CHAPTER V—THE DISORDER CALLED LOVE
“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.