Chapter 3

We walked up Steep Hill this morning to see the Jews' house, but long before we reached it I had seen Mr. Copley sitting on a camp-stool, with his easel in front of him. Wonderful to relate, Aunt Celia recognised him, and was most cordial in her greeting. As for me, I was never so embarrassed in my life. I felt as if he knew that I had expected to see him in London and Ely and Peterborough, though, of course, he _couldn't_ know it, even if he looked for, and missed, me in those three dreary and over-estimated places. He had made a most beautiful drawing of the Jews' House, and completed his conquest of Aunt Celia by presenting it to her. I should like to know when my turn is coming; but, anyway, she asked him to luncheon, and he came, and we had such a cosy, homelike meal together. He is even nicer than he looks, which is saying a good deal more than I should, even to a locked book. Aunt Celia dozed a little after luncheon, and Mr. Copley almost talked in whispers, he was so afraid of disturbing her nap. It is just in these trifling things that one can tell a true man--courtesy to elderly people and consideration for their weaknesses. He has done something in the world; I was sure that he had. He has a little income of his own, but he is too proud and ambitious to be an idler. He looked so manly when he talked about it, standing up straight and strong in his knickerbockers. I like men in knickerbockers. Aunt Celia doesn't. She says she doesn't see how a well-brought-up Copley can go about with his legs in that condition. I would give worlds to know how Aunt Celia ever unbent sufficiently to get engaged. But, as I was saying, Mr. Copley has accomplished something, young as he is. He has built three picturesque suburban churches suitable for weddings, and a State lunatic asylum.

Aunt Celia says we shall have no worthy architecture until every building is made an exquisitely sincere representation of its deepest purpose--a symbol, as it were, of its indwelling meaning. I should think it would be very difficult to design a lunatic asylum on that basis, but I didn't dare say so, as the idea seemed to present no incongruities to Mr. Copley. Their conversation is absolutely sublimated when they get to talking of architecture. I have just copied two quotations from Emerson, and am studying them every night for fifteen minutes before I go to sleep. I'm going to quote them some time offhand, just after matins, when we are wandering about the cathedral grounds. The first is this: 'The Gothic cathedral is a blossoming in stone, subdued by the insatiable demand of harmony in man. The mountain of granite blooms into an eternal flower, with the lightness and delicate finish as well as the aerial proportion and perspective of vegetable beauty.' Then when he has recovered from the shock of this, here is my second: 'Nor can any lover of nature enter the old piles of English cathedrals without feeling that the forest overpowered the mind of the builder, and that his chisel, his saw and plane still reproduced its ferns, its spikes of flowers, its locust, elm, pine, and spruce.'

Memoranda: _Lincoln choir is an example of Early English or First Pointed, which can generally be told from something else by bold projecting buttresses and dog-tooth moulding round the abacusses._ (The plural is my own, and it does not look right.) _Lincoln Castle was the scene of many prolonged sieges, and was once taken by Oliver Cromwell._

* * * * *

_He_

York, _June 26_, The Black Swan.

Kitty Schuyler is the concentrated essence of feminine witchery. Intuition strong, logic weak, and the two qualities so balanced as to produce an indefinable charm; will-power large, but docility equal, if a man is clever enough to know how to manage her; knowledge of facts absolutely _nil_, but she is exquisitely intelligent in spite of it. She has a way of evading, escaping, eluding, and then gives you an intoxicating hint of sudden and complete surrender. She is divinely innocent, but roguishness saves her from insipidity. Her looks? She looks as you would imagine a person might look who possessed these graces; and she is worth looking at, though every time I do it I have a rush of love to the head. When you find a girl who combines all the qualities you have imagined in the ideal, and who has added a dozen or two on her own account, merely to distract you past all hope, why stand up and try to resist her charm? Down on your knees like a man, say I!

* * * * *

I'm getting to adore Aunt Celia. I didn't care for her at first, but she is so deliciously blind. Anything more exquisitely unserviceable as a chaperon I can't imagine. Absorbed in antiquity, she ignores the babble of contemporaneous lovers. That any man could look at Kitty when he could look at a cathedral passes her comprehension. I do not presume too greatly on her absent-mindedness, however, lest she should turn unexpectedly and rend me. I always remember that inscription on the backs of the little mechanical French toys: 'Quoiqu'elle soit tres solidement montee, il faut ne pas brutaliser la machine.'

And so my courtship progresses under Aunt Celia's very nose. I say 'progresses'; but it is impossible to speak with any certainty of courting, for the essence of that gentle craft is hope, rooted in labour and trained by love.

I set out to propose to her during service this afternoon by writing my feelings on the flyleaf of the hymn-book, or something like that; but I knew that Aunt Celia would never forgive such blasphemy, and I thought that Kitty herself might consider it wicked. Besides, if she should chance to accept me, there was nothing I could do in a cathedral to relieve my feelings. No; if she ever accepts me, I wish it to be in a large, vacant spot of the universe, peopled by two only, and those two so indistinguishably blended, as it were, that they would appear as one to the casual observer. So I practised repression, though the wall of my reserve is worn to the thinness of thread-paper, and I tried to keep my mind on the droning minor canon, and not to look at her, 'for that way madness lies.'

* * * * *

_She_

York, _June 28_, High Petergate Street.

My taste is so bad! I just begin to realize it, and I am feeling my 'growing pains,' like Gwendolen in 'Daniel Deronda.' I admired the stained glass in the Lincoln Cathedral the other day, especially the Nuremberg window. I thought Mr. Copley looked pained, but he said nothing. When I went to my room, I consulted a book and found that all the glass in that cathedral is very modern and very bad, and the Nuremberg window is the worst of all. Aunt Celia says she hopes that it will be a warning to me to read before I speak; but Mr. Copley says no, that the world would lose more in one way than it would gain in the other. I tried my quotations this morning, and stuck fast in the middle of the first.

Mr. Copley thinks I have been feeing the vergers too liberally, so I wrote a song about it called 'The Ballad of the Vergers and the Foolish Virgin,' which I sang to my guitar. Mr. Copley thinks it is cleverer than anything he ever did with his pencil. Of course, he says that only to be agreeable; but really, whenever he talks to me in that way, I can almost hear myself purring with pleasure.

We go to two services a day in the minster, and sometimes I sit quite alone in the nave drinking in the music as it floats out from behind the choir-screen. The Litany and the Commandments are so beautiful heard in this way, and I never listen to the fresh, young voices chanting 'Write all these Thy laws in our hearts, we beseech Thee,' without wanting passionately to be good. I love, too, the joyful burst of music in the _Te Deum_: 'Thou didst open the kingdom of heaven to all believers.' I like that word 'all'; it takes in foolish me, as well as wise Aunt Celia.

And yet, with all its pomp and magnificence, the service does not help me quite so much nor stir up the deep places, in me so quickly as dear old Dr. Kyle's simpler prayers and talks in the village meeting-house where I went as a child. Mr. Copley has seen it often, and made a little picture of it for me, with its white steeple and the elm-tree branches hanging over it. If I ever have a husband I should wish him to have memories like my own. It would be very romantic to marry an Italian marquis or a Hungarian count, but must it not be a comfort to two people to look back on the same past?

* * * * *

We all went to an evening service last night. It was an 'occasion,' and a famous organist played the Minster organ.

I wonder why choir-boys are so often playful and fidgety and uncanonical in behaviour? Does the choirmaster advertise 'Naughty boys preferred,' or do musical voices commonly exist in unregenerate bodies? With all the opportunities they must have outside of the cathedral to exchange those objects of beauty and utility usually found in boys' pockets, there is seldom a service where they do not barter penknives, old coins, or tops, generally during the Old Testament reading. A dozen little black-surpliced 'probationers' sit together in a seat just beneath the choir-boys, and one of them spent his time this evening in trying to pull a loose tooth from its socket. The task not only engaged all his own powers, but made him the centre of attraction for the whole probationary row.

Coming home, Aunt Celia walked ahead with Mrs. Benedict, who keeps turning up at the most unexpected moments. She's going to build a Gothicky memorial chapel somewhere, and is making studies for it. I don't like her in the least, but four is certainly a more comfortable number than three. I scarcely ever have a moment alone with Mr. Copley, for, go where I will and do what I please, as Aunt Celia has the most perfect confidence in my indiscretion, she is always _en evidence_.

Just as we were turning into the quiet little street where we are lodging, I said:

'Oh dear, I wish that I really knew something about architecture!'

'If you don't know anything about it, you are certainly responsible for a good deal of it,' said Mr. Copley.

'I? How do you mean?' I asked quite innocently, because I couldn't see how he could twist such a remark as that into anything like sentiment.

'I have never built so many castles in my life as since I've known you, Miss Schuyler,' he said.

'Oh,' I answered as lightly as I could, 'air-castles don't count.'

'The building of air-castles is an innocent amusement enough, I suppose,' he said; 'but I'm committing the folly of living in mine. I--'

Then I was frightened. When, all at once, you find you have something precious that you only dimly suspected was to be yours, you almost wish it hadn't come so soon. But just at that moment Mrs. Benedict called to us, and came tramping back from the gate, and hooked her supercilious, patronizing arm in Mr. Copley's, and asked him into the sitting-room to talk over the 'lady-chapel' in her new memorial church. Then Aunt Celia told me they would excuse me, as I had had a wearisome day; and there was nothing for me to do but to go to bed, like a snubbed child, and wonder if I should ever know the end of that sentence. And I listened at the head of the stairs, shivering, but all that I could hear was that Mrs. Benedict asked Mr. Copley to be her own architect. Her architect, indeed! That woman ought not to be at large--so rich and good-looking and unconscientious!

* * * * *

_He_

York, _July 5_.

I had just established myself comfortably near to Miss Van Tyck's hotel, and found a landlady after my own heart in Mrs. Pickles, No. 6, Micklegate, when Miss Van Tyck, aided and abetted, I fear, by the romantic Miss Schuyler, elected to change her quarters, and I, of course, had to change too. Mine is at present a laborious (but not unpleasant) life. The causes of Miss Schuyler's removal, as I have been given to understand by the lady herself, were some particularly pleasing window-boxes in a lodging in High Petergate Street; boxes overflowing with pink geraniums and white field-daisies. No one (she explains) could have looked at this house without desiring to live in it; and when she discovered, during a somewhat exhaustive study of the premises, that the maid's name was Susan Strangeways, and that she was promised in marriage to a brewer's apprentice called Sowerbutt, she went back to her conventional hotel and persuaded her aunt to remove without delay. If Miss Schuyler were offered a room at the Punchbowl Inn in the Gillygate and a suite at the Grand Royal Hotel in Broad Street, she would choose the former unhesitatingly; just as she refused refreshment at the best caterer's this afternoon and dragged Mrs. Benedict and me into 'The Little Snug,' where an alluring sign over the door announced 'A Homely Cup of Tea for Twopence.' But she would outgrow all that; or, if she didn't, I have common-sense enough for two; or if I hadn't, I shouldn't care a hang.

Is it not a curious dispensation of Providence that, just when Aunt Celia is confined to her room with a cold, Mrs. Benedict should join our party and spend her days in our company? She drove to the Merchants' Hall and the Cavalry Barracks with us, she walked on the city walls with us, she even dared the 'homely' tea at 'The Little Snug'; and at that moment I determined I wouldn't build her memorial church for her, even at a most princely profit.

On crossing Lendal Bridge we saw the river Ouse running placidly through the town, and a lot of little green boats moored at a landing-stage.

'How delightful it would be to row for an hour!' exclaimed Miss Schuyler.

'Oh, do you think so, in those tippy boats on a strange river?' remonstrated Mrs. Benedict.

The moment I suspected she was afraid of the water, I lured her to the landing-stage and engaged a boat.

'It's a pity that that large flat one has a leak, otherwise it would have held three nicely; but I dare say we can be comfortable in one of the little ones,' I said doubtfully.

'Shan't we be too heavy for it?' Mrs. Benedict inquired timidly.

'Oh, I don't think so. We'll get in and try it. If we find it sinks under our weight we won't risk it,' I replied, spurred on by such twinkles in Miss Schuyler's eyes as blinded me to everything else.

'I really don't think your aunt would like you to venture, Miss Schuyler,' said the marplot.

'Oh, as to that, she knows I am accustomed to boating,' replied Miss Schuyler.

'And Miss Schuyler is such an excellent swimmer,' I added.

Whereupon the marplot and killjoy remarked that if it were a question of swimming she should prefer to remain at home, as she had large responsibilities devolving upon her, and her life was in a sense not her own to fling away as she might like.

I assured her solemnly that she was quite, quite right, and pushed off before she could change her mind.

After a long interval of silence, Miss Schuyler observed in the voice, accompanied by the smile and the glance of the eye, that 'did' for me the moment I was first exposed to them:

'You oughtn't to have said that about my swimming, because I can't a bit, you know.'

'I was justified,' I answered gloomily. 'I have borne too much to-day, and if she had come with us and had fallen overboard, I might have been tempted to hold her down with the oar.'

Whereupon Miss Schuyler gave way to such whole-hearted mirth that she nearly upset the boat. I almost wish she had! I want to swim, sink, die, or do any other mortal thing for her.

We had a heavenly hour. It was only an hour, but it was the first time I have had any real chance to direct hot shot at the walls of the maiden castle. I regret to state that they stood remarkably firm. Of course, I don't wish to batter them down; I want them to melt under the warmth of my attack.

_She_

York, _July 5_.

We had a lovely sail on the river Ouse this afternoon. Mrs. Benedict was timid about boating, and did not come with us. As a usual thing, I hate a cowardly woman, but her lack of courage is the nicest trait in her whole character; I might almost say the only nice trait.

Mr. Copley tried in every way, short of asking me a direct question, to find out whether I had received the marked copy of 'Persuasion' in Bath, but I evaded the point.

Just as we were at the door of my lodging, and he was saying good-bye, I couldn't resist the temptation of asking:

'Why, before you knew us at all, did you put "Miss Van Tyck: Reserved," on the window of the railway carriage at Bath?'

He was embarrassed for a moment, and then he said:

'Well, she _is_, you know, if you come to that; and, besides, I didn't dare tell the guard the placard I really wanted to put on.'

'I shouldn't think a lack of daring your most obvious fault,' I said cuttingly.

'Perhaps not; but there are limits to most things, and I hadn't the pluck to paste on a pink paper with "Miss Schuyler: Engaged," on it.'

He disappeared suddenly just then, as if he wasn't equal to facing my displeasure, and I am glad he did, for I was too embarrassed for words.

Memoranda: _In the height of roofs, nave, and choir, York is first of English cathedrals._

_She_

Durham, _July something or other_, At Farmer Hendry's.

We left York this morning, and arrived in Durham about eleven o'clock. It seems there is some sort of an election going on in the town, and there was not a single fly at the station. Mr. Copley looked about in every direction, but neither horse nor vehicle was to be had for love or money. At last we started to walk to the village, Mr. Copley so laden with our hand-luggage that he resembled a pack mule.

We called first at the Three Tuns, where they still keep up the old custom of giving a wee glass of cherry-brandy to each guest on his arrival; but, alas! they were crowded, and we were turned from the hospitable door. We then made a tour of the inns, but not a single room was to be had, not for that night, nor for two days ahead, on account of that same election.

'Hadn't we better go on to Edinburgh, Aunt Celia?' I asked, as we were resting in the door of the Jolly Sailor.

'Edinburgh? Never!' she replied. 'Do you suppose that I would voluntarily spend a Sunday in those bare Presbyterian churches until the memory of these past ideal weeks has faded a little from my memory? What! leave out Durham and spoil the set?' (In her agitation and disappointment she spoke of the cathedrals as if they were souvenir spoons.) 'I intended to stay here for a week or more, and write up a record of our entire trip from Winchester while the impressions were fresh in my mind.'

'And I had intended doing the same thing,' said Mr. Copley. 'That is, I hoped to finish off my previous sketches, which are in a frightful state of incompletion, and spend a good deal of time on the interior of this cathedral, which is unusually beautiful.'

At this juncture Aunt Celia disappeared for a moment to ask the barmaid if, in her opinion, the constant consumption of malt liquors prevents a more dangerous indulgence in brandy and whisky. She is gathering statistics, but as the barmaids can never collect their thoughts while they are drawing ale, Aunt Celia proceeds slowly.

'For my part,' said I, with mock humility, 'I am a docile person, who never has any intentions of her own, but who yields herself sweetly to the intentions of other people in her immediate vicinity.'

'Are you?' asked Mr. Copley, taking out his pencil.

'Yes, I said so. What are you doing?'

'Merely taking note of your statement, that's all. Now, Miss Van Tyck' (of course Aunt Celia appeared at this delightful moment), 'I have a plan to propose. I was here last summer with a couple of Harvard men, and we lodged at a farmhouse about a mile distant from the cathedral. If you will step into the coffee-room for an hour, I'll walk up to Farmer Hendry's and see if they will take us in. I think we might be fairly comfortable.'

'Can Aunt Celia have Apollinaris and black coffee after her morning bath?' I asked.

'I hope, Katharine,' said Aunt Celia majestically--'I hope that I can accommodate myself to circumstances. If Mr. Copley can secure apartments for us, I shall be more than grateful.'

So here we are, all lodging together in an ideal English farmhouse. There is a thatched roof on one of the old buildings, and the dairy-house is covered with ivy, and Farmer Hendry's wife makes a real English curtsey, and there are herds of beautiful sleek Durham cattle, and the butter and cream and eggs and mutton are delicious, and I never, never want to go home any more. I want to live here for ever and wave the American flag on Washington's birthday.

I am so happy that I feel as if something were going to spoil it all. Twenty years old to-day! I wish mamma were alive to wish me many happy returns.

The cathedral is very beautiful in itself, and its situation is beyond all words of mine to describe. I greatly admired the pulpit, which is supported by five pillars sunk into the backs of squashed lions; but Mr. Copley, when I asked him the period, said, 'Pure Brummagem!'

There is a nice old cell for refractory monks, that we agreed will be a lovely place for Mrs. Benedict if we can lose her in it. She arrives as soon as they can find room for her at the Three Tuns.

Memoranda:--Casual remark for breakfast-table or perhaps for luncheon--it is a trifle heavy for breakfast: _'Since the sixteenth century, and despite the work of Inigo Jones and the great Wren_ (not Jenny Wren: Christopher), _architecture has had, in England especially, no legitimate development.' This is the only cathedral with a Bishop's Throne or a Sanctuary Knocker._

* * * * *

_He_

Durham, _July 19_.

O child of fortune, thy name is J. Q. Copley! How did it happen to be election time? Why did the inns chance to be full? How did Aunt Celia relax sufficiently to allow me to find her a lodging? Why did she fall in love with the lodging when found? I do not know. I only know Fate smiles; that Kitty and I eat our morning bacon and eggs together; that I carve Kitty's cold beef and pour Kitty's sparkling ale at luncheon; that I go to matins with Kitty, and dine with Kitty, and walk in the gloaming with Kitty--and Aunt Celia. And after a day of heaven like this, like Lorna Doone's lover--ay, and like every other lover, I suppose--I go to sleep, and the roof above me swarms with angels, having Kitty under it.

She was so beautiful on Sunday. She has been wearing her favourite browns and primroses through the week, but on Sunday she blossomed into blue and white, topped by a wonderful hat, whose brim was laden with hyacinths. She sat on the end of a seat in the nave, and there was a capped and gowned crowd of university students in the transept. I watched them and they watched her. She has the fullest, whitest eyelids, and the loveliest lashes. When she looks down I wish she might never look up, and when she looks up I am never ready for her to look down. If it had been a secular occasion, and she had dropped her handkerchief, seven-eighths of the students would have started to pick it up--but I should have got there first! Well, all this is but a useless prelude, for there are facts to be considered--delightful, warm, breathing facts!