“Edgar is making a lot of trouble ready for himself,” said the Squire to his wife; “but Edgar can’t live without a fight on hand. I’ll warrant that he gets more fighting than he bargains for; a few hundreds of those Lancashire and Yorkshire operatives aren’t as easy to manage as he seems to think. They have ‘reformed’ their lawgivers; and they are bound to ‘reform’ their masters next.”
The Squire had said little about this new influx into his peaceful neighbourhood, but it had grieved his very soul; and his wife wondered at his reticence, and one day she told him so.
“Well, Maude,” he answered, “when Edgar was one of my household, I had the right to say this and that about his words and ways; but Edgar is now Squire, and married man, and Member of Parliament. He is a Reformer too, and bound to carry out his ideas; and, I dare say, his wife keeps the bit in his mouth hard enough, without me pulling on it too. I have taken notice, Maude, that these sweet little women are often very masterful.”
“I am sure his grandfather Belward would never have suffered that mill chimney in his sight for any money.”
“Perhaps he could not have helped it.”
“Thou knowest different. My father always made everything go as he wanted it. The Belwards know no other road but their own way.”
“I should think thou needest not tell me that. I have been learning it for a quarter of a century.”
“Now, John! When I changed my name, I changed my way also. I have been Atheling, and gone Atheling, ever since I was thy wife.”
“Pretty nearly, Maude. But Edgar’s little, innocent-faced, gentle wife will lead Edgar, Curzon way. She has done it already. Fancy an Atheling, land lords for a thousand years, turning into a loom lord. Maude, it hurts me; but then, it is a bit of Reform, I suppose.”
For all this interior dissatisfaction, the Squire and his son were good friends and neighbours; and, in a kind of a way, the father approved the changes made around him. They came gradually, and he did not have to swallow the whole dose at once. Besides he had his daughter. And Kitty never put him behind Gisbourne or any other cause. They were constant companions. They threw their lines in the trout streams together through the summer mornings; and in the winter, she was with him in every hunting field. About the house, he heard her light foot and her happy voice; and in the evenings, she read the papers to him, and helped forward his grumble at Peel, or his anger at Cobbett.
At not very long intervals there came letters to the Squire, or to Mrs. Atheling, which made sunshine in the house for many days afterwards,–letters from Boston, New York, Baltimore, Washington, New Orleans, and finally from an outlandish place called Texas. Here Piers seemed to have found the life he had been unconsciously longing for. “The people were fighting,” he said, “for Liberty: a handful of Americans against the whole power of Mexico; fighting, not in words–he was weary to death of words–but with the clang of iron on iron, and the clash of steel against steel, as in the old world battles.” And he filled pages with glowing encomiums of General Houston, and Colonels Bowie and Crockett, and their wonderful courage and deeds. “And, oh, what a Paradise the land was! What sunshine! What moonshine! What wealth of every good thing necessary for human existence!”
When such letters as these arrived, it was holiday at Atheling; it was holiday in every heart there; and they were read, and re-read, and discussed, till their far-away, wild life became part and parcel of the calm, homely existence of this insular English manor. So the years went by; and Kate grew to a glorious womanhood. All the promise of her beauteous girlhood was amply redeemed. She was the pride of her county, and the joy of all the hearts that knew her. And if she had hours of restlessness and doubt, or any fears for Piers’s safety, no one was made unhappy by them. She never spoke of Piers but with hope, and with the certainty of his return. She declared she was “glad that he should have the experience of such a glorious warfare, one in which he had made noble friends, and done valiant deeds. Her lover was growing in such a struggle to his full stature.” And, undoubtedly, the habit of talking hopefully induces the habit of feeling hopefully; so there were no signs of the love-lorn maiden about Kate Atheling, nor any fears for her final happiness in Atheling Manor House.
The fears and doubts and wretchedness were all in the gloomy castle of Richmoor, where the Duke and Duchess lived only to bewail the dangers of the country, and their deprivation of their son’s society,–a calamity they attributed also to Reform. Else, why would Piers have gone straight to a wild land where outlawed men were also fighting against legitimate authority.
One evening, nearly four years after Piers had left England, the Duke was crossing Belward Bents, and he met the Squire and his daughter, leisurely riding together in the summer gloaming. He touched his hat, and said, “Good-evening, Miss Atheling! Good-evening, Squire!” And the Squire responded cheerfully, and Kate gave him a ravishing smile,–for he was the father of Piers, accordingly she already loved him. There was nothing further said, but each was affected by the interview; the Duke especially so. When he reached his castle he found the Duchess walking softly up and down the dim drawing-room, and she was weeping. His heart ached for her. He said tenderly, as he took her hand,–
“Is it Piers, Julia?”
“I am dying to see him,” she answered, “to hear him speak, to have him come in and out as he used to do. I want to feel the clasp of his hand, and the touch of his lips. Oh, Richard, Richard, bring back my boy! A word from you will do it.”
“My dear Julia, I have just met Squire Atheling and his daughter. The girl has grown to a wonder of beauty. She is marvellous; I simply never saw such a face. Last week I watched her in the hunting field at Ashley. She rode like an Amazon; she was peerless among all the beauties there. I begin to understand that Piers, having loved her, could love no other woman; and I think we might learn to love her for Piers’s sake. What do you say, my dear? The house is terribly lonely. I miss my son in business matters continually; and if he does not marry, the children of my brother Henry come after him. He is in constant danger; he is in a land where he must go armed day and night. Think of our son living in a place like that! And his last letters have had such a tone of home-sickness in them. Shall I see Squire Atheling, and ask him for his daughter?”
“Let him come and see you.”
“He will never do it.”
“Then see him, Richard. Anything, anything, that will give Piers back to me.”
The next day the Duke was at Atheling, and what took place at that interview, the Squire never quite divulged, even to his wife. “It was very humbling to him,” he said, “and I am not the man to brag about it.” To Kate nothing whatever was said. “Who knows just where Piers is? and who can tell what might happen before he learns of the change that has taken place?” asked the Squire. “Why should we toss Kitty’s mind hither and thither till Piers is here to quiet it?”
In fact the Squire’s idea was far truer than he had any conception of. Piers was actually in London when the Duke’s fatherly letter sent to recall his self-banished son left for Texas. Indeed he was on his way to Richmoor the very day that the letter was written. He came to it one afternoon just before dinner. The Duchess was dressed and waiting for the Duke and the daily ceremony of the hour. She stood at the window, looking into the dripping garden, but really seeing nothing, not even the plashed roses before her eyes. Her thoughts were in a country far off; and she was wondering how long it would take Piers to answer their loving letter. The door opened softly. She supposed it was the Duke, and said, fretfully, “This climate is detestable, Duke. It has rained for a week.”
“Mother! Mother! Oh, my dear Mother!”
Then, with a cry of joy that rung through the lofty room, she turned, and was immediately folded in the arms she longed for. And before her rapture had time to express itself, the Duke came in and shared it. They were not an emotional family; and high culture had relegated any expression of feeling far below the tide of their daily life; but, for once, Nature had her way with the usually undemonstrative woman. She wept, and laughed, and talked, and exclaimed as no one had ever seen or heard her since the days of her early girlhood.
In the happy privacy of the evening hours, Piers told them over again the wild, exciting story he had been living; and the Duke acknowledged that to have aided in any measure such an heroic struggle was an event to dignify life. “But now, Piers,” he said, “now you will remain in your own home. If you still wish to marry Miss Atheling, your mother and I are pleased that you should do so. We will express this pleasure as soon as you desire us. I wrote you to this effect; but you cannot have received my letter, since it only left for Texas yesterday.”
“I am glad I have not received it,” answered Piers. “I came home at the call of my mother. It is true. I was sitting one night thinking of many things. It was long past midnight, but the moonlight was so clear I had been reading by it, and the mocking birds were thrilling the air, far and wide, with melody. But far clearer, far sweeter, far more pervading, I heard my mother’s voice calling me. And I immediately answered, ‘I am coming, Mother!’ Here I am. What must I do, now and forever, to please you?”
And she said, “Stay near me. Marry Miss Atheling, if you wish. I will love her for your sake.”
And Piers kissed his answer on her lips, and then put his hand in his father’s hand. It was but a simple act; but it promised all that fatherly affection could ask, and all that filial affection could give.
Who that has seen in England a sunny morning after a long rain-storm can ever forget the ineffable sweetness and freshness of the woods and hills and fields? The world seemed as if it was just made over when Piers left Richmoor for Atheling. A thousand vagrant perfumes from the spruce and fir woods, from the moors and fields and gardens, wandered over the earth. A gentle west wind was blowing; the sense of rejoicing was in every living thing. The Squire and Kate had been early abroad. They had had a long gallop, and were coming slowly through Atheling lane, talking of Piers, though both of them believed Piers to be thousands of miles away. They were just at the spot where he had passed them that miserable night when his cry of “Kate! Kate! Kate!” had nearly broken the girl’s heart for awhile. She never saw the place without remembering her lover, and sending her thoughts to find him out, wherever he might be. And thus, at this place, there was always a little silence; and the Squire comprehended, and respected the circumstance.
This morning the silence, usually so perfect, was broken by the sound of an approaching horseman; but neither the Squire nor Kate turned. They simply withdrew to their side of the road, and went leisurely forward.
“Kate! Kate! Kate!”
The same words, but how different! They were full of impatient joy, of triumphant hope and love. Both father and daughter faced round in the moment, and then they saw Piers coming like the wind towards them. It was a miracle. It was such a moment as could not come twice in any life-time. It was such a meeting as defies the power of words; because our diviner part has emotions that we have not yet got the speech and language to declare.
Imagine the joy in Atheling Manor House that night! The Squire had to go apart for a little while; and tears of delight were in the good mother’s eyes as she took out her beautiful Derby china for the welcoming feast. As for Kate and Piers, they were at last in earth’s Paradise. Their lives had suddenly come to flower; and there was no canker in any of the blossoms. They had waited their full hour. And if the angels in heaven rejoice over a sinner repenting, how much more must they rejoice in our happiness, and sympathise in our innocent love! Surely the guardian angels of Piers and Kate were satisfied. Their dear charges had shown a noble restraint, and were now reaping the joy of it. Do angels talk in heaven of what happens among the sons and daughters of men whom they are sent to minister unto, to guide, and to guard? If so, they must have talked of these lovers, so dutiful and so true, and rejoiced in the joy of their renewed espousals.
Their marriage quickly followed. In a few weeks Piers had made Exham Hall a palace of splendour and beauty for his bride, and Kate’s wedding garments were all ready. And far and wide there was a most unusual interest taken in these lovers, so that all the great county families desired and sought for invitations to the marriage ceremony, and the little church of Atheling could hardly contain the guests. Even to this day it is remembered that nearly one hundred gentlemen of the North Riding escorted the bride from Atheling to Exham.
But at last every social duty had been fulfilled, and they sat alone in the gloaming, with their great love, and their great joy. And as they spoke of the days when this love first began, Kate reminded Piers of the swing in the laurel walk, and her girlish rhyming,–
“It may so happen, it may so fall,
That I shall be Lady of Exham Hall.”
And Piers drew her beautiful head closer to his own, and added,–
“Weary wishing, and waiting past,
Lady of Exham Hall at last!”
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH
AFTER TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS
After twenty years have passed away, it is safe to ask if events have been all that they promised to be; and one morning in August of 1857, it was twenty years since Kate Atheling became Lady Exham. She was sitting at a table writing letters to her two eldest sons, who were with their tutor in the then little known Hebrides. Lord Exham was busy with his mail. They were in a splendid room, opening upon a lawn, soft and green beyond description; and the August sunshine and the August lilies filled it with warmth and fragrance. Lady Exham was even more beautiful than on her wedding day. Time had matured without as yet touching her wonderful loveliness, and motherhood had crowned it with a tender and bewitching nobility. She had on a gown of lawn and lace, white as the flowers that hung in clusters from the Worcester vase at her side. Now and then Piers lifted his head and watched her for a moment; and then, with the faint, happy smile of a heart full and at ease, he opened another letter or paper. Suddenly he became a little excited. “Why, Kate,” he said, “here is my speech on the blessings which Reform has brought to England. I did not expect such a thing.”
“Read it to me, Piers.”
“It is entirely too long; although I only reviewed some of the notable works that followed Reform.”
“Such as–”
“Well, the abolition of both black and white slavery; the breaking up of the gigantic monopoly of the East India Company, and the throwing open of our ports to the merchants of the world; the inauguration of a system of national education; the reform of our cruel criminal code; the abolition of the press gang, and of chimney sweeping by little children, and such brutalities; the postal reform; and the spread of such good, cheap literature as the Penny Magazine and Chambers’s Magazine. My dear Kate, it would require a book to tell all that the Reform Bill has done for England. Think of the misery of that last two years’ struggle, and look at our happy country to-day.”
“Prosperous, but not happy, Piers. How can we be happy when, all over the land, mothers are weeping because their children are not. If this awful Sepoy rebellion was only over; then!”
“Yes,” answered Piers; “if it was only over! Surely there never was a war so full of strange, unnatural cruelties. I wonder where Cecil and Annabel are.”
“Wherever they are, I am sure both of them will be in the way of honour and duty.”
There was a pause, and then Piers asked, “To whom are you writing, dear Kate?”
“To Dick and John. They do not want to return to their studies this winter; they wish to travel in Italy.”
“Nonsense! They must go through college before they travel. Tell them so.”
The Duke had entered as Piers was speaking, and he listened to his remark. Then, even as he stooped to kiss Kate, he contradicted it. “I don’t think so, Piers,” he said decisively. “Let the boys go. Give them their own way a little. I do not like to see such spirited youths snubbed for a trifle.”
“But this is not a trifle, Father.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You insisted on my following the usual plan of college first, and travel afterwards.”
“That was before the days of Reform. The boys are my grandsons. I think I ought to decide on a question of this kind. What do you say, my dear?” and he turned his kindly face, with its crown of snowy hair, to Kate.
“It is to be as you say, Father,” she answered. “Is there any Indian news?”
“Alas! Alas!” he answered, becoming suddenly very sorrowful, “there is calamitous news,–the fort in which Colonel North was shut up, has fallen; and Cecil and Annabel are dead.”
“Oh, not massacred! Do not tell us that!” cried Kate, covering her ears with her hands.
“Not quite as bad. A Sepoy who was Cecil’s orderly, and much attached to him, has been permitted to bring us the terrible news, with some valuable gems and papers which Annabel confided to him. He told me that Cecil held out wonderfully; but it was impossible to send him help. Their food and ammunition were gone; and the troops, who were mainly Sepoys, were ready to open the gates to the first band of rebels that approached. One morning, just at daybreak, Cecil knew the hour had come. Annabel was asleep; but he awakened her. She had been expecting the call for many days; and, when Cecil spoke, she knew it was death. But she rose smiling, and answered, ‘I am ready, Love.’ He held her close to his breast, and they comforted and strengthened one another until the tramp of the brutes entering the court was heard. Then Annabel closed her eyes, and Cecil sent a merciful bullet through the brave heart that had shared with him, for twenty-five years, every trial and danger. Her last words were, ‘Come quickly, Cecil,’ and he followed her in an instant. The man says he hid their bodies, and they were not mutilated. But the fort was blown up and burned; and, in this case, the fiery solution was the best.”
“And her children?” whispered Kate.
“The boys are at Rugby. The little girl died some weeks ago.”
The Duke was much affected. He had loved Annabel truly, and her tragic death powerfully moved him. “The Duchess,” he said, “had wept herself ill; and he had promised her to return quickly.” But as he went away, he turned to charge Piers and Kate not to disappoint his grandsons. “They are such good boys,” he added; “and it is not a great matter to let them go to Italy, if they want to–only send Stanhope with them.”
No further objection was then made. Kate had learned that it is folly to oppose things yet far away, and which are subject to a thousand unforeseen influences. When the time for decision came, Dick and John might have changed their wishes. So she only smiled a present assent, and then let her thoughts fly to the lonely fort where Cecil and Annabel had suffered and conquered the last great enemy. For a few minutes, Piers was occupied in the same manner; and when he spoke, it was in the soft, reminiscent voice which memory–especially sad memory–uses.
“It is strange, Kate,” he said, “but I remember Annabel predicting this end for herself. We were sitting in the white-and-gold parlour in the London House, where I had found her playing with the cat in a very merry mood. Suddenly she imagined the cat had scratched her, and she spread out her little brown hand, and looked for the wound. There was none visible; but she pointed to a certain spot at the base of her finger, and said, ‘>Look, Piers. There is the sign of my doom,–my death-token. I shall perish in fire and blood.’ Then she laughed and quickly changed the subject, and I did not think it worth pursuing. Yet it was in her mind, for a few minutes afterwards, she opened her hand again, held it to the light, and added, ‘An old Hindoo priest told me this. He said our death-warrant was written on our palms, and we brought it into life with us.’”
“You should have contradicted that, Piers.”
“I did. I told her, our death-warrant was in the Hand of Him with whom alone are the issues of life and death.”
“She was haunted by the prophecy,” said Kate. “She often spoke of it. Oh, Piers, how merciful is the veil that hides our days to come!”
“I feel wretched. Let us go to Atheling; it will do us good.”
“It is very warm yet, Piers.”
“Never mind, I want to see the children. The house is too still. They have been at Atheling for three days.”
“We promised them a week. Harold will expect the week; and Edith and Maude will rebel at any shorter time.”
“At any rate let us go and see them.”
“Shall we ride there?”
“Let us rather take a carriage. One of the three may possibly be willing to come back with us.”
Near the gates of Atheling they met the Squire and his grandson Harold. They had been fishing. “The dew was on the grass when we went away; and Harold has been into the water after the trout. We are both a bit wet,” said the Squire; “but our baskets are full.” And then Harold leaped into the carriage beside his father and mother, and proudly exhibited his speckled beauties.
Mrs. Atheling had heard their approach, and she was at the open door to meet them. Very little change had taken place in her. Her face was a trifle older, but it was finer and tenderer; and her smile was as sweet and ready, and her manner as gracious–though perhaps a shade quieter than in the days when we first met her. Her granddaughter Edith, a girl of eight years, stood at her side; and Maude, a charming babe of four, clung to her black-silk apron, and half-hid her pretty face in its sombre folds. To her mother, Kate was still Kate; and to Kate, mother was still mother. They went into the house together, little Maude making a link between them, and Edith holding her mother’s hand. But, in the slight confusion following their arrival, the children all disappeared.
“They were helping Bradley to make tarts,” said Mrs. Atheling, “when I called them, and they have gone back to their pastry and jam. Let them alone. Dear me! I remember how proud I was when I first cut pastry round the patty pans with my thumb,” and Mrs. Atheling looked at Kate, who smiled and nodded at her own similar memory.
They were soon seated in the large parlour, where all the windows were open, and a faint little breeze stirring the cherry leaves round them. Then the Squire began to talk of the Indian news; and Piers told, with a pitiful pathos, the last tragic act in Cecil’s and Annabel’s love and life. And when he had finished the narration, greatly to every one’s amazement, the Squire rose to his feet, and, lifting his eyes heavenward, said solemnly,–
“I give hearty thanks for their death, so noble and so worthy of their faith and their race. I give hearty thanks because God, knowing their hearts and their love, committed unto them the dismissing of their own souls from the wanton cruelty of incarnate devils. I give hearty thanks for Love triumphant over Death, and for that faith in our immortality which could command an immediate re-union, ‘Come quickly, Cecil!’
“There is nothing to cry about,” he added, as he resumed his seat. “Death must come to all of us. It came mercifully to these two. It did not separate them; they went together. Somewhere in God’s Universe they are now, without doubt, doing His Will together. Let us give thanks for them.”
After a little while, Kate and her mother went away. They had many things to talk over about which masculine opinions were not necessary, nor even desirable. And the Squire and Piers had, in a certain way, a similar confidence. Indeed the Squire told Piers many things he would not have told any one else,–little wrongs and worries not worth complaining about to his wife, and perhaps about which he was not very certain of her sympathy. But with Piers, these crept into his conversation, and were talked away, or at least considerably lessened, by his son-in-law’s patient interest.
This morning their conversation had an unconscious tone of gratified prophecy in it. “Edgar is in a lot of trouble,” he said; “but then he seems to enjoy it. His hands gathered in the mill-yard yesterday and gave him what they call, ‘a bit of their mind.’ And their ‘mind’ isn’t what you and I would call a civil one. Luke Staley, a big dyer from Oldham, got beyond bearing, and told Edgar, if he didn’t do thus and so, he would be made to. And Edgar can be very provoking. He didn’t tell me what he said; but I have no doubt it was a few of the strongest words he could pick out. And Luke Staley, not having quite such a big private stock as Edgar, doubled his fist, to make the shortage good, almost in Edgar’s face; and there would have, maybe, been a few blows, if Edgar had not taken very strong measures at once,–that is, Piers, he knocked the fellow down as flat as a pancake. And then all was so still that, Edgar said, the very leaves rustling seemed noisy; and he told them in his masterful way, they could have five minutes to get back to their looms. And if they were not back in five minutes, he promised them he would dump the fires and lock the gates, and they could go about their business.”
“And they went to their looms, of course?”
“To be sure they did. More than that, Luke Staley picked himself up, and went civilly to Edgar and said, ‘That was a good knock-down. I’m beat this time, Master;’ and he offered his hand, blue and black with dyes, and Edgar took it. My word! how his grandfather Belward would have enjoyed that scene. I am sorry he is not alive this day. He missed a deal by dying before Reform. Edgar and he together could keep a thousand men at their looms–and set the price, too.”
“What did the men want?”
“A bit of Reform, of course,–more wage and less work. I am not much put out of the way now, Piers, with the mill. I get a lot of pleasure out of it, one road or another. Did I ever tell you about the Excursion Edgar gave them last week?”
“I have not heard anything about it.”
“Well, you see, Edgar sent all his hands and their wives and sweethearts to the seaside, and gave them a good dinner; and they had a band of music to play for them, and a little steamer to give them a sail; and they came home at midnight, singing and in high good humour. Edgar thought he had pleased them. Not a bit of it! Two nights after they held a meeting in that Mechanics Hall Mrs. Atheling built for them. What for? To talk over the jaunt, and try and find out, ‘What Master Atheling was up to.’ You see they were sure he had a selfish motive of some kind.”
“I don’t believe he had a single selfish motive; he is not a selfish man,” said Piers.
“I wouldn’t swear to his motives, Piers. Between you and me, he wants to go to Parliament again.”
“He ought to be there; it is his native heath, in a manner.”
“Well, as I said, one way or another, I get a lot of pleasure out of these men. There is a truce on now between them and Edgar; but, in the main, it is a lively truce.”
“Edgar seems to enjoy the conditions, also, Father.”
“Well, he ought to have a bit of something that pleases him. He has a deal of contrary things to fight. There is his eldest son.”
“Augustus?”
“Yes, Augustus.”
“What has Augustus done?”
“He will paint pictures and make little figures, and waste his time about such things as no Atheling in this world ever bothered his head about,–unless he wanted his likeness painted. The lad does wonders with his colours and brushes, and I’ll allow that. He brought me a bit of canvas with that corner by the fir woods on it, and you would have thought you could pull the grass and drink the water. But I did not think it right to praise him much. I said, ‘Very good, Augustus, but what will you make by this?’”
“Well?”
“Well, Piers, the lad talked about his ideals, and said Art was its own reward, and a lot of rubbishy nonsense. But I never expected much from a boy called Augustus. That was his mother’s whim; no Atheling was ever called such a name before. He wants to go to Italy, and his father wants him in the mill. Edgar is finding a few things out now he didn’t believe in when he was twenty years old. The point of view is everything, Piers. Edgar looks at things as a father looks at them now; then, he had an idea that fathers knew next to nothing. Augustus is no worse than he was. Maybe, he will come to looms yet; he is just like the Curzons, and they were loom lovers. Now Cecil, his second boy, has far better notions. He likes a rod, and a horse, and a gun; and he thinks a gamekeeper has the best position in the world.”
“Mrs. Atheling sets us all an example. She is always doing something for the people.”
“They don’t thank her for it. She brings lecturers, and expects them to go and hear them; and the men would rather be in the cricket field. She has classes of all kinds for the women and girls; and they don’t want her interfering in their ways and their houses. I’ll tell you what it is, Piers, you cannot write Reform upon flesh and blood as easy as you can write it upon paper. It will take a few generations to erase the old marks, and put the new marks on.”
“Still Reform has been a great blessing. You know that, Father.”
“Publicly, I know it, Piers. Privately, I keep my own ideas. But there is Kate calling us, and I see the carriage is waiting. Thank God, Reform has nothing to do with homes. Wives and children are always the same. We don’t want them changed, even for the better.”
“You do not mean that?”
“Yes, I do,” said the Squire, positively. “My wife’s faults are very dear to me. Do you think I would like to miss her bits of tempers, and her unreasonableness? Even when she tries to get the better of me, I like it. I wouldn’t have her perfect, not if I could.”