Something snapped for an instant in Henry's mind, and a momentary wave of bitter disappointment filled his heart.
"Oh, damn…" he thought to himself, "damn and blast…?
And then he smiled, he walked forward with his hand extended. and Mr. Sartor, the new member for Bronsea, turned and saw him, and beckoned him on to the balcony beside him. The Liberal had won by a majority of eight thousand votes.
"And so that's that," said Henry, when the applause had died away and the crowds had dispersed to make merry in the public-houses. "And I may as well confess now to my family that I never for one moment thought I would succeed. It's been an experience, and very great fun; now let us go back and have an excellent dinner, and forget all about it."
"Spoken like a sportsman," said Tom Callaghan, taking his arm. "I don't mind saying I'm disappointed. I should have dearly loved to have gone to Westminster and seen you talking the heads off all the fellows there. But never mind, it was not to be, and we shall have you home in Doonhaven."
"Better luck next time, old fellow," said Edward.
"Ah, there'll be no next time," said Henry; "this was my first and last venture into politics. I don't mind making a fool of myself once, but twice is too often."
He chatted lightly and gaily to cover his sense of defeat. His family must not think he minded, nor did he mind, he kept insisting to himself. The worst thing in the world was to be a bad loser. No, it was just a silly pin-prick to his pride, that was all.
Henry Brodrick hitherto had got away with everything.
"I simply can't understand how anyone voted for that Mr. Sartor," said Fanny-Rosa; "such a terribly unattractive man. Bad teeth, which I can't forgive. And absolutely no breeding whatsoever."
"The people of Bronsea don't mind that, Mrs.
Brodrick," said Tom Callaghan. "They felt he knew more about them than Henry did, and that's how he won the seat."
"Oh, it's easy to persuade a man who lives on bread and porridge that he is a suffering man," replied Fanny-Rosa, "but whether you can do him any good by telling him so is another matter."
"Politics is a gamble, nothing more nor less," said Henry, "and if you lose you cut your losses and forget the business, which is what I propose to do."
"Which shows your very good sense of balance," said Tom. "Your inveterate gambler never knows when he is beaten, and goes on until the thing becomes 3 disease and be can't stop. It's a form of mental escape, like drink, and runs in the blood-stream.
But I don't know why we are so serious all of a sudden. Henry, old friend, even if you have lost the election, you conducted the affair like a gentleman, and I, for one, am proud of you."
"We are all proud of him," said his mother, patting his cheek, "and he looked so handsome too, standing on the balcony beside that dreadful little man. I am quite certain everyone must have wished they had voted the other way round."
And so the Brodricks returned to the hotel, all of them suffering from anti-climax but determined not to show it, and as they entered the lounge a page-boy came forward and handed Henry a telegram on a salver.
"Some facetious fellow sending you a condolence," said Fanny-Rosa. "Don't open it, it will only annoy you."
But Henry had already torn open the envelope, and was reading the message. He glanced up, his eyes shining, and waved the paper in front of his family.
"To hell with politics," he said. "Who cares a damn for 'em? I've got a son, and that's the only thing that matters."
They crowded round him, looking over his shoulder.
The message was brief, but very much to the point.
"Don't be disappointed if the election goes against you. Your son was born today, and we both want you home. He is exactly like you, and I have called him Hal. My love and thoughts are with you.
Katherine."
"Haven't I always said," smiled Henry, "that she is the only woman in the world? Call that waiter, Tom. I may have been defeated today at Bronsea, but by God, we're going to drink champagne tonight."
There was a measured serenity about those days; they had a natural rhythm to them, a slow movement, and events succeeded one another as the seasons did, with no sudden disturbance breaking the calm sequence.
Life was something certain and secure, and Henry, breakfasting on a winter's morning, would know that the following winter would be the same, that the accustomed routine would be taken up and followed, and so on through the spring, the summer, and the autumn, the months would give him what he desired, his plans would come to maturity and be fulfilled. The winter and spring would be spent at Clonmere, and then, at the end of April, Henry and Katherine and the children would cross the water, and spend the season in London. It was delightful, he used to think, after the long, slow, peaceful winter at Clonmere, suddenly to hear traffic again, the hum of London, to be made aware of the existence of millions of people, to stroll across the Park on a May morning, chatting on the way with those of his friends whom he might meet, and then down to his Club in St. James's, to read the papers, talk again, and while away the time until he was due to meet Katherine for luncheon with friends in Berkeley Square, or Grosvenor Street, or wherever it was, And the luncheon would be amusing, fifteen or twenty people very often, most of whom he would know, and if he did not it was always enjoyable to meet new faces.
Then, in the afternoon, the usual outing of the season, whatever it should be. Pictures, or a concert, or a race-meeting, or to Ranelagh, but back always, if it could be managed, to the house by five o'clock, because Katherine wished to spend this time with the children, and fretted if she did not. Besides, it was good for her to rest before dining out again in the evening. He liked the hour between six and seven, when, sitting in his chair before the open window in the drawing-room, the brightly painted window-box gay with flowers, he would browse over the events of the day. The joy, talking for the sheer delight of talking, thrashing a subject until it was in shreds. A sense of well-being would envelop him, and smiling, Henry would go upstairs to dress for dinner, and presently Katherine would call to him from her room, through the open door between them. The friends to whom they were bound would give them an excellent dinner, and afterwards there would be music, some lion or other invited for the purpose, and so home to bed round about midnight, well fed, contented, and tomorrow the whole thing beginning over again. Katherine would look very beautiful on these occasions, and he would feel so proud when they were announced, to see the heads turn in their direction, as Katherine led the way across the floor towards their host and hostess, her gown rustling slightly as she walked. The way she looked, he thought, the way she moved, the way she held her fan in her gloved hands, the smile, the angle of the head, put her in another class from every other woman; there would be no one in the room to touch her. And perhaps someone would come up to him with outstretched hand. "Good heavens, Henry, I haven't set eyes on you since Oxford days," and there would be the recognition, the momentary greeting, and then, "You have never met my wife. Katherine, this is a very old friend of mine."
"You know," his hostess would say at dinner, in her gay, mocking, fashionable way, "everybody says that you and your wife are the handsomest couple in London. People queue up to watch the Henry Brodricks drive to church on Sunday morning."
And lots more of this nonsense, every day, which Henry told himself he took with a pinch of salt, and yet it was pleasing to be admired, to know that he and Katherine were bracketed together in this manner.
Henry kept his vow and did not play with politics again, but he continued to be a keen Conservative, and when in the neighbourhood of Bronsea he was generally induced to make an appearance at some banquet or other, and entertain the company with his quick wit and lively stories. In '67 he was made high sheriff for the county, and this necessitated a rather long sojourn in Saunby, the family taking up their quarters at Brodrick House for a full six months with Aunt Eliza.
Little Hal, Aunt Eliza said, reminded her strongly of his grandfather, her brother John
. He had the same soft eyes, the same mouth, the same shy way of stroking a dog or a cat when he did not want people to notice him, and he would play alone quite happily for hours, as John had done when he was a little boy.
"Added to which," said Aunt Eliza, "he has your own reserve, Katherine, so he won't make his mark in the world unless he can produce some of Henry's push and go. I must say, I do like a boy to have spirit."
"Hal will have spirit enough if it's directed in the right way," smiled Katherine. "He needs encouragement, and patience, and someone to build up his confidence. Talking and walking were an effort for him, when they were nothing to Molly. She will sail through life gaily, without any difficulty. Hal is just the opposite, he will need someone to hold his hand."
And Aunt Eliza had sniffed, and snapped her lorgnette back on her bosom.
"My father would not have had much truck with that sort of talk," she said. "Nobody ever held our hands as children, and I always pride myself that one of the reasons I have lived longer than any of my brothers or sisters is because I had plenty of sense, and was practical.
My youngest sister, Henry's aunt Jane, was very sentimental and weak, and I always used to say John had no backbone. There is a weak strain in the Brodricks, Katherine, and you will have to watch it."
It was good to take the boat at length and cross to Slane, and then drive down home to Doonhaven by way of Mundy and Andriff, and find themselves home at Clonmere. Henry, the first morning on waking up, wondered why they had ever bothered to go away.
He leant out of their bedroom window looking down to the creek, and the familiar prospect of the day before him filled him with pleasure.
Breakfast in the dining-room, and then going into the library and having the outdoor staff in to report.
Old Tim, who was getting rather stiff in the joints but went scarlet with indignation if it was suggested for one moment that he should seek honourable retirement, and Sullivan, the head gardener, nephew to the elderly Baird, now in his grave, Phillips the keeper, Mahoney the cow-man, faces that he had seen upon the place since boyhood. If there was time before luncheon, a walk round the grounds, up through the woods and across to the farm, and down through the park, and so home by the path beside the creek. In the afternoon up to the mines to see if things were satisfactory. Calling in on dear old Tom at Heathmount on his way home, and asking him and Harriet to Clonmere to dinner, to hear and exchange all the gossip that was going. A very good thing he had stood for Bronsea, even if he had been defeated, because it had been the means of bringing together Tom and his wife, the pretty, bright-eyed friend of Fanny's, and now they had a small daughter Jinny, who came to romp with his own brood at Clonmere. Then home to tea, a roaring fire in the drawing-room, and the children down afterwards, settling themselves about Katherine's knee. Molly, with dark hair flying, usually the most forward with suggestions as to what they should do and what book should be read, while Hal would plead for music, looking as solemn as an owl, until, for the sake of Kitty, the second daughter of the house and the last arrival, Katherine would break into one of the old jigs, lively and gay, and the three children would dance themselves giddy, and Hal, losing his shyness, become the wildest of the pack. Then Katherine would close the piano and go back again to her chair, and read to the children, very slowly, very carefully, with many explanations.
"The trouble is," Henry said to her one day, "you wear yourself out for those children. They never give you a moment's peace."
"The children never tire me," she told him, "I promise you they don't. If they did I should send them back to the nursery."
"I don't believe you," he said, rather sulkily.
"You have such a strong sense of duty that if Hal had some imaginary bother and you had a raging headache you would sit by him all day and never look after yourself. And then when I want attention in the evening you are too tired to talk to me."
"Dear one, aren't you being unjust for once? Have I ever been too tired for my Henry?"
He looked down at her, a boyish, disgruntled expression on his face, and then the frown went, he was himself again, and bending down, he smiled and kissed her hand.
"Forgive me," he said. "I love you so much."
And he left the room, ashamed of his outburst, and went to discuss with the keeper the shooting-party for the following Saturday, but nagging him, like a maggot in his mind, were the words old Uncle Willie Armstrong had said to him last week: "I hope that the lively young Kitty completes your family. If Katherine had another child I would not answer for the consequences."
"Forget it, though. Always forget the unpleasant things in life, the pin-pricks, the annoyances.
Wasn't that one of his mother's maxims? He would hear from her, now and again, scrappy, disjointed letters about nothing at all, and on the rare occasions when she had visited them it was always to borrow money… He did not ask her again why she wanted it, he simply wrote out a cheque and gave it to her without a word.
It was distasteful, a thing that had to be put away in a corner of his mind. It was the one secret he kept from Katherine. He dreaded that this carelessness of hers should become known to people, to the rest of the family, to their friends, and there should be some sort of scandal, as there had been over Johnnie.
Meanwhile. there were great festivities ahead.
"On the 3rd of March, 1870, the copper mines would be fifty years old, and Henry was determined to celebrate the occasion in style. There would be a sit-down dinner up at the mines for all the miners employed there, and their families, also for the seamen of the vessels that carried the copper across to Bronsea. Toasts would be given, speeches made, and all the paraphernalia that Henry dearly loved. Then, the following night at Clonmere, another dinner for the county, for all those who had been connected, in some way or other, with the original mining agreement. The Lumleys from Duncroom, the Flowers from Andriff, all cousins, of course, and known very well to him, and certain other neighbours who during the course of fifty years had received benefit from the mines on Hungry Hill.
Bill Eyre and Fanny would bring their son and daughter down from the parsonage in the north, and Herbert and his wife and boys across the water from Lletharrog. Edward, returned from abroad, would also join them, and possibly Aunt Eliza, if she could be induced to face the crossing during the stormiest period of the year. Of course, Tom and his wife would have a place of honour, and old Uncle Willie, who had brought Henry into the world. Molly and Hal and Kitty should sit up for the occasion and have dinner with them. Henry was full of plans, each one succeeding the other with lightning rapidity, until Katherine, laughing, said he made her head dizzy, and anyway she did not know where they were going to put up all the guests. Herbert's boys would have to sleep in the boat-house, and Edward and his bride in an attic Henry dismissed the matter airily, with a wave of his hand.
"Tom can put up some of them, and Uncle Willie one or two; we shall manage all right."
And then he smiled, and looked at her slyly. "But in a year's time," he added, "we shall have room for twice as many."
"Why, what do you mean?" she asked.
But he shook his head, he would not be drawn, and she wondered what new project was now in preparation, occupying his energetic mind.
The 1st of March came in, not like the proverbial lion but calmly, serenely, with a soft west wind blowing from Mundy Bay, rippling the creek, and the golden and purple crocuses bursting into flower on the bank below the castle. There were no clouds in the sky, and the sun shone fine and strongly upon Hungry Hill. And one by one, during the day, the Brodricks came to Clonmere. Herbert, from Lletharrog, with his wife Cathie and their two eldest boys, Robert and Bertie; Edward, with his bride Winifred; and later in the afternoon Fanny Eyre, her husband Bill, and their son and daughter William and Maria. Aunt Eliza arrived with the Lletharrog party, and in spite of her seventy-two years had stood the journey better than any of them. And how delightful it was, thought Henry, to have the whole family assembled here unde
r his roof, brother shaking hands with brother, sister-in-law greeting sister-in-law, and young cousins standing warily on one foot watching other young cousins out of the corners of their eyes.
Everybody sat down to an enormous tea in the dining-room, with Aunt Eliza in the place of honour at the head of it, which pleased her mightily.
"So many times I have sat round this table," she told them, "with your grandfather where you are sitting now, Henry, and Barbara in this place. Your father John was always late for meals; it used to annoy your grandfather considerably, and I must say I dislike un-punctuality almost as much as he did-so very inconsiderate, and careless. Barbara never said very much to John about it, which was weak of her, and of course your aunt Jane could not bear to have him scolded. Poor Jane, she would have been sixty this year, if she had lived."
And Hal, a little uncomfortable in the magnificence of his new Eton jacket and broad white collar, to which he had been promoted in honour of the occasion and his approaching ten years, gazed up at the portrait of his great-aunt above the mantelpiece, and thought how glad he was that she had stayed young and pretty, and had not become old like Great-aunt Eliza, who used to come out of her room at Saunby and scold him if he made too much noise on the stairs. Even Great-aunt Jane, pretty as she was, would not bear comparison with mamma, whose portrait also hung in the dining-room, and Hal, glancing from the portrait to the original, caught his mother's eye and smiled. It made a small happiness that she should know he had been looking at her, as though they shared a secret. Someone kicked him under the table. It was Molly, and she was frowning at him. "Don't dream," her lips moved, and he realised with a start that he had paid no attention to the cousin on his right, Robert from Lletharrog, who was asking him, with all the superiority of thirteen years, what sort of fish were obtainable in the creek.
"Killigs and pollock," he said with great politeness. "Perhaps you would like to come with me in a boat tomorrow, if my father will allow it?"
"Oh, sea-fishing," said Robert scornfully; "that's poor sport after catching trout, as we do at home."
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