou hes treated me varry badly indeed iver since we came here. I
thought I would allays be sure of thy company and loving help and thou
hes disappointed me. Thou hes that. Yet all my worry hes been about thee
and Kitty.”
“Thou has not shown any care about either of us. Thou has hardly been
at thy home here for ten days; and thou has not asked a question about
Kitty’s plans and dress.”
“Nay, then, I was thinking of her life and of thy life, too. I was
wondering how these angry, hungry men, filling the streets of London
will like the sight and sounds of music and dancing while they are
starving and fainting in our varry sight. I saw a man fall down through
hunger yesterday, and I saw two men, early this morning, helping one
another to stagger to a bench in the park.”
“And I’ll warrant thou helped them to a cup of coffee and----”
“To be sure I did! Does tha think thy husband, Antony Annis, is without
feeling as well as without courage! I am afraid for thee and for all
women who can’t see and feel that the riot and bloodshed that took place
not long ago in Bristol can be started here in London any moment by
some foolish word or act. And I want thee to know if tha doesn’t already
know, that this new disease, that no doctor understands or ever saw
before, hes reached London. It came to Bristol while the city was
burning, it came like a blow from the hand of God, and every physician
is appalled by it. A man goes out and is smitten, and never comes home
again, and--and--oh, Annie! Annie! I cannot bear it! There will be-some
tragedy--and it is for thee and Kitty I fear--not for mysen, oh no!”
And he leaned his elbows on the chimney piece and buried his face in his
hands.
Then Annie went swiftly to his side, and in low, sweet, cooing words
said, “Oh, my love! My husband! Oh, my dear Antony, if tha hed only told
me thy fears and thy sorrow, I could hev cleared thy mind a bit. Sit
thee down beside me and listen to what thy Annie can tell thee.” Then
she kissed him and took his hands in her hands, and led him to his chair
and drew her own chair close to his side and said--
“I knew, my dear one, that thou was bothered in thy mind and that thy
thoughts were on Bristol and other places that hev been fired by the
rioters; and I wanted to tell thee of something that happened more than
a week ago. Dost thou remember a girl called Sarah Sykes?”
“I do that--a varry big, clumsy lass.”
“Never mind her looks. When Josepha was at Annis last summer she noticed
how much the girl was neglected and she took her part with her usual
temper, gave her nice clothes, and told her she would find something for
her to do in London. So when we were all very busy and I was tired out,
Josepha sent her a pound and bid her come to us as quick as she could.
Well, the first thing we knew the lass was in Jane’s house and she soon
found out that Joshua Swale was the leader of the crowd that are mostly
about the Crescent where it stands. And it wasn’t long before Sarah
had told Israel all thou hed done and all thou was still doing for thy
weavers; and then a man, who had come from the little place where thou
left a ten-pound note, told of that and of many other of thy kind
deeds, and so we found out that thy name stood very high among all
the Political Unions; and that these Unions have made themselves
well acquainted with the sayings and doings of all the old hand loom
employers; and are watching them closely, as to how they are treating
their men, and if any are in The House, how they are voting.”
“I wish thou hed told me this when thou first heard it. I wonder thou
didn’t do so.”
“If I could have managed a quiet talk with thee I would have done that;
but thou has lived in The House of Commons all of the last week, I
think.”
“And been varry anxious and unhappy, Annie. Let me tell thee that!”
“Well, then, dearie, happiness is a domestic pleasure. Few people find
her often outside their own home. Do they, Antony?”
“My duty took me away from thee and my own home. There hev been constant
night sessions for the last week and more.”
“I know, and it has been close to sun-up when thou tumbled sleepy and
weary into thy bed. And I couldn’t wait until thou got thy senses again.
I hed to go with Josepha about something or other, or I had to help Jane
with her preparations, and so the days went by. Then, also, when I did
get a sight of thee, thou could not frame thysen to talk of anything
but that weary Bill and it made me cross. I thought thou ought to care
a little about Katherine’s affairs, they were as important to her as The
Bill was to thee.”
“I was caring, Annie. I was full of care and worry about Kitty. I was
that. And I needn’t hev been so miserable if thou hed cared for me.”
“Well, then, I was cross enough to say to myself, ‘Antony can just tell
his worries to The Bill men and I’ll be bound he does.’ So he got no
chance for a good talk and I didn’t let Sarah Sykes trouble my mind at
all; but I can tell thee that all thy goodness to the Annis weavers
is written down on their hearts, and thou and thine are safe whatever
happens.”
“I am thankful for thy words. Will tha sit an hour with me?”
“I’ll not leave thee to-night if thou wants to talk to me.”
“Oh, my joy! How good thou art! There is not a woman in England to
marrow thee.”
“Come then to the parlor and we will have a cup of tea and thou will
tell me all thy fears about The Bill and I’ll sit with thee until thou
wants to go back to The House.”
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, *
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.
* An almost transparent material first made in Gaza,
Palestine, from which it derived its name.
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.”_