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.
CHAPTER VI – FASHION AND FAMINE
“Lord of Light why so much darkness? Bread of Life
why so much hunger?”
“The great fight, the long fight, the fight that must be
won, without any further delay.”
IT is not necessary for me to describe the formal introduction of Katherine to London society. A large number of my readers may have a personal experience of that uncertain step, which Longfellow says, the brook takes into the river, affirming also that it is taken “with reluctant feet”; but Longfellow must be accepted with reservations. Most girls have all the pluck and courage necessary for that leap into the dark and Katherine belonged to this larger class. She felt the constraints of the upper social life. She was ready for the event and wished it over.
The squire also wished it over. He could not help an uneasy regret about the days and the money spent in preparing for its few hours of what seemed to him unnecessary entertaining; not even free from the possibility of being rudely broken up – the illuminated house, the adjoining streets filled with vehicles, the glimpses of jewelry and of rich clothing as the guests left their carriages; the sounds of music – the very odors of cooking from the open windows of the kitchens – the calls of footmen – all the stir of revelry and all the paraphernalia of luxury. How would the hungry, angry, starving men gathering all over London take this spectacle? The squire feared there would be some demonstration and if it should be made against his family’s unfeeling extravagance how could he bear it? He knew that Englishmen usually,
Through good and evil stand,
By the laws of their own land.
But he knew also, that Hunger knows no law, and that men too poor to have where to lay their heads do not have much care regarding the heads of more fortunate men.
Squire Annis was a thoroughly informed man on all historical and political subjects and he knew well that the English people had not been so much in earnest since the time of Oliver Cromwell as they then were; and when he called to remembrance the events between the rejection of the first Reform Bill and its present struggle, he was really amazed that people could think or talk of any other thing. Continually he was arranging in his mind the salient points of moral dispute, as he had known them, and it may not be amiss for two or three minutes to follow his thoughts.
They generally went back to the dramatic rejection of the first Reform Bill, on the sixteenth of August, A. D. 1831. Parliament met again on the sixth of December, and on the twelfth of December Lord John Russell brought in a second Reform Bill. It was slightly changed but in all important matters the same as the first Bill. On the eighteenth of December, Parliament adjourned for the Christmas holidays but met again on January the seventeenth, A. D. 1832. This Parliament passed The Bill ready for the House of Lords on March the twenty-sixth, just two days after his own arrival in London. He had made a point of seeing this ceremony, for a very large attendance of peeresses and strangers of mark were expected to be present. He found the space allotted to strangers crowded, but he also found a good standing place and from it saw the Lord Chancellor Brougham take his seat at the Woolsack and the Deputy usher of the Black Rod announce – “A message from the Commons.” Then he saw the doors thrown open and Lord Althorp and Lord John Russell, bearing the Reform Bill in their hands, appeared at the head of one hundred members of Parliament, and Russell delivered the Bill to the Lord Chancellor, saying:
“My Lords, the House of Commons have passed an act to amend the representation of England and Wales to which they desire your Lordship’s concurrence.”
The great question now was, whether the Lords would concur or not, for if the populace were ready to back their determination with their lives the Lords were in the same temper though they knew well enough that the one stubborn cry of the whole country was “The Bill, The Bill, and nothing but The Bill.” They knew also that The House of Commons sympathized with the suffering of the poor and the terrible deeds of the French Revolution were still green in their memories. Yet they dared to argue and dispute and put off the men standing in dangerous patience, waiting, waiting day and night for justice.
During the past week, also, all thoughtful persons had been conscious of a change in these waiting men, a change which Lord Grey told The Commons was “to be regarded as ominous and dangerous.” It was, that the crowds everywhere had become portentously silent. They no longer discussed the subject. They had no more to say. They were now full ready to do all their powerful Political Unions threatened. These unions were prepared to march to London and bivouac in its squares. The powerful Birmingham Union declared “two hundred thousand men were ready to leave their forges and shops, encamp on Hampstead Heath, and if The Bill did not speedily become a law, compel that event to take place.”
At this time also, violent expressions had become common in The House. Members spoke with the utmost freedom about a fighting duke, and a military government, and the Duke of Wellington was said to have pledged himself to the King to quiet the country, if necessary, in ten days. It was also asserted that, at his orders, the Scots Greys had been employed on a previous Sabbath Day in grinding their swords.
“As if,” cried the press and the people as with one voice, “as if Englishmen could be kept from their purpose by swords and bayonets.”
Throughout this period the King was obstinate and ill-tempered and so ignorant about the character of the people he had been set to govern, as to think their sudden quietness predicted their submission; though Lord Grey had particularly warned the Lords against this false idea. “Truly,” he virtually said, “we have not heard for a few days the thrilling outcries of a desperate crowd of angry suffering men but I warn you, my Lords, to take no comfort on that account.”
When Englishmen are ready to fight they don’t scream about it but their weapons are drawn and they are prepared to strike. The great body of Englishmen did not consider these poor, unlettered men were any less English men than themselves. They knew them to be of the same class and kidney, as fought with Cromwell, Drake, and Nelson, and which made Wellington victorious; they knew that neither the men who wielded the big hammers at the forges of Birmingham, nor the men who controlled steam, nor the men that brought up coal from a thousand feet below sight and light, nor yet the men who plowed the ground would hesitate much longer to fight for their rights; for there was not now a man in all England who was not determined to be a recognized citizen of the land he loved and was always ready to fight for.
Sentiments like these could not fall from the lips of such men as Grey and Brougham without having great influence; and in the soul of Antony Annis they were echoing with potent effect, whatever he did, or wherever he went. For he was really a man of fine moral and intellectual nature, who had lived too much in his own easy, simple surroundings, and who had been suddenly and roughly awakened to great public events. And, oh, how quickly they were rubbing the rust from his unused talents and feelings!
He missed his wife’s company much at this time, for when he was in The House he could not have it and when he got back to the hotel Annie was seldom there. She was with Jane or Josepha, and her interests at this period were completely centered on her daughter Katherine. So Annis, especially during the last week, had felt himself neglected; he could get his wife to talk of nothing but Katherine, and her dress, and the preparations Jane was making to honor the beauty’s début.
Yet, just now he wanted above all other comforts his wife’s company and on the afternoon of the day before the entertainment was to take place he was determined to have it, even if he had to go to Jane’s or Josepha’s house to get what he wished. Greatly to his satisfaction he found her in the dressing-room of her hotel apartments. She had been trying on her own new dress for the great occasion and seemed to be much pleased and in very good spirits; but the squire’s anxious mood quickly made itself felt and after a few ineffectual trials to raise her husband’s spirits, she said, with just a touch of irritability:
“Whatever is the matter with thee, Antony? I suppose it is that wearisome Bill.”
“Well, Annie, however wearisome it is we aren’t done with it yet, mebbe we hev only begun its quarrel. The Whole country is in a bad way and I do wonder how tha can be so taken up with the thoughts of dressing and dancing. I will tell thee one thing, I am feared for the sound of music and merry-making in any house.”
“I never before knew that Antony Annis was cowardly.”
“Don’t thee say words like them to me, Annie. I will not hev them. And I think thou hes treated me varry badly indeed iver since we came here. I thought I would allays be sure of thy company and loving help and thou hes disappointed me. Thou hes that. Yet all my worry hes been about thee and Kitty.”
“Thou has not shown any care about either of us. Thou has hardly been at thy home here for ten days; and thou has not asked a question about Kitty’s plans and dress.”
“Nay, then, I was thinking of her life and of thy life, too. I was wondering how these angry, hungry men, filling the streets of London will like the sight and sounds of music and dancing while they are starving and fainting in our varry sight. I saw a man fall down through hunger yesterday, and I saw two men, early this morning, helping one another to stagger to a bench in the park.”
“And I’ll warrant thou helped them to a cup of coffee and – ”
“To be sure I did! Does tha think thy husband, Antony Annis, is without feeling as well as without courage! I am afraid for thee and for all women who can’t see and feel that the riot and bloodshed that took place not long ago in Bristol can be started here in London any moment by some foolish word or act. And I want thee to know if tha doesn’t already know, that this new disease, that no doctor understands or ever saw before, hes reached London. It came to Bristol while the city was burning, it came like a blow from the hand of God, and every physician is appalled by it. A man goes out and is smitten, and never comes home again, and – and – oh, Annie! Annie! I cannot bear it! There will be-some tragedy – and it is for thee and Kitty I fear – not for mysen, oh no!” And he leaned his elbows on the chimney piece and buried his face in his hands.
Then Annie went swiftly to his side, and in low, sweet, cooing words said, “Oh, my love! My husband! Oh, my dear Antony, if tha hed only told me thy fears and thy sorrow, I could hev cleared thy mind a bit. Sit thee down beside me and listen to what thy Annie can tell thee.” Then she kissed him and took his hands in her hands, and led him to his chair and drew her own chair close to his side and said —
“I knew, my dear one, that thou was bothered in thy mind and that thy thoughts were on Bristol and other places that hev been fired by the rioters; and I wanted to tell thee of something that happened more than a week ago. Dost thou remember a girl called Sarah Sykes?”
“I do that – a varry big, clumsy lass.”
“Never mind her looks. When Josepha was at Annis last summer she noticed how much the girl was neglected and she took her part with her usual temper, gave her nice clothes, and told her she would find something for her to do in London. So when we were all very busy and I was tired out, Josepha sent her a pound and bid her come to us as quick as she could. Well, the first thing we knew the lass was in Jane’s house and she soon found out that Joshua Swale was the leader of the crowd that are mostly about the Crescent where it stands. And it wasn’t long before Sarah had told Israel all thou hed done and all thou was still doing for thy weavers; and then a man, who had come from the little place where thou left a ten-pound note, told of that and of many other of thy kind deeds, and so we found out that thy name stood very high among all the Political Unions; and that these Unions have made themselves well acquainted with the sayings and doings of all the old hand loom employers; and are watching them closely, as to how they are treating their men, and if any are in The House, how they are voting.”
“I wish thou hed told me this when thou first heard it. I wonder thou didn’t do so.”
“If I could have managed a quiet talk with thee I would have done that; but thou has lived in The House of Commons all of the last week, I think.”
“And been varry anxious and unhappy, Annie. Let me tell thee that!”
“Well, then, dearie, happiness is a domestic pleasure. Few people find her often outside their own home. Do they, Antony?”
“My duty took me away from thee and my own home. There hev been constant night sessions for the last week and more.”
“I know, and it has been close to sun-up when thou tumbled sleepy and weary into thy bed. And I couldn’t wait until thou got thy senses again. I hed to go with Josepha about something or other, or I had to help Jane with her preparations, and so the days went by. Then, also, when I did get a sight of thee, thou could not frame thysen to talk of anything but that weary Bill and it made me cross. I thought thou ought to care a little about Katherine’s affairs, they were as important to her as The Bill was to thee.”
“I was caring, Annie. I was full of care and worry about Kitty. I was that. And I needn’t hev been so miserable if thou hed cared for me.”
“Well, then, I was cross enough to say to myself, ‘Antony can just tell his worries to The Bill men and I’ll be bound he does.’ So he got no chance for a good talk and I didn’t let Sarah Sykes trouble my mind at all; but I can tell thee that all thy goodness to the Annis weavers is written down on their hearts, and thou and thine are safe whatever happens.”
“I am thankful for thy words. Will tha sit an hour with me?”
“I’ll not leave thee to-night if thou wants to talk to me.”
“Oh, my joy! How good thou art! There is not a woman in England to marrow thee.”
“Come then to the parlor and we will have a cup of tea and thou will tell me all thy fears about The Bill and I’ll sit with thee until thou wants to go back to The House.”