“She was good as she was fair
None on earth above her!
As pure in thought as angels are,
To know her was to love her!”
THE three ladies had reached the open door in time to watch Lady Jane
leave her carriage, a movement not easy to describe, for it was the
result of an action practiced from early childhood, and combining with
the unconscious grace and ease of habitual action, a certain decisive
touch of personality, that made for distinction. She was dressed in
the visiting costume of the period, a not more ungraceful one than the
fashion of the present time. Its material was rich violet poplin and it
appeared to be worn over a small hoop. It was long enough to touch the
buckles on her sandaled shoes and its belt line was in the proper place.
The bodice was cut low to the shoulders and the sleeves were large and
full to the elbows, then tight to the wrists. A little cape not falling
below the belt and handsomely trimmed with ermine, completed the
costume. The bonnets of that time were large and very high and open,
adorned with ostrich feathers much curled and standing fancifully
upright. Jane’s was of this shape and the open space across the head was
filled with artificial flowers, but at the sides were loose, long curls
of her own splendid hair, falling below her throat, and over the ermine
trimmed cape. This bonnet was tied under the chin with a handsome bow of
violet ribbon. All the smaller items of her dress were perfect in their
way, not only with the mode, but also in strict propriety with her
general appearance.
She was warmly welcomed and responded to it with hearty acquiescence,
her attitude towards Katherine being specially lovely and affectionate.
“My little sister is a beauty!” she said. “I am so proud of her. And
now let us have a little talk about her gowns and bonnets! She must have
some pretty ones, mother.”
“She shall have all that is needful, Jane,” said Mrs. Annis. “Their cost
will not break her father, just yet.”
“You must ask me to go with you to shop, mother. I think I can be of
great use.”
“Of course. We have calculated on your help. Will you come to the hotel
for me?”
“Here! Hold on bit!” cried Aunt Josepha. “Am I invited, or not?”
“Certainly, Josepha,” answered Mistress Annis very promptly. “We cannot
do without you. You will go with us, of course.”
“Well, as to-morrow is neither Wednesday, nor Friday, I may do so--but I
leave myself free. I may not go.”
“Why would Wednesday and Friday be objectionable, Josepha?”
“Well, Annie, if thou hed done as much business with the world as I hev
done, thou’d know by this time of thy life that thou couldn’t make
a good bargain on either o’ them days. There’s some hope on a Friday
because if Friday isn’t the worst day in the week it’s the very best.
There is no perhaps about Wednesday. I allays let things bide as they
are on Wednesday.”
“Shall I come here for you, aunt?”
“No, no, Jane. If I go with you I will be at the Clarendon with Annie at
half-past nine. If I’m not there at that time I will not be going--no,
not for love or money.”
“But you will go the next day--sure?”
“Not a bit of sureness in me. I doan’t know how I’ll be feeling the next
day. Take off your bonnet and cape, Jane, and sit down. I want to see
how you look. We’ll hev our little talk and by and by a cup of tea, and
then thou can run away as soon as tha likes.”
“I cannot stay very long. I have a dinner tonight, and my servants need
overlooking.”
“I hope that cynical De Burg is not going to eat with you. He’ll niver
break bread at my table.”
“Why, aunt, he is a man of the highest culture and one of the best
speakers in The House!”
“Let him talk as much as he likes in t’ House; there’s a few men to
match him there.”
“How has he offended you, aunt? He is quite a favorite with Leyland and
myself.”
“Whatever does tha see in his favor?”
“He has such a fine bearing and such graceful manners. Leyland says that
in the most excited hubbubs of The House, he carries himself with all
the serenity and aristocratic poise of an English gentleman--I should
say, nobleman.”
“There’s no wonder tha forgets his nobility. It only counts to his
grandfather. I’ll tell thee something, Jane--a gentleman is allays a
nobleman, a nobleman may be a gentleman, and he may be varry far from
it; but there, now! I’ll say no more, or I’ll mebbe say too much! How
many dresses does our beauty want?”
This question opened a discussion of such interest that a servant
entered with the tea service and hot crumpets before they were thinking
of the time; and half an hour afterwards Katherine was ready to
accompany her sister to the Leyland home.
During the first two weeks, the early part of Katherine’s days were
spent either in shopping, or in “trying on,” and such events rarely need
more than an allusion. Every woman has some, or all of the experiences
incident to this trial; but though they may be of personal importance,
they have no general interest. We may pass Katherine’s dressmaking
trials, by knowing that they were in the hands of four or five women
capable of arranging them in the most satisfactory manner. Katherine
herself left them as early as possible, and spent the most of her time
in her father’s company, and Lady Jane approved transiently of this
arrangement. She did not wish Katherine to be seen and talked about
until she was formally introduced and could make a proper grand
entry into the society she wished her to enter. Of course there were
suppositions floating about concerning the young lady seen so much
with Lady Leyland; but as long as the talk remained indefinite, it was
stimulating and working for a successful début.
This interval was in many ways very pleasant to Katherine for the squire
took her to all those sights of London which people are expected to
know all about--the Tower--the British Museum--St. Paul’s Church
and Westminster Abbey; and so forth. Sometimes the squire met an old
acquaintance from his own neighborhood and they went somewhere and had a
cup of tea together, the squire simply saying, “This is my little girl,
Denby; my youngest.” Such an introduction demanded nothing but a smile
and a few courteous words, and these civilities Katherine managed with
retiring modesty and simplicity.
Now, one morning, as they were walking down High Holborn, they met a
near neighbor, a very shrewd, cheerful gentleman, called Samuel Wade,
the squire of Everdeen. Annis and Katherine had turned into a pretty
white dairy for a plate of Devonshire cream and Samuel Wade was slowly
and thoughtfully partaking of the same dainty.
“Hello, Wade! Whatever hes brought thee away from thy hounds and kennels
this fine spring weather?” asked Annis.
“I will tell thee, Annis, if tha’ will give me a halfhour and I know no
man I could be so glad to see as thysen. I’m in a quandary, squire, and
I would be glad of a word or two with thee.”
“Why, then, thou hes it! What does t’a want to say to me?”
“_Why-a_, Annis, I want to tell thee I am building a mill.”
“_Niver! Niver!_ Thee building a mill! I niver thought of such a to-do
as that.”
“Nor I, either, till I was forced to do it, but when that hour arrived,
my weavers and I came to the conclusion that we weren’t bound to starve
to save anybody’s trade feelings. So I agreed to put up a factory
and they hev got work here and there just to learn the ways of this
new-fangled loom, so that when I hev t’ factory ready they’ll be ready
for it and glad enough to come home.”
“I’m not the man to blame thee, Samuel; I hev hed some such thoughts
mysen.”
“It was our preacher that put it into my mind. He said to us one night
when the men had been complaining of machine labor--‘Brothers, when God
is on the side of civilization and the power-loom, how are you going to
use the hand loom? The hand loom is dead and buried,’ he said, ‘and what
is the use of keeping up a constant burying of this same old Defuncter.
It’ll cost you all the brass you hev and you’ll die poor and good for
nothing. The world is moving and you can’t hold it back. It will just
kick you off as cumberers of the ground.’ And after that talk three men
went out of t’ chapel and began to build factories; and I was one of t’
three and I’m none sorry for it--_yet_.”
“And where is tha building?”
“Down t’ Otley road a few miles from my awn house, but my three lads are
good riders and it would be hard to beat me unless it was with better
stock than I hev; and I niver let anyone best me in that way if I can
help it. So the few miles does not bother us.”
“What made you build so far from Wade House?”
“_Why-a_, squire, I didn’t want to hev the sight of the blamed thing
before my eyes, morning, noon and night, and t’ land I bought was varry
cheap and hed plenty of water-power on it.”
“To be sure. I hed forgot. Well then what brought thee to London? It is
a rayther dangerous place now, I can tell thee that; or it will be, if
Parliament doesn’t heed the warnings given and shown.”
“Well, Annis, I came on my awn business and I’m not thinking of
bothering Parliament at present. A factory is enough for all the brains
I hev, for tha knows well that my brains run after horses--but I’ll tell
thee what, factories hey a wonderful way of getting into your pocket.”
“That is nothing out of the way with thee. Thy pocket is too full, but
I should think a factory might be built in Yorkshire without coming to
London about it.”
“Annis, tha knaws that if I meddle wi’ anything, I’ll do what I do,
tip-top or not at all. I hed the best of factory architects Leeds could
give me and I hev ordered the best of power looms and of ivery other bit
of machinery; but t’ ither day a man from Manchester went through Wade
Mill and he asked me how many Jacquard looms I was going to run. I hed
niver heard of that kind of a loom, but I felt I must hev some. Varry
soon I found out that none of the weavers round Otley way knew anything
about Jacquard looms and they didn’t seem to want to know either, but
my eldest lad, Sam, said he would like to hev some and to know all
about them. So I made good inquiry and I found out the best of all
the Jacquard weavers in England lived in a bit of London called
Spitalfields. He is a Frenchman, I suppose, for his name is Pierre
Delaney.”
“And did you send your son to him?”
“I did that and now Sam knows all about Jacquard looms, for he sent me
word he was coming home after a week in London just to look about him
and then I thought I would like to see the machine at work and get the
name of the best maker of it. So I came at once and I’m stopping at the
hotel where t’ mail coach stopped, but I’m fairly bewildered. Sam has
left his stopping place and I rayther think is on his way home. I was
varry glad to see thy face among so many strange ones. I can tell thee
that!”
“How can I help thee, Wade?”
“Why, thou can go with me to see this Jacquard loom and give me thy
opinion.”
“I hev niver seen a Jacquard loom mysen and I would like to see one; but
I could not go now, for as tha sees I hev my little lass with me.”
“Father, I want to see this loom at this place called Spitalfields. Let
me go with you. Please, father, let me go with you; do!”
“There’s nothing to hinder,” said Squire Wade. “I should think, Annis,
that thou and mysen could take care of t’ little lass.”
“Let me go, father!”
“Well, then, we will go at once. The day is yet early and bright, but no
one can tell what it will be in an hour or two.”
So Wade called a coach and they drove to London’s famous manufacturing
district noted for the excellence of its brocaded silks and velvet, and
the beauty and variety of its ribbons, satins and lutestrings. The ride
there was full of interest to Katherine and she needed no explanation
concerning the groups of silent men standing at street corners sullen
and desperate-looking, or else listening to some passionate speaker.
Annis and Wade looked at each other and slightly shook their heads but
did not make any remark. The locality was not a pleasant one; it spoke
only of labor that was too urgent to have time for “dressing up,” as
Pierre Delaney--the man they were visiting--explained to them.
They found Delaney in his weaving shop, a large many-windowed room full
of strange looking looms and of men silent and intensely pre-occupied.
No one looked round when they entered, and as Wade and Annis talked to
the proprietor, Katherine cast her eyes curiously over the room. She saw
that it was full of looms, large ponderous looms, with much slower and
heavier movements than the usual one; and she could not help feeling
that the long, dangling, yellow harness which hung about each loom
fettered and in some way impeded its motion. The faces of all the
workers were turned from the door and they appeared to be working slowly
and with such strict attention that not one man hesitated, or looked
round, though they must have known that strangers had entered the room.
In a few minutes Katherine’s curiosity was intense. She wanted to go
close to the looms, and watch the men at what seemed to be difficult
work. However, she had scarcely felt the thrill of this strong desire
ere her father took her hand and they went with Delaney to a loom at the
head of the room. He said “he was going to show them the work of one of
his pupils, who had great abilities for patterns requiring unwavering
attention and great patience; but in fact,” he added, “every weaver in
this room has as much as he can manage, if he keeps his loom going.”
The man whose work they were going to examine must have heard them
approaching, but he made no sign of such intelligence until they stood
at his side. Then he lifted his head, and as he did so, Katherine cried
out--“Father! Father! It is Harry! It is Harry Bradley! Oh Harry! Harry!
Whatever are you doing here?” And then her voice broke down in a cry
that was full both of laughter and tears.
Yes, it was really Harry Bradley, and with a wondering happy look he
leaped from his seat, threw off his cap and so in a laughing hurry he
stood before them. Squire Annis was so amazed he forgot that he was no
longer friends with Harry’s father and he gave an honest expression of
his surprise.
“_Why-a_, Harry! Harry! Whativer is tha up to? Does thy father know the
kind of game thou art playing now, lad?”
“Squire, dear! It is business, not play, that I am up to. I am happy
beyond words to see you, squire! I have often walked the road you take
to The House, hoping I might do so.” And the young man put out his hand,
and without thinking, the squire took it. Acting on impulse, he could
not help taking it. Harry was too charming, too delightful to resist. He
wore his working apron without any consciousness of it and his handsome
face and joyful voice and manner made those few moments all his own.
The squire was taken captive by a happy surprise and eagerly seconded
Katherine’s desire to see him at such absorbing work as his loom
appeared to require.
Harry took his seat again without parleying or excuse. He was laughing
as he did so, but as soon as he faced the wonderful design before him,
he appeared to be unconscious of everything else. His watchers were
quickly lost in an all absorbing interest as they saw an exquisite
design of leaves and flowers growing with every motion of the shuttle,
while the different threads of the harness rose and fell as if to some
perfectly measured tune.
And as he worked his face changed, the boyish, laughing expression
disappeared, and it was a man’s face full of watchful purpose, alert and
carefully bent on one object and one end. The squire noticed the change
and he admired it. He wished secretly that he could see the same manly
look on Dick’s face, forgetting that he had never seen Dick under the
same mental strain.
But this reflection was only a thread running through his immense
pleasure in the result of Harry’s wonderful manipulation of the forces
at his command and his first impulse was to ask Harry to take dinner
with him and Wade, at the Clarendon. He checked himself as regarded
dinner, but he asked Harry:
“Where art thou staying, Harry? I shouldn’t think Spitalfields quite the
place for thy health.”
“I am only here for working hours, squire. I have a good room at the
Yorkshire Club and I have a room when I want it at Mistress Temple’s. I
often stay there when Dick is in London.”
“My word!” ejaculated the squire. He felt at once that the young man
had no need of his kindness, and his interest in him received a sudden
chill.
This conversation occurred as Wade and Delaney were walking down
the room together talking about Jacquard looms and their best maker.
Katherine had been hitherto silent as far as words were concerned, but
she had slipped her hand into Harry’s hand when he had finished his
exhibition at the loom. It was her way of praising him and Harry had
held the little hand fast and was still doing so when the squire said:
“Harry, looms are wonderful creatures--ay, and I’ll call them
‘creatures.’ They hev sense or they know how to use the sense of men
that handle them properly. I hev seen plenty of farm laborers that
didn’t know that much; but those patterns you worked from, they are
beyond my making out.”
“Well, squire, many designs are very elaborate, requiring from twenty
thousand to sixty thousand cards for a single design. Weaving like that
is a fine art, I think.”
“Thou art right. Is tha going to stay here any longer to-day or will tha
ride back with us?”
“Oh, sir, if I only might go back with you! In five minutes, I will be
ready.”
The squire turned hastily away with three short words, “Make haste,
then.” He was put out by the manner in which Harry had taken his civil
offer. He had only meant to give him a lift back to his club but Harry
appeared to have understood it as an invitation to dinner. He was
wondering how he could get out of the dilemma and so did not notice that
Harry kissed Katherine’s hand as he turned away. Harry had found few
opportunities to address her, none at all for private speech, yet both
Katherine and Harry were satisfied. For every pair of lovers have a code
of their own and no one else has the key to it.
In a short time Harry reappeared in a very dudish walking suit, but
Wade and Delaney were not ready to separate and the squire was hard set
to hide his irritability. Harry also looked too happy, and too handsome,
for the gentlemen’s dress of A. D. 1833 was manly and becoming, with
its high hat, pointed white vest, frock coat, and long thin cane, always
carried in the left hand. However, conversation even about money comes
to an end and at length Wade was satisfied, and they turned city-ward
in order to leave Wade at his hotel. On arriving there, Annis was again
detained by Wade’s anxieties and fears, but Harry had a five minutes’
heavenly interlude. He was holding Katherine’s hand and looking into her
eyes and saying little tender, foolish words, which had no more meaning
than a baby’s prattle, but Katherine’s heart was their interpreter and
every syllable was sweet as the dropping of the honey-comb.
Through all this broken conversation, however, Harry was wondering how
he could manage to leave the coach with Katherine. If he could only see
Lady Jane, he knew she would ask him to remain, but how was he to see
Lady Jane and what excuse could he make for asking to see her? It never
struck the young man that the squire was desirous to get rid of him. He
was only conscious of the fact that he did not particularly desire an
evening with Katherine’s father and mother and that he did wish very
ardently to spend an evening with Katherine and Lady Jane; and the coach
went so quick, and his thoughts were all in confusion, and they were at
the Leyland mansion before he had decided what to say, or do. Then the
affair that seemed so difficult, straightened itself out in a perfectly
natural, commonplace manner. For when Katherine rose, as a matter of
course, Harry also rose; and without effort, or consideration, said--
“I will make way for you, squire, or if you wish no further delay, I
will see Katherine into Lady Leyland’s care.”
“I shall be obliged to you, Harry, if you will do so,” was the answer.
“I am a bit tired and a bit late, and Mistress Annis will be worrying
hersen about me, no doubt. I was just thinking of asking you to do me
this favor.” Then the squire left a message for his eldest daughter and
drove rapidly away, but if he had turned his head for a moment he might
have seen how happily the lovers were slowly climbing the white marble
steps leading them to Lady Leyland’s door. Hand in hand they went,
laughing a little as they talked, because Harry was telling Katherine
how he had been racking his brains for some excuse to leave the coach
with her and how the very words had come at the moment they were wanted.
At the very same time the squire was telling himself “how cleverly he
had got rid of the young fellow. He would hev bothered Annie above a
bit,” he reflected, “and it was a varry thoughtless thing for me to
do--asking a man to dinner, when I know so well that Annie likes me best
when I am all by mysen. Well, I got out of that silly affair cleverly.
It is a good thing to hev a faculty for readiness and I’m glad to say
that readiness is one thing that Annie thinks Antony Annis hes on call.
Well, well, the lad was glad to leave me and I was enough pleased to get
rid of him.” And if any good fellow should read this last paragraph he
will not require me to tell him how the little incident of “getting rid
of Harry” brightened the squire’s dinner, nor how sweetly Annie told
her husband that he was “the kindest-hearted of men and could do a
disagreeable thing in such an agreeable manner, as no other man, she had
ever met, would think of.”
Then he told Annie about the Jacquard loom and Harry’s mastery of it,
and when this subject was worn out, Annie told her husband that Jane was
going to introduce Katherine to London society on the following Tuesday
evening. She wanted to make it Wednesday evening, but “Josepha would not
hear of it”--she said, with an air of injury, “and Josepha always gets
what she desires.”
“Why shouldn’t Josepha get all she desires? When a woman hes a million
pounds to give away beside property worth a fortune the world hes no
more to give her but her awn way. I should think Josepha is one of the
richest women in England.”
“However did the Admiral get so much money?”
“All prize money, Annie. Good, honest, prize money! The Admiral’s money
was the price of his courage. He threshed England’s enemies for every
pound of it; and when we were fighting Spain, Spanish galleons, loaded
with Brazilian gold, were varry good paymasters even though Temple was
both just and generous to his crews.”
“No wonder then, if Josepha be one of the richest women in England. Who
is the richest man, Antony?”
“I am, Annie! I am! Thou art my wife and there is not gold enough in
England to measure thy worth nor yet to have made me happy if I had
missed thee.” What else could a wise and loving husband say?
In the meantime Katherine and Harry had been gladly received by Lady
Jane, who at once asked Harry to stay and dine with them.
“What about my street suit?” asked Harry.
“We have a family dinner this evening and expect no one to join us. De
Burg may probably call and he may bring his sister with him. However,
Harry, you know your old room on the third floor. I will send Leyland’s
valet there and he will manage to make you presentable.”
These instructions Harry readily obeyed, and soon as he had left the
room Lady Jane asked--“Where did you pick him up, Kitty? He is quite a
detrimental in father’s opinion, you know.”
“I picked him up in a weaving room in the locality called Spitalfields.
He was working there on a Jacquard loom.”
“What nonsense you are talking!”
“I am telling you facts, Jane. I will explain them later. Now I must go
and dress for dinner, if you are expecting the De Burgs.”
“They will only pay an evening call, but make yourself as pretty as is
proper for the occasion. If De Burg does not bring his sister you will
not be expected to converse.”
“Oh, Jane dear! I am not thinking, or caring, about the De Burgs. My
mind was on Harry and of course I shall dress a little for Harry. I have
always done that.”
“You will take your own way, Kitty, that also you have always done.”
“Well, then, is there any reason why I should not take my own way now?”
She asked this question in a pleasant, laughing manner that required no
answer; and with it disappeared not returning to the parlor, until the
dinner hour was imminent. She found Harry and Lady Jane already there,
and she fancied they were talking rather seriously. In fact, Harry had
eagerly seized this opportunity to try and enlist Jane’s sympathy in
his love for Katherine. He had passionately urged their long devotion
to each other and entreated her to give him some opportunities to retain
his hold on her affection.
Jane had in no way compromised her own position. She was kind-hearted
and she had an old liking for Harry, but she was ambitious, and she was
resolved that Katherine should make an undeniably good alliance. De
Burg was not equal to her expectations but she judged he would be a
good auxiliary to them. “My beautiful sister,” she thought, “must have a
splendid following of lovers and De Burg will make a prominent member of
it.”
So she was not sorry to see Katherine enter in a pretty, simple frock of
flowered silk, pale blue in color, and further softened by a good deal
of Valenciennes lace and a belt and long sash of white ribbon. Her hair
was dressed in the mode, lifted high and loosely, and confined by an
exquisite comb of carved ivory; the frontal curls were pushed behind the
ears, but fell in bright luxuriance almost to her belt. So fair was she,
so fresh and sweet and lovely, that Leyland--who was both sentimental
and poetic, within practical limits--thought instantly of Ben Jonson’s
exquisite lines, and applied them to his beautiful sister-in-law:
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you smelt of the bud of the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or tasted the bag of the bee,
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!
And then he felt a decided obligation to his own good judgment, for
inducing him to marry into so handsome a family.
It was a comfortable mood in which to sit down to dinner and Harry’s
presence also added to his pleasure, for it promised him some
conversation not altogether feminine. Indeed, though the dinner was a
simple family one, it was a very delightful meal. Leyland quoted some
of his shortest and finest lines, Lady Jane merrily recalled childish
episodes in which Harry and herself played the principal rôles, and
Katherine made funny little corrections and additions to her sister’s
picturesque childish adventures; also, being healthily hungry, she ate a
second supply of her favorite pudding and thus made everyone comfortably
sure that for all her charm and loveliness, she was yet a creature
Not too bright and good,
For human nature’s daily food.
They lingered long at the happy table and were still laughing and
cracking nuts round it when De Burg was announced. He was accompanied
by a new member of Parliament from Carlisle and the conversation drifted
quickly to politics. De Burg wanted to know if Leyland was going to The
House. He thought there would be a late sitting and said there was a
tremendous crowd round the parliament buildings, “but,” he added, “my
friend was amazed at the dead silence which pervaded it, and, indeed,
if you compare this voiceless manifestation of popular feeling with the
passionate turbulence of the same crowd, it is very remarkable.”
“And it is much more dangerous,” answered Ley-land. “The voiceless anger
of an English crowd is very like the deathly politeness of the man who
brings you a challenge. As soon as they become quiet they are ready for
action. We are apt to call them uneducated, but in politics they have
been well taught by their leaders who are generally remarkably clever
men, and it is said also that one man in seventeen among our weavers can
read and perhaps even sign his name.”
“That one is too many,” replied De Burg. “It makes them dangerous. Yet
men like Lord Brougham are always writing and talking about it being our
duty to educate them.”
“Why, Sir Brougham formed a society for ‘The Diffusion of Useful
Knowledge’ four or five years ago--an entirely new sort of knowledge for
working men--knowledge relating to this world, personal and municipal.
That is how he actually described his little sixpenny books. Then some
Scotchman called Chambers began to publish a cheap magazine. I take it.
It is not bad at all--but things like these are going to make literature
cheap and common.”
“And I heard my own clergyman say that he considered secular teaching of
the poor classes to be hostile to Christianity.”
Then Lady Jane remarked--as if to herself--“How dangerous to good
society the Apostles must have been!”
Leyland smiled at his wife and answered, “They were. They changed it
altogether.”
“The outlook is very bad,” continued De Burg. “The tide of democracy
is setting in. It will sweep us all away and break down every barrier
raised by civilization. And we may play at Canute, if we like, but--”
and De Burg shook his head and was silent in that hopeless fashion that
represents circumstances perfectly desperate.
Leyland took De Burg’s prophetic gloom quite cheerfully. He had a verse
ready for it and he gave it with apparent pleasure--
“Yet men will still be ruled by men,
And talk will have its day,
And other men will come again
To chase the rogues away.”
“That seems to be the way things are ordered, sir.”
After Leyland’s poetic interval, Lady Jane glanced at her husband and
said: “Let us forget politics awhile. If we go to the drawing-room,
perhaps Miss Annis or Mr. Bradley will give us a song.”
Everyone gladly accepted the proposal and followed Lady Jane to the
beautiful, light warm room.
It was so gay with flowers and color, it was so softly lit by wax
candles and the glow of the fire, it was so comfortably warmed by
the little blaze on the white marble hearth, that the spirits of all
experienced a sudden happy uplift. De Burg went at once to the fireside.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “how good is the fire! How cheerful, how homelike!
Every day in the year, I have fires in some rooms in the castle.”
“Well, De Burg, how is that?”
“You know, Leyland, my home is surrounded by mountains and I may say I
am in the clouds most of the time. We are far north from here and I am
so much alone I have made a friend of the fire.”
“I thought, sir, your mother lived with you.”
“I am unhappy in her long and frequent absences. My cousin Agatha cannot
bear the climate. She is very delicate and my mother takes her southward
for the winters. They are now in the Isle of Wight but they will be in
London within a week. For a short time they will remain with me then
they return to De Burg Castle until the cold drives them south again.”
Lady Jane offered some polite sympathies and De Burg from his vantage
ground of the hearth-rug surveyed the room. Its beauty and fitness
delighted him and he at once began to consider how the De Burg
drawing-room would look if arranged after its fashion. He could not help
this method of looking at whatever was beautiful and appropriate; he had
to place the thing, whatever it was, in a position which related itself
either to De Burg, or the De Burg possessions. So when he had placed
the Ley-land drawing-room in the gloomy De Burg Castle, he took into his
consideration Katherine Annis as the mistress of it.
Katherine was sitting with Harry near the piano and her sister was
standing before her with some music in her hand. “You are now going to
sing for us, Katherine,” she said, “and you will help Katherine, dear
Harry, for you know all her songs.”
“No, dear lady, I cannot on any account sing tonight.”
No entreaties could alter Harry’s determination and it was during this
little episode De Burg approached. Hearing the positive refusal, he
offered his services with that air of certain satisfaction which insured
its acceptance. Then the songs he could sing were to be selected, and
this gave him a good opportunity of talking freely with the girl whom he
might possibly choose for the wife of a De Burg and the mistress of
his ancient castle. He found her sweet and obliging and ready to sing
whatever he thought most suitable to the compass and quality of his
voice, and as Lord and Lady Leyland assisted in this choice, Harry was
left alone; but when the singing began Harry was quickly at
Katherine’s side, making the turning of the music sheets his excuse for
interference. It appeared quite proper to De Burg that someone should
turn the leaves for him and he acknowledged the courtesy by a bend of
his head and afterwards thanked Harry for the civility, saying, “it
enabled him to do justice to his own voice and also to the rather
difficult singing of the fair songstress.” He put himself first, because
at the moment he was really feeling that his voice and personality had
been the dominating quality in the two songs they sang together.
But though De Burg did his best and the Leylands expressed their
pleasure charmingly and Harry bowed and smiled, no one was enthusiastic;
and Ley-land could not find any quotation to cap the presumed pleasure
the music had given them. Then Harry seized the opportunity that came
with the rise of Katherine to offer his arm and lead her to their former
seat on the sofa leaving De Burg to the society of Leyland and his wife.
He had come, however, to the conclusion that Katherine was worthy of
further attentions, but he did not make on her young and tender
heart any fixed or favorable impression. For this man with all his
considerations had not yet learned that the selfish lover never really
succeeds; that the woman he attempts to woo just looks at him and then
turns to something more interesting.
After all, the music had not united the small gathering, indeed it had
more certainly divided them. Lord Leyland remained at De Burg’s side and
Lady Jane through some natural inclination joined them. For she had
no intention in the matter, it merely pleased her to do it, and it
certainly pleased Katherine and Harry that she had left them at liberty
to please each other.
Katherine had felt a little hurt by her lover’s refusal to sing but he
had promised to explain his reason for doing so to Jane and herself when
they were alone; and she had accepted this put-off apology in a manner
so sweet and confiding that it would have satisfied even De Burg’s idea
of a wife’s subordination to her husband’s feelings or caprices.
De Burg did not remain much longer; he made some remark about his duty
being now at The House, as it was likely to be a very late sitting but
he did not forget in taking leave to speak of Katherine’s début on the
following Tuesday and to ask Lady Leyland’s permission to bring with him
his cousin Agatha De Burg if she was fortunate enough to arrive in time;
and this permission being readily granted he made what he told himself
was a very properly timed and elegant exit. This he really accomplished
for he was satisfied with his evening and somehow both his countenance
and manners expressed his content.
Leyland laughed a little about De Burg’s sense of duty to The House, and
made his usual quotation for the over-zealous--about new brooms sweeping
clean--and Lady Jane praised his fine manner, and his correct singing,
but Katherine and Harry made no remark. Leyland, however, was not
altogether pleased with the self-complacent, faithful member of
parliament. “Jane,” he asked, “what did the man mean by saying, ‘his
political honesty must not be found wanting’?”
“Oh, I think, Frederick, that was a very honorable feeling!”
“To be sure, but members of parliament do not usually make their
political honesty an excuse for cutting short a social call. I wish
our good father Antony Annis had heard him. He would have given him a
mouthful of Yorkshire, that he would never have been able to forget. How
does the man reckon himself? I believe he thinks he is honoring _us_ by
his presence. No doubt, he thinks it only fit that you call your social
year after him.”
“The De Burg Year? Eh, Fred!”
“Yes, the happy year in which you made the De Burg acquaintance. My
dear, should that acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?”
Then they all laughed merrily, and Leyland asked: “Why did you refuse to
sing, Harry? It was so unlike you that I would not urge your compliance.
I knew you must have a good reason for the refusal.”
“I had the best of reasons, sir, a solemn promise that I made my father.
I will tell you all about it. We gave our factory hands a dinner and
dance last Christmas and I went with father to give them a Christmas
greeting. A large number were already present and were passing the time
in singing and story-telling until dinner was served. One of the men
asked--‘if Master Harry would give them a song,’--and I did so.
I thought a comic song would be the most suitable and I sang ‘The
Yorkshire Man.’ I had sung it at the Mill Owners’ quarterly dinner, amid
shouts of laughter, and I was sure it was just the thing for the present
occasion. Certainly, I was not disappointed by its reception. Men and
women both went wild over it but I could see that my father was annoyed
and displeased, and after I had finished he hardly spoke until the
dinner was served. Then he only said grace over the food and wished all
a good New Year, and so speedily went away. It wasn’t like father a
bit, and I was troubled about it. As soon as we were outside, I said,
‘Whatever is the matter, father? Who, or what, has vexed you?’ And he
said, ‘Thou, thysen, Harry, hes put me out above a bit. I thought thou
would hev hed more sense than to sing that fool song among t’ weavers.
It was bad enough when tha sung it at t’ Master dinner but it were
a deal worse among t’ crowd we have just left.’ I said I did not
understand and he answered--‘Well, then, lad, I’ll try and make thee
understand. It is just this way--if ta iver means to be a man of weight
in business circles, if ta iver means to be respected and looked up to,
if ta iver thinks of a seat i’ parliament, or of wearing a Lord Mayor’s
gold chain, then don’t thee sing a note when there’s anybody present
but thy awn family. It lets a man down at once to sing outside his awn
house. It does that! If ta iver means to stand a bit above the ordinary,
or to rule men in any capacity, don’t sing to them, or iver try in any
way to amuse them. Praise them, or scold them, advise them, or even
laugh at them, but don’t thee sing to them, or make them laugh. The
moment tha does that, they hev the right to laugh at thee, or mimic
thee, or criticise thee. Tha then loses for a song the respect due thy
family, thy money, or thy real talents. Singing men aren’t money men.
Mind what I say! It is true as can be, dear lad.’
“That is the way father spoke to me and I promised him I would never
sing again except for my family and nearest friends. De Burg was not
my friend and I felt at once that if I sang for him I would give him
opportunities to say something unpleasant about me.”
Leyland laughed very understandingly. “You have given me a powerful
weapon, Harry,” he said. “How did you feel when De Burg sang?”
“I felt glad. I thought he looked very silly. I wondered if he had
ever practiced before a looking-glass. O Leyland, I felt a great many
scornful and unkind things; and I felt above all how right and proper my
father’s judgment was--that men who condescend to amuse and especially
to provoke laughter or buffoonery will never be the men who rule or
lead other men. Even more strongly than this, I felt that the social
reputation of being a fine singer would add no good thing to my business
reputation.”
“You are right, Harry. It is not the song singers of England who are
building factories and making railroads and who are seeking and finding
out new ways to make steam their servant. Your father gave you excellent
advice, my own feelings and experience warrant him.”
“My father is a wise, brave-hearted man,” said Harry proudly, and
Katherine clasped his hand in sweet accord, as he said it.
That night Harry occupied his little room on the third floor in
Leyland’s house and the happy sleeping place was full of dreams of
Katherine. He awakened from them as we do from fortunate dreams, buoyant
with courage and hope, and sure of love’s and life’s final victory and
happiness:
Then it does not seem miles,
Out to the emerald isles,
Set in the shining smiles,
Of Love’s blue sea.
Happy are the good sleepers and dreamers I Say that they spend nearly a
third part of their lives in sleep, their sleeping hours _are not dead
hours_. Their intellects are awake, their unconscious self is busy. In
reality we always dream, but many do not remember their dreams any more
than they remember the thoughts that have passed through their minds
during the day. Real dreams are rare. They come of design. They are
never forgotten. They are always helpful because the incompleteness of
this life asks for a larger theory than the material needs--
A deep below the deep,
And a height beyond the height;
For our hearing is not hearing,
And our seeing is not sight.
Harry had been wonderfully helped by his dreamful sleep. If he had
been at home he would have sung all the time he dressed himself. He
remembered that his father often did so but he did not connect that fact
with one that was equally evident--that his father was a great dreamer.
It is so easy to be forgetful and even ungrateful for favors that
minister to the spiritual rather than the material side of life.
Yet he went downstairs softly humming to himself some joyous melody, he
knew not what it was. Katherine was in the breakfast room and heard
him coming, timing his footsteps to the music his heart was almost
whispering on his lips. So when he opened the door he saw her standing
expectant of his entrance and he uttered an untranslatable cry of joy.
She was standing by the breakfast table making coffee and she said,
“Good morning, Harry! Jane is not down yet. Shall I serve you until she
comes?”
“Darling!” he said, “I shall walk all day in the clouds if you serve me.
Nothing could be more delightful.”
So it fell out that they breakfasted at once, and Love sat down between
them. And all that day, Harry ate, and talked, and walked, and did
his daily work to the happy, happy song in his heart--the song he had
brought back from the Land of Dreams.