We all went to an evening service last night. Coming home, aunt Celiawalked ahead with Mrs. Benedict, who keeps turning up at the mostunexpected moments. She's going to build a Gothicky memorial chapelsomewhere. I don't know for whom, unless it's for Benedict Arnold. Idon't like her in the least, but four is certainly a more comfortablenumber than three. I scarcely ever have a moment alone with Mr. Copley;for go where I will and do what I please, aunt Celia has the most perfectconfidence in my indiscretion, so she is always _en evidence_.
Just as we were turning into the quiet little street where we are lodgingI said, "Oh dear, I wish that I knew something about architecture!"
"If you don't know anything about it, you are certainly responsible for agood deal of it," said Mr. Copley.
"I? How do you mean?" I asked quite innocently, because I couldn't seehow 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 somethingprecious you only dimly suspected was to be yours, you almost wish ithadn'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 totalk over the "lady chapel" in her new memorial church. Then aunt Celiatold me they would excuse me, as I had had a wearisome day; and there wasnothing for me to do but to go to bed, like a snubbed child, and wonderif I should ever know the end of that sentence. And I listened at thehead 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!
DURHAM, _July_ 15 At Farmer Hendry's.
We left York this morning, and arrived here about eleven o'clock. Itseems there is some sort of an election going on in the town, and therewas not a single fly at the station. Mr. Copley walked about in everydirection, but neither horse nor vehicle was to be had for love normoney. At last we started to walk to the village, Mr. Copley so ladenwith our hand-luggage that he resembled a pack-mule. We made a tour ofthe inns, but not a single room was to be had, not for that night nor forthree days ahead, on account of that same election.
"Hadn't we better go on to Edinburgh, aunt Celia?" I asked.
"Edinburgh? Never!" she replied. "Do you suppose that I wouldvoluntarily spend a Sunday in those bare Presbyterian churches until thememory of these past ideal weeks has faded a little from my memory?What, leave out Durham and spoil the set?" (She spoke of the cathedralsas if they were souvenir spoons.) "I intended to stay here for a week ormore, and write up a record of our entire trip from Winchester while theimpressions were fresh in my mind."
"And I had intended doing the same thing," said Mr. Copley. "That is, Ihoped to finish off my previous sketches, which are in a frightful stateof incompletion, and spend a good deal of time on the interior of thiscathedral, which is unusually beautiful." (At this juncture aunt Celiadisappeared for a moment to ask the barmaid if, in her opinion, theconstant consumption of malt liquors prevents a more dangerous indulgencein brandy and whiskey. She is gathering statistics, but as the barmaidscan never collect their thoughts while they are drawing ale, aunt Celiaproceeds slowly.)
"For my part," said I, with mock humility, "I am a docile person whonever has any intentions of her own, but who yields herself sweetly tothe 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, Ihave a plan to propose. I was here last summer with a couple of Harvardmen, and we lodged at a farmhouse half a mile from the cathedral. If youwill step into the coffee-room of the Shoulder of Mutton and Cauliflowerfor an hour, I'll walk up to Farmer Hendry's and see if they will take usin. I think we might be fairly comfortable."
"Can aunt Celia have Apollinaris and black coffee after her morningbath?" I asked.
"I hope, Katharine," said aunt Celia majestically,--"I hope that I canaccommodate myself to circumstances. If Mr. Copley can secure lodgingsfor 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 houseis covered with ivy, and Farmer Hendry's wife makes a real Englishcourtesy, and there are herds of beautiful sleek Durham cattle, and thebutter and cream and eggs and mutton are delicious; and I never, neverwant to go home any more. I want to live here forever, and wave theAmerican 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 happyreturns.
Memoranda: Casual remark for breakfast table or perhaps for luncheon,--itis a trifle heavy for breakfast: "Since the sixteenth century and despitethe work of Inigo Jones and the great Wren (not Jenny Wren--Christopher),architecture has had, in England especially, no legitimate development."
HE
DURHAM, _July_ 19
O child of fortune, thy name is J. Q. Copley! How did it happen to beelection time? Why did the inns chance to be full? How did aunt Celiarelax sufficiently to allow me to find her a lodging? Why did she fallin love with the lodging when found? I do not know. I only know Fatesmiles; that Kitty and I eat our morning bacon and eggs together; that Icarve Kitty's cold beef and pour Kitty's sparkling ale at luncheon; thatI go to vespers with Kitty, and dine with Kitty, and walk in the gloamingwith Kitty--and aunt Celia. And after a day of heaven like this, likeLorna Doone's lover,--ay, and like every other lover, I suppose,--I go tosleep, and the roof above me swarms with angels, having Kitty under it!
We were coming home from afternoon service, Kitty and I. (I amanticipating for she was "Miss Schuyler" then, but never mind.) We werewalking through the fields, while Mrs. Benedict and aunt Celia weredriving. As we came across a corner of the bit of meadow land that joinsthe stable and the garden, we heard a muffled roar, and as we lookedround we saw a creature with tossing horns and waving tail making for us,head down, eyes flashing. Kitty gave a shriek. We chanced to be near apair of low bars. I hadn't been a college athlete for nothing. I swungKitty over the bars, and jumped after her. But she, not knowing in herfright where she was nor what she was doing; supposing, also, that themad creature, like the villain in the play, would "still pursue her,"flung herself bodily into my arms, crying, "Jack! Jack! Save me!"
"It was the first time she had called me Jack," and I needed no secondinvitation. I proceeded to save her,--in the usual way, by holding herto my heart and kissing her lovely hair reassuringly, as I murmured: "Youare safe, my darling; not a hair of your precious head shall be hurt.Don't be frightened."
She shivered like a leaf. "I am frightened," she said. "I can't helpbeing frightened. He will chase us, I know. Where is he? What is hedoing now?"
Looking up to determine if I need abbreviate this blissful moment, I sawthe enraged animal disappearing in the side door of the barn; and it wasa nice, comfortable Durham cow,--that somewhat rare but possible thing, asportive cow!
"Is he gone?" breathed Kitty from my waistcoat.
"Yes, he is gone--she is gone, darling. But don't move; it may comeagain."
My first too hasty assurance had calmed Kitty's fears, and she raised hercharming flushed face from its retreat and prepared to withdraw. I didnot facilitate the preparations, and a moment of awkward silenc
e ensued.
"Might I inquire," I asked, "if the dear little person at presentreposing in my arms will stay there (with intervals for rest andrefreshment) for the rest of her natural life?"
She withdrew entirely now, all but her hand, and her eyes sought theground.
"I suppose I shall have to now,--that is, if you think--at least, Isuppose you do think--at any rate, you look as if you were thinking--thatthis has been giving you encouragement."
"I do indeed,--decisive, undoubted, barefaced encouragement."
"I don't think I ought to be judged as if I were in my sober senses," shereplied. "I was frightened within an inch of my life. I told you thismorning that I was dreadfully afraid of bulls, especially mad ones, and Itold you that my nurse frightened me, when I was a child, with awfulstories about them, and that I never outgrew my childish terror. Ilooked everywhere about: the barn was too far, the fence too high, I sawhim coming, and there was nothing but you and the open country; of courseI took you. It was very natural, I'm sure,--any girl would have doneit."
"To be sure," I replied soothingly, "any girl would have run after me, asyou say."
"I didn't say any girl would have run after you,--you needn't flatteryourself; and besides, I think I was really trying to protect you as wellas to gain protection; else why should I have cast myself on you like acatamount, or a catacomb, or whatever the thing is?"
"Yes, darling, I thank you for saving my life, and I am willing to devotethe remainder of it to your service as a pledge of my gratitude; but ifyou should take up life-saving as a profession, dear, don't throwyourself on a fellow with"--
"Jack! Jack!" she cried, putting her hand over my lips, and getting itwell kissed in consequence. "If you will only forget that, and never,never taunt me with it afterwards, I'll--I'll--well, I'll do anything inreason; yes, even marry you!"
CANTERBURY, _July_ 31 The Royal Fountain.
I was never sure enough of Kitty, at first, to dare risk telling herabout that little mistake of hers. She is such an elusive person that Ispend all my time in wooing her, and can never lay flattering unction tomy soul that she is really won.
But after aunt Celia had looked up my family record and given aprovisional consent, and papa Schuyler had cabled a reluctant blessing, Idid not feel capable of any further self-restraint.
It was twilight here in Canterbury, and we were sitting on thevine-shaded veranda of aunt Celia's lodging. Kitty's head was on myshoulder. There is something very queer about that; when Kitty's head ison my shoulder, I am not capable of any consecutive train of thought.When she puts it there I see stars, then myriads of stars, then, oh! Ican't begin to enumerate the steps by which ecstasy mounts to delirium;but at all events, any operation which demands exclusive use of theintellect is beyond me at these times. Still I gathered my stray witstogether and said, "Kitty!"
"Yes, Jack?"
"Now that nothing but death or marriage can separate us, I have somethingto confess to you."
"Yes," she said serenely, "I know what you are going to say. He was acow."
I lifted her head from my shoulder sternly, and gazed into her childlike,candid eyes.
"You mountain of deceit! How long have you known about it?"
"Ever since the first. Oh, Jack, stop looking at me in that way! Notthe very first, not when I--not when you--not when we--no, not then, butthe next morning I said to Farmer Hendry, 'I wish you would keep yoursavage bull chained up while we are here; aunt Celia is awfully afraid ofthem, especially those that go mad, like yours!' 'Lor', miss,' saidFarmer Hendry, 'he haven't been pastured here for three weeks. I keephim six mile away. There ben't nothing but gentle cows in the homemedder.' But I didn't think that you knew, you secretive person! I daresay you planned the whole thing in advance, in order to take advantage ofmy fright!"
"Never! I am incapable of such an unnecessary subterfuge! Besides,Kitty, I could not have made an accomplice of a cow, you know."
"Then," she said, with great dignity, "if you had been a gentleman and aman of honor, you would have cried, 'Unhand me, girl! You are clingingto me under a misunderstanding!'"
SHE
CHESTER, _August_ 8 The Grosvenor.
Jack and I are going over this same ground next summer, on our weddingtrip. We shall sail for home next week, and we haven't half done justiceto the cathedrals. After the first two, we saw nothing but each other ona general background of architecture. I hope my mind is improved, butoh, I am so hazy about all the facts I have read since I knew Jack!Winchester and Salisbury stand out superbly in my memory. They acquiredtheir ground before it was occupied with other matters. I shall neverforget, for instance, that Winchester has the longest spire and Salisburythe highest nave of all the English cathedrals. And I shall never forgetso long as I live that Jane Austen and Isaac Newt--Oh dear! was it IsaacNewton or Izaak Walton that was buried in Winchester and Salisbury? Tothink that that interesting fact should have slipped from my mind, afterall the trouble I took with it! But I know that it was Isaac somebody,and that he was buried in--well, he was buried in one of those twoplaces. I am not certain which, but I can ask Jack; he is sure to know.
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