After dinner--which was specially early for that night--the majority of the gentlemen went to the House. The Reform Bill, about which all England was in agonising suspense, was to be read for the first time. Never, within the memory of Englishmen, had there been so great a crowd eager to get into the House. Every inch of space on the floor was filled; and troops of eager politicians, from all parts of the country, were waiting at the doors of the various galleries. When they were opened, the clamour, the struggle, and the confusion was so indescribable that the Speaker threatened to have all the galleries cleared. Even among the members, there was great confusion and complaining; for their seats, though marked with their cards, had in many instances been taken by others.
Outside, the streets were packed with men wrought up to feverish excitement and anxiety; and in all the great centres of society, and in every club in London, there were restless crowds waiting for news from Westminster. The Duchess of Richmoor's parlours were the central point of Tory interest. Not one of the company there present but believed with Sir Robert Inglis--an orator of their party--that "Reform would sweep the House of Lords clear in ten years." This night was, to them, their salvation or their ruin. Below their jewelled bodices, their hearts trembled with anxious terror. After the departure of the members for the House, they gathered in little knots, wondering, and fearing, and listening to the noises in the crowded streets, with an agitation not quite devoid of pleasurable stimulation. For they were not without comforters and encouragers. The Duke of Wellington went from group to group, assuring them that Lord Grey's Ministry must go down, and that no Reform Bill which could injure the nobility would be permitted to pass the House of Lords.
Annabel was almost glad to see every one so unhappy. She had a perverse desire to say contradictious things. Her heart was heavy with fear, and it was burning with envy and jealousy. Kate's beauty, and Lord Exham's undisguised admiration, made her realise all the bitterness of failure. She wandered about making evil prophecies, or saying irritating truths, and watching Kate the while, till she was ready to cry out with mental pain and mortification. For the great Duke--never insensible to female loveliness--had given Kate his arm, and was walking about the parlours with her. Why had such honour not fallen to her lot? Never had she been so desirous to lead, to be admired, to enforce her eminent fitness to wear the Richmoor coronet. Never had she so signally failed. Even her wit had deserted her; she said _malapropos_ clever things, and got snubbed for them. In her anger, and fear, and disappointment, she wished Reform _might_ make a clean sweep of such a selfish crowd of so-called nobility. She had arrived at that point when her misery demanded company.