Hungry Hill (41 page)

The family were waiting for them downstairs in the lounge, and cabs were ordered immediately to take them to the Town Hall.

The streets were congested, though, with everyone bent on the same errand as themselves, and the horses were obliged to proceed at walking pace, or they would have run down the people.

Henry directed the driver to take them round to the entrance at the back of the building, for to climb up the steps in front of the crowds assembled in the square was to court immediate recognition.

Even now they could hear the hum of excitement and the babble of voices, for all the world, said Fanny-Rosa, like a mob before an execution, and as the cabs turned into the little street behind the Town Hall they could see line upon line of excited faces, looking upwards to the balcony, laughing, shouting, with caps waving, and handkerchiefs flying.

“We must be even later than I thought,” said Henry swiftly, “it looks to me as though the result is being given out.”

He handed his mother and his sister from the cab, and leaving them to follow in the care of his brothers, Tom Callaghan, and his brother-in-law, he ran up the narrow staircase at the back of the Hall that led to the large board room on the upper floor. His heart was beating, and for the first time in his life his hands were trembling. He entered the room, which was filled with people and the excited buzz of voices. Outside the crowds were cheering their heads off. And there, in front of him, standing on the balcony, hat in hand, bowing to right and left, was Mr. Sartor, the Liberal candidate.

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.”