Inheritance and succession -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction
“I wish we could be in the gallery to see ourselves sitting here, in
this great show,” Everard whispered to Reine as he passed her to his
inferior place; for it was not permitted to Everard on this great
occasion to hand in the young mistress of the house, in whose favor Miss
Susan intended, after this night, to abdicate. Reine looked up with soft
eyes to the dim corner in which the three used to scramble and rustle,
and catch the oranges, and I fear thought more of this reminiscence than
of what her companion said to her, who was ignorant of the old times.
But, indeed, the show was worth seeing from the gallery, where old
Martha, and young Jane, and the good French Julie, who had come with
Reine, clustered in the children’s very corner, keeping out of sight
behind the tapestry, and pointing out to each other the ladies and their
fine dresses. The maids cared nothing about the gentlemen, but shook
their heads over Sophy and Kate’s bare shoulders, and made notes of how
the dresses were made. Julie communicated her views on the subject with
an authority which her auditors received without question, for was not
she French?--a large word, which takes in the wilds of Normandy as well
as Paris, that centre of the civilized world.
Herbert sat with his back to these eager watchers, at the foot of the
table, taking his natural place for the first time, and half hidden by
the voluminous robes of Lady Kingsborough and Lady Rivers. The pink
_gros grain_ of one of those ladies and the gorgeous white _moire_ of
the other dazzled the women in the gallery; but apart from such
professional considerations, the scene was a charming one to look at,
with the twinkle of the many lights, the brightness of the flowers and
the dresses--the illuminated spot in the midst of the partial darkness
of the old walls, all gorgeous with color, and movement, and the hum of
sound. Miss Susan at the head of the table, in her old point lace,
looked like a queen, Martha thought. It was her apotheosis, her climax,
the concluding triumph--a sort of phœnix blaze with which she meant
to end her life.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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