“Now,” said Margaret brightly. “It is done! You must send me a message, my dear Maria, so soon as the Admiral returns your call. I must know what happens. I think I shan’t sleep a wink until I know.”
* * * * * * *
Maria stayed at home every morning for the next week in hopes of a visit from the admiral, and in reply to Margaret’s frequent messages, replied, No—not yet—no—he has not come. These long mornings grew exceedingly irksome for Maria, and she sometimes despaired of her success.
But the Admiral did come at last, for no other reason than to gratify his curiosity and to have the pleasure of traducing to her face a woman whose reputation he had abused since his nephew’s death.
The Admiral was fully prepared to despise Maria. He entered her modest drawing room with his decks cleared for battle and his cannon loaded, ready to rake the Bertram chit with the withering grapeshot of his scorn. But his plan was confounded, for Maria bore down on him like Nelson at Trafalgar—or as Nelson would have done, if Nelson had a three-year-boy in his flagship.
At the first sight of little Henry, the Admiral inwardly conceded that the child was (despite every insult the Admiral had implied before this meeting) indubitably sired by Henry Crawford. This lively little boy accomplished more than the most adroit diplomat could ever have done, and did so by pushing away his nurse, climbing all over the sofa, knocking down the fire screen, and demanding some cake.
“Now here’s a proper rascal!” cried the Admiral approvingly. “Submit to no petticoat government, little Henry!”
And to crown the whole, the little boy did take notice of the elderly visitor, and far from being repulsed by the crooked wig or the ill-fitting false teeth, suffered himself to be lifted up on the Admiral’s bony knee, so that the admiral might observe the resemblance to his lost nephew in every lineament and feature. The wiggling, animated, bold little boy awakened in the Admiral’s breast the most tender recollections of the beloved Henry that was gone. Maria thought she could observe a tear glistening in the admiral’s eye!
“Well, then,” said he at last, after clearing his throat, “you are a Crawford, and the master of Everingham, my young rascal. But you are on notice—mark me well, Henry—that there is more than one branch of your family with the keenest interest in the contents of my last will and testament. And I doubt that you, or anyone, can equal the determination of your aunt Mary. She has named her new-born son Cyrus, in my honour. A woman willing to inflict the name ‘Cyrus’ on an innocent child, is not to be trifled with.” And there was more along the same line which Maria affected to not quite understand.
Maria invited the Admiral to call again, and often, and he replied with a “humph!” which augured well for the future.
Another note of enquiry from Margaret arrived within an hour of the Admiral’s departure. Considering how far Maria was in Margaret’s debt for all the favours rendered and the kind solicitude given, Maria felt compelled to respond immediately. She bade Mrs. Meriwether’s footman wait while she composed a cheerful reply, giving the particulars.
Back came the reply to her reply. Maria’s happiness was of course Margaret’s rapture. Margaret declared that she must have Maria to herself all the next day, to celebrate her triumph. The ladies went shopping all morning, and even Maria was tired of the topic of Admiral Crawford’s visit before Margaret was done asking about it.
* * * * * * *
The ladies were resting in the Meriwether’s parlour when Margaret’s husband joined them, having returned from a long walk. He greeted them with his usual cordiality, but Maria could discern in his air that he intended to leave his wife and her friend to their own amusements, while he relaxed with some newspapers and pamphlets he had picked up during his excursion. Margaret, to Maria’s private amusement, continued to prattle happily at him about the gloves she had bought and the bonnet she had seen.
Her husband smiled, nodded, and returned to his pamphlet, in which he was clearly engrossed.
“What are you reading, dear?” Margaret finally asked. “What is it about? Is there some interesting news?
Mr. Meriwether showed them the pamphlet which had drawn his interest—An Account of the Late Executions of Luddites at York, was the title.
The pamphlet described, in vivid language, the executions of thirty men, hung by the neck before the grim battlements of York Castle. It gave the last moments of the condemned, who walked solemnly to the gallows while singing hymns; it told of the silence of the large crowd assembled; and the ghastly conclusion, the final writhings and struggles of the poor wretches as they swung from the gibbet.
“Gracious! The poor souls!” exclaimed Margaret.
The gallows were built high upon a hillside and surrounded by armed and mounted militia, and the whole was designed to impress upon the multitude, the awful and inexorable fate of those who broke machines and assaulted mill owners. Mr. Meriwether then read the next passages aloud:
Even those who believe that the introduction of machinery is not only inevitable, but will in time, conduce to the general prosperity of the nation, should acknowledge the need to ameliorate the severe hardships which at present are visited upon the labouring classes. The families who have for generations prepared the wool upon which the wealth of our nation was built, are either without work entirely or are compelled through extremity to accept a great diminution in wages.
Suppose that
