The Coryston Family | Page 6

Mrs Humphry Ward
these opposing Cabinets--the
Ins and Outs--on either side of the historic table; the glitter of the Mace
at its farther end; the books, the old morocco boxes, the tops of the
official wigs, the ugly light which bathed it all; the exhausted air, the
dreariness, the boredom! all worth while, these last, just for the
moments, the crises, the play of personalities, the conflict of giants, of
which they were the inevitable conditions. There, on the second bench
above the gangway on the Tory side, her husband, before he succeeded
to the title, had sat through four Parliaments. And from the same point
of vantage above she had watched him year after year, coming in and
out, speaking occasionally, never eloquent or brilliant, but always
respected; a good, worthy, steady-going fellow with whom no one had
any fault to find, least of all his wife, to whom he had very easily given
up the management of their common life, while he represented her
political opinions in Parliament much more than his own.

Until--until?
Well, until in an evil hour, a great question, the only political question
on which he differed and had always differed from his wife, on which
he felt he must speak for himself and stand on his own feet, arose to
divide them. There, in that Gallery, she had sat, with rage and defeat in
her heart, watching him pass along, behind the Speaker's chair, toward
the wrong division lobby, his head doggedly held down, as though he
knew and felt her eyes upon him, but must do his duty all the same. On
this one matter he had voted against her, spoken against her, openly
flouted and disavowed her. And it had broken down their whole
relation, poisoned their whole life. "Women are natural tyrants," he had
said to her once, bitterly--"no man could torment me as you do." And
then had come his death--his swift last illness, with those tired eyes still
alive in the dumb face, after speech and movement were no longer
possible--eyes which were apt to close when she came near.
And yet, after all--the will!--the will which all his relations and friends
had taken as the final expression of his life's weakness, his miserable
failure to play the man in his own household, and in which _she_, his
wife, had recognized with a secret triumph his last effort to propitiate
her, his last surrender to her. Everything left to her, both land and
personalty, everything! save for a thousand a year to each of the
children, and fifteen hundred a year to Coryston, his heir. The great
Irish, the great Devonshire properties, the accumulated savings of a
lifetime, they were all hers--hers absolutely. Her husband had stood last
in the entail; and with a view to her own power, she had never allowed
him to renew it.
Coryston had been furiously angry when the terms of his father's will
were revealed. She could never think without shivering of certain
scenes, with Coryston in the past--of a certain other scene that was still
to come. Well, it had been a duel between them; and after apparently
sore defeat, she had won, so far as influence over his father was
concerned. And since his father's death she had given him every chance.
He had only to hold his tongue, to keep his monstrous, _sans-culotte_
opinions to himself, at least, if he could not give them up; and she

would have restored him his inheritance, would have dealt with him not
only justly, but generously. He had chosen; he had deliberately chosen.
Well, now then it was for her--as she had said to old Lady Frensham--it
was for her to reply, but not in words only.
She fell back upon the thought of Arthur, Arthur, her darling; so manly,
and yet so docile; so willing to be guided! Where was he, that she
might praise him for his speech? She turned, searching the dark
doorway with her eyes. But there was no Arthur, only the white head
and smiling countenance of her old friend, Sir Wilfrid Bury, who was
beckoning to her. She hurriedly bade Marcia, who had just returned to
the Gallery, to keep her seat for her, and went out into the corridor to
speak to him.
"Well, not bad, was it? These youngsters have got the trick! I thought it
capital. But I dare say you'll have all sorts of fault to find, you most
exacting of women!"
"No, no; it was good," she said, eagerly. "And he's improving fast."
"Well then"--the wise old eyes beside her laughed kindly into hers--"be
content, and don't take Coryston's escapades too hardly!"
She drew back, and her long face and haughty mouth stiffened in the
way he knew.
"Are you coming to see me on Sunday?"
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