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THE PAPER CAP

A Story Of Love And Labor

By Amelia E. Barr

Author Of “An Orkney Maid,” “Christine,” Etc.

                   “A king may wear a golden crown,

                   A Paper Cap is lighter;

                   And when the crown comes tumbling down

                   The Paper Cap sits tighter

Frontispiece By Stockton Mulford

D. Appleton And Company New York

Copyright, 1918.


[Illustration: 0008]


[Illustration: 0009]



TO SAMUEL GOMPERS

THE WORKER’S FRIEND THIS STORY OF LABOR’S FORTY YEARS’ STRUGGLE FOR THE
RIGHT OF SUFFRAGE IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED

                   This is the Gospel of Labor,

                        Ring it, ye bells of the Kirk,

                   The Lord of Love came down from above

                        To live with the people who work.

                             --Henry Van <DW18>

 The headdress of nationalities, and of public and private societies,
has been in all ages a remarkable point of interest. Religion, Poetry,
Politics, superstitions, and so forth, have all found expression by the
way they dressed or covered their heads. Priests, soldiers, sailors,
lawyers, traders, professions of all kinds are known by some peculiar
covering of the head which they assume. None of these symbols are
without interest, and most of them typify the character or intents of
their wearers.

The Paper Cap has added to its evident story a certain amount of
mystery, favorable in so far as it permits us to exercise our ingenuity
in devising a probable reason for its selection as the symbol of Labor.
A very industrious search has not yet positively revealed it. No public
or private collection of old prints of the seventeenth century that I
have seen or heard from has any representation of an English working man
wearing a Paper Cap. There is nothing of the kind in any _Hone’s_ four
large volumes of curious matters; nor does _Notes and Queries_ mention
it. Not until the agitation and the political disturbance attending the
Reform Bill, is it seen or mentioned. Then it may be found in the rude
woodcuts and chap books of the time while in every town and village it
soon became as familiar as the men who wore it.

Now, if the working man was looking for a symbol, there are many reasons
why the Paper Cap would appeal to him. It is square, straight, upright;
it has no brim. It permits the wearer to have full sight for whatever he
is doing. It adds five inches or more to his height. It is cool, light
and clean, and it is made of a small square of brown paper, and costs
nothing. Every man makes his own paper cap, generally while he smokes
his first morning pipe. It was also capable of assuming all the
expressions of more pretentious head coverings--worn straight over the
brows, it imparted a steady, business-like appearance. Tilted to one
side, it showed the wearer to be interested in his own appearance. If it
was pushed backward he was worried or uncertain about his work. On the
heads of large masterful men it had a very “hands off” look. Employers
readily understood its language.

I do not remember ever seeing anyone but working men wear a Paper Cap
and they generally wore it with an “air” no pretender could assume. In
the days of the Reform Bill a large company of Paper-Capped men were a
company to be respected.

The man whose clever fingers first folded into such admirable shape
a piece of brown paper seems to be unknown. I was once told he was a
Guiseley man, again he was located at Burnley, or Idle. No one pretended
to know his name. It was perhaps some tired weaver or carpenter whose
head was throbbing in the sultry room and who feared to expose it to
the full draught from some open window near his loom or bench. No other
affiliation ever assumed or copied this cap in any way and for a century
it has stood bravely out as the symbol of Labor; and has been respected
and recognized as the badge of a courageous and intelligent class.

Now, if we do not positively know the facts about a certain matter, we
can consider the circumstances surrounding it and deduct from them a
likelihood of the truth; and I cannot avoid a strong belief that the
Paper Cap was invented early in the agitation for the Reform Bill of A.
D. 1832 and very likely directly after the immense public meeting at New
Hall, where thousands of English working men took bareheaded and with
a Puritan solemnity, a solemn oath to stand by the Reform Bill until it
was passed. It was not fully passed until 1884, and during that interval
the Paper Cap was everywhere in evidence. Might it not be the symbol of
that oath and a quiet recognition of brotherhood and comradeship in the
wearing of it?

It is certain that after this date, 1884, its use gradually declined,
yet it is very far from being abandoned. In Nova Scotia and Canada it is
still common, and we all know how slowly any personal or household habit
dies in England. I am very sure that if I went to-morrow to any weaving
town in the West Riding, I would see plenty of Paper Caps round the
great centers of Industry. Last week only, I received half-a-dozen from
a large building firm in Bradford.

As a symbol of a sacred obligation between men, it is fitting and
unique. It has never been imitated or copied, and if the habit of making
a clean one every day is observed, then whatever it promises will be
kept clean and clear in the memory. Long live the Paper Cap!

My theory that the Paper Cap is associated with the Reform Bill, may,
or may not be correct, but the union seems to be a very natural one--the
Bill deserved the friendship and long adherence of the Cap, and the Cap
deserved the freedom and strength of the Bill.




THE PAPER CAP




CHAPTER I--THE SQUIRE OF ANNIS


               “The turning point in life arrives for all of us.

                   A land of just and old renown,

               Where Freedom slowly broadens down

                   From precedent to precedent.”

 NEARLY ninety years ago, there was among the hills and wolds of the
West Riding of Yorkshire a lovely village called Annis. It had grown
slowly around the lords of the manor of Annis and consisted at the
beginning of the nineteenth century of men and women whose time was
employed in spinning and weaving. The looms were among their household
treasures. They had a special apartment in every home, and were worthily
and cheerfully worked by their owners. There were no mills in Annis
then, and no masters, and no Trade Unions. They made their own
work-hours and the Leeds Cloth Hall settled the worth of their work.

Squire Antony Annis owned the greater part of the village. The pretty
white stone cottages, each in its own finely cared-for garden, were,
generally speaking, parts of his estate and he took a fatherly, masterly
care of them. It was the squire who bought their work, and who had to
settle with the Leeds Cloth Hall. It was the squire who found the wool
for the women to spin and who supplied the men with the necessary yarns.

He lived close to them. His own ancient Hall stood on a high hill just
outside the village!--a many-gabled building that had existed for nearly
three hundred years. On this same hilly plateau was the church of Annis,
still more ancient, and also the Rectory, a handsome residence that
had once been a monastery. Both were in fine preservation and both were
influential in the village life, though the ancient church looked down
with grave disapproval on the big plain Wesleyan Chapel that had stolen
from it the lawful allegiance it had claimed for nearly five centuries.
Yet its melodious chimes still called at all canonical hours to worship,
and its grand old clock struck in clarion tones the hours of their labor
and their rest.

They were handsome men in this locality, strong and powerful, with a
passion for horses and racing that not even Methodism could control.
Their women were worthy of them, tall and fine-looking, with splendid
coloring, abundant hair, and not unfrequently eyes like their Lancashire
neighbors; gray and large, with long dark lashes, and that “look” in
them which the English language has not yet been able to find a word
for. They were busy wives, they spun the wool for their husbands’ looms
and they reared large families of good sons and daughters.

The majority of the people were Methodists--after their kind. The
shepherds on the mountains around took as naturally to Methodism as a
babe to its mother’s milk. They lived with their flocks of Merino sheep
half their lives in the night and its aërial mysteries. The doctrine
of “Assurance” was their own spiritual confidence, and John Wesley’s
Communion with the other world they certified by their own experience.
As to the weavers, they approved of a religion that was between God and
themselves only. They had a kind of feudal respect for Squire Annis.
He made their pleasant independent lives possible and they would take a
word or two of advice or reproof from him; and also the squire knew what
it was to take a glass of strong ale when he had been to a race and seen
the horse he had backed, win it--but the curate! The curate knew nothing
about horses.

If they saw the curate approaching them they got out of his way; if they
saw the squire coming they waited for him. He might call them idle
lads, but he would walk to their looms with them and frankly admire the
excellence of their work, and perhaps say: “I wonder at a fine lad like
thee leaving a bit of work like that. If I could do it I would keep at
it daylight through.”

And the weaver would look him bravely in the face and answer--“Not thou,
squire! It wouldn’t be a bit like thee. I see thee on t’ grandstand,
at ivery race I go to. I like a race mysen, it is a varry democratic
meeting.”

Then the squire would give the child at the spinning wheel a shilling
and go off with a laugh. He knew that in any verbal contest with Jimmy
Riggs, he would not be the victor.

Also if the squire met any mother of the village he would touch his
hat and listen to what she wished to say. And if one of her lads was in
trouble for “catching a rabbit on the common”--though he suspected the
animal was far more likely from his own woods--he always promised to
help him and he always did so.

“Our women have such compelling eyes,” he would remark in excuse, “and
when they would look at you through a mist of tears a man that can say
‘no’ to them isn’t much of a man.”

Naturally proud, the squire was nevertheless broadly affable. He could
not resist the lifted paper cap of the humblest man and his lofty
stature and dignified carriage won everyone’s notice. His face was
handsome, and generally wore a kind thoughtful expression, constantly
breaking into broad smiles. And all these advantages were seconded and
emphasized by his scrupulous dress, always fit and proper for every
occasion.

He was riding slowly through the village one morning when he met a
neighbor with whom he had once been on intimate friendly terms. It was
John Thomas Bradley, who had just built a large mill within three miles
of Annis village and under the protecting power of the government had
filled it with the latest power-looms and spinning jennies.

“Good morning, Annis!” he said cheerfully. “How dost tha do?”

“I do none the better for thy late doings. I can tell thee that!”

“Is tha meaning my new building?”

“Is tha ashamed to speak its proper name? It’s a factory, call it that.
And I wouldn’t wonder, if tha hes been all through Annis, trying to get
some o’ my men to help thee run it.”

“Nay, then. I wouldn’t hev a man that hes been in thy employ, unless it
were maybe Jonathan Hartley. They are all petted and spoiled to death.”

“Ask Jonathan to come to thy machine shop. He wouldn’t listen to thee.”

“Well, then, I wouldn’t listen to his Chartist talk. I would want to
cut the tongue out o’ his head. I would that! O Annis, we two hev been
friends for forty years, and our fathers were hand and glove before us.”

“I know, Bradley, I know! But now thou art putting bricks and iron
before old friendship and before all humanity; for our workers are men,
first-rate men, too--and thou knows it.”

“Suppose they are, what by that?”

“Just this; thou can’t drive men by machines of iron tethered to steam!
It is an awful mastership, that it is! It is the drive of the devil. The
slaves we are going to set free in the West Indies are better off, far
better off than factory slaves. They hed at any rate human masters, that
like as not, hev a heart somewhere about them. Machines hev no heart,
and no sympathy and no weakness of any make. They are regular, untiring,
inexorable, and----”

“They do more work and better work than men can do.”

“Mebbe they do, and so men to keep up wi’ them, hev to work longer, and
harder, and wi’ constantly increasing peril o’ their lives. Yes, for the
iron master, the man must work, work, work, till he falls dead at its
iron feet. It is a cruel bad do! A bad do! Bradley, how can thou fashion
to do such things? Oh, it isn’t fair and right, and thou knows it!”

“Well, Annis, thou may come to see things a good deal different and tha
knows well I can’t quarrel wi’ thee. Does ta think I can iver forget
March 21, 1823, when thou saved me and mine, from ruin?”

“Let that pass, Bradley. It went into God’s memory--into God’s memory
only. Good morning to thee!” And the men parted with a feeling of
kindness between them, though neither were able to put it into words.

Still the interview made the squire unhappy and he instantly thought of
going home and telling his wife about it. “I can talk the fret away with
Annie,” he thought, and he turned Annisward.

At this time Madam Annis was sitting in the morning sunshine, with her
finest set of English laces in her hand. She was going carefully over
them, lifting a stitch here and there, but frequently letting them fall
to her lap while she rested her eyes upon the wealth of spring flowers
in the garden which at this point came close up to the windows.

Madam Annis was fifty years old but still a beautiful woman, full of
life, and of all life’s sweetest and bravest sympathies. She wore an
Indian calico--for Manchester’s printed calicoes were then far from
the perfection they have since arrived at--and its bizarre pattern, and
wonderfully brilliant colors, suited well her fine proportions and regal
manner. A small black silk apron with lace pockets and trimmings of
lace, and black silk bows of ribbon--a silver chatelaine, and a little
lace cap with scarlet ribbons on it, were the most noticeable items
of her dress though it would hardly do to omit the scarlet morocco
slippers, sandaled and trimmed with scarlet ribbon and a small silver
buckle on the instep.

Suddenly she heard rapid footsteps descending the great stairway, and
in the same moment she erected her position, and looked with kind but
steady eyes at the door. It opened with a swift noiseless motion and a
girl of eighteen years entered; a girl tall and slender, with masses of
bright brown hair, a beautiful mouth and star-like eyes.

“Mother,” she said, “how am I to go to London this spring?”

“I am not yet in thy father’s intentions about the journey, Katherine.
He promised to take thee when he went up to the House. If he forswears
his promise, why then, child, I know not. Ask him when he is going.”

“I did so this morning and he said I must excuse him at present.”

“Then he will take thee, later.”

“That’s a bit different, mother; and it isn’t what he promised me. It is
my wish to go now.”

“There is no way for thee to go now. Let London wait for its proper
time.”

“Alura Percival, and Lady Capel, and Agatha Wickham, are already on
their way there. Captain Chandos told me so an hour ago.”

“Indeed! Has he learned how to speak the truth?”

“Like other people, he speaks as much of it as is profitable to him. If
father is not going just yet cannot you go, dear mother? You know Jane
will expect us to keep our promise.”

“Jane knows enough of the times to understand why people are now often
prevented from keeping their promises. Is Jane going much out?”

“A great deal and she says Lord Leyland wishes her to keep open house
for the rest of the season. Of course, I ought to be with her.”

“I see no ‘ought’ in the matter.”

“She is my sister and can introduce me to noblemen and distinguished
people. She desires me to come at once. I have just had a letter from
her. And what about my frocks, mother? If father is not ready to go
you could go with me, dear mother! That would be just as well, perhaps
better!” And she said these flattering words from the very summit of her
splendid eyes.

“There are people here in Annis who are wanting bread and----”

“It is their own fault, mother, and you know it. The Annis weavers are a
lot of stubborn old fogies.”

“They have only taken this world as they found it. Isn’t that right?”

“No. It is all wrong. Every generation ought to make it better. You said
that to father last night, I heard you.”

“I doan’t always talk to thy father as I do to thee. It wouldn’t be a
bit suitable. Whatever were thou talking to Captain Chandos for--if he
is a captain--I doubt it.”

“His uncle bought him a commission in The Scotch Greys. His mother is
Scotch. I suppose he has as much right there, as the rest of the Hanover
fools.”

“And if thou are going to indulge thyself in describing people in the
army and the court thou wilt get thy father into trouble.”

“I saw father talking to Squire Bradley for a long time this morning.”

“In what mood? I hope they were not--quarreling.”

“They were disputing rather earnestly, father looked troubled, and so
did Bradley.”

“They were talking of the perishing poor and the dreadful state of.
England no doubt. It’s enough to trouble anybody, I’m sure of that.”

“So it is, but then father has a bad way of making things look worse
than they are. And he isn’t friendly with Bradley now. That seems wrong,
mother, after being friends all their live-long lives.”

“It is wrong. It is a bit of silent treason to each other. It is that!
And how did thou happen to see them talking this morning?”

“They met on the village green. I think Bradley spoke first.”

“I’ll warrant it. Bradley is varry good-natured, and he thought a deal
o’ thy father. How did thou happen to be on the green so early in the
day?”

“I was sitting with Faith Foster, and her parlor window faces the
Green.”

“Faith Foster! And pray what took thee to her house?”

“I was helping her to sew for a lot of Annis babies that are nearly
naked, and perishing with cold.”

“That was a varry queer thing for thee to do.”

“I thought so myself even while I was doing it--but Faith works as she
likes with everyone. You can’t say ‘No’ to anything she wants.”

“Such nonsense! I’m fairly astonished at thee.”

“Have you ever seen Faith, mother?”

“Not I! It is none o’ my place to visit a Methodist preacher’s
daughter.”

“Everybody visits her--rich and poor. If you once meet her she can bring
you back to her as often as she wishes.”

“Such women are very dangerous people to know. I’d give her a wide
border. Keep thyself to thyself.”

“I am going to London. Maybe, mother, I ought to tell you that our Dick
is in love with Faith Foster. I am sure he is. I do not see how he can
help it.”

“Dick and his father will hev that matter to settle, and there is enough
on hand at present--what with mills, and steam, and working men, not to
speak of rebellion, and hunger, and sore poverty. Dick’s love affairs
can wait awhile. He hes been in love with one and twenty perfect
beauties already. Some of them were suitable fine girls, of good family,
and Lucy Todd and Amy Schofield hed a bit of money of their awn. Father
and I would hev been satisfied with either o’ them, but Dick shied off
from both and went silly about that French governess that was teaching
the Saville girls.”

“I do not think Dick will shy off from Faith Foster. I am sure that he
has never yet dared to say a word of love to her.”

“Dared! What nonsense! Dick wasn’t born in Yorkshire to take a dare from
any man or woman living.”

“Well, mother, I have made you wise about Faith Foster. A word is all
you want.”

“I the girl pretty?”

“Pretty She is adorable.”

“You mean that she is a fine looking girl?”

“I mean that she is a little angel. You think of violets if she comes
where you are. Her presence is above a charm and every door flies open
to her. She is very small. Mary Saville, speaking after her French
governess, calls her _petite_. She is, however, beautifully fashioned
and has heavenly blue, deep eyes.”

“Tell me nothing more about her. I should never get along with such a
daughter-in-law. How could thou imagine it?”

“Now, mother, I have told you all my news, what have you to say to me
about London?”

“I will speak to thy father some time to-day. I shall hev to choose both
a proper way and a proper time; thou knows that. Get thy frocks ready
and I will see what can be done.”

“If father will not take me, I shall write to Aunt Josepha.”

“Thou will do nothing of that kind. Thy Aunt Josepha is a very peculiar
woman. We heard from the Wilsons that she hed fairly joined the radicals
and was heart and soul with the Cobden set. In her rough, broad way she
said to Mrs. Wilson, that steam and iron and red brick had come to take
possession of England and that men and women who could not see that
were blind fools and that a pinch of hunger would do them good. She
even scolded father in her letter two weeks ago, and father her _eldest
brother_. Think of that! I was shocked, and father felt it far more than
I can tell thee. _Why!_--he wouldn’t hev a mouthful of lunch, and that
day we were heving hare soup; and him so fond of hare soup.”

“I remember. Did father answer that letter?”

“I should think he did. He told Josepha Temple a little of her duty; he
reminded her, in clear strong words, that he stood in the place of her
father, and the head of the Annis family, and that he had a right to her
respect and sympathy.”

“What did Aunt Josepha say to that?”

“She wrote a laughable, foolish letter back and said: ‘As she was two
years older than Antony Annis she could not frame her mouth to ‘father’
him, but that she was, and always would be, his loving sister.’ You see
Josepha Temple was the eldest child of the late squire, your father came
two years after her.”

“Did you know that Dick had been staying with her for a week?”

“Yes. Dick wrote us while there. Father is troubled about it. He says
Dick will come home with a factory on his brain.”

“You must stand by Dick, mother. We are getting so pinched for money you
know, and Lydia Wilson told me that everyone was saying: ‘Father was
paying the men’s shortage out of his estate.’ They were sorry for
father, and I don’t like people being sorry for him.”

“And pray what has Lydia Wilson to do with thy father’s money and
business? Thou ought to have asked her that question. Whether thou
understands thy father or not, whatever he does ought to be right in thy
eyes. Men don’t like explaining their affairs to anyone; especially to
women, and I doan’t believe they iver tell the bottom facts, even to
themselves.”

“Mother, if things come to the worst, would it do for me to ask Jane for
money?”

“I wonder at thee. Jane niver gives or lends anything to anybody, but to
Jane.”

“She says she is going to entertain many great people this winter and
she wishes me to meet them so I think she might help me to make a good
appearance.”

“I wouldn’t wonder if she asked thy father to pay her for introducing
thee into the titled set. She writes about them and talks about them and
I dare warrant dreams about them.”

“Oh, mother!”

“Does she ever forget that she has managed to become Lady Leyland? She
thinks that two syllables before her name makes her better than her own
family. _Chut!_ Katherine! Leyland is only the third of the line. It
was an official favor, too--what merit there is in it has not yet been
discovered. We have lived in this old house three hundred years, and
three hundred before that in old Britain.”

“Old Britain?”

“To be sure--in Glamorganshire, I believe. Ask thy father. He knows his
genealogy by heart. I see him coming. Go and meet him.”

“Yes, mother, but I think I will write a short note to Aunt Josepha. I
will not name business, nor money, nor even my desire to make a visit to
London.”

“Write such a letter if thou wishes but take the result--whatever it
is--in a good humor. Remember that thy aunt’s temper, and her words
also, are entirely without frill.”

“That, of course. It is the Annis temper.”

“It is the English temper.”

“Well, mother, things seem to be ordered in a very unhappy fashion but
I suppose we might as well take to them at once. Indeed, we shall be
compelled to do it, if so be, it pleases them above.”

“Just so,” answered Madam. “But, Katherine, The Hands of Compulsion
generally turn out to be The Hands of Compassion.”

Katherine smiled happily, the door opened, and the next moment she gave
the smile in a kiss to her father, as he clasped her fondly in his arms,
crying, “Eh, my joy! I am glad to see thee!” Then the two women made
that charming fuss over his “tired look,” which is so consoling to men
fresh from the slings and arrows of an outrageous world that will not do
as they want it to do.

In his family life the squire still retained many old-fashioned customs,
and his dinner at one o’clock was a settled ceremony. This day, in the
very middle of it, Katherine said, “I saw you, father, this morning when
you were talking to Mr. Bradley on the Green--about ten o’clock.”

“And I saw thee trailing through the low meadows with Bradley’s son.”

“Yes, he came home last night.”

“And went out t’ varry next morning, to meet thee in t’ low meadow.”

“If you say, he happened to meet me in the low meadow, it would be
better.”

“Whativer hed the lad to do in my meadow so early in the morning?”

“Do you call half-past ten early, dad?”

“I call it too early for thee to be traipsing through t’ wet grass with
Henry Bradley.”

“Let us keep to facts, dear father. The grass was quite dry--too dry.
Joel was wishing for rain; he said, ‘Master so pampered his cattle, that
they perfectly thought scorn of half-cured grass.’”

“Thou art trying to slip by my question and I’m not going to let thee
do it. What was John Henry Bradley doing wi’ thee in the low meadow this
morning?”

“He brought me a letter from my brother Dick. Dick and Harry have been
in London together, and they stayed four days with Aunt Josepha. They
liked her very much. They took her to the opera and the play and she
snubbed O’Connell and some other famous men and told them to let her
alone, that she had two innocent lads in her care--and so on. You know.”

“Was he making love to thee?”

“You should not ask me a question of that kind, dad.”

“Thou need not tell me, what I should, or should not do. I hed learned
all that, before thou wer born. And I’ll tell thee plainly that I will
not hev any lovemaking between thee and Harry Bradley.”

“Very well, father. If you are going to the stable will you tell someone
to have my saddle horse at the door in half-an-hour?”

“To be sure, I will. If tha wants a ride and will go to Yoden Bridge,
I’ll go with thee.”

“I would like that but I promised to help Faith Foster, who is making
clothing for the naked, shivering babies in Annis village. When Oddy’s
little girl died a week ago, there wasn’t a night-gown in the house
to bury it in. Its mother tore a breadth out of her one petticoat and
folded her baby in it.”

“Oh, Katherine Annis! Surely that tale is not true!” cried Madam.

“Alas, it is too true! The baby’s one little gown was not fit even for
the grave.”

The Squire sat down and covered his face with his hands and when
Katherine left the room he looked up pitifully at his wife. And she
stooped and kissed him and as she did so comforted him with broken
words of affection and assurances that it was not his fault--“thou hast
pinched us all a bit to keep the cottage looms busy,” she said, “thou
couldn’t do more than that, could thou, Antony?”

“I thought I was doing right. Is there any other way?”

“Thou could build--like the rest.”

He did not answer the remark but stood up hurriedly, saying, “I must go
and order Katherine’s mount and she will expect me to put her up. After
that I may go to Yoden Bridge.”

Madam sighed and turned hopelessly away. “When will he listen to
reason?” she whispered, but there was no answer.




CHAPTER II--THE PROSPECT OF LONDON LIFE


               “Men who their duties know,

               But know their rights, and knowing dare maintain.”


               “The blind mole casts

               Copp’d hills toward heaven, to tell the earth is throng’d

               By man’s oppression and the poor worm doth die for’t.”


 IT is during the hungry years of the thirties and forties of the
nineteenth century that the great body of Englishmen and Englishwomen
reveal themselves most nobly and clearly in their national character.
They were years of hunger and strife but it is good to see with what
ceaseless, persistent bravery they fought for their ideals year after
year, generation after generation, never losing hope or courage but
steadily working and waiting for the passage of that great Reform Bill,
which would open the door for their recognition at least as members of
the body politic.

Yet this Reform Bill terrified the aristocracy and great land holders
and they were sure that its passage would sweep away both the monarchy
and the House of Lords. What else could be looked for if the franchise
was given to the laborer and the mechanic? The Bill had been well
received by the House of Commons, but rejected by the House of Lords
on the twentieth day of the previous October; and the condition of the
country was truly alarming.

Madam Annis reminded her daughter of this fact but Katherine was not to
be frightened. “Your father,” she said, “has just told us about the riot
and outrages at Derby and the burning of Nottingham Castle by a frantic
mob and the press says--‘the people in London are restless and full
of passion.’ Still more to be wondered at is the letter which Thomas
Attwood, the great banker, has just sent to the Duke of Wellington. In
this letter he dared to threaten the government, to tell them he would
march on London with a hundred thousand men, in order to inquire why the
Reform Bill was hindered and delayed. This morning’s paper comments
on this threat and says, The Duke of Wellington is not afraid of this
visit, but would rather it was not paid.’ All the way up to London there
is rioting. It is not a fit journey for thee to take. Mind what I say.”

“Oh, mother, only think! I might have been in the Ladies’ Gallery,
in the House. I might have heard Mr. Macaulay’s answer to the Lord’s
denial, with his grand question to the Commons, ‘Ought we to abandon the
Reform Bill because the Lords have rejected it? No! We must respect the
lawful privileges of their House, but we ought also to assert our own.’
No wonder the Commons cheered, and cheered, and cheered him. Oh, how
gladly I would have helped them!”

“You are going too far and too fast, Katherine.”

“Father ought to have been in the House on the third of February and it
is now the seventh of March: Is that right?”

“A great many landed men will not go to this session. The Reform Bill,
re-written by Lord Russell, is to come up again and father does not want
to vote either for, or against it.”

“Why?”

“He hes his reasons. I doan’t know that his reasons are any business of
thine.”

“Harry Bradley was explaining things to me this morning, and I am for
the Reform Bill. I am sure the people are right.”

“I wouldn’t say as much on thy opinion. Wisdom wasn’t born wi’ thee and
I doan’t expect she will die wi’ thee. I think if thou went to London
this spring thou would make more enemies than thou could manage. Father
is following my advice in staying home, and London isn’t a fit place for
a young girl like thee and the way there is full of rioters. Thy father
is a landed man and he doesn’t believe in giving every weaver and hedger
and ditcher a voice in the government of England.”

“Harry Bradley says, some of their leaders and speakers are very clever
eloquent men.”

“I wouldn’t talk nonsense after Harry Bradley. Who’s Harry Bradley?”

“He is my friend, mother. We have been friends nearly twenty years.”

“Not you! It is not yet eighteen years since thou showed thy face in
this world.”

“I was speaking generally, mother.”

“Eh, but there’s something wrong in that way! A lot o’ bother can come
out of it. I wouldn’t mind anything Harry Bradley says, thy father won’t
hev any nonsense about him. I can tell thee that!”

“Father is so set in his own way. No one suits him lately. We met
Captain Chandos last Monday, and he would hardly notice him.”

“Well, then, there are plenty of folk no one can suit, and varry often
they can’t suit themselves.”

“Oh, I don’t care about Chandos, mother; but I feel angry when Harry is
slighted. You see, mother, I might come to marry Harry Bradley.”

“I do hope thou won’t be so far left to thysen, as that would mean.”

“Then you would be wise to let me go to London. A girl must have a
lover, or she feels out in the cold, and Harry is the best specimen of a
man round about Annis.”

“All right. Let me tell thee that I hev noticed that the girls who never
throw a line into the sea of marriage, do a deal better than them that
are allays fishing.”

“Perhaps so, but then there is the pleasure of throwing the line.”

“And perhaps the pleasure of being caught by some varry undesireable
fisherman for tha needn’t think that women are the only fishers. The men
go reg’lar about that business and they will soon find out that thou
hes a bit o’ money o’ thy awn and are well worth catching. See if they
doan’t.”

“Mother, I want to go to London and see the passing of the great Reform
Bill. I am in love with those brave men Earl Grey and Lord Russell and
Mr. Macaulay, who dared to speak up for the poor, before all England.”

“I rather think they are all married men, Katherine, and marrying for
love is an unwise and generally an unprofitable bit of business.”

“Business and Love have nothing to do with each other.”

“Eh, but they hev!”

“I shall marry for love.”

“Well, then, marry for love, but love wisely.”

“Money is only one thing, mother.”

“To be sure, but it is a rayther important thing.”

“You might persuade father that he had better take me to London out of
Harry’s way. Dear mammy, do this for your little girl, won’t you? You
can always get round father in some way or other.”

“I will ask thy father again but I shall take no roundabout way.
Straightforrard is the best. And I am above a bit astonished at thee, a
Yorkshire lass, thinking of any crooked road to what thou wants! If tha
can’t get thy way openly and fairly make up thy mind any other way isn’t
worth while, for it will be full of ups and downs, and lonely bits, and
stony bits, and all sorts and kinds of botherations. Keep these words in
thy mind.”

“I will.”

“Then I’ll ask thy father again, to take thee with him to London--if he
goes himsen--if he does not go at all, then----”

“I must find out some other way, and really the most straightforward way
would be to marry Harry Bradley, and go to London with him as a wedding
trip.”

“Thou must stop talking nonsense or else it will stop my talking one
word for thy wish.”

“I was just joking, mother.”

“Always keep everything straight between thysen and thy mother. The
first deception between me and thee opens the gates of Danger.”

“I will never forget that, mother. And if I should go away I ask you to
take my place with Faith Foster, who is making clothing for the poor in
the village.”

“Well, Katherine, what with one thing and what with another, I doan’t
know what tha wants. Does tha know thysen?”

“Well, I think it would look better if the Hall should trouble itself
a little about the suffering in the village. Faith Foster is the only
person doing anything. I was helping her, but----”

“I should think thou would have told thysen that it was varry forrard in
a young person putting herself in my place without even a word to me
on the matter. She ought to hev come and told me what was needed and
offered her help to me. Thy father is Lord of the Manor of Annis, and it
is his business to see the naked clothed. I wonder at thee letting any
one take my place and then asking me to help and do service for them.
That is a bit beyond civility, I think.”

“It was very thoughtless. I am sorry I did it. I was so touched by
Faith’s description of the hunger and nakedness in Abram Oddy’s family,
that I thought of nothing but how to relieve it.”

“Well, well! It is all right, someway or other. I see father coming
towards the house. I wonder what he is wanting.”

“And he is walking so rapidly and looks so happy, something must have
pleased him. I will go away, mother. This may be a good hour for our
request.”

“Why _our?_”

Katherine had disappeared. She left the room by one door as the squire
entered by the other. Madam rose to meet him but before she could speak
the squire had kissed her and was saying in glad eager tones, “I hev
hurried a bit, my Joy, to tell thee that both thysen and Katherine can
go wi’ me to London. I had a lump of good fortune this afternoon. Mark
Clitheroe sent me the thousand pounds he owed, when he broke up five
years ago. He told me he wouldn’t die till he had paid it; and I
believed him. The money came to-day and it came with a letter that does
us both credit.”

“However has Clitheroe made a thousand pounds to spare since his
smash-up? Thou said, it wer a varry complete ruin.”

“It was all of that, yet he tells me, he will be able to pay the last
farthing he owes to anyone, during this year some time.”

“It caps me! How hes he made the money?”

“Why, Annie, his father built a factory for him and filled it with the
finest power-looms and he says he hes been doing a grand business. Old
Clitheroe hed allays told him he was wasting time and good brass in hand
weaving but Mark would hev his awn way, and somehow his awn way took him
to ruin in three years. I was his main creditor. Well, well! I am both
astonished and pleased, I am that! Now get thysen and Katherine ready
for London.”

“I doan’t really want to go, Antony.”

“But I cannot do without thee. Thou wilt hev to go, and there is
Katherine, too! Ten to one, she will need a bit of looking after.”

“When art thou going to start?”

“Not for a month. I must see to the sowing of the land--the land feeds
us. I thought, though, it would be right to give thee the bit o’ change
and pleasure to think about and talk about.”

“Where does thou intend to stay while in London?”

“I am thinking of the Clarendon Hotel for thee and mysen. I suppose
Katherine can be comfortable and welcome at her sister’s.”

“Certainly she can. Jane isn’t anything but kind at heart. It is just
her _you-shallness_ that makes her one-sided to live with. But Katherine
can hold her own side, without help, she can that! And if thou art bound
for London, then London is the place where my heart will be and we will
go together.”

“Thou art a good wife to me, Annie.”

“Well, then, I promised thee to be a good wife, and I’m Yorkshire
enough to keep a promise--good or bad. I am glad thou art going to
the Clarendon. It is a pleasant house but thy sister Josepha is a bit
overbearing, isn’t she, Antony?”

“She does not overbear me. I am her eldest brother. I make her remember
that. Howiver, I shall hev to listen to such a lot o’ strong language
in the House that I must hev only thee about me when I can get away from
committees, and divisions, taking of votes, and the like.”

By this time the squire had filled his pipe, and seated himself in
his favorite corner on that side of the hearth, that had no draughts
whichever way the wind blew. Then Madam said: “I’ll leave thee a few
minutes, Antony. I am going to tell Katherine that thou art going to
take her to London.”

“Varry well. I’ll give thee five minutes, then thou must come back here,
for I hev something important to tell thee.”

“Katherine will want to come back here with me. She will be impatient to
thank thee for thy goodness and to coax some sovereigns in advance for
a new dress and the few traveling things women need when they are on the
road.”

“Then thou hed better advise her to wait until supper time. When the
day’s work is all done I can stand a bit of cuddling and petting and I
doan’t mind waring a few sovereigns for things necessary. Of course,
I know the little wench will be happy and full o’ what she is going to
see, and to do, and to hear. Yet, Annie, I hev some important thoughts
in my mind now and I want thy help in coming to their settlement.”

“Antony Annis! I _am_ astonished at thee, I am that! When did thou ever
need or take advice about thy awn business? Thou hes sense for all that
can be put up against thy opinion, without asking advice from man or
woman--‘specially woman.”

“That may be so, Annie, perhaps it _is_ so, but thou art different.
Thou art like mysen and it’s only prudent and kind to talk changes over
together. For thou hes to share the good or the bad o’ them, so it is
only right thou should hev time to prepare for whatever they promise.
Sit thee down beside me. Now, then, this is what happened just as soon
as I hed gotten my money--and I can assure thee, that a thousand pounds
in a man’s pocket is a big set up--I felt all my six feet four inches
and a bit more, too--well, as I was going past the Green to hev a talk
wi’ Jonathan Hartley, I saw Mr. Foster come to his door and stand there.
As he was bare-headed, I knew he was waiting to speak to me. I hev liked
the man’s face and ways iver since he came to the village, and when he
offered his hand and asked me to come in I couldn’t resist the kindness
and goodness of it.”

“Thou went into the preacher’s house?”

“I surely did, and I am glad of it. I think a deal o’ good may come from
the visit.”

“Did thou see his daughter?”

“I did and I tell thee she is summat to see.”

“Then she is really beautiful?”

“Yes, and more than that. She was sitting sewing in a plain, small
parlor but she seemed to be sitting in a circle of wonderful peace.
All round her the air looked clearer than in the rest of the room and
something sweet and still and heavenly happy came into my soul. Then
she told me all about the misery in the cottages and said it had now got
beyond individual help and she was sure if thou knew it, and the curate
knew it, some proper general relief could be carried out. She had began,
she said, ‘with the chapel people,’ but even they were now beyond her
care; and she hoped thou would organize some society and guide all with
thy long and intimate knowledge of the people.”

“What did thou say to this?”

“I said I knew thou would do iverything that it was possible to do. And
I promised that thou would send her word when to come and talk the ways
and means over with thee and a few others.”

“That was right.”

“I knew it would be right wi’ thee.”

“Katherine says that our Dick is in love wi’ the preacher’s daughter.”

“I wouldn’t wonder, and if a man hedn’t already got the only perfect
woman in the world for his awn you could not blame him. No, you could
not blame him!”

“Thou must hev stayed awhile there for it is swinging close to five
o’clock.”

“Ay, but I wasn’t at the preacher’s long. I went from his house to
Jonathan Hartley’s, and I smoked a pipe with him, and we hed a long talk
on the situation of our weavers. Many o’ them are speaking of giving-in,
and going to Bradley’s factory, and I felt badly, and I said to
Jonathan, ‘I suppose thou is thinking of t’ same thing.’ And he looked
at me, Annie, and I was hot wi’ shame, and I was going to tell him so,
but he looked at me again, and said:

“‘Nay, nay, squire, thou didn’t mean them words, and we’ll say nothing
about them’; so we nodded to each other, and I wouldn’t be sure whether
or not we wer’ not both nearer tears than we’d show. Anyway, he went on
as if nothing had happened, telling me about the failing spirit of
the workers and saying a deal to excuse them. ‘Ezra Dixon’s eldest and
youngest child died yesterday and they are gathering a bit of money
among the chapel folk to bury them.’ Then I said: ‘Wait a minute,
Jonathan,’ and I took out of my purse a five pound note and made him go
with it to the mother and so put her heart at ease on that score. You
know our poor think a parish funeral a pitiful disgrace.”

“Well, Antony, if that was what kept thee, thou wert well kept. Faith
Foster is right. I ought to be told of such sorrow.”

“To be sure we both ought to know, but tha sees, Annie, my dearie, we
hev been so much better off than the rest of weaving villages that the
workers hev not suffered as long and as much as others. But what’s
the use of making excuses? I am going to a big meeting of weavers on
Saturday night. It is to be held in t’ Methodist Chapel.”

“Antony! Whatever art thou saying? What will the curate say? What will
all thy old friends say?”

“Annie, I hev got to a place where I don’t care a button what they say.
I hev some privileges, I hope, and taking my awn way is one o’ them. The
curate hes been asked to lend his sanction to the meeting, and the men
are betting as to whether he’ll do so or not. If I was a betting man I
would say ‘No’!”

“Why?”

“His bishop. The bishops to a man were against the Reform Bill. Only one
is said to have signed for it. That is not sure.”

“Then do you blame him?”

“Nay, I’m sorry for any man, that hesn’t the gumption to please his awn
conscience, and take his awn way. However, his career is in the bishop’s
hand, and he’s varry much in love with Lucy Landborde.”

“Lucy Landborde! That handsome girl! How can he fashion himself to make
up to Lucy?”

“She thinks he is dying of love for her, so she pities him. Women are a
soft lot!”

“It is mebbe a good thing for men that women are a soft lot. Go on with
thy story. It’s fair wonderful.”

“Mr. Foster will preside, and they’ll ask the curate to record
proceedings. St. George Norris and Squire Charington and the Vicar of
Harrowgate will be on the platform, I hear. The vicar is going to marry
Geraldine Norris next week to a captain in the Guards.”

“I declare, Antony, thou finds out iverything going on.”

“To be sure. That is part o’ my business as Lord of the Manor. Well tha
sees now, that it is going to be a big meeting, especially when they add
to it a Member of Parliament, a Magistrate, and a Yorkshire Squire.”

“Who art thou talking about now?”

“Mysen! Antony Annis! Member of Parliament, Squire of Annis and Deeping
Wold, and Magistrate of the same district.”

“Upon my word, I had forgotten I was such a big lady. And I am to go to
London with thee. I am as set up about that as a child would be. I think
I ought to go and tell Katherine.”

“Mebbe it would be the kind thing. Sharing a pleasure doubles it;” and
as the squire uttered the words, Katherine rather impetuously opened the
parlor door.

“O daddy!” she cried as she pulled a chair to his side. “What are you
talking about? I know it is about London; are you going to take me there
with you? Say yes. Say it surely.”

“Give me a kiss and I will take both thee and thy mother there with me.”

“How soon, daddy? How soon?”

“As soon as possible. We must look after the poor and the land and then
we can go with a good heart.”

“Let us talk it all over. Where are you going to stay?”

“Nay, my dear lass. I am talking to thy mother now and she is on a
different level to thee. Run away to thy room and make up thy mind about
thy new dress and the other little tricks thou wants.”

“Such as a necklace and a full set of amber combs for my hair.”

“Nay, nay! I hev no money for jewelry, while little childer and women
all round us are wanting bread. Thou wouldn’t suit it and it wouldn’t be
lucky to thee. Run away now, I’ll talk all thou wants to-morrow.”

“Verry well, dear daddy. Thy word is enough to build on. I can sit quiet
and arrange my London plans, for a promise from thee is as sure as the
thing itself.”

Then the squire laughed and took a letter out of his pocketbook. “It
is good for a thousand pounds, honey,” he said, “and that is a bit of
security for my promise, isn’t it?”

“Not a penny’s worth. Thy promise needs no security. It stands alone as
it ought to do.”

She rose as she spoke and the squire rose and opened the door for her
and then stood and watched her mount the darkening stairway. At the
first reach, she turned and bent her lovely face and form towards him.
The joyful anticipations in her heart transfigured her. She was radiant.
Her face shone and smiled; her white throat, and her white shoulders,
and her exquisite arms, and her firm quick feet seemed to have some new
sense given them. You would have said that her body thought and that her
very voice had a caress in it as she bridged the space between them with
a “Thank you, dear, dear daddy! You are the very kindest father in all
the world!”

“And thou art his pet and his darling!” With these words he went back to
his wife. “She is justtip-on-top,” he said. “There’s no girl I know like
her. She sits in the sunlight of my heart. Why, Annie, she ought to make
a better marriage than Jane, and Jane did middling well.”

“Would thou think Harry Bradley a good match?”

“I wouldn’t put him even in a passing thought with Katherine. Harry
Bradley, indeed! I am fairly astonished at thee naming the middle class
fellow!”

“Katherine thinks him all a man should be.”

“She will change her mind in London.”

“I doubt that.”

“Thou lets her hev opinions and ideas of her awn. Thou shouldn’t do it.
Jane will alter that. Jane will tell her how to rate men and women. Jane
is varry clever.”

“Jane is no match for Katherine. Dost thou think Antony Annis will be?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Then don’t try conclusions with her about Harry Bradley, and happen
then thou may keep thy illusion. Katherine’s fault is a grave one,
though it often looks like a virtue.”

“I doan’t see what thou means. Faults are faults, and virtues are
virtues. I hev niver seen a fault of any kind in her, unless it be
wanting more guineas than I can spare her just now, but that is the
original sin o’ women as far as I can make out. Whativer is this fault
that can look like a virtue?”

“She overdoes everything. She says too little, or too much; she does too
little, or too much; she gives too little, or too much. In everything
she exceeds. If she likes anyone, she is unreasonable about them; if she
dislikes them, she is unjust.”

“I doan’t call that much of a fault--if thou knew anything about farming
thou would make little of it. Thou would know that it is the richest
land that hes the most weeds in its crop. The plow and the harrow will
clear it of weeds and the experience of life will teach Katherine to be
less generous with both her feelings and her opinions. Let her overdo,
it is a fault that will cure itself.”

“And in the meantime it makes her too positive and insisting. She
thinks she is right and she wants others to be right. She is even a bit
forceable----”

“And I can tell thee that women as well as men need some force of
character, if they mean to do anything with their lives. _Why-a!_ Force
is in daily life all that powder is to shot. If our weavers’ wives hed
more force in their characters, they wouldn’t watch their children dying
of hunger upon their knees and their hearths, they would make their
stubborn men go to any kind of a loom. They wouldn’t be bothering
themselves about any Bill in Parliament, they would be crying out for
bread for their children. We must see about the women and children
to-morrow or we shall not be ready for Faith Foster’s visit.”

“To be sure, but we need not think of it to-night. I’m heart weary,
Antony. Nobody can give sympathy long unless they turn kind words into
kind actions.”

“Then just call Katherine and order a bit of supper in. And I’d like a
tankard of home-brewed, and a slice or two of cold mutton. My word, but
the mutton bred in our rich meadows is worth eating! Such a fine color,
so tender and juicy and full of rich red gravy.”

“I think thou would be better without the tankard. Our ale is four years
old, and tha knows what it is at that age. It will give thee a rattling
headache. The cask on now is very strong.”

“To be sure it is. A man could look a lion in the face after a couple of
glasses of it.”

“I advise thee to take a glass of water, with thy mutton to-night.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll hev a glass of sherry wine, and thou can be my
butler. And tell Katherine not to talk about London to-night. I hevn’t
got my intentions ready. I’d be making promises it would not be right to
keep. Tha knows----!”

“Yes, I know.”

Katherine had not yet been promoted to a seat at the late supper table,
and only came to it when specially asked. So Madam found her ungowned,
and with loosened hair, in a dressing-sacque of blue flannel. She was
writing a letter to a school friend, but she understood her mother’s
visit and asked with a smile--

“Am I to come to supper, mother? Oh, I am so glad.”

“Then, dearie, do not speak of London, nor the poor children, nor the
selfish weavers.”

“Not selfish, mother. They believe they are fighting for their rights.
You know that.”

“I doan’t know it. I doan’t believe it. Their wives and children ought
to be more to them than their awn way which is what they really want.
Doan’t say a word about them.”

“I will not. I am going to tell father about the Arkroyds, who owned
Scar Top House so long.”

“Father will like to hear anything good about Colonel Arkroyd. He is the
last of a fine Yorkshire family. Who told thee anything about him?”

“Before I came to my room I went to give Polly some sugar I had in my
pocket for her, and I met Britton, who had just come from the stable.
He turned and went with me and he was full of the story and so I had to
listen to it.”

“Well, then, we will listen to it when thou comes down. Father is
hungry, so don’t keep him waiting, or he will be put out of his way.”

“I will be down in five minutes, and father is never cross with me.”

Indeed, when Madam went back to the parlor, a servant was bringing in
the cold mutton and Madam had the bottle of sherry in her hand. A few
minutes later Katherine had joined her parents, and they were sitting
cozily round a small table, set in the very warmth and light of the
hearthstone. Then Madam, fearing some unlucky word or allusion, said as
quickly as possible--

“Whatever was it thou heard about Colonel Ark-royd, Katherine?”

“Ay! Ay! Colonel Arkroyd! Who has anything to say about him?” asked the
squire. “One of the finest men alive to-day.”

“I heard a strange thing about his old house, an hour ago.”

“But he sold Scar Top House, and went to live in Kendal. A man from
Bradford bought it, eh?”

“Yes, a man with a factory and six hundred looms, they say. Father,
have you noticed how crowded our rookery is with the birds’ nests this
spring?”

“I doan’t know that I hev noticed the number of the nests, but nobody
can help hearing their noisy chattering all over Annis.”

“Do you remember the rookery at Scar Top?”

“Yes. I often hed a friendly threep with Ark-royd about it. He would
insist, that his rookery hed the largest congregation. I let him think
so--he’s twenty years older than I am--and I did hear that the Bradford
man had bought the place because of the rookery.”

“So he did. And now, father, every bird has left it. There was not one
nest built there this spring. Not one!”

“I never heard the like. Whoever told thee such a story?”

“The whole village knows it. One morning very early every rook in Scar
Top went away. They went altogether, just before daybreak. They went to
Saville Court and settled in a long row of elm trees in the home meadow.
They are building there now and the Bradford man----”

“Give him his name. It is John Denby. He was born in Annis--in my
manor--and he worked for the colonel, near twenty years.”

“Very well. John Denby and Colonel Arkroyd have quarreled about the
birds, and there is likely to be a law suit over them.”

“Upon my word! That will be a varry interesting quarrel. What could
make birds act in such a queer way? I niver knew them to do such a thing
before.”

“Well, father, rooks are very aristocratic birds. Denby could not get a
_caw_ out of the whole flock. They would not notice Denby, and they used
to talk to Arkroyd, whenever he came out of the house. Denby used to
work for Colonel Arkroyd, and the rooks knew it. They did not consider
him a gentleman, and they would not accept his hospitality.”

“That is going a bit too far, Katherine.”

“Oh, no! Old Britton told me so, and the Yorkshire bird does not live
who has not told Britton all about itself. He said further, that rooks
are very vain and particularly so about their feathers. He declared they
would go far out of their way in order to face the wind and so prevent
ruffling their feathers.”

“Rooks are at least a very human bird,” said Madam; “our rooks make
quite a distinction between thee and myself. I can easily notice it. The
male birds are in a flutter when thou walks through the rookery, they
moderate their satisfaction when I pay them a call and it is the female
birds who do the honors then.”

“That reminds me, mother, that Britton told me rooks intermarried
generation after generation, and that if a rook brought home a strange
bride, he was forced to build in a tree the community selected, at
some distance from the rookery. If he did not do this, his nest was
relentlessly torn down.”

“Well, my Joy, I am glad to learn so much from thee. How do the rooks
treat thee?”

“With but moderate notice, father, unless I am at Britton’s side. Then
they ‘caw’ respectfully, as I take my way through their colony. Britton
taught me to lift my hat now and then, as father does.” The squire
laughed, and was a bit confused. “Nay, nay!” he said. “Britton hes been
making up that story, though I vow, I would rayther take off my hat to
gentlemanly rooks than to some humans I know; I would that! There is one
thing I can tell thee about rooks, Britton seems to have forgot; they
can’t make a bit of sunshine for themselves. If t’ weather is rainy, no
bird in the world is more miserable. They sit with puffed out feathers
in uncontrollable melancholy, and they hevn’t a caw for anybody. Yet I
hev a great respect for rooks.”

“And I hev a great liking for rook pies,” said Madam. “There is not a
pie in all the records of cookery, to come near it. _Par excellence_ is
its name. I shall miss my rook pies, if we go away this summer.”

“But we shall have something better in their place, dear mother.”

“Who can tell? In the meantime, sleep will be the best thing for all.
To-morrow is a new day. Sleep will make us ready for it.”




CHAPTER III--THE REALIZATION OF TROUBLE


               “Beneath this starry arch,

                        Naught resteth, or is still;

               And all things have their march,

                        As if by one great will.

                   Move on! Move all!

                        Hark to the footfall!

                             On, on! forever!”


 THE next morning Katherine came to her mother full of enthusiasm. She
had some letters in her hand and she said: “I have written these letters
all alike, mother, and they are ready to send away, if you will give me
the names of the ladies you wish them to go to.”

“How many letters hast thou written?”

“Seven. I can write as many as you wish.”

“Thou hes written too many already.”

“Too many!”

“Yes, tha must not forget, that this famine and distress is over all
Yorkshire--over all England. Every town and village hes its awn sick and
starving, and hes all it can do to look after them. Thy father told me
last night he hed been giving to all the villages round us for a year
back but until Mr. Foster told him yesterday he hed no idea that there
was any serious trouble in Annis. Tha knows, dearie, that Yorkshire and
Lancashire folk won’t beg. No, not if they die for want of begging. The
preacher found out their need first and he told father at once. Then
Jonathan Hartley admitted they were all suffering and that something
must be done to help. That is the reason for the meeting this
afternoon.”

“Oh, dear me!”

“Jonathan hes been preparing for it for a week but he did not tell
father until yesterday. I will give thee the names of four ladies
that may assist in the way of sending food--there is Mrs. Benson, the
doctor’s wife--her husband is giving his time to the sick and if she
hedn’t a bit of money of her awn, Benson’s family would be badly off, I
fear. She may hev the heart to _do_ as well as to pinch and suffer, but
if she hesn’t, we can’t find her to blame. Send her an invitation.
Send another to Mistress Craven. Colonel Craven is with his regiment
somewhere, but she is wealthy, and for anything I know, good-hearted.
Give her an opportunity. Lady Brierley can be counted on in some way
or other and perhaps Mrs. Courtney. I can think of no others because
everyone is likely to be looking for assistance just as we are. What day
hev you named for the meeting?”

“Monday. Is that too soon?”

“About a week too soon. None of these ladies will treat the invitation
as a desirable one. They doubtless hev many engagements already
made. Say, next Saturday. It is not reasonable to expect them to drop
iverything else and hurry to Annis, to sew for the hungry and naked.”

“O mother! Little children! Who would not hurry to them with food and
clothing?”

“Hes thou been with Faith Foster to see any children hungry and naked?”

“No, mother; but I do not need to _see_ in order to _feel_. And I have
certainly noticed how few children are on the street lately.”

“Well, Katherine, girls of eighteen shouldn’t need to _see_ in order to
feel. Thank God for thy fresh young feelings and keep them fresh as long
as thou can. It will be a pity when thou begins to reason about them.
Send letters to Mrs. Benson, Mrs. Craven, Lady Brierley, and Mrs.
Courtney, and then we shall see what comes from them. After all, we are
mere mortals!”

“But you are friendly with all these four ladies?”

“Good friends to come and go upon. By rights they ought to stand by
Annis--but ‘ought’ stands for nothing.”

“Why _ought_, mother?”

“Thy father hes done ivery one o’ them a good turn of one kind or
the other but it isn’t his way to speak of the same. Now send off thy
letters and let things slide until we see what road they are going to
take. I’m afraid I’ll hev to put mysen about more than I like to in this
matter.”

“That goes without saying but you don’t mind it, do you, mother?”

“Well, your father took me on a sudden. I hedn’t time to think before I
spoke and when my heart gets busy, good-by to my head.”

“Mrs. Courtney has not been here for a long time.”

“She is a good deal away but I saw her in London last year every now and
then. She is a careless woman; she goes it blind about everything, and
yet she wants to be at the bottom of all county affairs.”

“Mother, could we not do a little shopping today?”

“At the fag end of the week? What are you talking about? Certainly not.
Besides, thy father is worried about the meeting this afternoon. He says
more may come of it than we can dream of.”

“How is that?”

“Why, Katherine, it might end in a factory here, or it might end in the
weavers heving to leave Annis and go elsewhere.”

“Cannot they get work of some other kind, in, or near by Annis?”

“Nay, tha surely knows, that a weaver hes to keep his fingers soft, and
his hands supple. Hard manual work would spoil his hands forever for
the loom, and our men are born weavers. They doan’t fashion to any other
work, and to be sure England hes to hev her weavers.”

“Mother, would it not be far better to have a factory? Lately, when I
have taken a walk with father he always goes to the wold and looks all
round considering just like a man who was wondering about a site for a
building. It would be a good thing for us, mother, would it not?”

“It seems so, but father does not want it. He says it will turn Annis
into a rough village, full of strangers, with bad ways, and also that it
will spoil the whole country-side with its smoke and dirt.”

“But if it makes money?”

“Money isn’t iverything.”

“The want of it is dreadful.”

“Thy father got a thousand pounds this morning. If he does not put most
of it into a factory, he will put it into bread, which will be eaten
to-day and wanted again to-morrow. That would make short work of a
thousand pounds.”

“Have you reminded father of that?”

“I doan’t need to. Father seems an easy-going man but he thinks of
iverything; and when he _hes_ to act no one strikes the iron quicker
and harder. If thou saw him in London, if thou heard him in the House,
brow-beating the Whigs and standing up for Peel and Wellington and
others, thou would wonder however thou dared to tease, and contradict,
and coax him in Annis. Thou would that! Now I am going to the lower
summer house for an hour. Send away thy letters, and let me alone a
bit.”

“I know. I saw father going down the garden. He is going to the summer
house also; he intends to tell you, mother, what he is going to say
to-night. He always reads, or recites his speeches to you. I have heard
him sometimes.”

“Then thou ought to be ashamed to speak of it! I am astonished at thy
want of honor! If by chance, thou found out some reserved way of thy
father it should have been held by thee as a sacred, inviolable secret.
Not even to me, should thou have dared to speak of it. I am sorry,
indeed, to hev to teach thee this point of childhood’s honor. I thought
it would be natural to the daughter of Antony and Annie Annis!”

“Mother! Forgive me! I am ashamed and sorry and oh, do not, for my sake,
tell father! My dear, dear father! You have made it look like mocking
him--I never thought how shameful it could look--oh, I never thought
about it! I never spoke of it before! I never did!”

“Well, then, see thou never again listens to what was not intended for
thee to hear. It would be a pretty state of things, if thy father hed
to go somewhere out of the way of listeners to get a bit of private talk
with me.”

“Mother, don’t be so cruel to me.”

“Was thou trying to compliment me or was thou scorning a bit about thy
father’s ways? If thou thought I would feel complimented by being set
above him that thought was as far wrong as it could possibly get.”

“Mother! Mother! You will break my heart! You never before spoke this
way to me--_Oh, dear! Oh, dear!_”

For a few minutes Madam let her weep, then she bent over the crouching,
sobbing girl, and said, “There now! There now!”

“I am so sorry! So sorry!”

“Well, dearie, sorrow is good for sin. It is the only thing sorrow is
good for. Dry thy eyes, and we will niver name the miserable subject
again.”

“Was it really a sin, mother?”

“Hes thou forgotten the fifth commandment? That little laugh at thy
father’s saying his speeches to me first was more than a bit scornful.
It was far enough from the commandment ‘Honor thy father and thy
mother.’ It wasn’t honoring either of us.”

“I can never forgive myself.”

“Nay! nay! Give me a kiss and go and look after thy letters; also tell
Yates dinner must be on the table at one o’clock no matter what his
watch says.” Then Katherine walked silently away and Madam went to the
lower summer house, and the dinner was on the table at one o’clock. It
was an exceedingly quiet meal, and immediately after it, the squire’s
horse was brought to the door.

“So thou art going to ride, Antony!” said Mistress Annis, and the squire
answered, “Ay, I hev a purpose in riding, Annie.”

“Thou art quite right,” was the reply, for she thought she divined his
purpose and the shadow of a smile passed between them. Then he looked at
his watch, mounted his horse and rode swiftly away. His wife watched him
out of sight and, as she turned into the house, she told herself with
a proud and happy smile, “He is the best and the handsomest man in the
West Riding, and the horse suits him! He rides to perfection! God bless
him!”

It was a point with the squire to be rigidly punctual. He was never
either too soon, or too late. He knew that one fault was as bad as the
other, though he considered the early mistake as the worst. It began
to strike two as he reached the door of the Methodist Chapel, and saw
Jonathan Hartley waiting there for him; and they walked at once to
a rude platform that had been prepared for the speakers. There were
several gentlemen standing there in a group, and the Chapel was crowded
with anxious hungry-looking men.

It was the first time that Squire Annis had ever stepped inside a
Methodist Chapel. The thought was like the crack of a whip in his
conscience but at that moment he would not listen to any claim or
reproof; for either through liking or disliking, he was sensitive at
once to Bradley’s tall, burly predominance; and could not have said,
whether it was pleasant or unpleasant to him. However, the moment he
appeared, there was loud handclapping, and cries of “Squire Annis!
Squire Annis! Put him in the chair! He’s our man!”

Then into the squire’s heart his good angel put a good thought, and he
walked to the front of the platform and said, “My men, and my friends,
I’ll do something better for you. I’ll put the Reverend Samuel Foster in
the chair. God’s servant stands above all others, and Mr. Foster knows
all about your poverty and affliction. I am a bit ashamed to say, I do
not.” This personal accusation was cut short by cries of “No! No! No!
Thou hes done a great deal,” and then a cheer, that had in it all the
Yorkshire spirit, though not its strength. The men were actually weak
with hunger.

Mr. Foster took the chair to which the squire led him without any
affectations of demur, and he was gladly welcomed. Indeed there were few
things that would have pleased the audience more. They were nearly all
Methodists, and their preacher alone had searched out their misery, and
helped them to bear it with patience and with hope. He now stretched out
his hands to them and said--“Friends, just give us four lines, and we
will go at once to business”; and in a sweet, ringing voice, he began
Newman’s exquisite hymn--

                   “Leave God to order all thy ways,

                   And hope in Him whate’er betide,

                   Thoul’t find Him in the evil days,

                   An all sufficient Strength and Guide.”

The words came fresh and wet with tears from every heart, and it was a
five minutes’ interlude of that complete surrender, which God loves and
accepts.

After a moment of intense silence, the preacher said, “We are met to-day
to try and find out if hand-loom weaving must go, or if both hand-loom
weaving and power-loom weaving have a chance for the weaver in them.
There are many hand-loom weavers here present. They know all its good
points and all points wherein it fails but they do not know either the
good or bad points of power-loom weaving, and Mr. John Thomas Bradley
has come to tell you something about this tremendous rival of your
household loom. I will now introduce Mr. John.” He got no further in
his introduction, for Bradley stepped forward, and with a buoyant
good-nature said, “No need, sir, of any fine mastering or mistering
between the Annis lads and mysen. We hev thrashed each ither at
football, and chated each ither in all kinds of swapping odds too often,
to hev forgotten what names were given us at our christening. There’s
Israel Swale, he hes a bigger mill than I hev now-a-days, but he’s owing
me three pence half-penny and eleven marbles, yet whenever I ask him for
my brass and my marbles he says--‘I’ll pay thee, John Thomas, when we
play our next game.’ Now listen, lads, next Whitsunday holidays I’ll
ask him to come and see me, and I’ll propose before a house full of
company--and all ready for a bit of fun--that we hev our game of marbles
in the bowling alley, and I’ll get Jonathan Hartley to give you all an
invitation to come and see fair play between us. Will you come?”

Noisy laughing acceptances followed and one big Guisely weaver said,
“He’d come too, and see that Israel played a straight game for once in
his life.”

“I’m obliged to thee, Guisely,” answered Bradley, “I hope thou’lt come.
Now then, lads, I hev to speak to you about business, and if you think
what I say is right, go and do what I say, do it boldly; and if you
aren’t sure, then let it alone:--till you are driven to it. I am told
that varry few of the men here present iver saw a power loom. And yet
you mostly think ill o’ it. That isn’t a bit Yorkshire. You treat a man
as you find him, you ought to do the same to a machine, that is almost
a man in intelligence--that is the most perfect bit of beauty and
contrivance that man iver made since man himsen was fitted wi’ fingers
and thumbs by the Great Machinist of heaven and earth.”

“What is it fashioned like, Bradley?”

“It is an exceedingly compact machine and takes up little room. It is
easily worked and it performs every weaving operation with neatness
and perfection. It makes one hundred and seventy picks a minute or six
pieces of goods in a week--you know it was full work and hard work to
make one piece a week with the home loom, even for a strong man. It is
made mostly of shining metal, and it is a perfect darling. _Why-a!_
the lads and lassies in Bradley mill call their looms after their
sweethearts, or husbands, or wives, and I wouldn’t wonder if they said
many a sweet or snappy word to the looms that would niver be ventured on
with the real Bessie or the real Joe.

“Think of your old cumbersome wooden looms, so hard and heavy and dreary
to work, that it wasn’t fit or right to put a woman down to one. Then go
and try a power loom, and when you hev done a day’s work on it, praise
God and be thankful! I tell you God saw the millions coming whom
Yorkshire and Lancashire would hev to clothe, and He gave His servant
the grave, gentle, middle-aged preacher Edmund Cartwright, the model of
a loom fit for God’s working men and women to use. I tell you men the
power loom is one of God’s latest Gospels. We are spelling yet, with
some difficulty, its first good news, but the whole world will yet thank
God for the power loom!”

Here the preacher on the platform said a fervent “Thank God!” But the
audience was not yet sure enough for what they were to thank God, and
the few echoes to the preacher’s invitation were strangely uncertain for
a Yorkshire congregation. A few of the Annis weavers compromised on a
solemn “Amen!” All, however, noticed that the squire remained silent,
and they were “not going”--as Lot Clarke said afterwards--“to push
themsens before t’ squire.”

Then Jonathan Hartley stepped into the interval, and addressing Bradley
said, “Tha calls this wonderful loom a power-loom. I’ll warrant the
power comes from a steam engine.”

“Thou art right, Jonathan. I wish tha could see the wonderful engine at
Dalby’s Mill in Pine Hollow. The marvelous creature stands in its big
stone stable like a huge image of Destiny. It is never still, but never
restless, nothing rough; calm and steady like the waves of the full sea
at Scarboro’. It is the nervous center, the life, I might say, of all
going on in that big building above it. It moves all the machinery, it
gives life to the devil, * and speeds every shuttle in every loom.”

     * The devil, a machine containing a revolving cylinder armed
     with knives or spikes for tearing, cutting, or opening raw
     materials.

“It isn’t looms and engines we are worrying about, Bradley,” said a man
pallid and fretful with hunger. “It is flesh and blood, that can’t stand
hunger much longer. It’s our lile lads and lasses, and the babies at the
mother’s breast, where there isn’t a drop o’ milk for their thin, white
lips! O God! And you talk o’ looms and engines”--and the man sat down
with a sob, unable to say another word.

Squire Annis could hardly sit still, but the preacher looked at him and
he obeyed the silent wish, as in the meantime Jonathan Hartley had asked
Bradley a question, to partly answer the request made.

“If you want to know about the workers, all their rooms are large and
cheerful, with plenty of fresh air in them. The weaving rooms are as
light and airy as a bird cage. The looms are mostly managed by women,
from seventeen to thirty, wi’ a sprinkling o’ married men and women. A
solid trade principle governs t’ weaving room--so much work, for so much
money--but I hev girls of eighteen in my mill, who are fit and able
to thread the shuttles, and manage two looms, keeping up the pieces to
mark, without oversight or help.”

Here he was interrupted by a man with long hair parted in the middle
of the forehead, and dressed in a suit of fashionable cut, but cheap
tailoring. “I hev come to this meeting,” he cried out, “to ask your
parliamentary representative if he intends to vote for the Reform Bill,
and to urge the better education of the lower classes.”

“Who bid thee come to this meeting?” asked Jonathan Hartley. “Thou
has no business here. Not thou. And we weren’t born in Yorkshire to be
fooled by thee.”

“I was told by friends of the people, that your member would likely vote
against Reform.”

“Put him out! Put him out!” resounded from every quarter of the
building, and for the first time since the meeting opened, there was a
touch of enthusiasm. Then the squire stepped with great dignity to the
front of the platform.

“Young men,” he said with an air of reproof, “this is not a political
meeting. It is not even a public meeting. It is a gathering of friends
to consider how best to relieve the poverty and idleness for which our
weavers are not to blame--and we do not wish to be interrupted.”

“The blame is all wi’ you rich landowners,” he answered; “ivery one o’
you stand by a government that robs the poor man and protects the rich.
I am a representative of the Bradford Socialists.”

“Git out! Git out! Will tha? If tha doesn’t, I’ll fling thee out like
any other rubbish;” and as the man made no attempt to obey the
command given, Hartley took him by the shoulder, and in spite of his
protestations--received with general jeers and contempt--put him
outside the chapel.

Squire Annis heartily approved the word, act and manner of Hartley’s
little speech. The temperature of his blood rose to fighting heat,
and he wanted to shout with the men in the body of the chapel. Yet his
countenance was calm and placid, for Antony Annis was _Master at Home_,
and could instantly silence or subdue whatever his Inner Man prompted
that was improper or inconvenient.

He thought, however, that it was now a fit time-for him to withdraw, and
he was going to say the few words he had so well considered, when a very
old man rose, and leaning on his staff, called out, “Squire Annis, my
friend, I want thee to let me speak five minutes. It will varry likely
be t’ last time I’ll hev the chance to say a word to so many lads
altogether in this life.” And the squire smiled pleasantly as he
replied, “Speak, Matthew, we shall all be glad to listen to you.”

“Ill be ninety-five years old next month, Squire, and I hev been busy
wi’ spinning and weaving eighty-eight o’ them. I was winding bobbins
when I was seven years old, and I was carding, or combing, or working
among wool until I was twenty. Then I got married, and bought from t’
squire, on easy terms, my cottage and garden plot, and I kept a pig and
some chickens, and a hutch full o’ rabbits, which I fed on the waste
vegetables from my garden. I also had three or four bee skeps, that gave
us honey for our bread, with a few pounds over to sell; t’ squire allays
bought the overbit, and so I was well paid for a pretty bed of flowers
round about the house. I was early at my loom, but when I was tired I
went into my garden, and I smoked a pipe and talked to the bees, who
knew me well enough, ivery one o’ them. If it was raining, I went into
t’ kitchen, and smoked and hed a chat wi’ Polly about our awn concerns.
I hev had four handsome lassies, and four good, steady lads. Two o’
the lads went to America, to a place called Lowell, but they are now
well-to-do men, wi’ big families. My daughters live near me, and they
keep my cottage as bright as their mother kept it for over fifty years.
I worked more or less till I was ninety years old, and then Squire Annis
persuaded me to stop my loom, and just potter about among my bees and
flowers. Now then, lads, thousands hev done for years and years as much,
even more than I hev done and I hev never met but varry few Home-loom
weavers who were dissatisfied. They all o’ them made their awn hours and
if there was a good race anywhere near-by they shut off and went to it.
Then they did extra work the next day to put their ‘piece’ straight for
Saturday. If their ‘piece’ was right, the rest was nobody’s business.”

“Well, Matthew,” said the squire, “for many a year you seldom missed a
race.”

“Not if t’ horses were good, and well matched. I knew the names then of
a’ the racers that wer’ worth going to see. I love a fine horse yet. I
do that! And the Yorkshire roar when the victor came to mark! You could
hear it a mile away! O squire, I can hear it yet!

“Well, lads, I hev hed a happy, busy life, and I hev been a good
Methodist iver sin’ I was converted, when I was twelve years old. And I
bear testimony this day to the goodness and the faithfulness of God. He
hes niver broken a promise He made me. Niver one!

“Thousands of Home-loom spinners can live, and have lived, as I did and
they know all about t’ life. I know nothing about power-loom weaving.
I dare say a man can make good or bad o’ it, just as he feels inclined;
but I will say, it brings men down to a level God Almighty niver
intended. It is like this--when a man works in his awn home, and makes
his awn hours, all the world, if he be good and honest, calls him _A
Man_; when he works in a factory he’s nobbut ‘_one o’ the hands_.’”

At these words Matthew sat down amid a little subdued inexpressible
mixture of tense feeling and the squire said--“In three weeks or less,
men, I am going to London, and I give you my word, that I shall always
be found on the side of Reform and Free Trade. When I return you will
surely have made up your minds and formed some sort of decision; then I
will try and forward your plans to my last shilling.” With these words
he bowed to the gentlemen on the platform, and the audience before
him, and went rapidly away. His servant was at the Chapel door with his
horse; he sprang into the saddle, and before anyone could interrupt his
exit, he was beyond detention.

A great disturbance was in his soul. He could not define it. The
condition of his people, the changing character of his workers and
weavers, the very village seemed altered, and then the presence of
Bradley! He had found it impossible to satisfy both his offense with
the man and his still vital affection for him. He had often told himself
that “Bradley was dead and buried as far as he was concerned”; but
some affections are buried alive, and have a distressing habit of being
restless in their coffins. It was with the feeling of a fugitive flying
for a place of rest that he went home. But, oh, how refreshing was
his wife’s welcome! What comfort in her happy smile! What music in her
tender words! He leaped to the ground like a young man and, clasping her
hand, went gratefully with her to his own fireside.




CHAPTER IV--LONDON AND AUNT JOSEPHA


                   “Still in Immortal Youth we dream of Love.”


               London--“Together let us beat this ample field

               Try what the open and the covert yield.”


 KATHERINE’S letters bore little fruit. Lady Brierley sent fifty pounds
to buy food, but said “she was going to Bourmouth for the spring months,
being unable to bear the winds of the Yorkshire wolds at that time.”
 Mrs. Craven and Mrs. Courtney were on their way to London, and Mrs.
Benson said her own large family required every hour of her time,
especially as she was now only able to keep one servant. So the village
troubles were confided to the charge of Faith Foster and her father. The
squire put a liberal sum of money with the preacher, and its application
was left entirely to his judgment.

Nor did Annis now feel himself able to delay his journey until April.
He was urged constantly by the leaders of the Reform Bill to hasten his
visit to the House. Letters from Lord Russell, Sir James Grahame and
Lord Grey told him that among the landlords of the West Riding his
example would have a great influence, and that at this “important crisis
they looked with anxiety, yet certainty, for his support.”

He could not withhold it. After his enlightenment by Mr. Foster, he
hardly needed any further appeal. His heart and his conscience gave him
no rest, and in ten days he had made suitable arrangements, both for the
care of his estate, and the relief of the village. In this business
he had been greatly hurried and pressed, and the Hall was also full of
unrest and confusion, for all Madam’s domestic treasures were to pack
away and to put in strict and competent care. For, then, there really
were women who enjoyed household rackets and homes turned up and over
from top to bottom. It was their relief from the hysteria of monotony
and the temper that usually attends monotony. They knew nothing of the
constant changes and pleasures of the women of today--of little chatty
lunches and theater parties; of their endless societies and games, and
clubs of every description; of fantastic dressing and undressing from
every age and nation; beside the appropriation of all the habits and
pursuits and pleasures of men that seemed good in their eyes, or their
imaginations.

So to the woman of one hundred years ago--and of much less time--a
thorough house-cleaning, or a putting away of things for a visit or a
journey was an exciting event. There was even a kind of pleasure in the
discomfort and disorder it caused. The unhappy looks of the men of the
house were rather agreeable to them. For a few days they had legitimate
authority to make everyone miserable, and in doing so experienced a very
actual nervous relief.

Madam Annis was in some measure influenced by similar conditions, for it
takes a strong and powerfully constituted woman to resist the spirit and
influence of the time and locality in which she lives. So the Hall was
full of unrest, and the peaceful routine of life was all broken up.
Ladies’ hide-covered trunks--such little baby trunks to those of the
present day--and leather bags and portmanteaus littered the halls; and
the very furniture had the neglected plaintive look of whatever is to be
left behind.

At length, however, on the twenty-third of March, all was ready for
the journey, and the squire was impatient to begin it. He was also
continually worrying about his son. “Whereiver is Dick, I wonder? He
ought to be here helping us, ought he not, mother?” he asked Madam
reproachfully, as if he held her responsible for Dick’s absence and
Madam answered sharply--“Indeed, Antony, thou ought to know best. Thou
told Dick to stay in London and watch the ways of that wearisome Reform
Bill and send thee daily word about its carryings on. The lad can’t be
in two places at once, can he?”

“I hed forgotten mysen, Annie. How near art thou and Katherine ready to
start?”

“Katherine and I are now waiting on your will and readiness.”

“Nay, then, Annie, if ta hes got to thy London English already, I’ll be
quiet, I will.”

“I doan’t like thee to be unjust to Dick. He is doing, and doing well,
just what thou told him to do. I should think thou couldn’t ask more
than that--if thou was in thy right mind.”

“Dick is the best lad in Yorkshire, he is all that! Doan’t thee care if
I seem a bit cross, Annie. I’ve been that worrited all morning as niver
was. Doan’t mind it!”

“I doan’t, not in the least, Antony.”

“Well, then, can thou start to-morrow morning?”

“I can start, with an hour’s notice, any time.”

“I wouldn’t be too good, Annie. I’m not worth it.”

“Thou art worth all I can do for thee.”

“Varry good, dearie! Then we’ll start at seven to-morrow morning. We
will drive to Leeds, and then tak t’ mail-coach for London there. If t’
roads don’t happen to be varry bad we may hev time enough in Leeds to go
to the Queen’s Hotel and hev a plate o’ soup and a chop. I hev a bit o’
business at the bank there but it won’t keep me ten minutes. I hope we
may hev a fairish journey, but the preacher tells me the whole country
is in a varry alarming condition.”

“Antony, I am a little tired of the preacher’s alarm bell. He is always
prophesying evil. Doan’t thee let him get too much influence over thee.
Before thou knows what thou art doing thou wilt be going to a class
meeting. What does the curate say? He has been fifty miles south, if not
more.”

“He told me the roads were full of hungry, angry men, who were varry
disrespectful to any of the Quality they met.”

Here Katherine entered the room. “Mother dear,” she said in an excited
voice, “mother dear! My new traveling dress came home a little while
ago, and I have put it on, to let you admire it. Is it not pretty? Is it
not stylish? Is it not everything a girl would like? O Daddy! I didn’t
see you.”

“I couldn’t expect thee to see me when tha hed a new dress on. I’ll tell
thee, howiver, I doan’t like it as well as I liked thy last suit.”

“The little shepherd plaid? Oh, that has become quite common! This is
the thing now. What do you say, mother?”

“I think it is all right. Put it on in the morning. We leave at seven
o’clock.”

“Oh, delightful! I am so glad! Life is all in a mess here and I hate a
tossed-up house.”

At this point the Reverend Mr. Yates entered. He had called to bid the
squire and his family good-bye, but the ladies quickly left the room.
They knew some apology was due the curate for placing the money intended
for relieving the suffering in the village in the preacher’s care, and
at his disposal. But the curate was reasonable, and readily acknowledged
that “nearly all needing help were members of Mr. Foster’s church, and
would naturally take relief better from him than from a stranger.”

The journey as far as Leeds was a very sad one, for the squire
stopped frequently to speak to groups of despairing, desperate men and
women:--“Hev courage, friends!” he said cheerfully to a gathering of
about forty or more on the Green of a large village, only fourteen miles
south of Annis. “Hev courage a little longer! I am Antony Annis, and I
am on my way to London, with many more gentlemen, to see that the Reform
Bill goes through the Lords, this time. If it does not then it will be
the duty of Englishmen to know the reason why. God knows you hev borne
up bravely. Try it a bit longer.”

“Squire,” said a big fellow, white with hunger, “Squire, I hevn’t
touched food of any kind for forty hours. You count hours when you are
hungry, squire.”

“We’re all o’ us,” said his companion, “faint and clemmed. We hevn’t
strength to be men any longer. Look at me! I’m wanting to cry like a
bairn.”

“I’m ready to fight, squire,” added a man standing near by; “I hev a bit
o’ manhood yet, and I’d fight for my rights, I would that!--if I nobbnd
hed a slice or two o’ bread.”

At the same time a young woman, little more than a child, came tottering
forward, and stood at the side of Mistress Annis. She had a little baby
in her arms, she did not speak, she only looked in the elder woman’s
face then cast her eyes down upon the child. It was tugging at an empty
breast with little sharp cries of hungry impatience. Then she said, “I
hev no milk for him! The lile lad is sucking my blood!” Her voice was
weak and trembling, but she had no tears left.

Madam covered her face, she was weeping, and the next moment Katherine
emptied her mother’s purse into the starving woman’s hand. She took it
with a great cry, lifting her face to heaven--“Oh God, it is money! Oh
God, it is milk and bread!” Then looking at Katherine she said, “Thou
hes saved two lives. God sent thee to do it”--and with the words, she
found a sudden strength to run with her child to a shop across the
street, where bread and milk were sold.

“It’s little Dinas Sykes,” said a man whose voice was weak with hunger.
“Eh! but I’m glad, God hes hed mercy on her!” and all watched Dinas
running for milk and bread with a grateful sympathy. The squire was
profoundly touched, his heart melted within him, and he said to the
little company with the voice of a companion, not of a master, “Men, how
many of you are present?”

“About forty-four men--and a few half grown lads. They need food worse
than men do--they suffer more--poor lile fellows!”

“And you all hev women at home? Wives and daughters?”

“Ay, squire, and mothers, too! Old and gray and hungry--some varry
patient, and just dying on their feet, some so weak they are crying like
t’ childer of two or four years old. My God! Squire, t’ men’s suffering
isn’t worth counting, against that of t’ women and children.”

“Friends, I hev no words to put against your suffering and a ten pound
note will be better than all the words I could give you. It will at
least get all of you a loaf of bread and a bit of beef and a mug of ale.
Who shall I give it to?”

“Ben Shuttleworth,” was the unanimous answer, and Ben stepped forward.
He was a noble-looking old man just a little crippled by long usage of
the hand loom. “Squire Annis,” he said, “I’ll gladly take the gift God
hes sent us by thy hands and I’ll divide it equally, penny for penny,
and may God bless thee and prosper thy journey! We’re none of us men
used to saying ‘thank’ee’ to any man but we say it to thee. Yes, we say
it to thee.”

Kindred scenes occurred in every village and they did not reach Leeds
in time for the mail coach they intended to take. The squire was not
troubled at the delay. He said, “he hed a bit of his awn business to
look after, and he was sure Katherine hed forgotten one or two varry
necessary things, that she could buy in Leeds.”

Katherine acknowledged that she had forgotten her thimble and her hand
glass, and said she had “been worrying about her back hair, which she
could not dress without one.”

Madam was tired and glad to rest. “But Antony,” she said, “Dick will
meet this coach and when we do not come by it, he will have wonders and
worries about us.”

“Not he! Dick knows something about women, and also, I told him we might
sleep a night or two at some town on the way, if you were tired.”

The next day they began the journey again, half-purposing to stop and
rest at some half-way town. The squire said Dick understood them. He
would be on hand if they loitered a week. And Madam was satisfied;
she thought it likely Dick had instructions fitting his father’s
uncertainty.

Yet though the coach prevented actual contact with the miserable famine
sufferers, it could not prevent them witnessing the silent misery
sitting on every door step, and looking with such longing eyes for help
from God or man. Upon the whole it was a journey to break a pitiful
heart, and the squire and his family were glad when the coach drew up
with the rattle of wheels and the blowing of the guard’s horn at its old
stand of Charing Cross.

The magic of London was already around them, and the first face they saw
was the handsome beaming face of Dick Annis. He nodded and smiled to his
father, who was sitting--where he had sat most of the journey--at the
side of the driver. Dick would have liked to help him to the street, but
he knew that his father needed no help and would likely be vexed at any
offer of it, but Dick’s mother and sister came out of the coach in his
arms, and the lad kissed them and called them all the fond names he
could think of. Noticing at the same time his father’s clever descent,
he put out his left hand to him, for he had his mother guarded with his
right arm. “You did that jump, dad, better than I could have done it.
Are you tired?”

“We are all tired to death, Dick. Hev you a cab here?”

“To be sure, I have! Your rooms at the Clarendon are in order, and there
will be a good dinner waiting when you are ready for it.”

In something less than an hour they were all ready for a good dinner;
their faces had been washed, Katherine’s hair smoothed and Madam’s cap
properly adjusted. The squire was standing on the hearthrug in high
spirits. The sight of his son, the touch of the town, the pleasant light
and comfort of his surroundings, the prospect of dinner, made him forget
for a few minutes the suffering he had passed through, until his son
asked, “And did you have a pleasant journey, father?”

“A journey, Dick, to break a man’s heart. It hes turned me from a Tory
into a Radical. This government must feed the people or--we will kick
them back----”

“Dear father, we will talk of that subject by ourselves. It isn’t fit
for two tired women, now is it?”

“Mebbe not; but I hev seen and I hev heard these last two or three days,
Dick, what I can niver forget. Things hev got to be altered. They hev
that, or----”

“We will talk that over after mother and Kitty have gone to sleep. We
won’t worry them to-night. I have ordered mother’s favorite Cabinet
pudding for her, and some raspberry cream for Kitty. It wouldn’t be
right to talk of unhappy things with good things in our mouths, now
would it?”

“They are coming. I can hear Kitty’s laugh, when I can hear nothing
else. Ring the bell, Dick, we can hev dinner now.”

There were a few pleasant moments spent in choosing their seats, and
as soon as they were taken, a dish of those small delicious oysters for
which England has been famous since the days of the Roman Emperors were
placed before them. “I had some scalloped for mother and Kitty,” Dick
said. “Men can eat them raw, alive if they choose, but women--Oh no! It
isn’t womanlike! Mother and Kitty wouldn’t do it! Not they!”

“And what else hes ta got for us, Dick?” asked the squire. “I’m mortal
hungry.”

The last word shocked him anew. He wished he had not said it. What made
him do it? Hungry! He had never been really hungry in all his life; and
those pallid men and women, with that look of suffering on their faces,
and in their dry, anxious eyes, how could he ever forget them?

He was suddenly silent, and Katherine said: “Father is tired. He would
drive so much. I wonder the coachman let him.”

“Father paid for the privilege of doing the driver’s work for him. I
have no doubt of that, my dears,” said Madam. “Well, Dick, when did you
see Jane?”

“Do you not observe, mother, that I am in evening dress? Jane has a
dance and supper to-night. Members from the government side will be
dropping in there after midnight, for refreshment. Both Houses are in
all-night sittings now.”

“How does Leyland vote?”

“He is tremendously royal and loyal. You will have to mind your p’s and
q’s with him now, father.”

“Not I! I take my awn way. Leyland’s way and mine are far apart. How is
your Aunt Josepha?”

“She is all right. She is never anything else but all right. Certainly
she is vexed that Katherine is not to stay with her. Jane has been
making a little brag about it, I suppose.”

“Katherine could stay part of the time with her,” said the squire.

“She had better be with Jane. Aunt will ask O’Connell to her dinners,
and others whom Katherine would not like.”

“Why does she do it? She knows better.”

“I suspect we all know better than we do. She says, ‘O’Connell keeps the
dinner table lively.’ So he does. The men quarrel all the time they
eat and the women really admire them for it. They say ‘_Oh!_’ at a very
strong word, but they would love to see them really fighting. Women
affect tenderness and fearfulness; they are actually cruel creatures.
Aunt says, ‘that was what her dear departed told her, and she had no
doubt he had had experiences.’ Jane sent her love to all of you, and she
purposes coming for Katherine about two o’clock to-morrow.”

“Oh!” said Madam, in a rather indifferent way, “Katherine and I can find
plenty to do, and to see, in London. Jane told me recently, she had a
new carriage.”

“One of the finest turn-outs Long Acre could offer her. The team is good
also. Leyland is a judge of horses, and he has chosen a new livery
with his new honors--gray with silver trimmings. It looks handsome and
stylish.”

“And will spoil quickly,” said Madam. “Jane asked me about the livery,
and I told her to avoid light colors.”

“Then you should have told her to choose light colors. Jane lives and
votes with the opposition.” In pleasant domestic conversation the hours
slipped happily away, but after the ladies had retired, Dick did not
stay long. The squire was really weary, though he “_pooh-poohed_” the
idea. “A drive from Leeds to London, with a rest between, what is that
to tire a man?” he asked, adding, “I hev trotted a Norfolk cob the
distance easy in less time, and I could do it again, if I wanted to.”

“Of course you could, father. Oh, I wish to ask you if you know anything
of the M.P. from Appleby?”

“A little.”

“What can you say about him?”

“He made a masterly speech last session, in favor of Peel’s ministry. I
liked it then. I hevn’t one good word for it now.”

“He is a very fine looking man. I suppose he is wealthy. He lives in
good style here.”

“I know nothing about his money. The De Burgs are a fine family--among
the oldest in England--Cumberland, I believe, down Furness way. Why art
thou bothering thysen about him?”

“He is one of Jane’s favorites. He goes to Ley-land’s house a deal. I
was thinking of Katherine.”

“What about Katherine? What about Katherine?” the squire asked sharply.

“You know Katherine is beautiful, and this De Burg is very handsome--in
his way.”

“What way?”

“Well, the De Burgs are of Norman descent and Stephen De Burg shows it.
He has indeed the large, gray eyes of our own North Country, but his
hair is black--very black--and his complexion is swarthy. However, he is
tall and well-built, and remarkably graceful in speech and action--quite
the young man to steal a girl’s heart away.”

“Hes he stolen any girl’s heart from thee?”

“Not he, indeed! I am Annis enough to keep what I win; but I was
wondering if our little Kitty was a match for Stephen De Burg.”

“Tha needn’t worry thysen about Kitty Annis. I’ll warrant her a match
for any man. Her mother says she hes a fancy for Harry Bradley, but
I----”

“Harry is a fine fellow.”

“Nobody said he wasn’t a fine fellow, and there is not any need for
thee to interrupt thy father in order to tell him that! Harry Bradley,
indeed! I wouldn’t spoil any plan of De Burg’s to please or help Harry
Bradley! Not I! Now I hope tha understands that! To-morrow thou can tell
me about thy last goddess, and if she be worthy to sit after thy mother
in Annis Court, I’ll help thee to get wedded to her gladly. For I’m
getting anxious, Dick, about my grandsons and their sisters. I’d like to
see them that are to come after me.”

Then Dick went away with a laugh, but as the father and son stood a
moment hand-clasped, their resemblance was fitting and beautiful; and
no one noticing this fact could wonder at the Englishman’s intense
affection and anxious care for the preservation of his family type.

The squire then put out the candles and covered the fire just as he
would have done at Annis and while he did so he pondered what Dick
had told him and resolved to say nothing at all about it. “Then,” he
reflected, “I shall get Katherine’s real opinions about De Burg. Women
are so queer, they won’t iver tell you the truth about men unless they
believe you don’t care what they think:--and I won’t tell Annie either.
Annie would take to warning and watching, and, for anything I know,
advising her to be faithful and true to her first love. Such simplicity!
Such nonsense!”

Then he went to his room and found Mistress Annis sitting with her feet
on the fender, sipping a glass of wine negus, and as she dipped her
little strips of dry toast into it, she said, “I am so glad to see thee,
Antony. I am too excited to sleep and I wanted a few words with thee and
thee only. For three days I hev missed our quiet talks with each other.
I heard Dick laughing; what about?”

“I told him I was getting varry anxious about my grandsons, eh?”

Then both laughed and the squire stooped and kissed his wife and in that
moment he sat down by her side and frankly told her all he had heard
about De Burg. They talked about it for half-an-hour and then the squire
went calmly off to sleep without one qualm of conscience for his
broken resolution. In fact he assured himself that “he had done right.
Katherine’s mother was Katherine’s proper guardian and he was only doing
his duty in giving her points that might help her to do her duty.” That
reflection was a comfortable one on which to sleep and he took all the
rest it gave him.

Madam lay awake worrying about Katherine’s wardrobe. After hearing of
her sister’s growing social importance she felt that it should have been
attended to before they left Yorkshire. For in those days there were no
such things as ready-made suits, and any dress or costume lacking had to
be selected from the web, the goods bought, the dressmaker interviewed,
and after several other visits for the purpose of “trying-on” the gown
might be ready for use. These things troubled Madam. Katherine felt more
confidence in her present belongings. “I have half a dozen white frocks
with me, mother,” she said, “and nothing could be prettier or richer
than my two Dacca muslins. The goods are fine as spider webs, the
embroidery on them is nearly priceless, and they are becoming every year
more and more scarce. I have different  silk skirts to wear under
them, and sashes and beads, and bows, with which to adorn them.”

There was a little happy pause, then Katherine said, “Let us go and see
Aunt Josepha. I have not seen her for six years. I was counting the time
as I lay in bed this morning. I was about twelve years old.”

“That is a good idea. We can shop better after we hev hed a talk with
her.”

“There, mother! You had two Yorkshireisms in that sentence. Father would
laugh at you.”

“Niver mind, when my heart talks, my tongue talks as my heart does, and
Yorkshire is my heart’s native tongue. When I talk to thee my tongue
easily slips into Yorkshire.”

Then a carriage was summoned, and Madam An-nis and her daughter went to
call on Madam Josepha Temple. They had to ride into the city and through
St. James Park to a once very fashionable little street leading from the
park to the river. Madam Temple could have put a fortune in her pocket
for a strip of this land bordering the river, but no money could induce
her to sell it. Even the city’s offer had been refused.

“Had not Admiral Temple,” she asked, “found land enough for England, and
fought for land enough for England, for his widow to be allowed to keep
in peace the strip of land at the foot of the garden he planted and
where he had also erected a Watergate so beautiful that it had become
one of the sights of London?” And her claim had been politely allowed
and she had been assured that it would be respected.

The house itself was not remarkable outwardly. It was only one of those
square brick mansions introduced in the Georgian era, full of large
square rooms and wide corridors and, in Madam Temple’s case, of numerous
cupboards and closets; for in her directions to the Admiral she had said
with emphasis:

“Admiral, you may as well live in a canvas tent without a convenience of
any kind as in a house without closets for your dresses and mantuas; and
cupboards for your china and other things you must have under lock and
key:” and the Admiral had seen to the closet and cupboard subject with
such strict attention that even his widow sometimes grew testy over
their number.

Whatever faults the house might have, the furnishing had been done
with great judgment. It was solid and magnificent and only the best
tapestries and carpets found a place there. To Madam Temple had been
left the choice of silver, china, linen and damask, and the wisdom and
good taste of her selection had a kind of official approbation. Artists
and silversmiths asked her to permit them to copy the shapes of her old
silver and she possessed many pieces of Wedgwood’s finest china of which
only a very small number had been made ere the mold was broken.

After the house was finished the Admiral lived but five years and Madam
never allowed anything to be changed or renewed. If told that anything
was fading or wearing, she replied--“I am fading also, just wearing
away. They will last my time.” However the house yet had an air of
comfortable antique grandeur and it was a favorite place of resort
to all who had had the good fortune to win the favor of the Admiral’s
widow.

As they were nearing the Temple house, Madam said: “The old man who
opens the door was the Admiral’s body servant. He has great influence
with your aunt; speak pleasantly to him.” At these words the carriage
stopped and the old man of whom Madam had spoken threw open the door and
stood waiting their approach. He recognized Madam Annis and said with a
pleasant respect--“Madam will take the right-hand parlor,” but ere Madam
could do so, Mistress Temple appeared. She came hastily forward, talking
as she came and full of pleasure at the visit.

“You dear ones!” she cried. “How welcome you are! Where is Antony? Why
didn’t he come with you? How is he going to vote? Take off your cloaks
and bonnets. So this is the little girl I left behind me! You are now
a young lady, Kate. Who is the favored sweetheart?” These interjectory
remarks were not twaddle, they were the overflow of the heart. Josepha
Temple meant everything she said.

Physically she was a feminine portrait of her brother, but in all other
respects she was herself, and only herself, the result of this world’s
training on one particular soul, for who can tell how many hundred
years? She had brought from her last life most of her feelings and
convictions and probably they had the strength and persistence of
many reincarnations behind them. Later generations than Josepha do not
produce such characters; alas! their affections for anyone and their
beliefs in anything are too weak to reincarnate; so they do not come
back from the grave with them. Josepha was different. Death had had
no power over her higher self, she was the same passionate lover of
Protestantism and the righteous freedom of the people that she had been
in Cromwell’s time; and she declared that she had loved her husband
ever since he had fought with Drake and been Cromwell’s greatest naval
officer.

She was near sixty but still a very handsome woman, for she was alive
from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet and disease of any
kind had not yet found a corner in her body to assail. Her hair was
untouched by Time, and the widow’s cap--so disfiguring to any woman--she
wore with an air that made it appear a very proper and becoming head
covering. Her gowns were always black merino or cloth in the morning,
silk or satin or velvet in the afternoon; but they were brightened by
deep cuffs and long stomachers of white linen, or rich lace, and the
skirts of all, though quite plain, were of regal length and amplitude.

“Off with your bonnets!” she cried joyfully as she kissed Katherine and
began to untie the elaborate bow of pink satin ribbon under her chin.
“Why, Kate, how lovely you have grown! I thought you would be just an
ordinary Yorkshire girl--I find you extraordinary. Upon my word! You are
a beauty!”

“Thank you, aunt. Mother never told me so.”

“Annie, do you hear Kate?”

“I thought it wiser not to tell her such things.”

“What trumpery nonsense! Do you say to your roses as they bloom, ‘Do not
imagine, Miss Rose, that you are lovely, and have a fine perfume. You
are well enough and your smell isn’t half-bad, but there are roses far
handsomer and sweeter than you are’?”

“In their own way, Josepha, all roses are perfect.”

“In their own way, Annie, all women are perfect. Have you had your
breakfast?”

“An hour ago.”

“Then let us talk. Where is Antony? What is he doing?”

“He is doing well. I think he went to see Lord John Russell.”

“What can he have to say to Russell? He hasn’t sense enough to be on
Russell’s side. Russell is an A. D. 1832 man, Antony dates back two or
three hundred years.”

“He does nothing of that kind. He has been wearing a pair o’ seven
leagued boots the past two weeks. Antony’s now as far forward as
Russell, or Grey, or any other noncontent. They’ll find that out as soon
as he opens his mouth in The House of Commons.”

“We call it ‘t’ Lower House’ here, Annie.”

“I don’t see why. As good men are in it as sit in t’ Upper House or any
ither place.”

“It may be because they speak better English there than thou art
speaking right now, Annie.”

Then Annie laughed. “I had forgot, Josepha,” she said, “forgive me.”

“Nay, there’s nothing to forgive, Annie. I can talk Yorkshire as well
as iver I did, if I want to. After all, it’s the best and purest English
going and if you want your awn way or to get your rights, or to make
your servants do as they’re told, a mouthful of Yorkshire will do it--or
nothing will. And I was telling Dick only the other day, to try a bit
o’ Yorkshire on a little lass he is varry bad in love with--just at
present.”

Katherine had been standing at her aunt’s embroidery frame admiring its
exquisite work but as soon as she heard this remark, she came quickly
to the fireside where the elder ladies had sat down together. They had
lifted the skirts of their dresses across their knees to prevent the
fire from drawing the color and put their feet comfortably on the
shining fender and Katherine did not find them indisposed to talk.

“Who is it, aunt?” she asked with some excitement. “What is her name? Is
she Yorkshire?”

“Nay, I doan’t think she hes any claim on Yorkshire. I think she comes
Westmoreland way. She is a sister to a member of the Lower House called
De Burg. He’s a handsome lad to look at. I hevn’t hed time yet to go
further.”

“Have you seen this little girl, aunt?”

“Yes. She was here once with her brother. He says she has never been
much from home before, and Dick says, that as far as he can make out,
her home is a gray old castle among the bleak, desolate, Westmoreland
Mountains. It might be a kindness for Katherine to go and see her.”

“If you will go with me, aunt, I will do so.”

“Not I. Take Dick with thee. He will fill the bill all round.”

“Well, then, I will ask Dick;” and to these words the squire entered.

He appeared to be a little offended because no one had seen him coming
and all three women assumed an air of contrition for having neglected to
be on the lookout for him. “We were all so interested about Dick’s new
sweetheart,” said Madam Annis, “and somehow, thou slipped out of mind
for a few minutes. It _was_ thoughtless, Antony, it was that.”

“Have you had a good meal lately, Antony?” asked his sister.

“No, Josepha, I hevn’t. I came to ask thee to give me a bit of lunch.
I hev an appointment at three o’clock for The House and I shall need
a good substantial bite, for there’s no saying when I’ll get away from
there. What can thou give me?”

“Oysters, hare soup, roast beef, and a custard pudding.”

“All good enough. I suppose there’ll be a Yorkshire pudding with thy
beef; it would seem queer and half-done without it.”

“Well, Antony, I suppose I do know how to roast beef before t’ fire and
put a pudding under it. I’d be badly educated, if I didn’t.”

“If Yorkshire pudding is to be the test, Josepha, then thou art one of
the best educated women in England.”

“Father, Dick’s new love is Miss De Burg. What do you think of that?”

“He might do worse than marry a De Burg, and he might do better. I’m not
in a mood to talk about anyone’s marriage.”

“Not even of mine, father?”

“Thine, least of all. And thou hes to get a decent lover before thou hes
to ask me if he can be thy husband.”

“I hev a very good lover, father.”

“No, thou hes not. Not one that can hev a welcome in my family and home.
Not one! No doubt thou wilt hev plenty before we leave London. Get thy
mother to help thee choose the right one. _There now!_ That’s enough of
such foolishness! My varry soul is full of matters of life or death to
England. I hev not one thought for lovers and husbands at this time.
Why, England is varry near rebellion, and I tell you three women
there is no Oliver Cromwell living now to guide her over the bogs of
misgovernment and anarchy. Russell said this morning, ‘it was the Reform
Bill or Revolution.’” Then lunch was brought in and the subject was
dropped until the squire lit his pipe for “a bit of a smoke.” Katherine
was, however, restless and anxious; she was watching for her sister’s
arrival and when the squire heard of the intended visit, he said: “I
doan’t want to see Jane this afternoon. Tell her I’ll see her at her
home this evening and, Josepha, I’ll smoke my pipe down the garden to
the Watergate and take a boat there for Westminster. Then I can smoke
all the way. I’m sure I can’t tell what I would do without it.”

And as they watched him down to the Watergate, they heard Jane’s
carriage stop at the street entrance.




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.




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.”

So he kissed her and told her again how dear she was to him and how much
he relied on her judgment, and they went to the parlor like lovers, or
like something far better. For if they had been only lovers, they could
not have known the sweetness, and strength, and unity of a married love
twenty-six years old. And as they drank their tea, Annis made clear to
his wife the condition of affairs in The Commons, and she quickly became
as much interested in the debate going on as himself. “It hes been going
on now,” he said, “for three nights, and will probably continue all this
night and mebbe longer.”

“Then will it be settled?”

“Nothing is settled, Annie, till it is settled right, and if The Commons
settle it right the lords may turn it out altogether again--_if they
dare_. However, thou hes given me a far lighter heart and I’ll mebbe hev
a word or two to say mysen to-night, for the question of workmen’s wages
is coming up and I’d like to give them my opinion on that subject.”

“It would be a good thing if the government fixed the wages of the
workers. It might put a stop to strikes.”

“Not it! Workingmen’s wages are as much beyond the control of
government as the fogs of the Atlantic. Who can prevent contractors
from underselling one another? Who can prevent workmen from preferring
starvation wages, rather than no wages at all? The man who labors knows
best what his work is worth and you can’t blame him for demanding what
is just and fair. Right is right in the devil’s teeth. If you talk
forever, you’ll niver get any forrarder than that; but I have always
noticed that when bad becomes bad enough, right returns.”

“The last time we talked about The Bill, Antony, you said you were
anxious that the Scotch Bill should take exactly the same position that
the English Bill does. Will the Scotch do as you wish them?”

“It’s hard to get a Scotchman to confess that he is oppressed by anyone,
or by any law. He doesn’t mind admitting a sentimental grievance about
the place that the lion hes on the flag; but he’s far too proud to
allow that anything wrong with the conditions of life is permissible in
Scotland. Yet there are more socialists in Scotland than anywhere else,
which I take as a proof that they are as dissatisfied as any other
workingmen are.”

“What is it that the socialists are continually talking about?”

“They are talking about a world that does not exist, Annie, and
that niver did exist, and promising us a world that couldn’t by any
possibility exist. But I’ll tell thee what I hev found out just since
I came here; that is, that if we are going to continue a Protective
Government we’re bound to hev Socialism flourish. Let England stop
running a government to protect rich and noble land owners, let her open
her ports and give us Free Trade, and we’ll hear varry little more of
socialism.”

“Will you go to The House to-night, Antony?”

“I wouldn’t miss going for a good deal. Last night’s session did not
close till daylight and I’ll niver forget as long as I live the look of
The House at that time. Grey had been speaking for an hour and a
half, though he is now in his sixty-eighth year; and I could not help
remembering that forty years previously, he had stood in the same place,
pleading for the same Bill, Grey being at that date both its author and
its advocate. My father was in The House then and I hev often heard
him tell how Lord Wharncliffe moved that Grey’s Reform Bill should be
rejected altogether; and how Lord Brougham made one of the grandest
speeches of his life in its favor, ending it with an indescribable
relation of the Sybil’s offer to old Rome. Now, Annie, I want to see
the harvest of that seed sowed by Grey and Brougham forty years ago, and
that harvest may come to-night. Thou wouldn’t want me to miss it, would
thou?”

“I would be very sorry indeed if thou missed it; but what about the
Sybil?”

“Why-a! this old Roman prophetess was called up by Brougham to tell
England the price she would hev to pay if her rulers persisted in their
abominable husbandry of sowing injustice and reaping rebellion. ‘Hear
the parable of the Sybil!’ he cried. ‘She is now at your gate, and
she offers you in this Bill wisdom and peace. The price she asks is
reasonable; it is to restore the franchise, which you ought voluntarily
to give. You refuse her terms and she goes away. But soon you find you
cannot do without her wares and you call her back. Again she comes but
with diminished treasures--the leaves of the book are partly torn away
by lawless hands, and in part defaced with characters of blood. But
the prophetic maid has risen in her demands--it is Parliament by the
year--it is vote by the ballot--it is suffrage by the million now.
From this you turn away indignant, and for the second time she departs.
Beware of her third coming, for the treasure you must have, and who
shall tell what price she may demand? It may even be the mace which
rests upon that woolsack. Justice deferred enhances the price you must
pay for peace and safety and you cannot expect any other crop than they
had who went before you and who, in their abominable husbandry, sowed
injustice and reaped rebellion.’”

Antony was declaiming the last passages of this speech when the door
opened and Mrs. Temple entered. She sat down and waited until her
brother ceased, then she said with enthusiasm:

“Well done, Antony! If thou must quote from somebody’s fine orations,
Brougham and the Sybil woman were about the best thou could get, if so
be thou did not go to the Scriptures. In that book thou would find all
that it is possible for letters and tongues to say against the men who
oppress the poor, or do them any injustice; and if I wanted to make a
speech that would beat Brougham’s to a disorganized alphabet, I’d take
ivery word of it out of the sacred Scriptures. I would that!”

“Well, Josepha, I hope I may see The Bill pass the Commons to-night.”

“Then thou hes more to wish for than to hope for. Does Brougham and
Palmerston iver speak to each other now?”

“It is as much as they can do to lift their hats. They niver speak, I
think. Why do you ask me?”

“Because I heard one water man say to another, as I was taking a boat at
my awn water house--

                   “‘If the Devil hes a son,

                   Then his name is Palmerston.’”

“Such rhymes against a man do him a deal of harm, Josepha. The rhyme
sticks and fastens, whether it be true or false, but there is nothing
beats a mocking, scornful story for cutting nation wide and living for
centuries after it. That rhyme about Palmerston will not outlive him in
any popular sense, but the mocking scornful story through which Canon
Sydney Smith of St. Paul’s derided the imbecility of The Lords will live
as long as English history lives.”

“I do not remember that story, Antony. Do you, Josepha?”

“Ay, I remember it; but I’ll let Antony tell it to thee and then thou
will be sure to store it up as something worth keeping. What I tell thee
hes not the same power of sticking.”

“It may be that you are right, Josepha. Men do speak with more authority
than women do. What did Canon Sydney Smith say, Antony?”

“He said the attempt of the Lords to stop Reform reminded him of the
great storm at Sidmouth and of the conduct of Mrs. Partington on that
occasion. Six or seven winters ago there was a great storm upon that
town, the tide rose to an incredible height, and the waves rushed in
upon the beach, and in the midst of this terrible storm she was seen at
the door of her house with her dress pinned up, and her highest pattens
on her feet, trundling her mop, squeezing out the sea water, and
vigorously pushing away the Atlantic Ocean. The Atlantic Ocean was
roused. Mrs. Partington’s spirit was up, but I need not tell you the
contest was unequal. The Atlantic Ocean beat Mrs. Partington. You see,
Annie, the Canon really compared the Lords to a silly old woman and all
England that were not in the House of Lords screamed with laughter. In
that day, The House of Lords lost more of its dignity and prestige than
it has yet regained; and Mrs. Partington did far more for Reform than
all the fine speeches that were made.”

“Annie,” said Josepha, “we may as well take notice that it was a woman
who went, or was sent, to the old Roman world with the laws of justice
and peace; and Sydney Smith knew enough about Reform to be aware it
would be best forwarded by putting his parable in the pluck and spirit
of Dame Partington. It seems, then, that both in the old and the present
world, there were men well aware of womanly influence in politics.”

“Well, dear women, I must away. I want to be in at the finish.”

“Nothing will finish to-night. And thou will lose thy sleep.”

“I lost it last night. The day was breaking when I left The House. The
candles had been renewed just before daylight and were blazing on after
the sunshine came in at the high windows, making a varry singular effect
on their crimson draperies and on the dusky tapestries on the wall.
I may be as late home to-morrow morning. Good night!” and he bent and
kissed both ladies, and then hurried away, anxious and eager.

And the women were silent a moment watching him out of sight in the
twilight and then softly praising his beauty, manliness, and his loving
nature. On this subject Annie and Josepha usually agreed, though at last
Josepha said with a sigh--“It is a pity, however, that his purse strings
are so loose. He spends a lot of money.” And Annie replied: “Perhaps so,
but he is such a good man I had forgotten that he had a fault.”

“And as a politician it is very eccentric--not to say foolish--for him
to vote for justice and principle, not to speak of feelings, instead of
party.”

“If those things in any shape are faults, I am glad he has them. I could
not yet live with a perfect man.”

“I don’t suppose thou could. It would be a bit beyond thee. Is all ready
for to-morrow?”

“Yes, but I have lost heart on the subject. Are you going to Jane’s
now?”

“I may do that. I heard that Agatha De Burg was home and I would like to
warn Katherine to take care of every word she says in Agatha’s presence.
She tells all she hears to that cousin of hers.”

“Have you seen De Burg lately?”

“Two or three times at Jane’s house. He seems quite at home there now.
He is very handsome, and graceful, and has such fine manners.”

“Then I hev no more to say and it is too late for me to take the water
way home. Will tha order me a carriage?”

Annie’s readiness to fulfill this request did not please Josepha and she
stood at the window and was nearly silent until she saw a carriage stop
at the hotel door. Then she said, “I think I’ll go and see if Jane hes
anything like a welcome to offer me. Good-by to thee, Annie.”

“We shall see you early to-morrow, I hope, Josepha.”

“Nay, then, thou hopes for nothing of that kind but I’ll be at Jane’s
sometime before I am wanted.”

“You should not say such unkind words, Josepha. You are always welcome
wherever you go. In some way I have lost myself the last ten minutes. I
do not feel all here.”

“Then thou hed better try and find thysen. Thou wilt need all there is
of thee to bother with Antony about t’ House of Commons, and to answer
civilly the crowd of strangers that will come to see thy daughter
to-morrow.”

“It is neither the Bill nor the strangers that trouble me. My vexations
lie nearer home.”

“I must say that thou ought to hev learned how to manage them by this
time. It is all of twenty-seven years since Antony married thee.”

“It is not Antony. Antony has not a fault. Not one!”

“I am glad thou hes found that out at last. Well, the carriage is
waiting and I’ll bid thee good-bye; and I hope thou may get thysen all
together before to-morrow at this time.”

With these words Josepha went and Annie threw herself into her chair
with a sense of relief. “I know she intended to stay for dinner,” she
mentally complained, “and I could not bear her to-night. She is too
overflowing--she is too much every way. I bless myself for my patience
for twenty-seven years. Is it really twenty-seven years?” And with this
last suggestion she lost all consciousness of the present hour.

In the meantime Josepha was not thinking any flattering things of her
sister-in-law. “She wanted me to go away! What a selfish, cross woman
she is! Poor Antony! I wonder how he bears her,” and in a mood of such
complaining, Josepha with all her kindly gossiping hopes dashed, went
almost tearfully home.

Annie, however, was not cross. She was feeling with her husband the
gravity of public affairs and was full of anxious speculation concerning
Katherine. A change had come over the simple, beautiful girl. Without
being in the least disobedient or disrespectful, she had shown in late
days a thoroughly natural and full grown Annis temper. No girl ever knew
better just what she wanted and no girl ever more effectually arranged
matters in such wise as would best secure her all she wanted. About
Harry Bradley she had not given way one hair’s breadth, and yet
evidently her father was as far as ever from bearing the thought of
Harry as a son-in-law. His kindness to him in the weaving shop was
founded initially on his appreciation of good work and of a clever
business tactic and he was also taken by surprise, and so easily gave
in to the old trick of liking the lad. But he was angry at himself for
having been so weak and he felt that in some way Harry had bested him,
and compelled him to break the promises he had made to himself regarding
both the young man and his father.

For a couple of hours these subjects occupied her completely, then she
rose and went to her room and put away her new gown. It was a perfectly
plain one of fawn- brocade with which she intended to wear her
beautiful old English laces. As she was performing this duty she thought
about her own youth. It had been a very commonplace one, full of small
economies. She had never had a formal “coming out,” and being the
eldest of five girls she had helped her mother to manage a household,
constantly living a little above its income. Yet she had many sweet,
loving thoughts over this life; and before she was aware her cheeks were
wet with tears, uncalled, but not unwelcome.

“My dear mother,” she whispered, “in what land of God art thou now
resting? Surely thou art thinking of me! We are near to each other,
though far, far apart. Now, then, I will do as thou used to advise, ‘let
worries alone, and don’t worry over them.’ Some household angel will
come and put everything right. Oh, mother of many sorrows, pray for me.
Thou art nearer to God than I am.” This good thought slipped through her
tears like a soft strain of music, or a glint of sunshine, and she was
strengthened and comforted. Then she washed her face and put on her
evening cap and went to the parlor and ordered dinner.

Just as she sat down to her lonely meal the door was hastily opened, and
Dick Annis and Harry Bradley entered. And oh! how glad she was to see
them, to seat them at the table, and to plentifully feed the two hungry
young men who had been traveling all day.

“Dick, wherever have you been, my dear lad? I hevn’t had a letter from
you since you were in Edinburgh.”

“I wrote you lots of letters, mother, but I had no way of posting them
to you. After leaving Edinburgh we sailed northward to Lerwick and there
I mailed you a long letter. It will be here in a few days, no doubt,
but their mail boat only carries mail ‘weather permitting,’ and after
we left Lerwick, all the way to Aberdeen we had a roaring wind in our
teeth. I don’t think it was weather the ill-tempered Pentland Firth
would permit mail to be carried over it. How is father?”

“As well as he will be until the Reform Bill is passed. You are just in
time for Katherine’s party.”

“I thought I might be so, for father told me he was sure dress and
mantua-makers would not have you ready for company in two weeks.”

“Father was right. We may get people to weave the cloth by steam but
when it comes to sewing the cloth into clothes, there is nothing but
fingers and needles and some woman’s will.”

Then they talked of the preparations made and the guests that were
expected, and the evening passed so pleasantly that it was near midnight
when the youths went away. And before that time the squire had sent
a note to his wife telling her he would not leave The House until the
sitting broke up. This note was brought by a Commons Messenger, for the
telegraph was yet a generation away.

So Mistress Annis slept well, and the next day broke in blue skies and
sunshine. After breakfast was over she went to the Leyland Mansion to
see if her help was required in any way. Not that she expected it, for
she knew that Jane was far too good an organizer to be unready in any
department. Indeed she found her leisurely drinking coffee and reading
_The Court Circular_. Its news also had been gratifying, for she said to
her mother as she laid down the paper, “All is very satisfactory. There
are no entertainments to-night that will interfere with mine.”

Katherine was equally prepared but much more excited and that pleased
her mother. She wished Katherine to keep her girlish enthusiasms and
extravagant expectations as long as possible; Jane’s composure and
apparent indifference seemed to her unnatural and later she reflected
that “Jane used to flurry and worry more than enough. Why!” she mentally
exclaimed, “I have not forgot how she routed us all out of our beds
at five o’clock on the morning of her wedding day, and was so nervous
herself that she made the whole house restless as a whirlpool. But she
says it is now fashionable to be serenely unaffected by any event, and
whatever is the fashionable insanity, Jane is sure to be one of the
first to catch it.”

On this occasion her whole household had been schooled to the same calm
spirit, and while it had a decided air of festivity, there was also
one of order, and of everything going on as it ought to do. No hurrying
servants or belated confectionery vans impeded the guests’ arrival. The
rooms were in perfect order. The dinner would be served at the minute
specified, and the host and hostess were waiting to perform every
hospitable duty with amiable precision.

Katherine did not enter the reception parlors until the dinner guests
had arrived and expectation was at a pleasant point of excitement. Then
the principal door was thrown open with obvious intent and Squire
Annis and his family were very plainly announced. Katherine was walking
between her father and mother, and Mrs. Josepha Temple, leaning on the
arm of her favorite nephew Dick, was a few steps behind them.

There was a sudden silence, a quick assurance of the coming of
Katherine, and immediately the lovely girl made a triumphant entry into
their eyes and consciousness. She was dressed in white radiant gauze, *
dotted with small silver stars. It fell from her belt to her feet
without any break of its beauty by ruffle or frill. The waist slightly
covered the shoulders, the sleeves were full and gathered into a band
above the elbows. Both waist and sleeves were trimmed with lace traced
out with silver thread, and edged with a thin silver cord. Her sandals
were of white kid embroidered with silver stars, her gloves matched
them. She was without jewelry of any kind, unless the wonderfully carved
silver combs for the hair which Admiral Temple had brought from India
can be so called. Thus clothed, all the mystery and beauty of the flesh
was accentuated. Her fine eyes were soft and shining, with that happy
surprise in them that belongs only to the young enthusiast, and yet her
eyes were hardly more lambent than the rest of her face, for at this
happy hour all the ancient ecstasy of Love and Youth transfigured her
and she looked as if she had been born with a smile.

     * An almost transparent material first made in Gaza,
     Palestine, from which it derived its name.

Without intent Katherine’s association with her father and mother
greatly added to the impression she made. The squire was handsomely
attired in a fashionable suit of dark blue broadcloth, trimmed with
large gilt buttons, a white satin vest, and a neck piece of soft mull
and English lace. And not less becoming to Katherine as a set off was
her mother’s plain, dark, emphatic costume. Yes, even the rather showy
extravagance of the aunt as a background was an advantage, and could
hardly have been better considered, for Madam Temple on this occasion
had discarded her usual black garments and wore a purple velvet dress
and all her wonderful diamonds. Consistent with this luxury, her laces
were of old Venice _point de rose_, arranged back and front in a Vandyke
collar with cuffs of the same lace, high as the elbows, giving a cachet
to her whole attire, which did not seem to be out of place on a woman so
erect and so dignified that she never touched the back of a chair, and
with a temper so buoyant, so high-spirited, and so invincible.

When dinner was served, Katherine noticed that neither De Burg nor Harry
Bradley were at the table and after the meal she questioned her
sister with some feeling about this omission. “I do not mind De Burg’s
absence,” she said, “he is as well away as not, but poor Harry, what has
he done!”

“Harry is all right, Kitty, but we have to care for father’s feelings
first of all and you know he has no desire to break bread with Harry
Bradley. _Why!_ he considers ‘by bread and salt’ almost a sacred
obligation, and if he eats with Harry, he must give him his hand, his
good will, and his help, when the occasion asks for it. Father would
have felt it hard to forgive me if I had forced such an obligation on
him.”

“And De Burg? Is he also beyond the bread and salt limit?”

“I believe father might think so, but that is not the reason in his
case. He sent an excuse for dinner but promised to join the dancers at
ten o’clock and to bring his cousin Agatha with him.”

“How interesting! We shall all be on the _qui-vive_ for her début.”

“Don’t be foolish, Kitty. And do not speak French, until you can speak
it with a proper accent.”

“I have no doubt it is good enough for her.”

“As for her début, it occurred six or seven years ago. Agatha had the
run of society when you were in short frocks. Come, let us go to the
ballroom. Your father is sure to be prompt.”

When they reached the ballroom, they found Lord Leyland looking for
Katherine. “Father is waiting,” he said, “and we have the quadrilles
nearly set,” and while Leyland was yet speaking, Squire Annis bowed to
his daughter and she laid her hand in his with a smile, and they took
the place Leyland indicated. At the same moment, Dick led his mother to
a position facing them and there was not a young man or a young woman in
the room who might not have learned something of grace and dignity from
the dancing of the elderly handsome couple.

After opening the ball the squire went to his place in The House of
Commons and Madam went to the card room and sat down to a game of whist,
having for her partner Alexander Macready, a prominent London banker.
His son had been in the opening quadrille with Katherine and in a moment
had fallen in love with her. Moreover, it was a real passion, timid yet
full of ardor, sincere, or else foolishly talkative, and Katherine felt
him to be a great encumbrance. Wearily listening to his platitudes of
admiration, she saw Harry Bradley and De Burg and his cousin enter.
Harry was really foremost, but courtesy compelled him for the lady’s
sake to give precedence to De Burg and his cousin; consequently they
reached Katherine’s side first. But Katherine’s eyes, full of love’s
happy expectation, looked beyond them, and Miss De Burg saw in their
expression Katherine’s preference for the man behind her brother.

“Stephen need not think himself first,” she instantly decided, “this new
girl was watching for the man Stephen put back. A handsome man! He’ll
get ahead yet! He’s made that way.”

Then Lady Leyland joined them and De Burg detained her as long as
possible, delighting himself with the thought of Harry’s impatience.
When they moved forward he explained his motive and laughed a little
over it; but Agatha quickly damped his self-congratulation.

“Stephen,” she said, “the young man waiting was not at all
uncomfortable. I saw Miss Annis give him her hand and also a look that
some men would gladly wait a day for.”

“Why, Gath, I saw nothing of the kind. You are mistaken.”

“You were too much occupied in reciting to her the little speech you
had composed for the occasion. You know! I heard you saying it over and
over, as you walked about your room last night.”

“What a woman you are! You hear and see everything.”

“That I am not wanted to hear and see, eh?”

“In this house I want you to see and hear all you can. What do you think
of the young lady?”

“Why should I think of her at all?”

“For my sake.”

“That plea is worn out.” She smiled as she spoke and then some exigency
of the ball separated them.

Miss De Burg was not a pretty woman and yet people generally looked
twice at her. She had a cold, washed-out face, a great deal of very pale
brown hair and her hair, eyebrows, and eyes were all the same color.
There was usually _no look_ in her eyes and her mouth told nothing. It
was a firm and silent mouth and if her face had any expression it was
one of reserve or endurance. And Katherine in the very flush of her own
happy excitement divined some tragedy below this speechless face, and
she held Agatha’s hand and looked into her eyes with that sympathy which
is one of youth’s kindest moods. This feeling hesitated a moment between
the two women; then Agatha surrendered, and took it into her heart and
memory.

Now balls are so common and so natural an expression of humanity that
they possess both its sameness and its variability. They are all alike
and all different, all alike in action, all different in the actors;
and the only importance of this ball to Katherine Annis was that it
introduced her to the mere physical happiness that flows from fresh and
happy youth. In this respect it was perhaps the high tide of her life.
The beautiful room, the mellow transfiguring light of wax candles, the
gayly gowned company, the intoxicating strains of music, and the delight
of her motion to it, the sense of her loveliness, and of the admiration
it brought, made her heart beat high and joyfully, and gave to her light
steps a living grace no artist ever yet copied. She was queen of that
company and took out what lovers she wished with a pretty despotism
impossible to describe; but

                   Joy’s the shyest bird,

                   Mortals ever heard.

And ere anyone had asked “What time is it?” daylight was stealing into
the candle light and then there was only the cheerful hurry of cloaking
and parting left, and the long-looked-for happiness was over. Yet after
all it was a day by itself and the dower of To-morrow can never be
weighed by the gauge of Yesterday.

_“Right! There is a battle cry in the word. You feel as if you had drawn
a sword. A royal word, a conquering word, which if the weakest speak,
they straight grow strong.”_




CHAPTER VII--IN THE FOURTH WATCH


 LADY LEYLAND had ordered breakfast at ten o’clock and at that hour her
guests were ready for it. Mistress Temple and Katherine showed no signs
of weariness, but Lord Ley-land looked bored and Mistress Annis was
silent concerning the squire and his manner of passing the night. Then
Leyland said:

“By George! Madam, you are very right to be anxious. The company of
ladies always makes me anxious. I will go to my club and read the
papers. I feel that delay is no longer possible.”

“Your breakfast, Fred,” cried Katherine, but Fred was as one that heard
not, and with a smile and a good-by which included all present, Leyland
disappeared, and as his wife smilingly endorsed his

                   “Love puts out all other cares.”

and anxious but soon voiced her trouble in a wish forget everything else
but now if I can be excused apologies, no one made the slightest attempt
to detain him. Certainly Mistress Annis looked curiously at her daughter
and, when the door was closed, said:

“I wonder at you, Jane--Leyland had not drank his first cup of coffee
and as to his breakfast it is still on his plate. It is not good for a
man to go to politics fasting.”

“O mother! you need not worry about Fred’s breakfast. He will order one
exactly to his mind as soon as he reaches his club and he will be ten
times happier with the newspapers than with us.”

Just at this point the squire and his son entered the room together and
instantly the social temperature of the place rose.

“I met Leyland running away from you women,” said the squire. “Whatever
hev you been doing to him?”

“He wanted to see the papers, father,” said Katherine.

“It was a bit of bad behavior,” said Madam Temple.

“Oh, dear, no,” Jane replied. “Fred is incapable of anything so vulgar.
Is he not, father?”

“To be sure he is. No doubt it was a bit of fine feeling for the women
present that sent him off. He knew you would want to discuss the affair
of last night and also the people mixed up in it and he felt he would
be in everybody’s way, and so he was good-natured enough to leave you
to the pleasure of describing one another. It was varry agreeable and
polite for Fred to do so. I hedn’t sense enough to do the same.”

“Nay, nay, Antony, that isn’t the way to put it. Dick, my dear lad, say
a word for me.”

“I could not say a word worthy of you, mother, and now I came to bid you
good-by. I am off as quick as possible for Annis. Father had a letter
from Mr. Foster this morning. It is best that either father or I go
there for a few days and, as father cannot leave London at this crisis,
I am going in his place.”

“What is the matter now, Dick?”

“Some trouble with the weavers, I believe.”

“Of course! and more money needed, I suppose.”

“To be sure,” answered the squire, with a shade of temper; “and if
needed, Dick will look after it, eh, Dick?”

“Of course Dick will look after it!” added Madam Temple, but her “of
course” intimated a very different meaning from her sister-in-law’s.
They were two words of hearty sympathy and she emphasized them by
pushing a heavy purse across the table. “Take my purse as well as thy
father’s, Dick; and if more is wanted, thou can hev it, and welcome.
I am Annis mysen and I was born and brought up with the men and women
suffering there.”

She spoke with such feeling that her words appeared to warm the room and
the squire answered: “Thy word and deed, Josepha, is just like thee, my
dear sister!” He clasped her hand as he spoke, and their hands met over
the purse lying on the table and both noticed the fact and smiled and
nodded their understanding of it. Then the squire with a happy face
handed the purse to Dick, telling him to “kiss his mother,” and be off
as soon as possible. “Dick,” he said in a voice full of tears--“Dick, my
lad, it is hard for hungry men to wait.”

“I will waste no time, father, not a minute,” and with these words he
clasped his father’s hand, leaned over and kissed his mother, and with a
general good-by he went swiftly on his errand of mercy.

Then Jane said: “Let us go to the parlor. We were an hour later than
usual this morning and must make it up if we can.”

“To be sure, Jane,” answered Mistress Temple. “We can talk as well in
one room as another. Houses must be kept regular or we shall get into
the same muddle as old Sarum--we shall be candidates for dinner and no
dinner for us.”

“Well, then, you will all excuse me an hour while I give some orders
about household affairs.” The excuse was readily admitted and the
squire, his wife, sister and daughter, took up the question which would
intrude into every other question whether they wished it or not.

The parlor to which they went looked precisely as if it was glad to see
them; it was so bright and cheerful, so warm and sunny, so everything
that the English mean by the good word “comfortable.” And as soon as
they were seated, Annie asked: “What about The Bill, Antony?”

“Well, dearie, The Bill passed its third reading at seven o’clock this
morning.”

“Thou saw it pass, eh, Antony?”

“That I did! _Why-a!_ I wouldn’t hev missed Lord Grey’s final speech
for anything. He began it at five o’clock and spoke for an hour and a
half--which considering his great age and the long night’s strain was an
astonishing thing to do. I was feeling a bit tired mysen.”

“But surely the people took its passing very coldly, Antony.”

“The people aren’t going to shout till they are sure they hev something
to shout for. Nobody knows what changes the lords may make in it. They
may even throw it out again altogether.”

“_They dare not! They dare not for their lives_ try any more such
foolishness,” said Josepha Temple with a passion she hardly restrained.
“Just let them try it! The people will not allow that step any more!
Let them try it! They will quickly see and feel what will come of such
folly.”

“Well, Josepha, what will come of it? What can the people do?”

“Iverything they want to do! Iverything they ought to do! One thing is
sure--they will send the foreigners back to where they belong. The very
kith and kin of the people now demanding their rights founded, not
many generations ago, a glorious Republic of their own, and they gave
themsens all the rights they wanted and allays put the man of their
choice at the head of it. Do you think our people don’t know what their
fathers hev done before them? They know it well. They see for themsens
that varry common men can outrank noble men when it comes to intellect
and courage. What was it that Scotch plowboy said:--

                   “A king can mak’ a belted knight,

                        A marquis, duke and a’ that,

                   But an honest man’s aboon his might--

and a God’s mercy it is, for if he tried it, he would waste and spoil
the best of materials in the making.”

“All such talk is sheer nonsense, Josepha.”

“It is nothing of the kind. Josepha has seen how such sheer nonsense
turns out. I should think thou could remember what happened fifty years
ago. People laughed then at the sheer nonsense of thirteen little
colonies in the wilds of America trying to make England give them
exactly what Englishmen are this very day ready to fight for--
representation in parliament. And you need not forget this fact also,
that the majority of Englishmen at that day, both in parliament and out
of it, backed with all the power they hed these thirteen little
colonies. Why, the poor button makers of Sheffield refused to make
buttons for the soldiers’ coats, lest these soldiers should be sent to
fight Englishmen. It was then all they could do but their children are
now two hundred thousand strong, and king and parliament _hev_ to
consider them. They _hev to do it_ or to take the consequences, Antony
Annis! Your father was hand and purse with that crowd and I knew you
would see things as they are sooner or later. For our stock came from a
poor, brave villager, who followed King Richard to the Crusades, and won
the Annis lands for his courage and fidelity. That is why there is
allays a Richard in an Annis household.”

“I believe all you say, Josepha, and our people, the rich and the poor,
both believe it. They hev given the government ivery blessed chance to
do fairly by them. Now, if it does so, well and good. If it does not do
so, the people are full ready to make them do it. I can tell you that.”

“I am so tired of it all,” said Annie wearily. “Why do poor, uneducated
men want to meddle with elections for parliament? I can understand and
feel with them in their fight about their looms--it means their daily
bread; but why should they care about the men who make our laws and that
sort of business?”

“I’ll tell thee why. They hev to do it or else go on being poor and
ignorant and of no account among men. Our laws are made to please the
men who have a vote or a say-so in any election. The laboring men of
England hev no vote at all. They can’t say a word about their rights in
the country for through the course of centuries the nobles and the rich
men hev got all the votes in their awn pockets.”

“Maybe there is something right in that arrangement, Antony. They are
better educated.”

“Suppose that argument stood, Annie; still a poor man might like one
rich man better than another, and he ought to be able to hev his chance
for electing his choice; but that, however, is only the tag-end of the
question.”

“Then what is the main end?”

“This:--In the course of centuries, places once of some account hev
disappeared, as really as Babylon or Nineveh, and little villages hev
grown to be big cities. There is no town of Sarum now, not a vestige,
but the Chatham family represent it in parliament to-day or they sell
the position or give it away. The member for the borough of Ludgershall
is himself the only voter in the borough and he is now in parliament
on his _awn_ nomination. Another place has two members and only seven
voters; and what do you think a foreigner visiting England would say
when told that a green mound without a house on it sent two members to
Parliament, or that a certain green park without an inhabitant also
sent two members to Parliament? Then suppose him taken to Manchester,
Bradford, Sheffield, and other great manufacturing cities, and told
they had _no_ representative in Parliament; what do you suppose he would
think and say?”

“He would advise them to get a few paper caps among their coronets,”
 said Josepha.

“And so it goes all over England,” said the squire. “Really, my dears,
two-thirds of the House of Commons are composed of the nominees of the
nobles and the great landowners. What comes of the poor man’s rights
under such circumstances? He hes been robbed of them for centuries;
doesn’t tha think, Annie, it is about time he looked after them?”

“I should think it was full time,” Josepha said hotly.

“It is a difficult question,” replied Annie. “It must have many sides
that require examination.”

“Whatever is right needs no examination, Annie.”

“Listen, women, I have but told you one-half of the condition. There is
another side of it, for if some places hev been growing less and less
during the past centuries, other places, once hardly known, have become
great cities, like Birmingham, Leeds, Liverpool, Sheffield, and so
forth, and have no representation at all. What do you think of that? Not
a soul in parliament to speak for them. Now if men hev to pay taxes they
like to know a little bit about their whys and wherefores, eh, women?”

“Did they always want to know, father?” asked Katherine.

“I should say so. It would only be natural, Kitty, but at any rate since
the days of King John; and I don’t believe but what the ways of men and
the wants of men hev been about the same iver since God made men. They
hev allays wanted a king and they hev allays been varry particular about
hev-ing some ways and means of making a king do what they want him to
do.”

“Suppose the lords pass The Bill but alter it so much that it is _not
The Bill_, what then, father?”

“Well, Kitty, they could do that thing but as your aunt said, they had
better not. Nothing but the whole Bill will now satisfy. No! they dare
not alter it. Now you can talk over what I hev told you. I must go about
my awn business and the first thing I hev to do is to take my wife home.
Come, Annie, I am needing thee.”

Annie rose with a happy alacrity. She was glad to go. To be alone with
her husband after the past days of society’s patented pleasures was an
unspeakable rest and refreshment. They drove to the Clarendon in silent
contentment, holding each other’s hand and putting off speech until they
could talk without restraint of any kind. And if anyone learned in the
expression of the flesh had noticed their hands they would have seen
that Annie’s thumb in the clasp was generally the uppermost, a sure sign
that she had the strongest will and was made to govern. The corollary
of this fact is, that if the clasping thumb in both parties is the right
thumb, then complications are most likely to frequently occur.

Indeed Annie did not speak until she had thrown aside her bonnet and
cloak and was comfortably seated in the large soft chair she liked best;
then she said with an air of perfect satisfaction, “O Antony! It was so
kind and thoughtful of thee to come for me. I was afraid there might
be some unpleasant to-do before I got away. Josepha was ready for one,
longing for one, and Jane hed to make that excuse about getting dinner
ready, in order to avoid it. Jane, you know, supports the whole House
of Lords, and she goes on about ‘The Constitution of the British
Government’ as if it was an inspired document.”

“Well tha knows, Leyland is a Tory from his head to his feet. I doan’t
think his mind hes much to do with his opinions. He inherited them from
his father, just as he inherited his father’s face and size and money.
And a woman hes to think as her husband thinks--if she claims to be a
good wife.”

“That idea is an antiquated lie, Antony. A good wife, Antony, thinks not
only for herself, she thinks also for her husband.”

“I niver noticed thee making thysen contrary. As I think, thou thinks.
Allays that is so.”

“Nay, it is not. There is many a thing different in my mind to what is
in thy mind, and thou knows it, too; and there are subjects we neither
of us want to talk of because we cannot agree about them. I often thank
thee for thy kind self-denial in this matter.”

“I’m sure I doan’t know what thou art so precious civil about. I think
of varry little now but the Reform Bill and the poor weavers; and thou
thinks with me on both of them subjects. Eh, Joy?”

“To be sure I do--with some sub-differences.”

“I doan’t meddle with what thou calls thy ‘subdifferences.’ I’ll warrant
they are innocent as thysen and thy son Dick is a good son and he
thinks just as I think on ivery subject. That’s enough, Annie, on
sub-differences. Let us hev a bit of a comfortable lunch. Jane’s
breakfast was cold and made up of fancy dishes like oysters and chicken
minced with mushrooms, and muffins and such miscarriages of eatable
dishes. I want some sensible eating at one o’clock and I feel as if it
was varry near one now.”

“What shall I order for you?”

“Some kidney soup and cold roast beef and a good pudding, or some Christ
Church tartlets, the best vegetables they hev and a bottle of Bass’ best
ale or porter, but thou can-hev a cup of sloppy tea if tha fancies it.”

“I think no better of sloppy things than thou does, Antony. I’ll hev a
glass of good, pale sherry wine, and the same would be better for thee
than anything Bass brews. Bass makes a man stout, and thou art now just
the right weight; an ounce more flesh would spoil thy figure and take
the spring out of thy step and put more color in thy face and take
the music out of thy voice; but please thy dear self about thy eating;
perhaps I am a bit selfish about thy good looks, but when a woman gets
used to showing herself off with a handsome man she can’t bear to give
up that bit of pride.”

“Well, then, Annie dear, whativer pleases thee, pleases me. Send for
number five, and order what thou thinks best.”

“Nay, Antony, thou shalt have thy own wish. It is little enough to give
thee.”

“It is full and plenty, if thou puts thy wish with it.”

Then Annie happily ordered the kidney soup and cold roast and the
particular tarts he liked and the sherry instead of the beer, and the
fare pleased both, and they ate it with that smiling cheerfulness which
is of all thanksgiving the most acceptable to the Bountiful Giver of
all good things. And as they ate they talked of Katherine’s beauty and
loving heart and of Dick’s ready obedience and manly respect for his
father, and food so seasoned and so cheerfully eaten is the very best
banquet that mortals can ever hope to taste in this life.

In the meantime, Dick, urged both by his father’s desire and his own
wistful longing to see Faith Foster, lost no time in reaching his home
village. He was shocked by its loneliness and silence. He did not meet
or see a single man. The women were shut up in their cottages. Their
trouble had passed all desire for company and all hope of any immediate
assistance. Talking only enervated them and they all had the same
miserable tale to tell. It might have been a deserted village but for
the musical chime of the church clock and the sight of a few little
children sitting listlessly on the doorsteps of the cottages. Hunger had
killed in them the instinct of play. “It hurts us to play. It makes the
pain come,” said one little lad, as he looked with large suffering eyes
into Dick’s face; but never asked from him either pity or help. Yet his
very silence was eloquence. No words could have moved to sympathy so
strongly as the voiceless appeal of his sad suffering eyes, his thin
face, and the patient helplessness of his hopeless quiet. Dick could not
bear it. He gave the child some money, and it began to cry softly and to
whimper “Mammy! Mammy!” and Dick hurried homeward, rather ashamed of his
own emotion, yet full of the tenderest pity.

He found Britton pottering about the stable and his wife Sarah trying
with clumsy fingers to fashion a child’s frock. “Oh, Master Dick!” she
cried. “Why did tha come back to this unhappy place? I think there is
pining and famishing in ivery house and sickness hard following it.”

“I have come, Sarah, to see what can be done to help the trouble.”

“A God’s mercy, sir! We be hard set in Annis village this day.”

“Have you a room ready for me, Sarah? I may be here for a few days.”

“It would be a varry queer thing if I hedn’t a room ready for any of the
family, coming in a hurry like. Your awn room is spick and span, sir.
And I’ll hev a bit of fire there in ten minutes or thereby, but tha
surely will hev summat to eat first.”

“Nothing to eat just yet, Sarah. I shall want a little dinner about five
o’clock if you will have it ready.”

“All right, sir. We hev no beef or mutton in t’ house, sir, but I will
kill a chicken and make a rice pudding, if that will do.”

“That is all I want.”

Then Dick went to the stables and interviewed Britton, and spoke to
every horse in it, and asked Britton to turn them into the paddock for
a couple of hours. “They are needing fresh air and a little liberty,
Britton,” he said, and as Britton loosened their halters and opened the
door that led into the paddock they went out prancing and neighing their
gratitude for the favor.

“That little gray mare, sir,” said Britton, “she hes as much sense as
a human. She knew first of all of them what was coming, and she knew
it was your doing, sir, that’s the reason she nudged up against you and
fairly laid her face against yours.”

“Yes, she knew me, Britton. Lucy and I have had many a happy day
together.” Then he asked Britton about the cattle and the poultry, and
especially about the bulbs and the garden flowers, which had always had
more or less the care of Mistress Annis.

These things attended to, he went to his room and dressed himself with
what seemed to be some unnecessary care. Dick, however, did not think
so. He was going to see Mr. Foster and he might see Faith, and he could
not think of himself as wearing clothing travel-soiled in her presence.
In an hour, however, he was ready to go to the village, fittingly
dressed from head to feet, handsome as handsome Youth can be, and the
gleam and glow of a true love in his heart. “It may be--it may be!” he
told himself as he walked speedily down the nearest way to the village.

When about half-way there, he met the preacher. “I heard you were here,
Mr. Annis,” he said. “Betty Bews told me she saw you pass her cottage.”

“I came in answer to your letter, sir. The Bill is at a great crisis,
and my father’s vote on the right side is needed. And I was glad to
come, if I can do good in any way.”

“Oh, yes, sir, there are things to do, and words to say that I cannot do
or say--and the need is urgent.”

“Then let us go forward. I was shocked by the village as I passed
through it. I did not meet a single man. I saw only a few sickly looking
women, and some piteous children.”

“The men have gone somewhere four days ago. I suppose they were called
by their society. They did not tell me where they were going and I
thought it was better not to ask any questions. The women are all sick
and despairing, the children suffer all they can bear and live. That is
one phase of the trouble; but there is another coming that I thought you
would like to be made acquainted with.”

“Not the cholera, I hope? It has reached London, you know, and the
doctors are paralyzed by their ignorance of its nature and can find no
remedy for it.”

“Our people think it a judgment of God. I am told it broke out in
Bristol while the city was burning and outrages of all kinds rampant.”

“You know, sir, that Bristol is one of our largest seaports. It is
more likely to have been brought here by some traveler from a strange
country. I heard a medical man who has been in India with our troops say
that it was a common sickness in the West Indies.”

“It was never seen nor heard of in England before. Now it is going up
the east coast of Britain as far north as the Shetland Isles. These
coast people are nearly all fishermen, very good, pious men, and they
positively declare that they saw a gigantic figure of a woman, shadowy
and gray, with a face of malignant vengeance, passing through the land.”

“God has sent such messengers many times--ministers of His Vengeance.
His Word is full of such instances.”

“But a woman with a malignant face! Oh, no!”

“Whatever is evil, must look evil--but here we are at Jonathan
Hartley’s. Will you go in?”

“He is coming to us. I will give him my father’s letter. That will be
sufficient.”

But Jonathan had much to say and he seemed troubled beyond outside
affairs to move him, and the preacher asked--“What is personally out of
the right way with you, Jonathan?”

“Well, sir, my mother is down at the ford; she may cross any hour--she’s
only waiting for the guide--and my eldest girl had a son last night--the
little lad was born half-starved. We doan’t know yet whether either of
them can be saved--or not. So I’ll not say ‘Come in,’ but if you’ll sit
down with me on the garden bench, I’ll be glad of a few minutes fresh
air.” He opened the little wicket gate as he spoke and they sat down on
a bench under a cherry tree full dressed in perfumed white for Easter
tide.

As soon as they were seated the young squire delivered his father’s
letter and then they talked of the sudden disappearance of the men of
the village. “What does it mean, Jonathan?” asked Dick, and Jonathan
said--

“Well, sir, I hevn’t been much among the lads for a week now. My mother
hes been lying at the gate of the grave and I couldn’t leave her long at
a time. They were all loitering about the village when I saw them last.
Suddenly they all disappeared, and the old woman at the post office told
me ivery one of them hed received a letter four mornings ago, from the
same Working Man’s Society. I hed one mysen, for that matter, and that
afternoon they all left together for somewhere.”

“But,” asked Dick, “where did they get the money necessary for a
journey?”

“Philip Sugden got the money from Sugbury Bank. He hed an order for it,
that was cashed quick enough. What do you make of that, sir?”

“I think there may be fighting to do if parliament fails the people this
time.”

“And in the very crisis of this trouble,” said Dick, “I hear from Mr.
Foster that a man has been here wanting to build a mill. Who is he,
Jonathan? And what can be his motive?”

“His name is Jonas Boocock. He comes from Shipley. His motive is to mak’
money. He thinks this is the varry place to do it. He talked constantly
about its fine water power, and its cheap land, and thought Providence
hed fairly laid it out for factories and power-looms; for he said
there’s talk of a branch of railway from Bradley’s place, past Annis, to
join the main track going to Leeds. He considered it a varry grand idea.
Mebbe it is, sir.”

“My father would not like the plan at all. It must be prevented, if
possible. What do you think, Jonathan?”

“I think, sir, if it would be a grand thing for Jonas Boocock, it might
happen be a good thing for Squire Antony Annis. The world is moving
for-rard, sir, and we must step with it, or be dragged behind it. Old as
I am, I would rayther step for-rard with it. Gentlemen, I must now go to
my mother.”

“Is she worse, Jonathan?”

“She is quite worn out, worn out to the varry marrow. I would be
thankful, sir, if tha would call and bid her good-by.”

“I will. I will come about seven o’clock.”

“That will be right. I’ll hev all the household present, sir.”

Then they turned away from Jonathan’s house and went to look at the land
Boocock hankered for. The land itself was a spur descending from
the wold, and was heathery and not fit for cultivation; but it was
splendidly watered and lay along the river bank. “Boocock was right,”
 said Mr. Foster. “It is a bit of land just about perfect for a factory
site. Does the squire own it, sir?”

“I cannot say. I was trying to fix its position as well as I could, and
I will write to my father tonight. I am sorry Jonathan did not know more
about the man Boocock and his plans.”

“Jonathan’s mother is a very old woman. While she lives, he will stay at
her side. You must remember her?”

“I do. She was exceedingly tall and walked quite erect and was so white
when I met her last that she looked like a ghost floating slowly along
the road.”

“She had always a sense of being injured by being here at all--wondered
why she had been sent to this world, and though a grand character was
never really happy. Jonathan did not learn to read until he was over
forty years of age; she was then eighty, and she helped him to remember
his letters, and took the greatest pride in his progress. There ought to
be schools for these people, there are splendid men and women mentally
among them. Here we are at home. Come in, sir, and have a cup of tea
with us before you climb the brow.”

Dick was very glad to accept the invitation and the preacher opened the
door and said: “Come in, sir, and welcome!” and they went into a small
parlor plainly furnished, but in perfect order, and Dick heard someone
singing softly not far away. Before the preacher had more than given his
guest a chair the door opened and Faith entered the room. If he had not
been already in love with her he would have fallen fathoms deep in the
divine tide that moment, for his soul knew her and loved her, and was
longing to claim its own. What personal charm she had he knew not,
he cared not, he had been drawn to her by some deep irresistible
attraction, and he succumbed absolutely to its influence. At this moment
he cast away all fears and doubts and gave himself without reservation
to the wonderful experience.

Faith had answered her father’s call so rapidly, that Dick was not
seated when she entered the room. She brought with her into the room an
atmosphere of light and peace, through which her loveliness shone with
a soft, steady glow. There was something unknown and unseen in her very
simplicity. All that was sweet and wise, shone in her heavenly eyes, and
their light lifted her higher than all his thoughts; they were so soft
and deep and compelling. Very singularly their influence seemed to be
intensified by the simple dress she wore. It was of merino and of the
exact shade of her eyes, and it appeared in some way to increase their
mystical power by the prolongation of the same color. There was nothing
of intention in this arrangement. It was one of those coincidences that
are perhaps suggested or induced by the angel that guards our life and
destiny. For there are angels round all of us. Earth is no strange land
to them. The dainty neatness of her clothing delighted Dick. After a
season of ruffles and flounces and extravagant trimming, its soft folds
falling plainly and unbrokenly to her feet, charmed him. Something
of white lace, very narrow and unpretentious, was around the neck and
sleeves which were gathered into a band above the elbows. Her hair,
parted in the center of the forehead, lay in soft curls which fell no
lower than the tip of the ears and at the back was coiled loosely on
the crown of the head, where it was fastened by a pretty shell comb.
The purity and peace of a fervent transparent soul was the first and the
last impression she made, and these qualities revealed themselves in a
certain homely sweetness, that drew everyone’s affection and trust like
a charm.

She had in her hands a clean tablecloth and some napkins, but when she
saw Dick, she laid them down, and went to meet him. He took her hand and
looked into her eyes, and a rush of color came into her face and gave
splendor to her smile and her beauty. She hastened to question him about
his mother and Katherine, but even as they talked of others, she knew
he was telling her that he loved her, and longed for her to love him in
return.

“Faith, my dear,” said Mr. Foster, “our friend, Mr. Annis, will have a
cup of tea with us before he goes up the brow,” and she looked at Dick
and smiled, and began to lay the round table that stood in the center
of the room. Dick watched her beautiful white arms and hands among the
white china and linen and a very handsome silver tea service, with a
pleasure that made him almost faint. Oh, if he should lose this lovely
girl! How could he bear it? He felt that he might as well lose life
itself.

For though Dick had loved her for some months, love not converted into
action, becomes indolent and unbelieving. So he had misgivings he could
not control and amid the distractions of London, his love, instead of
giving a new meaning to his life, had infected him rather with a sense
of dreamland. But in this hour, true honest love illumined life, he
saw things as they were, he really fell in love and that is a wonderful
experience, a deep, elemental thing, beyond all reasoning with. In this
experience he had found at last the Key to Life, and he understood in a
moment, as it were, that this Key is in the Heart, and not in the Brain.
He had been very wise and prudent about Faith and one smile from her
had shattered all his reasoning, and the love-light now in his eyes, and
shining in his face, was heart-work and not brain work. For love is
a state of the soul; anger, grief and other passions can change their
mental states; but love? No! Love absorbs the whole man, and if not
satisfied, causes a state of great suffering. So in that hour Love was
Destiny and fashioned his life beyond the power of any other passion to
change.

In the meantime Faith brought in tea and some fresh bread and butter,
and a dish of broiled trout. “Mr. Braithwaite was trout fishing among
the fells to-day,” she said, “and as he came home, he left half a dozen
for father. He is one of the Chapel Trustees and very fond of line
fishing. Sometimes father goes with him. You know,” she added with a
smile, “fishing is apostolical. Even a Methodist preacher may fish.”

For a short time they talked of the reel and line, and its caprices,
but conversation quickly drifted to the condition of the country and of
Annis particularly, and in this conversation an hour drifted speedily
away. Then Faith rose and brought in a bowl of hot water, washed the
china and silver and put them away in a little corner cupboard.

“That silver is very beautiful,” said Dick.

“Take it in your hand, Mr. Annis, and read what is engraved on the tea
pot.” So Dick took it in his hand and read that the whole service had
been given by the Wesleyans of Thirsk to Reverend Mr. Foster, as a proof
of their gratitude to him as their spiritual teacher and comforter. Then
Dick noticed the china and said his mother had a set exactly like it and
Mr. Foster answered--“I think, Mr. Annis, every family in England has
one, rich and poor. Whoever hit upon this plain white china, with its
broad gold band round all edges, hit on something that fitted the
English taste universally. It will be a wedding gift, and a standard tea
set, for many generations yet; unless it deteriorates in style and
quality--but I must not forget that I am due at Hartley’s at seven
o’clock, so I hope you will excuse me, Mr. Annis.”

“May I ask your permission to remain with Miss Foster until your return,
sir? I have a great deal to tell her about Katherine and many messages
from my sister to deliver.”

For a moment Mr. Foster hesitated, then he answered frankly, “I will be
glad if you stay with Faith until I return.” Then Faith helped him on
with his top coat and gave him his hat and gloves and walking stick and
both Dick and Faith stood at the open door, and watched him go down the
street a little way. But this was Dick’s opportunity and he would not
lose it.

“Come into the parlor, dear, dear Faith! I have something to tell you,
something I must tell you!” And all he said in the parlor was something
he had never dared to say before, except in dreams.

Faith knew what he wished to say. He had wooed her silently for months,
but she had not suffered him to pass beyond the horizon of her thoughts.
Yet she knew well, that though they were in many things dissimilar as
two notes of music, they were made for each other. She told herself that
he knew this fact as well as she did and that at the appointed hour he
would come to her. Until that hour she would not provoke Destiny by
her impatience. A change so great for her would doubtless involve other
changes and perhaps their incidentals were not yet ready. So she never
doubted but that Dick would tell her he loved her, as soon as he thought
the right hour had come.

And now the hour had come, and Dick did tell her how he loved her with a
passionate eloquence that astonished himself. She did not try to resist
its influence. It was to her heart all that cold water would be to
parching thirst; it was the coming together of two strong, but different
temperaments, and from the contact the flashing forth of love like
fire. His words went to her head like wine, her eyes grew soft, tender,
luminous, her form was half mystical, half sensuous. Dick was creating
a new world for them, all their own. Though her eyes lifted but an
instant, her soul sought his soul, gradually they leaned closer to each
other in visible sweetness and affection and then it was no effort, but
a supreme joy, to ask her to be his wife, to love and counsel and guide
him, as his mother had loved and guided his father; and in the sweet,
trembling patois of love, she gave him the promise that taught him what
real happiness means. And her warm, sweet kisses sealed it. He felt they
did so and was rapturously happy. Is there anything more to be said on
this subject? No, the words are not yet invented which could continue
it. Yet Faith wrote in her Diary that night--“To-day I was born into the
world of Love. That is the world God loves best.”




CHAPTER VIII--LOVE’S TENDER PHANTASY


               “No mortal thing can bear so high a price,

                   But that with mortal thing it may be bought;

               No pearls, no gold, no gems, no corn, no spice,

               No cloth, no wine, of Love can pay the price.

                   Divine is Love and scorneth worldly pelf,

                   And can be bought with nothing but itself.”


 A MAN in love sees miracles, as well as expects them. Outsiders are apt
to think him an absurd creature, he himself knows that he is seeking the
only love that can complete and crown his life. Dick was quite sure of
his own wisdom. Whenever he thought of Faith, of her innocence, her high
hopes, her pure eyes, and flowerlike beauty, he felt that his feet were
on a rock and his soul went after her and everything was changed in his
life.

It was not until great London was on his horizon, that any fear touched
his naturally high spirit. His father’s good will, he was sure, could
be relied on. He himself had made what his father called “a varry
inconsiderate marriage,” but it had proved to be both a very wise and
a very happy union, so Dick expected his father would understand and
sympathize with his love for Faith Foster.

About the women of his family he felt more uncertain, his mother and
sister and aunt would doubtless be harder to please. Yet they must see
that Faith was everyway exceptional. Was she not the very flower and
pearl of womanhood? He could not understand how they could find any
fault with his wonderfully fortunate choice. Yet he kindly considered
the small frailties of the ordinary woman and made some allowances for
their jealousies and for the other interferences likely to spring from
family and social conditions.

But Dick was no coward and he was determined to speak of his engagement
to Faith as soon as he had rid his mind of the business which had sent
him to Annis. Nor had he any love-lorn looks or attitudes; he appeared
to be an exceedingly happy man, when he opened the parlor door of his
father’s apartments in the Clarendon. Breakfast was on the table and
the squire and his wife were calmly enjoying it. They cried out joyfully
when they saw him. The squire hastily stood up with outstretched hands,
while Dick’s mother cried out, “O Dick! Dick! how good it is to see
thee!”

Dick was soon seated between them and as he ate he told the news he had
brought from the home village. It was all interesting and important to
them--from the change in its politics--which Dick said had become nearly
Radical--to the death of Jonathan Hartley’s mother, who had been for
many years a great favorite of Mistress Annis.

Dick was a little astonished to find that his father pooh-pooh’d
Boocock’s design of building a mill in Annis. “He can’t build ef he
can’t get land and water,” he answered with a scornful laugh; “and
Antony Annis will not let him hev either. He is just another of those
once decent weavers, who hev been turned into arrant fools by making
brass too easy and too quick. I hev heard them talk. They are allays
going to build another mill somewhere, they are going to mak’ a bid for
all Yorkshire and mebbe tak’ Lancashire into their plans. Boocock does
not trouble me. And if Squire Annis puts him in Cold Shoulder Lane,
there will not be a man in t’ neighborhood poor and mean enough to even
touch his cap to him. This is all I hev to say about Boocock at the
present time and I don’t want him mentioned again. Mind that!”

“I think, then, father, that you will have to get rid of Jonathan
Hartley.”

“Rid of Jonathan! Whativer is tha talking about? I could spare him as
little as my right hand.”

“Jonathan told me to tell you that you had better build a mill yourself,
than let Boocock, or some other stranger, in among Annis folk. He said
the world was stepping onward and that we had better step with the
world, than be dragged behind it. He said that was his feeling.”

“Well, he hes a right to his feeling, but he need not send it to me.
Let him go. I see how it is. I am getting a bit older than I was and
men that are younger five or ten years are deserting me. They fear to
be seen with an old fogy, like Squire Annis. God help me, but--I’m not
downed yet. If they can do without me, I can jolly well do without them.
_Why-a!_ Thy mother is worth iverybody else to me and she’ll love and
cherish me if I add fifty years more to my present fifty-five.”

“I want no other love, Antony, than yours. It is good enough for
life--and thereafter.”

“Dear, dear Annie! And don’t fear! When I am sure it is time to move,
I’ll move. I’ll outstrip them all yet. By George, I’ll keep them panting
after me! How is it, Dick? Wilt thou stand with thy father? If so,
put thy hand in thy father’s and we will beat them all at their awn
game”--and Dick put his hand in his father’s hand and answered, “I am
your loving and obedient son. Your will is my pleasure, sir.”

“Good, dear lad! Then we two will do as we want to do, we’ll do it in
our awn time, and in our awn way, and we hev sense enough, between
us, to tak’ our awn advice, whativer it be. For first of all, we’ll
do whativer is best for the village, and then for oursens, without
anybody’s advice but our awn. Just as soon as The Bill is off my mind we
will hev a talk on this subject. Annis Hall and Annis land and water is
our property--mine and thine--and we will do whativer is right, both to
the land and oursens.”

And Dick’s loving face, and the little sympathizing nod of his head,
was all the squire needed. Then he stood up, lifting himself to his full
height, and added, “Boocock and his mill will have to wait on my say-so,
and I haven’t room in my mind at present to consider him; so we will
say no more on that subject, until he comes and asks me for the land and
water he wants. What is tha going to do with thysen now?”

“That depends upon your wish, father. Are you going to--The House?”

“The House! Hes tha forgotten that the English Government must hev its
usual Easter recreation whativer comes or goes? I told thee--I told thee
in my first letter to Annis, that parliament hed given themsens three
weeks’ holiday. They feel a good bit tired. The Bill hed them all worn
out.”

“I remember! I had forgotten The Bill!”

“Whativer hes tha been thinking of to forget that?”

“Where then are you going to-day, father?”

“I doan’t just know yet, Dick, but----”

“Well, I know where I am going,” said Mistress Annis. “I have an
engagement with Jane and Katherine at eleven and I shall have to hurry
if I am to keep it.”

“Somewhere to go, or something to do. Which is it, Annie?”

“It is both, Antony. We are going to Exeter Hall, to a very aristocratic
meeting, to make plans for the uplifting of the working man. Lord
Brougham is to be chairman. He says very few can read and hardly any
write their names. Shocking! Lord Brougham says we ought to be ashamed
of such a condition and do something immediately to alter it.”

“Brougham does not know what he is talking about. He thinks a man’s
salvation is in a spelling book and an inkhorn. There is going to be a
deal of trouble made by fools, who want to uplift the world, before the
world is ready to be uplifted. They can’t uplift starving men. It is
bread, not books, they want; and I hev allays seen that when a man gets
bare enough bread to keep body and soul together, the soul, or the mind,
gets the worst of it.”

“I cannot help that,” said Mistress Annis. “Lord Brougham will prove
to us, that body and mind must be equally cared for or the man is not
developed.”

“Well, then, run away to thy developing work. It is a new kind of job
for thee; and I doan’t think it will suit thee--not a bit of it. I would
go with thee but developing working men is a step or two out of my way.
And I’ll tell thee something, the working men--and women, too--will
develop theirsens if we only give them the time and the means, and
the brass to do it. But go thy ways and if thou art any wiser after
Brougham’s talk I’ll be glad to know what he said.”

“I shall stay and dine with Jane and thou hed better join us. We may go
to the opera afterwards.”

“Nay, then, I’ll not join thee. I wouldn’t go to another opera for
anything--not even for the great pleasure of thy company. If I hev to
listen to folk singing, I want them to sing in the English language. It
is good enough, and far too good, for any of the rubbishy words I iver
heard in any opera. What time shall I come to Jane’s for thee?”

“About eleven o’clock, or soon after.”

“That’s a nice time for a respectable squire’s wife to be driving about
London streets. I wish I hed thee safe at Annis Hall.”

With a laugh Annie closed the door and hurried away and Dick turned to
his father.

“I want to talk with you, sir,” he said, “on a subject which I want your
help and sympathy in, before I name it to anyone else. Suppose we sit
still here. The room is quiet and comfortable and we are not likely to
be disturbed.”

“Why then, Dick! Hes tha got a new sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir, and she is the dearest and loneliest woman that ever lived. I
want you to stand by me in any opposition likely to rise.”

“What is her name? Who is she?” asked the squire not very cordially.

“Her name is Faith Foster. You know her, father?”

“Yes, I know her. She is a good beautiful girl.”

“I felt sure you would say that, sir. You make me very happy.”

“A man cannot lie about any woman. Faith Foster is good and beautiful.”

“And she has promised to be my wife. Father, I am so happy! So happy!
And your satisfaction with Faith doubles my pleasure. I have been in
love with her for nearly a year but I was afraid to lose all by asking
all; and I never found courage or opportunity to speak before this to
her.”

“That is all buff and bounce. Thou can drop the word ‘courage,’ and
opportunity will do for a reason. I niver knew Dick Annis to be afraid
of a girl but if thou art really afraid of this girl--let her go. It is
the life of a dog to live with a woman that you fear.”

“Father, you have seen Faith often. Do you fear her in the way your
words seem to imply?”

“Me! Does tha think I fear any woman? What’s up with thee to ask such a
question as that?”

“I thought from your kind manner with Faith and your admiring words both
to her and about her that you would have congratulated me on my success
in winning her love.”

“I doan’t know as thou deserves much congratulation on that score.
I think it is mebbe, to me mysen, and to thy mother thou art mainly
indebted for what success there is in winning Miss Foster’s favor. We
gave thee thy handsome face and fine form, thy bright smile and that
coaxing way thou hes--a way that would win any lass thou choose to
favor--it is just the awful way young men hev, of choosing the wrong
time to marry even if they happen to choose the right woman.”

“Was that your way, father?”

“Ay, was it! I chose the right time, but the girl was wrong enough in
some ways.”

“My mother wrong! Oh, no, father!”

“My father thought she was not rich enough for me. He was a good bit
disappointed by my choice but I knew what I was doing.”

“Father, I also know what I am doing. I suppose you object to Faith’s
want of fortune.”

“Mebbe I do, and I wouldn’t be to blame if I did, but as it happens
I think a man is better without his wife’s money. A wife’s money is a
quarrelsome bit of either land or gold.”

“I consider Faith’s goodness a fortune far beyond any amount of either
gold or land.”

“Doan’t thee say anything against either land or gold. When thou hes
lived as long as I hev thou wilt know better than do that.”

“Wisdom is better than riches. I have heard you say that often.”

“It was in Solomon’s time. I doan’t know that it is in Victoria’s. The
wise men of this day would be a deal wiser if they hed a bit of gold to
carry out all the machines and railroads and canals they are planning;
and what would the final outcome be, if they hed it? Money, money, and
still more money. This last year, Dick, I hev got some new light both on
poverty and riches and I have seen one thing plainly, it is that money
is a varry good, respectable thing, and a thing that goes well with
lovemaking; but poverty is the least romantic of all misfortunes. A man
may hide, or cure, or forget any other kind of trouble, but, my lad,
there is no Sanctuary for Poverty.”

“All you say is right, father, but if Faith’s want of fortune is no
great objection, is there any other reason why I should not marry her?
We might as well speak plainly now, as afterwards.”

“That is my way. I hate any backstair work, especially about marrying.
Well, then, one thing is that Faith’s people are all Chapel folk. The
Squire of Annis is a landed gentleman of England, and the men who own
England’s land hev an obligation to worship in England’s Church.”

“You know, father, that wives have a duty laid on them to make their
husbands’ church their church. Faith will worship where I worship and
that is in Annis Parish Church.”

“What does tha know of Faith’s father and mother?”

“Her grandfather was a joiner and carpenter and a first class workman.
He died of a fever just before the birth of Faith’s mother. Her
grandmother was a fine lace maker, and supported herself and her child
by making lace for eight years. Then she died and the girl, having no
kindred and no friends willing to care for her, was taken to the Poor
House.”

“Oh, Dick! Dick! that is bad--very bad indeed!”

“Listen, father. At the Poor House Sunday school she learned to read,
and later was taught how to spin, and weave, and to sew and knit. She
was a silent child, but had fine health and a wonderfully ambitious
nature. At eleven years of age she took her living into her own hands.
She went into a woolen mill and made enough to pay her way in the family
of Samuel Broadbent, whose sons now own the great Broadbent mill with
its six hundred power-looms. When she was fifteen she could manage two
looms, and was earning more than a pound a week. Every shilling nearly
of this money went for books. She bought, she borrowed, she read every
volume she could reach; and in the meantime attended the Bradford Night
School of the Methodist Church. At seventeen years of age she was a very
good scholar and had such a remarkable knowledge of current literature
and authors that she was made the second clerk in the Public Library.
Soon after, she joined the Methodist Church, and her abilities were
quickly recognized by the Preacher, and she finally went to live with
his family, teaching his boys and girls, and being taught and protected
by their mother. One day Mr. Foster came as the second preacher in that
circuit and he fell in love with her and they married. Faith is their
child, and she has inherited not only her mother’s beauty and intellect,
but her father’s fervent piety and humanity. Since her mother’s death
she has been her father’s companion and helped in all his good works, as
you know.”

“Yes, I know--hes her mother been long dead?

“About six years. She left to the young girls who have to work for
their living several valuable text-books to assist them in educating
themselves, a very highly prized volume of religious experiences and a
still more popular book of exquisite poems. Is there anything in this
record to be called objectionable or not honorable?”

“_Ask thy mother_ that question, Dick.”

“Nay, father, I want your help and sympathy. I expect nothing favorable
from mother. You must stand by me in this strait. If you accept Faith
my mother will accept her. Show her the way. Do, father! Always you
have been right-hearted with me. You have been through this hard trial
yourself, father. You know what it is.”

“To be sure I do; and I managed it in a way that thou must not think of,
or I will niver forgive thee. I knew my father and mother would neither
be to coax nor to reason with, and just got quietly wedded and went off
to France with my bride. I didn’t want any browbeating from my father
and I niver could hev borne my mother’s scorn and silence, so I thought
it best to come to some sort of terms with a few hundred miles between
us--but mind what I say, Dick! I was niver again happy with them. They
felt that I hed not trusted their love and they niver more trusted my
love. There was a gulf between us that no love could bridge. Father died
with a hurt feeling in his heart. Mother left my house and went back
to her awn home as soon as he was buried. All that thy mother could do
niver won her more than mere tolerance. Now, Dick, my dear lad, I
hev raked up this old grief of mine for thy sake. If tha can win thy
mother’s promise to accept Faith as a daughter, and the future mistress
of Annis Hall, I’ll put no stone in thy way. Hes tha said anything on
this subject to Mr. Foster? If so, what answer did he give thee?”

“He said the marriage would be a great pleasure to him if you and mother
were equally pleased; but not otherwise.”

“That was right, it was just what I expected from him.”

“But, father, until our engagement was fully recognized by you and
mother, he forbid us to meet, or even to write to each other. I can’t
bear that. I really can not.”

“Well, I doan’t believe Faith will help thee to break such a command.
Not her! She will keep ivery letter of it.”

“Then I shall die. I could not endure such cruelty! I will--I will----”

“Whativer thou shall, could, or will, do try and not make a fool
of thysen. _Drat it, man!_ Let me see thee in this thy first trial
_right-side-out_. Furthermore, I’ll not hev thee going about Annis
village with that look on thy face as if ivery thing was on the perish.
There isn’t a man there, who wouldn’t know the meaning of it and
they would wink at one another and say ‘poor beggar! it’s the Methody
preacher’s little lass!’ There it is! and thou knows it, as well as I
do.”

“Let them mock if they want to. I’ll thrash every man that names her.”

“Be quiet! I’ll hev none of thy tempers, so just bid thy Yorkshire devil
to get behind thee. I hev made thee a promise and I’ll keep it, if tha
does thy part fairly.”

“What is my part?”

“It is to win over thy mother.”

“You, sir, have far more influence over mother than I have. If I cannot
win mother, will you try, sir?”

“No, I will not. Now, Dick, doan’t let me see thee wilt in thy first
fight. Pluck up courage and win or fail with a high heart. And if tha
should fail, just take the knockdown with a smile, and say,

                   “If she is not fair for me,

                   What care I how fair she be!

That was the young men’s song in my youth. Now we will drop the subject
and what dost tha say to a ride in the Park?”

“All right, sir.”

The ride was not much to speak of. One man was too happy, and the other
was too unhappy and eventually the squire put a stop to it. “Dick,” he
said, “tha hed better go to thy room at The Yorkshire Club and sleep
thysen into a more respectable temper.” And Dick answered, “Thank you,
sir. I will take your advice”--and so raising his hand to his hat he
rapidly disappeared.

“Poor lad!” muttered his father; “he hes some hard days before him but
it would niver do to give him what he wants and there is no ither way
to put things right”--and with this reflection the squire’s good spirits
fell even below his son’s melancholy. Then he resolved to go back to
the Clarendon. “Annie may come back there to dress before her dinner
and opera,” he reflected--“but if she does I’ll not tell her a word
of Dick’s trouble. No, indeed! Dick must carry his awn bad news. I hev
often told her unpleasant things and usually I got the brunt o’ them
mysen. So if Annie comes home to dress--and she does do so varry often
lately--I’ll not mention Dick’s affair to her. I hev noticed that she
dresses hersen varry smart now and, by George, it suits her well! In her
way she looks as handsome as either of her daughters. I did not quite
refuse to dine at Jane’s, I think she will come to the Clarendon to
dress and to beg me to go with her and I might as well go--here she
comes! I know her step, bless her!”

When Dick left his father he went to his sister’s residence. He knew
that Jane and his mother were at the lecture but he did not think that
Katherine would be with them and he felt sure of Katherine’s sympathy.
He was told that she had just gone to Madam Temple’s and he at once
followed her there and found her writing a letter and quite alone.

“Kitty! Kitty!” he cried in a lachrymose tone. “I am in great trouble.”

“Whatever is wrong, Dick? Are you wanting money?”

“I am not thinking or caring anything about money. I want Faith and her
father will not let me see her or write to her unless father and mother
are ready to welcome her as a daughter. They ought to do so and father
is not very unwilling; but I know mother will make a stir about it and
father will not move in the matter for me.”

“Move?”

“Yes, I want him to go to mother and make her do the kind and the right
thing and he will not do it for me, though he knows that mother always
gives in to what he thinks best.”

“She keeps her own side, Dick, and goes as far as she can, but it is
seldom she gets far enough without father’s consent. Father always keeps
the decisive word for himself.”

“That is what I say. Then father could--if he would--say the decisive
word and so make mother agree to my marriage with Faith.”

“Well you see, Dick, mother is father’s love affair and why should
he have a dispute with his wife to make you and your intended wife
comfortable and happy? Mother has always been in favor of Harry Bradley
and she does not prevent us seeing or writing each other, when it is
possible, but she will not hear of our engagement being made public,
because it would hurt father’s feelings and she is half-right anyway. A
wife ought to regard her husband’s feelings. You would expect that, if
you were married.”

“Oh, Kitty, I am so miserable. Will you sound mother’s feelings about
Faith for me? Then I would have a better idea how to approach her on the
subject.”

“Certainly, I will.”

“How soon?”

“To-morrow, if possible.”

“Thank you, dearie! I love Faith so truly that I have forgotten all
the other women I ever knew. Their very names tire me now. I wonder at
myself for ever thinking them at all pretty. I could hardly be civil to
any of them if we met. I shall never care for any woman again, if I miss
Faith.”

“You know, Dick, that you must marry someone. The family must be kept
up. Is the trouble Faith’s lack of money?”

“No. It is her father and mother.”

“Her father is a scholar and fine preacher.”

“Yes, but her mother was a working girl, really a mill hand,” and then
Dick told the story of Faith’s mother with enthusiasm. Kitty listened
with interest, but answered, “I do not see what you are going to do,
Dick. Not only mother, but Jane will storm at the degradation you intend
to inflict upon the house of Annis.”

“There are two things I can do. I will marry Faith, and be happier than
words can tell; or I will leave England forever.”

“Dick, you never can do that. Everything good forbids it--and there.
Jane’s carriage is coming.”

“Then good-by. When can I see you tomorrow?”

“In the afternoon, perhaps. I may speak to mother before three o’clock.”

Then Dick went away and a servant entered with a letter. It was from
Lady Jane, bidding Katherine return home immediately or she would not
be dressed in time for dinner. On her way home she passed Dick walking
slowly with his head cast down and carrying himself in a very dejected
manner. Katherine stopped the carriage and offered to give him a lift as
far as his club.

“No, thank you, Kitty,” he answered. “You may interview mother for me if
you like. I was coming to a resolution to take the bull by the horns,
or at least in some manner find a way that is satisfactory in the
meantime.”

“That is right. There is nothing like patient watching and waiting.
Every ball finally comes to the hand held out for it.”

Then with a nod and a half-smile, Dick lifted his hat and went forward.
While he was in the act of speaking to Katherine an illuminating thought
had flashed through his consciousness and he walked with a purposeful
stride towards his club. Immediately he sat down and began to write a
letter, and the rapid scratching of the goose quill on the fine glazed
paper indicated there was no lack of feeling in what he was writing.
The firm, strong, small letters, the wide open long letters, the rapid
fluency and haste of the tell-tale quill, all indicated great emotion,
and it was without hesitation or consideration he boldly signed his name
to the following letter:--

To the Rev. John Foster.

Dear Sir:

You have made me the most wretched of men. You have made Faith the
most unhappy of women. Faith never wronged you in all her life. Do you
imagine she would do for me what she has never before done? I never
wronged you by one thought. Can you not trust my word and my honor? I
throw myself and Faith on your mercy. You are punishing us before we
have done anything worthy of punishment. Is that procedure just and
right? If so, it is very unlike you. Let me write to Faith once every
week and permit her to answer my letter. I have given you my word; my
word is my honor. I cannot break it without your permission, and until
you grant my prayer, I am bound by a cruel obligation to lead a life,
that being beyond Love and Hope, is a living death. And the terrible
aching torture of this ordeal is that Faith must suffer it with me. Sir,
I pray your mercy for both of us.

Your sincere suppliant,

Richard Haveling Annis.

Dick posted this letter as soon as it was written and the following day
it was in the hands of the preacher. He received it as he was going
home to his tea, about half past five, and he read it, and then turned
towards the open country, and read it again and again. He had been in
the house of mourning all day. His heart was tender, his thoughts sadly
tuned to the sorrows and broken affections of life, and at the top of
the Brow he sat down on a large granite boulder and let his heart lead
him.

“Richard Annis is right,” he said. “I have acted as if I could not
trust. Oh, how could I so wrong my good, sweet daughter I I have almost
insulted her, to her lover. Why did I do this evil thing? Self! Self!
Only for Self! I was determined to serve myself first. I did not
consider others as I ought to have done--and Pride! Yes, Pride! John
Foster! You have been far out of the way of the Master whom you serve.
Go quickly, and put the wrong right.” And he rose at the spiritual order
and walked quickly home. As he passed through the Green he saw Faith
come to the door and look up and down the street. “She is uneasy about
my delay,” he thought, “how careful and loving she is about me! How
anxious, if I am a little late! The dear one! How I wronged her!”

“I have been detained, Faith,” he said, as she met him at the door.
“There are four deaths from cholera this afternoon, and they talk of
forbidding me to visit the sick, till this strange sickness disappears.”
 During the meal, Foster said nothing of the letter he had received, but
as Faith rose, he also rose, and laying his hand upon her shoulder said:
“Faith, here is a letter that I received this afternoon from Richard
Annis.”

“Oh, father, I am so sorry! I thought Richard would keep his word. He
promised me--” and her voice sunk almost to a whisper.

“Richard has not broken a letter of his promise. The letter was sent to
me. It is my letter. I want you to read it, and to answer it for me,
and you might write to him once a week, without infringing on the time
necessary for your duties here. I wish to tell you also, that I think
Annis is right. I have put both of you under restraints not needful,
not supposable, even from my knowledge of both of you. Answer the letter
according to your loyal, loving heart. Annis will understand by my
utterly revoking the charge I gave you both, that I see my fault, and am
sorry for it.”

Then Faith’s head was on her father’s shoulder, and she was clasped to
his heart, and he kissed the silent happy tears from off her cheeks and
went to the chapel with a heart at peace.

Two days afterward the squire went to call upon his son and he found him
in his usual buoyant temper. “Mother was anxious about thee, Dick. She
says she has not seen thee for four or five days.”

“I have been under the weather for a week, but I am all right now. Tell
her I will come and dine with her to-night. What are you going to do
with yourself to-day?”

“Well, I’ll tell thee--Russell and Grey hev asked me to go to Hyde Park
Gate and talk to the people, and keep them quiet, till parliament can
fashion to get back to its place.”

“Are not the Easter holidays over yet?”

“The taking of holidays at this time was both a sin and a shame. The
streets are full of men who are only wanting a leader and they would
give king and lords and commons a long, long holiday. Earl Russell
says I am the best man to manage them, and he hes asked by proclamation
Yorkshire and Lancashire men to meet me, and talk over our program with
me.”

“Can I go with you?”

“If tha wants to.”

“There may be quarreling and danger. I will not let you go alone. I must
be at your side.”

“Nay, then, there is no ‘must be.’ I can manage Yorkshire lads without
anybody’s help.”

“What time do you speak?”

“About seven o’clock.”

“All right. Tell mother I’ll have my dinner with her and you at the
Clarendon, and then we will go to interview the mob afterward.”

“They are not a mob. Doan’t thee call them names. They are ivery one
Englishmen, holding themsens with sinews of steel, from becoming mobs;
but if they should, by any evil chance, become a mob, then, bless thee,
lad, it would be well for thee and me to keep out of their way!”

“The trouble lies here,” the squire continued,--“these gatherings of men
waiting to see The Bill passed that shall give them their rights, have
been well taught by Earl Grey, Lord Russell, and Lord Brougham, but
only fitfully, at times and seasons; but by day and night ivery day and
Sunday, there hev been and there are chartists and socialist lecturers
among them, putting bitter thoughts against their awn country into their
hearts. And they’re a soft lot. They believe all they are told, if t’
speaker but claim to be educated. Such precious nonsense!”

“Well, then, father, a good many really educated people go to lectures
about what they call science and they, too, believe all that they are
told.”

“I’ll warrant them, Dick. Yet our Rector, when he paid us a visit last
summer, told me emphatically, that science was a new kind of sin--a new
kind of sin, that, and nothing more, or better! And I’ll be bound thy
mother will varry soon find it out and I’m glad she hed the sense to
keep Kitty away from such teachers. Just look at Brougham. He is making
a perfect fool of himsen about tunneling under the Thames River and
lighting cities with the gas we see sputtering out of our coal fires
and carrying men in comfortable coaches thirty, ay, even forty, miles an
hour by steam. Why Bingley told me, that he heard Brougham say he hoped
to live to see men heving their homes in Norfolk or Suffolk villages,
running up or down to London ivery day to do their business. Did tha
iver hear such nonsense, Dick? And when men who publish books and sit on
the government benches talk it, what can you expect from men who don’t
know their alphabet?”

“You have an easier fight than I have, sir. Love and one woman, can be
harder to win, than a thousand men for freedom.”

“Tha knows nothing about it, if that is thy opinion,” and the squire
straightened himself, and stood up, and with a great deal of passion
recited three fine lines from Byron, the favorite men’s poet of that
day:--

               “For Freedom’s battle once begun,

               Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,

               Though baffled oft, is always won!”

“Those lines sound grandly in your mouth, dad,” said Dick, as he looked
with admiring love into his father’s face.

“Ay, I think they do. I hev been reciting them a good deal lately. They
allays bring what t’ Methodists call ‘the Amen’ from the audience. I
don’t care whether it is made up of rich men, or poor men, they fetch a
ringing Amen from every heart.”

“I should think that climax would carry any meeting.

“No, it won’t. The men I am going to address to-night doan’t read; but
they do think, and when a man hes drawn his conclusions from what he hes
seen, and what he hes felt or experienced, they hev a bulldog grip on
him. I will tell thee now, and keep mind of what I say--when tha hes
to talk to fools, tha needs ivery bit of all the senses tha happens to
hev.”

“Well, father, can I be of any use to you to-night?”

“Tha can not. Not a bit, not a word. Dick, thou belongs to the coming
generation and they would see it and make thee feel it. Thy up-to-date
dress would offend them. I shall go to t’ meeting in my leather
breeches, and laced-up Blucher shoes, my hunting coat and waistcoat with
dog head buttons, and my Madras red neckerchief. They will understand
that dress. It will explain my connection with the land that we all of
us belong to. Now be off with thee and I am glad to see thou hes got
over thy last sweet-hearting so soon, and so easy. I thought thou wert
surely in for a head-over-ears attack.”

“Good-by, dad I and do not forget the three lines of poetry.”

“I’m not likely to forget them. No one loves a bit of poetry better than
a Yorkshire weaver. Tha sees they were mostly brought up on Wesley’s
Hymn Book,” and he was just going to recite the three lines again, but
he saw Dick had turned towards the door and he let him go. “Ah, well!”
 he muttered, “it is easy to make Youth see, but you can’t make it
believe.”




CHAPTER IX--LOVERS QUARREL AND THE SQUIRE MAKES A SPEECH


               “There are no little events with the Heart.”

               “The more we judge, the less we Love.”

               “Kindred is kindred, and Love is Love.”

               “The look that leaves no doubt, that the last

               Glimmer of the light of Love has gone out.”


 WHEN Dick left his father he hardly knew what to do with himself.
He was not prepared to speak to his mother, nor did he think it quite
honorable to do so, until he had informed his father of Mr. Foster’s
change of heart, with regard to Faith and himself. His father had been
his first confidant, and in this first confidence, there had been an
implied promise, that his engagement to Faith was not yet to be made
public.

“Dick!” the squire had said: “Thou must for a little while do as most
men hev to do; that is, keep thy happiness to thysen till there comes
a wiser hour to talk about it. People scarcely sleep, or eat, the whole
country is full of trouble and fearfulness; and mother and Jane are
worried about Katherine and her sweethearts. She hes a new one, a varry
likely man, indeed, the nephew of an earl and a member of a very rich
banking firm. And Kitty is awkward and disobedient, and won’t notice
him.”

“I think Kitty ought to have her own way, father. She has set her heart
on Harry Bradley and no one can say a word against Harry.”

“Perhaps not, from thy point of view. Dick, it is a bit hard on a father
and mother, when their children, tenderly loved and cared for, turn
their backs on such love and go and choose love for themsens, even out
of the house of their father’s enemies. I feel it badly, Dick. I do
that!” And the squire looked so hopeless and sorrowful, Dick could not
bear it. He threw his arm across his father’s shoulder, and their hands
met, and a few words were softly said, that brought back the ever ready
smile to the squire’s face.

“It is only thy mother,” continued the squire, “that I am anxious about.
Kitty and Harry are in the same box as thysen; they will mebbe help thee
to talk thy love hunger away. But I wouldn’t say a word to thy aunt.
However she takes it she will be apt to overdo hersen. It is only
waiting till the Bill is passed and that will soon happen. Then we shall
go home, and mother will be too busy getting her home in order, to make
as big a worry of Faith, as she would do here, where Jane and thy aunt
would do all they could to make the trouble bigger.”

Then Dick went to look for Harry. He could not find him. A clerk at the
Club told him he “believed Mr. Bradley had gone to Downham Market in
Norfolk,” and Dick fretfully wondered what had taken Harry to Norfolk?
And to Downham Market, of all the dull, little towns in that country.
Finally, he concluded to go and see Kitty. “She is a wise little soul,”
 he thought, “and she may have added up mother by this time.” So he went
to Lady Leyland’s house and found Kitty and Harry Bradley taking lunch
together.

“Mother and Jane are out with Aunt Josepha,” she said, “and Harry has
just got back from Norfolk. I was sitting down to my lonely lunch when
he came in, so he joined me. It is not much of a lunch. Jane asked me
if a mutton patty-pie, and some sweet stuff would do, and I told her she
could leave out the mutton pie, if she liked, but she said, ‘Nonsense!
someone might come in, who could not live on love and sugar.’ So the
pies luckily came up, piping hot, for Harry. Some good little household
angel always arranges things, if we trust to them.”

“What took you to Norfolk, Harry? Bird game on the Fens, I suppose?”

“Business, only, took me there. We heard of a man who had some Jacquard
looms to sell. I went to see them.”

“I missed you very much. I am in a lot of trouble. Faith and I are
engaged, you know.”

“No! I did not know that things had got that far.”

“Yes, they have, and Mr. Foster behaved to us very unkindly at first,
but he has seen his fault, and repented. And father was more set and
obdurate than I thought he could be, under any circumstances; and I
wanted your advice, Harry, and could not find you anywhere.”

“Was it about Faith you wanted me?”

“Of course, I wanted to know what you would do if in my circumstances.”

“Why, Dick, Kitty and I are in a similar case and we have done nothing
at all. We are just waiting, until Destiny does for us what we should
only do badly, if we tried to move in the matter before the proper time.
I should personally think this particular time would not be a fortunate
hour for seeking recognition for a marriage regarded as undesirable on
either, or both sides. I am sorry you troubled your father just at this
time, for I fear he has already a great trouble to face.”

“My father a great trouble to face! What do you mean, Harry? Have you
heard anything? Is mother all right? Kitty, what is it?”

“I had heard of nothing wrong when mother and Jane went out to-day.
Harry is not ten minutes in the house. We had hardly finished saying
good afternoon to each other.”

“I did not intend to say anything to Kitty, as I judged it to be a
trouble the squire must bear alone.”

“Oh, no! The squire’s wife and children will bear it with him. Speak
out, Harry. Whatever the trouble is, it cannot be beyond our bearing and
curing.”

“Well, you see, Dick, the new scheme of boroughs decided on by the
Reform Bill will deprive the squire of his seat in Parliament, as
Annis borough has been united with Bradley borough, which also takes
in Thaxton village. Now if the Bill passes, there will be a general
election, and there is a decided move, in that case, to elect my father
as representative for the united seats.”

“That is nothing to worry about,” answered Dick with a nonchalant tone
and manner. “My dad has represented them for thirty years. I believe
grandfather sat for them, even longer. I dare be bound dad will be glad
to give his seat to anybody that hes the time to bother with it; it is
nothing but trouble and expense.”

“Is that so? I thought it represented both honor and profit,” said
Harry.

“Oh, it may do! I do not think father cares a button about what honor
and profit it possesses. However, I am going to look after father now,
and, Kitty, if the circumstances should in the least be a trouble to
father, I shall expect you to stand loyally by your father and the
family.” With these words he went away, without further courtesies,
unless a proud upward toss of his handsome head could be construed into
a parting salute.

A few moments of intense silence followed. Katherine’s cheeks were
flushed and her eyes cast down. Harry looked anxiously at her. He
expected some word, either of self-dependence, or of loyalty to
her pledge of a supreme love for himself; but she made neither, and
was--Harry considered--altogether unsatisfactory. At this moment he
expected words of loving constancy, or at least some assurance of the
stability of her affection. On the contrary, her silence and her cold
manner, gave him a heart shock. “Kitty! My darling Kitty! did you hear,
did you understand, what Dick said, what he meant?”

“Yes, I both heard and understood.”

“Well then, what was it?”

“He meant, that if my father was hurt, or offended by his removal from
his seat in The House, he would make father’s quarrel his own and expect
me to do the same.”

“But you would not do such a thing as that?”

“I do not see how I could help it. I love my father. It is beyond words
to say how dear he is to me. It would be an impossibility for me to
avoid sympathizing with him. Mother and Dick would do the same. Aunt
Josepha and even Jane and Ley-land, would make father’s wrong their
own; and you must know how Yorkshire families stand together even if the
member of it in trouble is unworthy of the least consideration. Remember
the Traffords! They were all made poor by Jack, and Jack’s wife, but
they would not listen to a word against them. That is _our_ way, you
know it. To every Yorkshire man and woman Kindred is Kin, and Love is
Love.”

“But they put love before kindred.”

“Perhaps they do, and perhaps they do not. I have never seen anyone put
strangers before kindred. I would despise anyone who did such a thing.
Yes, indeed, I would!”

“Your father knows how devotedly we love each other, even from our
childhood.”

“Well, then, he has always treated our love as a very childish affair.
He looks upon me yet, as far too young to even think of marrying. He has
been expecting me during this season in London, to meet someone or
other by whom I could judge whether my love for you was not a childish
imagination. You have known this, Harry, all the time we have been
sweethearts. When I was nine, and you were twelve, both father and
mother used to laugh at our childish love-making.”

“I wonder if I understand you, Kitty! Are you beginning to break your
promise to me?”

“If I wished to break my promise to you, I should not do so in any
underhand kind of way. Half-a-dozen clear, strong words would do. I
should not understand any other way.”

“I am very miserable. Your look and your attitude frighten me.”

“Harry, I never before saw you act so imprudently and unkindly. No one
likes the bringer of ill news. I was expecting a happy hour with you and
Dick; and you scarcely allowed Dick to bid me a good afternoon, until
you out with your bad news--and there was a real tone of triumph in your
voice. I’m sure I don’t wonder that Dick felt angry and astonished.”

“Really, Kitty, I thought it the best opportunity possible to tell you
about the proposed new borough. I felt sure, both you and Dick would
remember my uncertain, and uncomfortable position, and give me your
assurance of my claim. It is a very hard position for me to be in, and I
am in no way responsible for it.”

“I do not think your position is any harder than mine and I am as
innocent--perhaps a great deal more innocent--of aiding on the situation
as you can be.”

“Do you intend to give me up if your father and Dick tell you to do so?”

“That is not the question. I say distinctly, that I consider your hurry
to tells the news of your father’s possible substitution in the squire’s
parliamentary seat, was impolite and unnecessary just yet, and that your
voice and manner were in some unhappy way offensive. I felt them to be
so, and I do not take offense without reason.”

“Let me explain.”

“No. I do not wish to hear any more on the subject at present. And
I will remind you that the supplanting of Squire Annis is as yet
problematic. Was there any necessity for you to rush news which
is dependent on the passing of a Bill, that has been loitering in
parliament for forty years, and before a general election was certain?
It was this hurry and your uncontrollable air of satisfaction, which
angered Dick--and myself:”--and with these words, said with a great deal
of quiet dignity, she bid Harry “good afternoon” and left the room.

And Harry was dumb with sorrow and amazement. He made no effort to
detain her, and when she reached the next floor, she heard the clash
of the main door follow his hurrying footsteps. “It is all over! All
over!!” she said and then tried to comfort herself, with a hearty fit of
crying.

Harry went to his club and thought the circumstance over, but he hastily
followed a suggestion, which was actually the most foolish move he
could have made--he resolved to go and tell Madam Temple the whole
circumstance. He believed that she had a real liking for him and would
be glad to put his side of the trouble in its proper light. She had
always sympathized with his love for Katherine and he believed that she
would see nothing wrong in his gossip about the squire’s position. So he
went to Madam at once and found her in her office with her confidential
lawyer.

“Well, then?” she asked, in her most authoritative manner, “what brings
thee here, in the middle of the day’s business? Hes thou no business in
hand? No sweetheart to see? No book or paper to read?”

“I came to you, Madam, for advice; but I see that you are too busy to
care for my perplexities.”

“Go into the small parlor and I will come to thee in ten minutes.”

Her voice and manner admitted of no dispute, and Harry--inwardly chafing
at his own obedience--went to the small parlor and waited. As yet he
could not see any reason for Dick’s and Katherine’s unkind treatment of
him. He felt sure Madam Temple would espouse his side of the question,
and also persuade Katherine that Dick had been unjustly offended. But
his spirits fell the moment she entered the room. The atmosphere
of money and the market-place was still around her and she asked
sharply--“Whativer is the matter with thee, Harry Bradley? Tell me
quickly. I am more than busy to-day, and I hev no time for nonsense.”

“It is more than nonsense, Madam, or I would not trouble you. I only
want a little of your good sense to help me out of a mess I have got
into with----”

“With Katherine, I suppose?”

“With Dick also.”

“To be sure. If you offended one, you would naturally offend the other.
Make as few words as thou can of the affair.” This order dashed Harry at
the beginning of the interview, and Madam’s impassive and finally
angry face gave him no help in detailing his grievance. Throughout his
complaint she made no remark, no excuse, neither did she offer a word
of sympathy. Finally he could no longer continue his tale of wrong, its
monotony grew intolerable, even to himself, and he said passionately--

“I see that you have neither sympathy nor counsel to give me, Madam. I
am sorry I troubled you.”

“Ay, thou ought to be ashamed as well as sorry. Thou that reckons to
know so much and yet cannot see that tha hes been guilty of an almost
unpardonable family crime. Thou hed no right to say a word that would
offend anyone in the Annis family. The report might be right, or it
might be wrong, I know not which; but it was all wrong for thee to clap
thy tongue on it. The squire has said nothing to me about thy father
taking his place in the House of Commons, and I wouldn’t listen to
anyone else, not even thysen. I think the young squire and Katherine
treated thee a deal better than thou deserved. After a bit of behavior
like thine, it wasn’t likely they would eat another mouthful with thee.”

“The truth, Madam, is----”

“Even if it hed been ten times the truth, it should hev been a lie to
thee. Thou ought to hev felled it, even on the lips speaking it. I think
nothing of love and friendship that won’t threep for a friend, right or
wrong, for or against, true or untrue. I am varry much disappointed in
thee, Mr. Harry Bradley, and the sooner thou leaves me, the better I’ll
be pleased.”

“Oh, Madam, you utterly confound me.”

“Thou ought to be confounded and I would be a deal harder on thee if I
did not remember that thou hes no family behind thee whose honor----”

“Madam, I have my father behind me, and a nobler man does not exist. He
is any man’s peer. I know no other man fit to liken him to.”

“That’s right. Stand by thy father. And remember that the Annis family
hes to stand up for a few centuries of Annis fathers. Go to thy father
and bide with him. His advice will suit thee better than mine.”

“I think Dick might have understood me.”

“Dick understood thee well enough. Dick was heart hurt by thy evident
pleasure with the news that was like a hot coal in thy mouth. It pleased
thee so well thou couldn’t keep it for a fitting hour. Not thou! Thy
vanity will make a heart ache for my niece, no doubt she will be worried
beyond all by thy behavior, but I’ll warrant she will not go outside her
own kith and kin for advice or comfort.”

“Madam, forgive my ignorance. I ask you that much.”

“Well, that is a different thing. I can forgive thee, where I couldn’t
help thee--not for my life. But thou ought to suffer for such a bit of
falsity, and I hope thou wilt suffer. I do that! Now I can’t stay
with thee any longer, but I do wish thou hed proved thysen more
right-hearted, and less set up with a probability. In plain truth,
that is so. And I’ll tell the one sure thing--if thou hopes to live
in Yorkshire, stand by Yorkshire ways, and be leal and loyal to thy
friends, rich or poor.”

“I hope, Madam, to be leal and loyal to all men.”

“That is just a bit of general overdoing. It was a sharp wisdom in
Jesus Christ, when he told us not to love all humanity, but to love our
neighbor. He knew that was about all we could manage. It is above what I
can manage this afternoon, so I’ll take my leave of thee.”

Harry left the house almost stupefied by the storm of anger his vanity
and his pride in his father’s probable honor, had caused him. But when
he reached his room in The Yorkshire Club and had closed the door on
all outside influences, a clear revelation came to him, and he audibly
expressed it as he walked angrily about the floor:--

“I hate that pompous old squire! He never really liked me--thought I was
not good enough for his daughter--and I’ll be glad if he hes to sit a
bit lower--and I’m right glad father is going a bit higher. Father is
full fit for it. So he is! but oh, Katherine! Oh, Kitty! Kitty! What
shall I do without you?”

In the meantime, Dick had decided that he would say nothing about the
squire’s probable rival for the new borough, until the speech to be made
that evening had been delivered. It might cause him to say something
premature and unadvised. When he came to this conclusion he was suddenly
aware that he had left his lunch almost untouched on his sister’s table,
and that he was naturally hungry.

“No wonder I feel out of sorts!” he thought. “I will go to The Yorkshire
and have a decent lunch. Kitty might have known better than offer me
anything out of a patty-pan. I’ll go and get some proper eating and then
I’ll maybe have some sensible thinking.”

He put this purpose into action at once by going to The Yorkshire Club
and ordering a beefsteak with fresh shalots, a glass of port wine, and
bread and cheese, and having eaten a satisfying meal, he went to his
room and wrote a long letter to Faith, illustrating it with his own
suspicions and reflections. This letter he felt to be a very clever
move. He told himself that Faith would relate the story to her father
and that Mr. Foster would say and do the proper thing much more wisely
and effectively than anyone else could.

He did not know the exact hour at which his father was to meet some of
the weavers and workers of Annis locality, but he thought if he reached
the rendezvous about nine o’clock he would be in time to hear any
discussion there might be, and walk to the Clarendon with his father
after it. This surmise proved correct, for as he reached the designated
place, he saw the crowd, and heard his father speaking to it. Another
voice appeared to be interrupting him.

Dick listened a moment, and then ejaculated, “Yes! Yes! That is father
sure enough! He is bound to have a threep with somebody.” Then he walked
quicker, and soon came in sight of the crowd of men surrounding the
speaker, who stood well above them, on the highest step of a granite
stairway leading into a large building.

Now Dick knew well that his father was a very handsome man, but he
thought he had never before noticed it so clearly, for at this hour
Antony Annis was something more than a handsome man--he was an inspired
orator. His large, beautiful countenance was beaming and glowing with
life and intellect; but it was also firm as steel, for he had a clear
purpose before him, and he looked like a drawn sword. The faces of
the crowd were lifted to him--roughly-sketched, powerful faces, with
well-lifted foreheads, and thick brown hair, crowned in nearly every
case with labor’s square, uncompromising, upright paper cap.

The squire had turned a little to the right, and was addressing an Annis
weaver called Jonas Shuttleworth. “Jonas Shuttleworth!” he cried, “does
tha know what thou art saying? How dare tha talk in this nineteenth
century of Englishmen fighting Englishmen? They can only do that thing
at the instigation of the devil. _Why-a!_ thou might as well talk of
fighting thy father and mother! As for going back to old ways, and old
times, none of us can do it, and if we could do it, we should be far
from suited with the result. You hev all of you now seen the power loom
at work; would you really like the old cumbrous hand-loom in your homes
again? You know well you wouldn’t stand it. A time is close at hand when
we shall all of us hev to cut loose from our base. I know that. I shall
hev to do it. You will hev to do it. Ivery man that hes any _forthput_
in him will hev to do it. Those who won’t do it must be left behind,
sticking in the mud made by the general stir up.”

“That would be hard lines, squire.”

“Not if you all take it like ‘Mr. Content’ at your new loom. For I
tell you the even down truth, when I say--You, and your ways, and your
likings, will all hev to be _born over again!_ Most of you here are
Methodists and you know what that means. The things you like best you’ll
hev to give them up and learn to be glad and to fashion yoursens to
ways and works, which just now you put under your feet and out of your
consideration.”

“Your straight meaning, squire? We want to understand thee.”

“Well and good! I mean this--You hev allays been ‘slow and sure’; in the
new times just here, you’ll hev to be ‘up and doing,’ for you will find
it a big hurry-push to keep step with your new work-fellows, steam and
machinery.”

“That is more than a man can do, squire.”

“No, it is not! A man can do anything he thinks it worth his while to
do.”

“The _London Times_, sir, said yesterday that it would take all of
another generation.”

“It will do nothing of the kind, Sam Yates. What-iver has thou to do
with the newspapers? Newspapers! Don’t thee mind them! Their advice is
meant to be read, not taken.”

“Labor, squire, hes its rights----”

“To be sure, labor also hes its duties. It isn’t much we hear about the
latter.”

“Rights and duties, squire. The Reform Bill happens to be both. When is
The Bill to be settled?”

“Nothing is settled, Sam, until it is settled right.”

“Lord Brougham, in a speech at Manchester, told us he would see it
settled this session.”

“Lord Brougham thinks in impossibilities. He would make a contract with
Parliament to govern England, or even Ireland. Let me tell thee all
government is a thing of necessity, not of choice. England will not for
any Bill dig under her foundations. Like Time, she destroys even great
wrongs slowly. Her improvements hev to grow and sometimes they take a
good while about it. You hev been crying for this Bill for forty
years, you were not ready for it then. Few of you at that time hed any
education. Now, many of your men can read and a lesser number write.
Such men as Grey, Russell, Brougham and others hev led and taught you,
and there’s no denying that you hev been varry apt scholars. Take your
improvements easily, Sam. You won’t make any real progress by going over
precipices.”

“Well, sir, we at least hev truth on our side.”

“Truth can only be on one side, Sam, I’m well pleased if you hev it.”

“All right, squire, but I can tell you this--if Parliament doesn’t help
us varry soon now we will help oursens.”

“That is what you ought to be doing right now. Get agate, men! Go to
your new loom, and make yersens masters of it. I will promise you in
that case, that your new life will be, on the whole, better than the old
one. As for going back to the old life, you can’t do it. Not for your
immortal souls! Time never runs back to fetch any age of gold; and as
for making a living in the old way and with the old hand loom, you may
as well sow corn in the sea, and hope to reap it.”

“Squire, I want to get out of a country where its rulers can stop
minding its desperate poverty, and can forget that it is on the edge of
rebellion, and in the grip of some death they call cholera, and go home
for their Easter holiday, quite satisfied with themsens. We want another
Oliver Cromwell.”

“No, we don’t either. The world won’t be ready for another Cromwell, not
for a thousand years maybe. Such men are only born at the rate of one in
a millennium.”

“What’s a millennium, squire?”

“A thousand years, lad.”

“There wer’ men of the right kind in Cromwell’s day to stand by him.”

“Our fathers were neither better nor worse than oursens, Sam, just about
thy measure, and my measure.”

“I doan’t know, sir. They fought King and Parliament, and got all they
wanted. Then they went over seas and founded a big republic, and all hes
gone well with them--and we could do the same.”

“Well, then, you hev been doing something like the same thing iver since
Cromwell lived. Your people are busy at the same trade now. The English
army is made up of working men. They are usually thrown in ivery part of
the world, taking a sea port, or a state, or a few fertile islands that
are lying loose and uncivilized in the southern seas. They do this for
the glory and profit of England and in such ways they hev made pagans
live like Christians, and taught people to obey the just laws of
England, that hed niver before obeyed a decent law of any kind.”

“They don’t get for their work what Cromwell’s men got.”

“They don’t deserve it. Your mark can’t touch Cromwell’s mark; it was
far above your reach. Your object is mainly a selfish one. You want
more money, more power, and you want to do less work than you iver
did. Cromwell’s men wanted one thing first and chiefly--the liberty to
worship God according to their conscience. They got what they wanted for
their day and generation, and before they settled in America, they made
a broad path ready for John Wesley. Yes, indeed, Oliver Cromwell made
John Wesley possible. Now, when you go to the wonderful new loom that
hes been invented for you, and work it cheerfully, you’ll get your Bill,
and all other things reasonable that you want.”

“The Parliament men are so everlastingly slow, squire,” said an old man
sitting almost at the squire’s feet.

“That is God’s truth, friend. They _are_ slow. It is the English way.
You are slow yoursens. So be patient and keep busy learning your
trade in a newer and cleverer way. I am going to bide in London till
Parliament says, _Yes or No_. Afterwards I’ll go back to Annis, and
learn a new life.” Then some man on the edge of the crowd put up his
hand, and the squire asked:

“Whose cap is speaking now?”

“Israel Kinsman’s, sir. Thou knaws me, squire.”

“To be sure I do. What does tha want to say? And when did tha get home
from America?”

“A matter of a year ago. I hev left the army and gone back to my loom.
Now I want to ask thee, if thou are against men when they are oppressed
fighting for their rights and their freedom?”

“Not I! Men, even under divine guidance, hev taken that sharp road many
times. The God who made iron knew men would make swords of it--just as
He also knew they would make plowshares. Making war is sometimes the
only way to make peace. If the cause is a just one the Lord calls
himself the God of battles. He knows, and we know, that

               “Peace is no peace, if it lets the ill grow stronger,

               Only cheating destiny a very little longer;

                   War with its agonies, its horrors, and its crimes,

                   Is cheaper if discounted, and taken up betimes.

               Foolish, indeed, are many other teachers;

               Cannons are God’s preachers, when the time is ripe for

                             war.

“Now, men, there is no use in discussing a situation not likely to
trouble England in this nineteenth century. I believe the world is
growing better constantly, and that eventually all men will do, or cause
to be done, whatever is square, straight and upright, as the caps on
your heads. I believe it, because the good men will soon be so immensely
in excess that bad men will _hev_ to do right, and until that day comes,
we will go on fighting for freedom in ivery good shape it can come;
knowing surely and certainly, that

                   “Freedom’s battle once begun,

                   Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,

                   Though baffled oft, is always won.

“That is a truth, men, you may all of you cap to,” and as the squire
lifted his riding cap high above his head, more than two hundred paper
caps followed it, accompanied by a long, joyful shout for the good time
promised, and certainly coming.

“Now, men,” said the squire, “let us see what ‘cap money’ we can collect
for those who are poor and helpless. Israel Naylor and John Moorby will
collect it. It will go for the spreading of the children’s table in
Leeds and Israel will see it gets safely there.”

“We’ll hev thy cap, squire,” said Israel. “The man who proposes a cap
collection salts his awn cap with his awn money first.” And the squire
laughed good-humoredly, lifted his cap, and in their sight dropped five
gold sovereigns into it. Then Dick offered his hat to his father, saying
he had his opera hat in his pocket and the two happy men went away
together, just as some musical genius had fitted Byron’s three lines to
a Methodist long-metre, so they were followed by little groups straying
off in different directions, and all singing,

                   “For Freedom’s battle once begun,

                   Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son,

                   Though baffled oft, is always won!

                        Is always won! Is always won!”

Dick did not enter the Clarendon with his father. He knew that he might
be a little superfluous. The squire had a certain childlike egotism
which delighted in praising himself, and in telling his own story; and
Annie was audience sufficient. If she approved, there was no more to be
desired, the third person was often in the way. In addition to this wish
to give the squire the full measure of his success, Dick was longing
passionately to be with his love and his hopes. The squire would not
speak of Faith, and Dick wanted to talk about her. Her name beat upon
his lips, and oh, how he longed to see her! To draw her to his side, to
touch her hair, her eyes, her lips! He told himself that the promise of
silence until the Bill was passed, or thrown out was a great wrong,
that he never ought to have made it, that his father never ought to have
asked for it. He wondered how he was to get the time over; the gayeties
of London had disappeared, the Leylands thought it prudent to live
quietly, his mother and Katherine were tired of the city, and longed
to be at home; and Harry, whose sympathy he had always relied on, was
somewhere in Norfolk, and had not even taken the trouble to write and
tell him the reason for his visit, to such a tame, bucolic county.

Yet with the hope of frequent letters, and his own cheerful optimistic
temper, he managed to reach the thirtieth of May. On that morning he
took breakfast with his parents, and the squire said in a positive voice
that he was “sure the Bill would pass the House of Lords before May
became June; and if you remember the events since the seventh of April,
Dick, you will also be sure.”

“But I do not remember much about public affairs during that time,
father. I was in Annis, and here and there, and in every place it was
confusion and anger and threats. I really do not remember them.”

“Then thou ought to, and thou may as well sit still, and let me tell
thee some things thou should niver forget.” But as the squire’s method
was discursive, and often interrupted by questions and asides from
Mistress Annis and Dick, facts so necessary may be told without such
delay, and also they will be more easily remembered by the reader.

Keeping in mind then that Parliament adjourned at seven o’clock in the
morning, on April fourteenth until the seventh of May, it is first to
be noted that during this three weeks’ vacation there was an incessant
agitation, far more formidable than fire, rioting, and the destruction
of property. Petitions from every populous place to King William
entreated him to create a sufficient number of peers to pass the Bill
_in spite of the old peers_. The Press, nearly a unit, urged as the most
vital and necessary thing the immediate passage of the Bill, predicting
a United Rebellion of England, Scotland and Ireland, if longer delayed.
On the seventh of May, the day Parliament reassembled, there was the
largest public meeting that had ever been held in Great Britain, and
with heads uncovered, and faces lifted to heaven, the crowd took the
following oath:--

“_With unbroken faith through every peril and privation, we here devote
ourselves and our children to our country’s cause!_”

This great public meeting included all the large political unions, and
its solemn enthusiasm was remarkable for the same fervor and zeal of
the old Puritan councils. Its solemn oath was taken while Parliament
was reassembling in its two Houses. On that afternoon the House of Lords
took up first the disfranchising of the boroughs, and a week of
such intense excitement followed, as England had not seen since the
Revolution of 1688.

On the eighth of May, Parliament asked the King to sanction a large
creation of new peers. The king angrily refused his assent. The
ministers then tendered their resignation. It was accepted. On the
evening of the ninth, their resignation was announced to the Lords and
Commons. On the eleventh Lord Ebrington moved that “the House should
express to the King their deep distress at a change of ministers, and
entreat him only to call to his councils such persons as would carry
through _The Bill_ with all its demands unchanged and unimpaired.”

This motion was carried, and then for one week the nation was left to
its conjectures, to its fears, and to its anger at the attitude of the
government. Indeed for this period England was without a government. The
Cabinet had resigned, leaving not a single officer who would join the
cabinet which the king had asked the Duke of Wellington to form. In
every city and town there were great meetings that sent petitions to the
House of Commons, praying that it would grant no supplies of any kind to
the government until the Bill was passed without change or mutilation.
A petition was signed in Manchester by twenty-three thousand persons in
three hours, and the deputy who brought it informed the Commons that
the whole north of England was in a state of indignation impossible to
describe. Asked if the people would fight, he answered, “They will first
of all demand that Parliament stop all government supplies--the tax
gatherer will not be able to collect a penny. All civil tribunals will
be defied, public credit shaken, property insecure, the whole frame of
society will hasten to dissolution, and great numbers of our wealthiest
families will transfer their homes to America.”

Lord Wellington utterly failed in all his attempts to form a ministry,
Sir Robert Peel refused to make an effort to do so, and on the fifteenth
of May it was announced in both Houses, that “the ministers had resumed
their communication with his majesty.” On the eighteenth Lord Grey
said in the House of Lords that “he expected to carry the Reform Bill
unimpaired and immediately.” Yet on the day before this statement,
Brougham and Grey had an interview with the King, in which his majesty
exhibited both rudeness and ill-temper. He kept the two peers standing
during the whole interview, a discourtesy contrary to usage. Both Grey
and Brougham told the King that they would not return to office unless
he promised to create the necessary number of peers to insure the
passage of the Reform Bill just as it stood; and the King consented so
reluctantly that Brougham asked for his permission in writing.

The discussion of these facts occupied the whole morning and after an
early lunch the squire prepared to go to The House; then Dick noticed
that even after he was hatted and coated for his visit, he kept delaying
about very trivial things. So he resolved to carry out his part of their
secret arrangement, and remove himself from all temptation to tell his
mother he was going to marry Faith Foster. His father understood the
lad so like himself, and Dick knew what his father feared. So he bid
his mother good-by, and accompanied his father to the street. There the
latter said plainly, “Thou did wisely, Dick. If I hed left thee alone
with thy mother, thou would hev told her all that thou knew, and
thought, and believed, and hoped, and expected from Faith. Thou couldn’t
hev helped it--and I wouldn’t hev blamed thee.”




CHAPTER X--THE GREAT BILL PASSES


_“In relation to what is to be, all Work is sacred because it is the
work given us to do.”_

_“Their cause had been won, but the victory brought with it a new
situation and a new struggle.”_

_“Take heed to your work, your name is graven on it.”_


 ALTHOUGH Dick pretended an utter disbelief in Grey’s prophecy, it
really came true; and the Reform Bill passed the House of Lords on the
last day of May. Then the Annis family were in haste to return home. The
feeling of being on a pleasure visit was all past and gone, and the bare
certainties and perplexities of life confronted them. For the first
time in all his days, the squire felt anxious about money matters,
and actually realized that he was going to be scrimped in coin for his
household expenses. This fact shocked him, he could hardly believe it.
Annie, however, knew nothing of this dilemma and when her husband spoke
of an immediate return home, said:

“I am glad we are going home. To-morrow, I will see my dressmaker and
finish my shopping;” and the squire looked at her with such anxious eyes
that she immediately added--“unless, Antony, thou would like me to pack
my trunks at once.”

“I would like that, Annie. It would help me above a bit.”

“All right. Kitty is ready to start at any hour. She wants to go home.”

“What is the matter with Kitty? She isn’t like hersen lately? Is she
sick?”

“I think there is a little falling out between Harry and her. That is
common enough in all love affairs.”

Here a servant entered with a letter and gave it to the squire. He
looked at it a moment and then said to his wife--“It is from Josepha.
She wants to see me varry particular, and hopes I will come to her at
once. She thinks I had better drop in for dinner and says she will wait
for me until half-past five.”

“That is just like her unreasonableness. If she knows the Bill is
passed, she must know also that we are packing, and as busy as we can
be.”

“Perhaps she does not know that the great event has happened.”

“That is nonsense. Half a dozen people would send her word, or run with
the news themselves.”

“Well, Annie, she is my only sister, and she is varry like my mother. I
must give her an hour. I could not be happy if I did not;” and there was
something in the tone of his voice which Annie knew she need not try to
alter. So she wisely acquiesced in his resolve, pitying him the while
for having the claims of three women to satisfy. But the squire went
cheerfully enough to his sister. The claims of kindred were near and
dear to him and a very sincere affection existed between him and his
sister Jo-sepha. She was waiting for him. She was resolved to have a
talk with him about the Bradleys, and she had a proposal to make, a
proposal on which she had set her heart.

So she met him at the open door, and said--with a tight clasp of his big
hand--“I am right glad to see thee, brother. Come in here,” and she led
him to a small parlor used exclusively by herself.

“I cannot stop to dinner, Josey,” he said kindly, but he kept her hand
in his hand, until he reached the chair his sister pointed out. Then she
sat down beside him and said, “Antony, my dear brother, thou must answer
me a few questions. If thou went home and left me in doubt, I should be
a varry unhappy woman.”

“Whativer art thou bothering thysen about?”

“About thee. I’ll speak out plain and thou must answer me in the same
fashion. What is tha going to do about thy living? Thou hes no business
left, and I know well thou hes spent lavishly iver since thou came here
with thy wife and daughter.”

“To be sure I hev. And they are varry welcome to ivery penny of the
outlay. And I must say, Josey, thou has been more extravagant about both
Annie and Kitty than I hev been.”

“Well then Kitty is such a darling--thou knows.”

“Ay, she is that.”

“And Annie is more tolerant with me than she iver was before.”

“To be sure. Iveryone gets more kindly as he grows older. And she knaws
thee better, which is a great deal. Annie is good from the beginning to
the end.”

“Nobody will say different, but that is not what I am wanting to talk to
thee about. Listen to me now, my dear lad! What art thou going to do? I
am in earnest anxiety. Tell me, my brother.”

The squire was silent and looked steadily down on the table for a few
minutes. Josepha did not by the slightest movement interfere but her
steady, kindly gaze was fixed upon the silent man. Perhaps he felt,
though he did not see, the love that shone upon him, for he lifted his
face with a broad smile, and answered--

“My dear lass, I don’t know.”

“I shouldn’t wonder. Now speak straight words to me as plain as thou
spoke to the Annis weavers last week.”

“My dear sister, I shall do right, and let come what will.”

“And what does tha call doing right?”

“I think of two ways and both seem right to me.”

“What are they? Perhaps I can help thee to decide that one is better
than the other. Dear lad, I want to help thee to do the best thing
possible for thysen, and thy children.”

There was no resisting the persuasion in her face, voice and manner,
and the squire could not resist its influence. “Josey,” he said, as
he covered her small plump hand with his own in a very masterful
way--“Josey! Josey! I am in the thick of a big fight with mysen. I did
really promise a crowd of Annis weavers that if the Reform Bill passed I
would build a mill and give them all work, and that would let them come
home again. Tha sees, they all own, or partly own, their cottages, and
if I can’t find them work, they will hev to give up their homes mebbe,
to a varry great disadvantage.”

“To be plain with thee, thou could in such a case, buy them all back for
a song.”

“Does tha really think thou hes an up and down blackguard for thy
brother? I’m not thinking of buying poor men’s houses for a song--nor
yet of buying them at any price.”

“A perfectly fair price, eh?”

“No. There could not be a fair price under such conditions. The poor
would be bound to get the worst of the bargain, unless I ruined mysen
to be square and just. I doan’t want to sit in hell, trying to count up
what I hed made by buying poor men’s homes at a bargain.”

“Hes tha any plan that will help thee to build a mill and give thy old
weavers a chance?”

“The government will loan to old employers money to help them build a
mill, and so give work and bread.”

“The government is not lending money, except with some excellent
security.”

“Land, I have plenty. I could spare some land.”

“No. Thou could not spare the government one acre.”

“Then I cannot build a mill and furnish it with looms and all
necessary.”

“Yes, thou can easily do it--if thou wilt take a partner.”

“Does tha know anyone suitable?”

“I do.”

“Do I know the person?”

“Varry well. It is mysen. It is Josepha Temple.” The squire fairly
started. He looked straight into Josepha’s eyes and she continued, “Take
me for thy partner, Antony. I will build thee the biggest, and most
completely finished mill in the West Riding--or anywhere else--cotton or
wool--whichiver thou likes. Bradley’s is mainly cotton, thou hed better
stick to wool. Thou hes two hundred sheep of thy awn, on thy awn fells,
and wold. Stick to the wool, dear lad.”

“Art thou in very earnest, Josepha?”

“Sure as life and death! I am in earnest. Say the word, and I’ll build,
and fit the mill, just as tha wants it.”

“And thy share in it will be----”

“We will divide equally--half and half. I want to buy a partnership with
my money. ‘_Annis and Temple_’ will suit me well. I will find all the
wherewithal required--money for building, looms, engines, wool or cotton
yarns, just as thou wishes. Thou must give the land, and the varry best
bit of land for the purpose, that thou hes on thy estate in Annis, or
elsewhere.”

“Dost tha knaw how much money tha will hev to spend for what thou
proposes?”

“I should think I do and it will every farthing of it be Annis money.
I hev speculated, and dealt wisely with the money the good Admiral left
me. I hev made, made mysen, more money than we shall require for the
mill and all its necessary furniture, and if it was not enough, I could
double it and not feel a pound poorer. The outlay is mine, all of it;
the land, and the management is thy affair. It is only by my name, which
is well known among monied men, that I shall appear in the business.”

“Josepha! Thou art my good angel!”

“I am thy sister. We are both Annis folk. We were both rooted in the
soil of this bit of England. We had the same good father and mother,
the same church, and the same dear old home. God forbid we should iver
forget that! No, we can not! These memories run with our blood, and
throb in our hearts. All that is mine is thine. Thou art dear to me as
my awn life. Thy son and daughter are my son and daughter. My money is
thy money, to its last penny. Now, wilt thou hev me for thy partner?”
 The squire had buried his face in his hands, and Josepha knew he was
hiding his feelings from everyone but God, and she stepped to the window
and drew up the shade, and let the sunshine flood the room. As she did
so, the squire called to himself--“Be of good courage, Antony!” And he
rose quickly, and so met his sister coming back to her chair, and took
her in his arms, and kissed her and said: “Josey, dear, there was a load
on my heart I was hardly able to bear; thou hes lifted it, and I love
and thank thee! We will work together, and we will show Yorkshire that
landed gentlefolk can do a bit of business, above all their ideas, and
above all thou can imagine it pleases me, that I may then redeem my
promises to the men that hev worked so long, and so faithfully for me.”

And then it was Josepha that had to dry her eyes as she said: “Thy
kiss, Antony, was worth all I hev promised. It was the signing of our
contract.”

“I felt, Josey, when I entered this house, that my life had come to an
end, and that I could only write ‘defeated’ over it.”

“Thy real life begins at this hour. Thy really fine business faculties,
corroded with rust and dust of inaction, will yet shine like new silver.
There is no defeat, except from within. And the glad way in which thou
can look forward, and take up a life so different to that thou hes known
for more than fifty years, shows plainly that you can, and will, redeem
every fault of the old life. As thou art so busy and bothered to-night,
come to-morrow and I will hev my lawyer, and banker, also a first rate
factory architect, here to meet thee.”

“At what hour?”

“From ten o’clock to half-past twelve are my business hours. If that
time is too short, we will lengthen it a bit. Dick has asked me to tell
thee something thou ought to know, but which he cannot talk to thee
about.”

“Is it about Faith Foster?”

“Not it! Varry different.”

“What, or who, then?”

“John Thomas Bradley.”

“Then don’t thee say a word about the man. Thy words hev been so good,
so wonderfully good, that I will not hev meaner ones mixed up with them.
They may come to-morrow after law and money talk, but not after thy
loving, heartening promises. No! No!”

“Well, then, go home and tell Annie, and let that weary Reform Bill
business drop out of thy mind.”

“Reform was a great need. It was a good thing to see it come, and Grey
and Brougham hev proved themsens to be great men.”

“I don’t deny it, and it is allays so ordered, that in all times, great
men can do great things.”

With a light heart and a quick step the squire hurried back to the
Clarendon. He had been given to drink of the elixir of life, the joy of
work, the pleasure of doing great good to many others, the feeling that
he was going to redeem his lost years. He had not walked with such a
light purposeful step for twenty years, and Annie was amazed when
she heard it. She was still more amazed when she heard him greet some
acquaintance whom he met in the corridor. Now Annie had resolved to be
rather cool and silent with her husband. He had overstayed his own
time nearly two hours, and she thought he ought to be made to feel the
enormity of such a delinquency; especially, when he was hurrying their
departure, though she had yet a great many little things to attend to.

She quickly changed her intentions. She only needed one glance at her
husband to make her rise to her feet, and go to meet him with a face
full of wonder. “Why! Antony! Antony, whativer hes come to thee? Thou
looks--thou looks----”

“How, Annie? How do I look?”

“Why! Like thou looked--on thy wedding day! Whativer is it, dear?”

“Annie! Annie! I feel varry like I did that day. Oh, Annie, I hev got
my life given back to me! I am going to begin it again from this varry
hour! I am going to work, to be a big man of business, Annie. I’m going
to build a factory for a thousand power looms. Oh, my wife! My wife! I’m
so proud, so happy, I seem to hev been dead and just come back to life
again.”

“I am so glad for thee, dear. Who, or what, hes brought thee this
wonderful good?”

“Sit thee down beside me, and let me hold thy hand, or I’ll mebbe think
I am dreaming. Am I awake? Am I in my right mind? Or is it all a dream,
Annie? Tell me the truth.”

“Tell thy wife what hes happened, then I can tell thee the truth.”

“_Why-a!_ thy husband, the squire of Annis, is going to build the
biggest and handsomest factory in the whole West Riding--going to fill
it with steam power looms--going to manufacture woolen goods for the
whole of England--if England will hev the sense to buy them; for they
will be well made, and of tip-top quality. Annis village is going to be
a big spinning and weaving town! O Annie! Annie! I see the vision. I
saw it as I came through Piccadilly. The little village seemed to be in
midair, and as I looked, it changed, and I saw it full of big buildings,
and high chimneys, and hurrying men and women, and I knew that I was
looking at what, please God, I shall live to see in reality. Annie, I
hev begun to live this varry day. I have been in a sweet, sweet sleep
for more than fifty years, but I hev been awakened, and now I am going
to work for the new Annis, and redeem all the years I hev loitered away
through the old.”

“I am glad for thee, Antony. Glad for thee! How is tha going to manage
it? I am sorry Kitty and I hev made thee spend so much good gold on our
foolishness!”

“Nay, nay, I am glad you both hed all you wanted. This morning I was
feeling down in the depths. I hedn’t but just money enough to take us
home, and I was wondering how iver I was to make buckle and belt meet.
Then tha knows I got a letter from Jo-sepha, and I went to see her, and
she told me she was going to build the biggest factory in the West
Riding. She told me that she hed _made_ money enough to do this: that it
was Annis money, ivery farthing of it, and it was coming to Annis, and
Annis only. Then she told me what her big plans were, bigger than I
could fairly swallow at first, and oh, dear lass, she asked me to be her
partner. I hev to give the land and my time. She does all the rest.”

“Thy sister hes a great heart. I found that out this winter.”

“Ay, and she found out that thou were a deal sweeter than she thought
before, and she opened her heart to thee, and Dick, and Kitty.”

“Will she live in Annis?”

“Not she! No one could get her away from London, and the house her
Admiral built for her. She will come down to our regular meeting once a
quarter. She won’t bother thee.”

“No, indeed, she won’t! After this wonderful kindness to thee, she can’t
bother me. She is welcome to iverything that is mine, even to my warmest
and truest love. The best room at Annis Hall is hers, and we will both
love and honor her all the days of our lives.”

“Now, then, I am quite happy, as happy as God and His gift can make a
man; and if I was a Methodist, I would go to their chapel at once and
tell them all what a good and great thing God hed done for them, as well
as mysen. Thou sees they were thought of, no doubt, when I was thought
of, for God knew I’d do right by His poor men and women and little
childer.”

“I hope, though, thou wilt stand by thy awn church. It hes stood by
thee, and all thy family for centuries. I wouldn’t like thee to desert
the mother church of England.”

“Howiver can thou speak to me in such a half-and-half way. My prayer
book is next to my Bible. _Why-a!_ it is my soul’s mother. I hev my
collect for ivery day, and I say it. On the mornings I went hunting,
sometimes I was a bit hurried, but as I stood in my bare feet, I allays
said it, and I allays did my best to mean ivery word I said.”

“I know, my love--but thou hes lately seemed to hev a sneaking respect
for Mr. Foster, and Jonathan Hartley, and Methodists in general.”

“Well, that is true. I hev a varry great respect for them. They do
their duty, and in the main they trusted in God through these past black
years, and behaved themsens like men. But I should as soon think of
deserting thee as of deserting my Mother Church.”

“I believe thee, yet we do hev varry poor sermons, and in that way Mr.
Foster is a great temptation.”

“I niver minded the sermon. I hed the blessed Book of Common Prayer. And
if the church is my soul’s mother, then the Book of Common Prayer is
mother’s milk; that it is, and I wonder that thou hes niver noticed how
faithfully I manage to say my collect. My mother taught me to say one
ivery morning. I promised her I would. I am a man of my word, Annie,
even to the living, and I would be feared to break a promise to the
dead. I can’t think of anything much worse a man could do.”

“My dear one! This day God hes chosen thee to take care of his poor. We
must get back to Annis as quickly as possible, and give them this hope.”

“So we must, but I hev a meeting to-morrow at ten o’clock with Josepha’s
banker, business adviser, her lawyer, and her architect. I may be most
of the day with his crowd. This is Monday, could tha be ready to start
home on Thursday, by early mail coach?”

“Easily.”

“That will do. Now then, Annie, I hed a varry good dinner, but I want a
cup of tea--I am all a quiver yet.”

Later in the evening Dick came in, and joined them at the supper table.
He looked at his father and mother and wondered. He saw and felt that
something good had happened, and in a few minutes the squire told him
all. His enthusiasm set the conversation to a still happier tone, though
Dick was for a moment dashed and silenced by his father’s reply to his
question as to what he was to look after in this new arrangement of
their lives.

“Why, Dick,” answered the squire, “thy aunt did not name thee, and
when I did, she said: ‘We’ll find something for Dick when the time is
fitting.’ She said also that my time would be so taken up with watching
the builders at work, that Dick would hev to look after his mother and
the household affairs, till they got used to being alone all day long.
Tha sees, Dick, we hev spoiled our women folk, and we can’t stop waiting
on them, all at once.”

Dick took the position assigned him very pleasantly, and then remarked
that Kitty ought to have been informed. “The dear one,” he continued,
“hes been worried above a bit about the money we were all spending. She
said her father looked as if he had a heartache, below all his smiles.”

Then Dick thought of the political climax that Harry had spoken of, and
asked himself if he should now speak of it. No, he could not. He could
not do it at this happy hour. Nothing could be hindered, or helped, by
the introduction of this painful subject, and he told himself that he
would not be the person to fling a shadow over such a happy and hopeful
transition in the squire’s life. For Dick also was happy in a change
which would bring him so much nearer to his beautiful and beloved Faith.

Indeed it was a very charming return home. The squire seemed to have
regained his youth. He felt as if indeed such a marvelous change had
actually taken place, nor was there much marvel in it. His life had been
almost quiescent. He had been lulled by the long rust of his actually
fine business talents. Quite frequently he had had a few days of
restlessness when some fine railway offer presented itself, but any
offer would have implied a curtailment, which would not result in
bettering his weavers’ condition, and he hesitated until the opportunity
was gone. For opportunities do not wait, they are always on the wing.
Their offer is “take or leave me,” and so it is only the alert who bid
quick enough.

After a pleasant, though fatiguing drive, they reached Annis village.
Their carriage was waiting at the coach office for them, and everyone
lifted his cap with a joyful air as they appeared. The squire was glad
to see that the caps were nearly all paper caps. It was likely then
that many of his old weavers were waiting on what he had promised in his
speech to them. And it filled his heart with joy that he could now keep
that promise, on a large and generous scale. He saw among the little
crowd watching the coach, Israel Naylor, and he called him in a loud,
cheerful voice, that was in itself a promise of good, and said: “Israel,
run and tell Jonathan Hartley to come up to the Hall, and see me as soon
as iver he can and thou come with him, if tha likes to, I hev nothing
but good news for the men. Tell them that. And tell thysen the same.”

In an hour the squire and his family and his trunks and valises and
carpet bags were all at home again. Weary they certainly were, but oh,
so happy, and Dick perhaps happiest of all, for he had seen Mr. Foster
at his door, and as he drove past him, had lifted his hat; and in that
silent, smiling movement, sent a message that he knew would make Faith
as happy as himself.

I need not tell any woman how happy Mistress Annis and her daughter were
to be home again. London was now far from their thoughts. It was the new
Annis that concerned them--the great, busy town they were to build up
for the future. Like the squire, they all showed new and extraordinary
energy and spirit, and as for the squire he could hardly wait with
patience for the arrival of Jonathan Hartley and Israel.

Actually more than twenty of the old weavers came with Jonathan, and
Annie found herself a little bothered to get sittings for them, until
the squire bethought him of the ballroom. Thither he led the way with
his final cup of tea still in his hand, as in loud cheerful words he bid
them be seated. Annie had caused the chairs to be placed so as to form
a half circle and the squire’s own chair was placed centrally within
it. And as he took it every man lifted his paper cap above his head,
and gave him a hearty cheer, and no man in England was happier at that
moment than Antony Annis, Squire of Annis and Deeping Hollow.

“My friends!” he cried, with all the enthusiasm of a man who has
recaptured his youth. “I am going to build the biggest and handsomest
factory in Yorkshire--or in any other place. I am going to fill it with
the best power looms that can be bought--a thousand of them. I am going
to begin it to-morrow morning. To-night, right here and now, I am going
to ask Jonathan to be my adviser and helper and general overseer. For
this work I am offering him now, one hundred and fifty pounds the
first year, or while the building is in progress. When we get to
actual weaving two hundred pounds a year, with increase as the work and
responsibility increases. Now, Jonathan, if this offer suits thee, I
shall want thee at eight o’clock in the morning. Wilt tha be ready, eh?”

Jonathan was almost too amazed to speak, but in a moment or two he
almost shouted--

“Thou fairly caps me, squire. Whativer can I say to thee? I am
dumbfounded with joy! God bless thee, squire!”

“I am glad to be His messenger of comfort to you all. These are the
plans for all who choose to take them, my old men having the preference
wheriver it can be given. To-morrow, Jonathan and I will go over my
land lying round Annis village within three miles, and we will pick
the finest six acres there is in that area for the mill. We will begin
digging for the foundation Monday morning, if only with the few men we
can get round our awn village. Jonathan will go to all the places near
by, to get others, and there will be hundreds of men coming from London
and elsewhere, builders, mechanics, and such like. The architect is
hiring them, and will come here with them. Men, these fresh mouths will
all be to fill, and I think you, that awn your awn cottages, can get
your wives to cook and wash for them, and so do their part, until we get
a place put up for the main lot to eat and sleep in. Jonathan will help
to arrange that business; and you may tell your women, Antony Annis will
be surety for what-iver is just money for their work. Bit by bit, we
will soon get all into good working order, and I am promised a fine
factory ready for work and business in one year. What do you think of
that, men?” Then up went every paper cap with a happy shout, and the
squire smiled and continued:

“You need not fear about the brass for all I am going to do, being
either short or scrimpit. My partner has money enough to build two
mills, aye, and more than that. And my partner is Annis born, and loves
this bit of Yorkshire, and is bound to see Annis village keep step with
all the other manufacturing places in England; and when I tell you that
my partner is well known to most of you, and that her name is Josepha
Annis, you’ll hev no fear about the outcome.”

“No! No! Squire,” said Jonathan, speaking for all. “We all know
the Admiral’s widow. In one way or other we hev all felt her loving
kindness; and we hev often heard about her heving no end of money, and
they know thy word, added to her good heart, makes us all happy and
satisfied. Squire, thou hes kept thy promise thou hes done far more than
keep it. God must hev helped thee! Glory be to God!”

“To be sure I hev kept my promise. I allays keep my promise to the poor
man, just as fully as to the rich man. Tell your women that my partner
and I are going to put in order all your cottages--we are going to
put wells or running water in all of them, and re-roof and paint and
whitewash and mend where mending is needed. And you men during your
time of trouble, hev let your little gardens go to the bad. Get agate
quickly, and make them up to mark. You knaw you can’t do rough work with
your hands, you that reckon to weave fine broadcloth; but there will be
work of some kind or other, and it will be all planned out, while the
building goes on, as fast as men and money can make it go.”

“Squire,” said Jonathan in a voice so alive with feeling, so strong and
happy, that it might almost have been seen, as well as heard, “Squire,
I’ll be here at eight in the morning, happy to answer thy wish and
word.”

“Well, then, lads, I hev said enough for to-night. Go and make your
families and friends as happy as yoursens. I haven’t said all I wanted
to say, but I shall be right here with you, and I will see that not one
of my people suffer in any way. There is just another promise I make
you for my partner. She is planning a school--a good day school for
the children, and a hospital for the sick, and you’ll get them, sure
enough.”

“Squire, we thank thee with all our hearts, and we will now go and ring
t’ chapel bell, and get the people together, and tell them all thou hes
said would come to pass.”

“Too late to-night.”

“Not a bit too late. Even if we stop there till midnight, God loves
the midnight prayer. Oh, Squire Annis, thou hes done big things for
workingmen in London, and----”

“Ay, I did! I wouldn’t come home till I saw the workingmen got their
rights. And I shall see that my men get all, and more, than I hev
promised them. My word is my bond.”

Then the men with hearty good-bys, which is really the abbreviation of
“_God be with you!_” went quickly down the hill and in half-an-hour
the chapel bells were ringing and the squire stood at his open door and
listened with a glad heart to them. His wife and daughter watched him,
and then smiled at each other. They hardly knew what to say, for he was
the same man, and yet far beyond the same. His child-likeness, and his
pleasant bits of egotism, were, as usual, quite evident; and Annie
was delighted to see and hear the expressions of his simple
self-appreciation, but in other respects he was not unlike one who had
just attained unto his majority. To have had his breakfast and be ready
for a day’s tramp at eight o’clock in the morning was a wonderful thing
for Antony Annis to promise. Yet he faithfully kept it, and had
been away more than an hour when his wife and daughter came down to
breakfast.

Dick soon joined them, and he was not only in high spirits, but also
dressed with great care and taste. His mother regarded him critically,
and then became silent. She had almost instantly divined the reason of
his careful dressing. She looked inquisitively at Katherine, who dropped
her eyes and began a hurried and irrelative conversation about the most
trifling of subjects. Dick looked from one to the other, and said with a
shrug of his shoulders, “I see I have spoiled a private conversation. I
beg pardon. I will be away in a few minutes.”

“Where are you going so early, Dick?”

“I am going to Mr. Foster’s. I have a message to him from father, and I
have a very important message to Faith Foster from myself.” He made
the last remark with decision, drank off his coffee, and rose from the
table.

“Dick, listen to your mother. Do not be in a hurry about some trivial
affair, at this most important period of your father’s--of all our
lives. Nothing can be lost, everything is to be gained by a little
self-denial on the part of all, who fear they are being neglected.
Father has the right of way at this crisis.”

“I acknowledge that as unselfishly as you do, mother. I intend to help
father all I can. I could not, would not, do otherwise. Father wants to
see Mr. Foster, and I want to see Miss Foster. Is there anything I can
do for yourself or Kitty when I am in the village?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Then good-by,” and with a rapid glance at his sister, Dick left the
room. Neither mother nor sister answered his words. Mistress Annis took
rapid spoonfuls of coffee; Katherine broke the shell of her egg with
quite superfluous noise and rapidity. For a few moments there was
silence, full of intense emotion, and Katherine felt no inclination to
break it. She knew that Dick expected her at this very hour to make his
way easy, and his intentions clear to his mother. She had promised to
do so, and she did not see how she was to escape, or delay this action.
However, she instantly resolved to allow her mother to open the subject,
and stand as long as possible on the defensive.

Mistress Annis made exactly the same resolve. Her lips quivered, her
dropped eyes did not hide their trouble and she nervously began
to prepare herself a fresh cup of coffee. Katherine glanced at her
movements, and finally said, with an hysterical little laugh, “Dear
mammy, you have already put four pieces of sugar in your cup,” and she
laid her hand on her mother’s hand, and so compelled her to lift her
eyes and answer, “Oh, Kitty! Kitty! don’t you see, dearie? Dick has gone
through the wood to get a stick, and taken a crooked one at the last.
You know what I mean. Oh, dear me! Dear me!”

“You fear Dick is going to marry Faith Foster. Some months ago I told
you he would do so.”

“I could not take into my consciousness such a calamity.”

“Why do you say ‘calamity’?”

“A Methodist preacher’s daughter is far enough outside the pale of the
landed aristocracy.”

“She is as good as her father and every landed gentleman, in or near
this part of England, loves and respects, Mr. Foster. They ask his
advice on public and local matters, and he by himself has settled
disputes between masters and men in a way that satisfied both parties.”

“That is quite a different thing. Politics puts men on a sort of
equality, the rules of society keep women in the state in which it has
pleased God to put them.”

“Unless some man out of pure love lifts them up to his own rank by
marriage. I don’t think any man could lift up Faith. I do not know a man
that is able to stand equal to her.”

“Your awn brother, I think, ought to be in your estimation far----”

“Dick is far below her in every way, and Dick knows it. I think, mother
dear, it is a good sign for Dick’s future, to find him choosing for a
wife a woman who will help him to become nobler and better every year of
his life.”

“I hev brought up my son to a noble standard. Dick is now too good, or
at least good enough, for any woman that iver lived. I don’t care who,
or what she was, or is. I want no woman to improve Dick. Dick hes no
fault but the one of liking women below him, and inferior to him, and
unworthy of him:--women, indeed, that he will hev to educate in
ivery way, up to his own standard. That fault comes his father’s way
exactly--his father likes to feel free and easy with women, and he can’t
do it with the women of his awn rank--for tha knaws well, the women
of ivery station in life are a good bit above and beyond the men, and
so----”

“Dear mammy, do you think?--oh, you know you cannot think, father
married with that idea in his mind. You were his equal by birth, and yet
I have never seen father give up a point, even to you, that he didn’t
want to give up. I think father holds his awn side with everyone, and
holds it well. And if man or woman said anything different, I would not
envy them the words they would get from you.”

“Well, of course, I could only expect that you would stand by Dick in
any infatuation he had; the way girls and young men spoil their lives,
and ruin their prospects, by foolish, unfortunate marriage is a miracle
that hes confounded their elders iver since their creation. Adam fell
that way. Poor Adam!”

“But, mammy dear, according to your belief, the woman in any class is
always superior to the man.”

“There was no society, and no social class in that time, and you know
varry well what came of Adam’s obedience to the woman. She must hev been
weaker than her husband. Satan niver thought it worth his while to try
his schemes with Adam.”

“I wonder if Adam scolded and ill-treated Eve for her foolishness!”

“He ought to have done so. He ought to hev scolded her well and hard,
all her life long.”

“Then, of course, John Tetley, who killed his wife with his persistent
brutality, did quite right; for his excuse was that she coaxed him to
buy railway shares that proved actual ruin to him.”

“Well, I am tired of arguing with people who can only see one way. Your
sister Jane, who is just like me, and who always took my advice, hes
done well to hersen, and honored her awn kin, and----”

“Mother, do you really think Jane’s marriage an honor to her family?”

“Leyland is a peer, and a member of The House of Lords, and considered a
clever man.”

“A peer of three generations, a member of a House in which he dare not
open his mouth, for his cleverness is all quotation, not a line of it is
the breed of his own brain.”

“Of course, he is not made after the image and likeness of Harry
Bradley.”

“Mother, Harry is not our question now. I ask you to give Dick some good
advice and sympathy. If he will listen to anyone, you are the person
that can influence him. You must remember that Faith is very lovely, and
beauty goes wherever it chooses, and does what it wants to do.”

“And both Dick and you must remember that you can’t choose a wife, or
a husband, by his handsome looks. You might just as wisely choose your
shoes by the same rule. Sooner or later, generally sooner, they would
begin to pinch you. How long hev you known of this clandestine affair?”

“It was not clandestine, mother. I told you Dick was really in love with
Faith before we went to London.”

“Faith! Such a Methodist name.”

“Faith is not her baptismal name. She came to her father and mother as a
blessing in a time of great trouble, and they called her _Consola_ from
the word Consolation. You may think of her as Consola. She will have to
be married by that name. Her father wished for some private reason of
his own to call her Faith. He never told her why.”

“The one name is as disagreeable as the other, and the whole subject is
disagreeable; and, in plain truth, I don’t care to talk any more about
it.”

“Can I help you in anything this morning, mother?”

“No.”

“Then I will go to my room, and put away all the lovely things you
bought me in London.”

“You had better do so. Your father is now possessed by one idea, and he
will be wanting every pound to further it.”

“I think, too, mother, we have had our share.”

“Have you really nothing to tell me about Harry and yourself?”

“I could not talk of Harry this morning, mother. I think you may hear
something from father tonight, that will make you understand.”

“Very well. That will be soon enough, if it is more trouble,” and though
she spoke wearily, there was a tone of both pity and anxiety in her
voice.

Indeed, it was only the fact of the late busy days of travel and change,
and the atmosphere of a great reconstruction of their whole life and
household, that had prevented Mistress Annis noticing, as she otherwise
would have done, the pallor and sorrow in her daughter’s appearance.
Not even the good fortune that had come to her father, could dispel the
sickheartedness which had caused her to maintain a stubborn silence
to all Harry’s pleas for excuse and pardon. Dick was his sister’s only
confidant and adviser in this matter, and Dick’s anger had increased
steadily. He was now almost certain that Harry deserved all the
resentment honest love could feel and show towards those who had
deceived and betrayed it. And the calamity that is not sure, is almost
beyond healing. The soul has not forseen, or tried to prevent it. It has
come in a hurry without credentials, and holds the hope of a “perhaps”
 in its hands; it may not perhaps be as bad as it appears; it may not
perhaps be true. There may possibly be many mitigating circumstances yet
not known. Poor Kitty! She had but this one sad circumstance to think
about, she turned it a hundred ways, but it was always the same.
However, as she trailed slowly up the long stairway, she said to
herself--

“Mother was talking in the dark, but patience, one more day! Either
father or Dick will bring the truth home with them.”




CHAPTER XI--AUNT JOSEPHA INTERFERES


_“Nothing seems to have happened so long ago as an affair of Love.”_

_“To offend any person is the next foolish thing to being offended.”_

_“When you can talk of a new lover, you have forgotten the old one.”_


 LIFE is full of issues. Nothing happens just as we expect or prepare
for it, and when the squire returned home late in the afternoon, weary
but full of enthusiasm, he was yet ignorant concerning the likely
nomination of Bradley for the united boroughs of Annis and Bradley. He
had walked all of fourteen miles, and he told his wife proudly, that
“Jonathan was more weary with the exercise than he was.”

“All the same, Annie,” he added, as he kissed her fondly, “I was glad to
see Britton with the horse and gig at the foot of the hill. That was a
bit of thy thoughtfulness. God bless thee, dearie!”

“Yes, it was. I knew thou hed not walked as much as tha ought to hev
done while we were in London. I don’t want thy fine figure spoiled, but
I thought thou would be tired enough when thou got to the foot of the
hill.”

“So I was, and Jonathan was fairly limping, but we hev settled on t’
mill site--there’s nothing can lick Clitheroe Moor side, just where it
touches the river. My land covers twenty acres of it, and on its south
edge it is almost within touch of the new railway going to Leeds.
Jonathan fairly shouted, as soon as we stood on it. ‘Squire,’ he said,
‘here’s a mill site in ten thousand. There cannot be a finer one
found in England, and it is the varry bit of land that man Boocock
wanted--_and didn’t get as tha knows?_’ Now I must write to Josepha, and
tell her to come quickly and see it. She must bring with her also her
business adviser.”

“Does tha reckon to be under thy sister?”

“Keep words like those behind thy lips, and set thy teeth for a barrier
they cannot pass. We are equal partners, equal in power and profit,
equal in loss or gain.” Then he was silent, and Annie understood
that she had gone far enough. Yet out of pure womanly wilfulness, she
answered--

“I shall not presume to speak another word about thy partner,” and
Antony Annis looked at her over the rim of his tea cup, and the ready
answer was on his lips, but he could not say it. Her personal beauty
smote the reproving words back, her handsome air of defiance conquered
his momentary flash of anger. She had her husband at her feet. She knew
it, and her steady, radiant smile completed her victory. Then she leaned
towards him, and he put down his cup and kissed her fondly. He had
intended to say “O confound it, Annie! What’s up with thee? Can’t thou
take a great kindness with anything but bitter biting words?” And what
he really said was--“Oh, Annie! Annie! sweet, dear Annie!” And lo! there
came no harm from this troubling of a man’s feelings, because Annie knew
just how far it was safe for her to go.

This little breeze cleared the room that had been filled with unrestful
and unfair suspicions all the day long. The squire suddenly found out it
was too warm, and rose and opened the window. Then he asked--like a man
who has just recovered himself from some mental neglect--“Wheriver hev
Dick and Kitty gone to? I hevn’t seen nor heard them since I came home.”

“They went to the village before two o’clock. They went to the Methodist
preacher’s house, I hev no doubt. Antony, what is to come of this
foolishness? I tell thee Dick acts as never before.”

“About Faith?”

“Yes.”

“What hes he said to thee about Faith? How does he act?” asked the
squire.

“He hes not said so much to me as he usually does about the girl he is
carrying-on-with, but he really believes himself in love with her for
iver and iver.”

“I’ll be bound, he thinks that very thing. Dick is far gone. But the
girl is fair and good. He might do worse.”

“I don’t like her, far from it.”

“She is always busy in some kind of work.”

“Busy to a fault.”

“I’ll tell thee what, my Joy. We shall hev to make the best we can of
this affair. If Dick is bound to marry her, some day their wedding will
come off. So there is no good in worrying about it. But I am sure in the
long run, all will be well.”

“My mind runs on this thing, and it troubles me. Thou ought to speak
sharp and firm to Dick. I am sure Josepha hes other plans for him.”

“I’ll break no squares with my lad, about any woman.”

“The girls all make a dead set for Dick.”

“Not they! It hes allays been the other way about. We wanted him to
marry pretty Polly Raeburn, and as soon as he found that out, he gave
her up. That is Dick’s awful way. Tell him he ought to marry Faith, and
he will make easy shift to do without her. That is the short and
the long of this matter. Now, Annie, thou must not trouble me about
childish, foolish love affairs. I hev work for two men as strong as
mysen to do, and I am going to put my shoulder to the collar and do it.
Take thy awn way with Dick. I must say I hev a fellow feeling with the
lad. Thou knows I suffered a deal, before I came to the point of running
away with thee.”

“What we did, is neither here nor there, the circumstances were
different. I think I shall let things take their chance.”

“Ay, I would. Many a ship comes bravely into harbor, that hes no pilot
on board.”

“Did tha hear any political news? It would be a strange thing if
Jonathan could talk all day with thee, and the both of you keep off
politics.”

“Well, tha sees, we were out on business and business means ivery
faculty a man hes. I did speak once of Josepha, and Jonathan said, ‘She
is good for any sum.’”

“Antony, hes thou ever thought about the House of Commons since thou
came home? What is tha going to do about thy business there?”

“I hevn’t thought on that subject. I am going to see Wetherall about it.
I cannot be in two places at one time, and I am going to stick to Annis
Mill.”

“Will it be any loss to thee to give up thy seat?”

“Loss or gain, I am going to stand firmly by the mill. I don’t think it
will be any money loss. I’ll tell Wetherall to sell the seat to any
man that is of my opinions, and will be bound to vote for the Liberal
party.”

“I would see Wetherall soon, if I was thee.”

“What’s the hurry? Parliament is still sitting. Grey told me it could
not get through its present business until August or later.”

“It will not be later. September guns and rods will call ivery man to
the hills or the waters.”

“That’s varry likely, and if so, they won’t go back to London until
December. So there’s no need for thee to worry thysen about December.
It’s only June yet, tha knows.”

“Will tha lose money by selling thy seat?”

“Not I! I rayther think I’ll make money. And I’ll save a bag of
sovereigns. London expenses hes been the varry item that hes kept us
poor,--that is, poorer than we ought to be. There now! That will do
about London. I am a bit tired of London. I hear Dick and Kitty’s
voices, and there’s music in them. O God, what a grand thing it is to be
young!”

“I must order fresh tea for them, they are sure to be hungry.”

“Not they! There’s no complaining in their voices. Listen how gayly Dick
laughs. And I know Kitty is snuggling up to him, and saying some loving
thing or ither. Bless the children! It would be a dull house wanting
them.”

“Antony!”

“So it would, Annie, and thou knows it. Hev some fresh food brought for
them. Here they are!” And the squire rose to meet them, taking Kitty
within his arm, and giving his hand to Dick.

“Runaways!” he said. “Whativer kept you from your eating? Mother hes
ordered some fresh victuals. They’ll be here anon.”

“We have had our tea, mother--such a merry meal!”

“Wheriver then?

“At Mr. Foster’s,” said Dick promptly. “Mr. Foster came in while Kitty
and I were sitting with Faith, and he said ‘it was late, and he was
hungry, and we had better get tea ready.’ And ‘so full of fun and
pleasure we all four went to work. Mr. Foster and I set the table, and
Faith and Kitty cut the bread and butter, and all of us together brought
on cold meat and Christ-Church patties, and it was all done in such a
joyous mood, that you would have thought we were children playing at
having a picnic. Oh! it was such a happy hour! Was it not, Kitty?”

“Indeed it was. I shall never forget it.”

But who can prolong a joy when it is over? Both Kitty and Dick tried to
do so, but the squire soon turned thoughtful, and Mistress Annis, though
she said only nice words, put no sympathy into them; and they were only
words, and so fell to the ground lifeless. The squire was far too genial
a soul, not to feel this condition, and he said suddenly--“Dick, come
with me. I hev a letter to write to thy aunt, and thou can do it for me.
I’ll be glad of thy help.”

“I will come gladly, father. I wish you would let me do all the writing
about business there is to be done. Just take me for your secretary.”

“That is a clever idea. We will talk it out a bit later. Come thy ways
with me, now. No doubt thy mother and sister hev their awn things to
talk over. Women hev often queer views of what seems to men folk varry
reasonable outcomes.”

So the two men went out very confidingly together, and Kitty remained
with her mother, who sat silently looking into the darkening garden.

Neither spoke for a few minutes, then Kitty lifted her cape and bonnet
and said, “I am tired, mother. I think I will go to my room.”

“Varry well, but answer me a few questions first. What do you now think
of Dick’s fancy for Faith?”

“It is not a fancy, mother. It is a love that will never fade or grow
old. He will marry Faith or he will never marry.”

“Such sentimentality! It is absurd!”

“Dick thinks his love for Faith Foster the great fact of his life. He
will never give her up. Her ways are his ways. He thinks as she thinks.
He would do anything she asked him to do. Dear mammy, try and make the
best of it. You cannot alter it. It is Destiny, and I heard Mr. Foster
say, that no person, nor yet any nation, could fight Destiny unless God
was on their side. I think it is Dick’s destiny to marry Faith.”

“Think as you like, Katherine, but be so kind as to omit quoting Mr.
Foster’s opinions in my presence.”

“Very well, mother.”

“And I do wish you would make up your quarrel with Harry Bradley; it is
very unpleasant to have you go mourning about the house and darkening
the only bit of good fortune that has ever come to your father. Indeed,
I think it is very selfish and cruel. I do that!”

“I am sorry. I try to forget, but--” and she wearily lifted her cape and
left the room. And her mother listened to her slow, lifeless steps on
the stairway, and sorrowfully wondered what she ought to do. Suddenly
she remembered that her husband had asked her not to trouble him about
foolish love affairs and Dick was sure to take Katherine’s view of the
matter, whatever the trouble was; and, indeed, she was quite aware that
the squire himself leaned to the side of the lovers, and there was no
one else she could speak to. It was all a mixed up anxiety, holding
apparently no hope of relief from outside help.

Yes, there was Aunt Josepha, and as soon as she stepped into the
difficulty, Katherine’s mother felt there would be some explanation or
help. It was only waiting a week, and Madam Temple would be in Annis,
and with this reflection she tried to dismiss the subject.

Indeed, everyone in Annis Hall was now looking forward to the visit of
Josepha. But more than a fortnight elapsed before she arrived, bringing
with her experts and advisers of various kinds. The latter were
pleasantly located in the village inn, and Josepha was delighted with
the beautiful and comfortable arrangements her sister-in-law had made
for her. She came into their life with overflowing good humor and
spirits, and was soon as busily interested in the great building work as
her happy brother.

She had to ride all through the village to reach the mill site, and she
did not think herself a day too old to come down to breakfast in her
riding habit and accompany her brother. It was not long, however, before
the pair separated. Soon after her arrival, the village women, one by
one, renewed their acquaintance with her, and every woman looked to Miss
Josepha for relief, or advice about their special tribulations. Many of
them were women of her own age. They remembered her as Miss Josepha,
and prided themselves on the superiority of their claim. To the younger
women she was Madam, just Madam, and indeed it was a queer little
incident that quite naturally, and without any word of explanation,
made all, both old and young, avoid any other name than Miss Josepha.
“Yorkshire is for its awn folk, we doan’t take to strange people and
strange names,” said Israel Naylor, when questioned by some of the
business experts Josepha had brought down with her; “and,” he explained,
“Temple is a Beverley name, or I mistake, and Annis folk know nothing
about Beverley names.” So Madam Temple was almost universally Miss
Josepha, to the villagers, and she liked the name, and people who used
it won her favor.

In a few weeks she had to hire a room in Naylor’s house, and go there at
a fixed hour to see any of the people who wanted her. All classes came
to this room, from the Episcopal curate and the Methodist preacher, to
the poor widow of a weaver, who had gone to Bradford for work, and died
of cholera there. “Oh, Miss Josepha!” she cried, “Jonathan Hartley told
me to come to thee, and he said, he did say, that thou hed both wisdom
and money in plenty, and that thou would help me.”

“What is thy trouble, Nancy?”

“My man died in Bradford, and he left me nothing but four helpless
childer, and I hev a sister in Bradford who will take care of them while
I go back to my old place as pastry cook at the Black Swan Hotel.”

“That would be a good plan, Nancy.”

“For sure it would, Miss Josepha, but we awned our cottage, and our bee
skeps, and two dozen poultry, and our old loom. I can’t turn them into
brass again, and so I’m most clemmed with it all.”

“How much do you want for the ‘all you awn’?”

“I would count mysen in luck, if I got one hundred and fifty pounds.”

“Is that sum its honest worth, not a penny too much, or a penny too
little?”

“It is just what it cost us; ivery penny, and not a penny over, or
less.”

“Then I’ll buy it, if all is as thou says. I’ll hev my lawyer look it
over, and I’ll see what the squire says, and if thou hes been straight
with me, thou can go home, and pack what tha wants to take with thee.”

This incident was the initial purchase of many other cottages sold for
similar reasons, and when Josepha went back to London, she took with
her the title deeds of a large share of Annis village property. “But,
Antony,” she said, “I hev paid the full value of ivery deed I hold, ay,
in some cases more than their present value, but I do not doubt I shall
get all that is mine when the time is ripe for more, and more, and more
mills.”

“Was this thy plan, when thou took that room in the Inn?”

“Not it! I took it for a meeting place. I know most of the women
here, and I saw plainly Annie would not be able to stand the constant
visitations that were certain to follow. It made trouble in the kitchen,
and the voice of the kitchen soon troubles the whole house. Annie must
be considered, and the comfort of the home. That is the great right.
Then I hev other business with Annis women, not to be mixed up with thy
affairs. We are going to plan such an elementary school as Annis needs
for its children, with classes at night for the women who doan’t want
their boys and girls to be ashamed of them. And there must be a small
but perfectly fitted up hospital for the workers who turn sick or get
injured in the mill. And the Reverend Mr. Bentley and the Reverend Mr.
Foster come to me with their cases of sorrow and sickness, and I can
tell thee a room for all these considerations was one of the necessities
of our plans.”

“I hevn’t a bit of doubt of it. But it is too much for thee to manage.
Thou art wearying soul and body.”

“Far from it. It is as good and as great a thing to save a soul as it is
to make it. I am varry happy in my work, and as Mr. Foster would put it,
I feel a good deal nearer God, than I did counting up interest money in
London.”

In the meantime the home life at Annis Hall was not only changed but
constantly changing. There was always some stranger--some expert of one
kind or another--a guest in its rooms, and their servants or assistants
kept the kitchen in a racket of cooking, and eating, and unusual
excitement. Mistress Annis sometimes felt that it would be impossible to
continue the life, but every day the squire came home so tired, and
so happy, that all discomforts fled before his cheery “Hello!” and his
boyish delight in the rapidly growing edifice. Dick had become his paid
secretary, and in the meantime was studying bookkeeping, and learning
from Jonathan all that could be known, concerning long and short staple
wools.

Katherine was her mother’s right hand all the long day, but often,
towards closing time, she went down to the village on her pony, and then
the squire, or Dick, or both, rode home with her. Poor Kitty! Harry no
longer wrote to her, and Josepha said she had heard that he had gone to
America on a business speculation, “and it is a varry likely thing,”
 she said, “for Harry knew a penny from a pound, before he learned how to
count. I wouldn’t fret about him, dearie.”

“I am not fretting, aunt, but how would you feel, if you had shut the
door of your heart, and your love lay dead on its threshold. Nothing is
left to me now, but the having loved.”

“Well, dearie, when we hevn’t what we love, we must love what we hev.
Thou isn’t a bit like thy sen.”

“I have never felt young since Harry left me.”

“That is a little thing to alter thee so much.”

“No trouble that touches the heart is a little thing.”

“Niver mind the past, dearie. Love can work miracles. If Harry really
loved thee he will come back to thee. Love is the old heartache of the
world, and then all in a minute some day, he is the Healing Love and The
Comforter. I hev a good mind to tell thee something, that I niver told
to any ither mortal sinner.”

“If it would help me to bear more cheerfully my great loss, I would be
glad to hear anything of that kind.”

Then Josepha sat down and spread her large capable hands one over each
knee and looking Kitty full in the eyes said--“I was at thy age as far
gone in love, with as handsome a youth as your Harry is. One morning
we hed a few words about the value of good birth, and out of pure
contradiction I set it up far beyond what I really thought of it; though
I’ll confess I am yet a bit weak about my awn ancestors. Now my lover
was on this subject varry touchy, for his family hed money, more than
enough, but hed no landed gentry, and no coat of arms, in fact, no
family. And I hed just hed a few words with mother, and Antony hedn’t
stood up for me. Besides, I wasn’t dressed fit to be seen, or I thought
I wasn’t, and I was out with mother, and out with Antony, well then, I
was out with mysen, and all the world beside; and I asked varry crossly:
‘Whativer brings thee here at this time of day? I should hev thought
thou knew enough to tell thysen, a girl hes no liking for a lover that
comes in the morning. He’s nothing but in her way.’”

“Oh, auntie, how could you?”

“Well, then, there was a varry boisterous wind blowing, and they do say,
the devil is allays busy in a high wind. I suppose he came my road
that morning, and instead of saying ‘be off with thee’ I made him so
comfortable in my hot temper, he just bided at my side, and egged me on,
to snap out ivery kind of provoking thing.”

“I am very much astonished, aunt. The fair word that turneth away wrath
is more like you.”

“For sure it is, or else there hes been a great change for t’ better
since that time. Well, that day it was thus, and so; and I hev often
wondered as to the why and wherefore of that morning’s foolishness.”

“Did he go away forever that morning?”

“He did not come for a week, and during that week, Admiral Temple came
to see father, and he stayed until he took with him my promise to be his
wife early in the spring.”

“Were you very miserable, auntie?”

“Oh, my dear, I was sick in love, as I could be.”

“Why didn’t you make it up with him?”

“I hed several reasons for not doing so. My father hed sailed with
Admiral Temple, and they were friends closer than brothers, for they hed
saved each other’s lives--that was one reason. I was angry at my
lover staying away a whole week. That was reason number two. Ten years
afterwards I learned, quite accidentally, that his coming was prevented
by circumstances it was impossible for him to control. Then my mother
hed bragged all her fine words over the country-side, about the great
marriage I was to make. That was another reason;--and I am a bit ashamed
to say, the splendid jewels and the rich silks and Indian goods my new
lover sent me seemed to make a break with him impossible. At any rate,
I felt this, and mother and father niver spoke of the Admiral that they
did not add another rivet to the bond between us. So at last I married
my sailor, and I thank God I did so!”

“Did your lover break his heart?”

“Not a bit of it! He married soon after I was married.”

“Whom did he marry?”

“Sophia Ratcliffe, a varry pretty girl from the old town of
Boroughbridge. I niver saw her. I went with the Admiral, by permission,
to various ports, remaining at some convenient town, while he sailed far
and wide after well-loaded ships of England’s enemies, and picking up as
he sailed, any bit of land flying no civilized flag. I did not come back
to Annis for five years. My father was then dead, my mother hed gone
back to her awn folks, and my brother Antony was Squire of Annis.”

“Then did you meet your old lover?”

“One day, I was walking with Antony through the village, and we met the
very loveliest child I iver saw in all my life. He was riding a Shetland
pony, and a gentleman walked by his side, and watched him carefully, and
I found out at once by his air of authority that he was the boy’s tutor.
I asked the little fellow for a kiss, and he bent his lovely face and
smilingly let me take what I wanted. Then they passed on and Antony
said, ‘His mother died three months ago, and he nearly broke his heart
for her.’ ‘Poor little chap,’ I said, and my eyes followed the little
fellow down the long empty street. ‘His father,’ continued Antony, ‘was
just as brokenhearted. All Annis village was sorry for him.’
‘Do I know him?’ I asked. ‘I should think so!’ answered thy father with
a look of surprise, and then someone called, ‘Squire,’ and we waited,
and spoke to the man about his taxes. After his complaint had been
attended to we went forward, and I remembered the child, and asked,
‘What is the name of that lovely child?’ And Antony said,
“‘His name is Harry Bradley. His father is John Thomas Bradley. Hes thou
forgotten him?’

“Then I turned and looked after the boy, but the little fellow was
nearly out of sight. I only got a last glimpse of some golden curls
lying loose over his white linen suit and black ribbons.”

Then Josepha ceased speaking and silently took the weeping girl in her
arms. She kissed her, and held her close, until the storm of sorrow was
over, then she said softly:

“There it is, Lovey! The lot of women is on thee. Bear it bravely for
thy father’s sake. He hes a lot to manage now, and he ought not to see
anything but happy people, or hear anything but loving words. Wash thy
face, and put on thy dairymaid’s linen bonnet and we will take a
breath of fresh air in the lower meadow. Its hedges are all full of
the Shepherd’s rose, and their delicious perfume gives my soul a fainty
feeling, and makes me wonder in what heavenly paradise I had caught that
perfume before.”

“I will, aunt. You have done me good, it would be a help to many girls
to have heard your story. We have so many ideas that, if examined,
would not look as we imagine them to be. Agatha De Burg used to say that
‘unfaithfulness to our first love was treason to our soul.’”

“I doan’t wonder, if that was her notion. She stuck through thick and
thin to that scoundrel De Burg, and she was afraid De Burg was thinking
of thee, and afraid thou would marry him. When girls first go into
society they are in a bit of a hurry to get married; if they only wait a
year or two, it does not seem such a pressing matter. Thou knows De
Burg was Agatha’s first love, and she hes not realized yet, that it is a
God’s mercy De Burg hes not kep the promises he made her.”

“The course of true love never yet ran smooth,” and Katherine sighed as
she poured out some water and prepared to wash her face.

“Kitty,” said her aunt, “the way my life hes been ordered for me,
shows that God, and only God, orders the three great events of ivery
life--birth, marriage and death; that is, if we will let Him do so.
Think a moment, if I hed married John Thomas Bradley, I would hev spent
all my best days in a lonely Yorkshire hamlet, in the midst of worrying
efforts to make work pay, that was too out-of-date to struggle along.
Until I was getting to be an old woman, I would hev known nothing but
care and worry, and how John Thomas would hev treated me, nobody but God
knew. I hated poverty, and I would hev been poor. I wanted to see Life
and Society and to travel, and I would hardly hev gone beyond Annis
Village. Well, now, see how things came about. I mysen out of pure bad
temper made a quarrel with my lover, and then perversely I wouldn’t make
it up, and then the Admiral steps into my life, gives me ivery longing
I hed, and leaves me richer than all my dreams. I hev seen Life and
Society, and the whole civilized world, and found out just what it
is worth, and I hev made money, and am now giving mysen the wonderful
pleasure of helping others to be happy. Sit thee quiet. If Harry is
thine, he will come to thee sure as death! If he does not come of his
awn free will, doan’t thee move a finger to bring him. Thou wilt mebbe
bring nothing but trouble to thysen. There was that young banker thou
met at Jane’s house, he loved thee purely and sincerely. Thou might
easily hev done far worse than marry him. Whativer hed thou against
him?”

“His hair.”

“What was wrong with the lad’s hair?”

“Why, aunt, Jane called it ‘sandy’ but I felt sure it was turning
towards red.”

“Stuff and nonsense! It will niver turn anything but white, and it
won’t turn white till thy awn is doing the same thing. And tha knaws
it doesn’t make much matter what color a man’s hair is. Englishmen are
varry seldom without a hat of one kind or another. I doan’t believe I
would hev known the Admiral without his naval hat, or in his last years,
his garden hat. Does tha remember an old lady called Mrs. Sam Sagar? She
used to come and see thy mother, when thou was only a little lass about
eight years old, remember her, she was a queer old lady.”

“Queer, but Yorkshire; queer, but varry sensible. Her husband, like the
majority of Yorkshiremen, niver took off his hat, unless to put on his
nightcap, or if he was going inside a church, or hed to listen to the
singing of ‘God Save the King.’ When he died, his wife hed his favorite
hat trimmed with black crape, and it hung on its usual peg of the hat
stand, just as long as she lived. You see his hat was the bit of his
personality that she remembered best of all. Well, what I wanted to show
thee was, the importance of the hat to a man, and then what matters the
color of his hair.”

By this time they were in the thick green grass of the meadow, and
Kitty laughed at her aunt’s illustration of the Yorkshire man’s habit
of covering his head, and they chatted about it, as they gathered great
handfuls of shepherd’s roses. And after this, Josepha spoke only of her
plans for the village, and of Faith’s interest in them. She felt she
had said plenty about love, and she hoped the seed she had sown that
afternoon had fallen on good ground. Surely it is a great thing to know
_how and when to let go._




CHAPTER XII--THE SQUIRE MAKES GOOD


_“Busy, happy, loving people; talking, eating, singing, sewing, living
through every sense they have at the same time.”_

_“People who are happy, do not write down their happiness.”_


 THE summer went quickly away, but during it the whole life of Annis
Hall and Annis Village changed. The orderly, beautiful home was tossed
up by constant visitors, either on business, or on simple social
regulations; and the village was full of strange men, who had small
respect for what they considered such an old-fashioned place. But in
spite of all opinions and speculations, the work for which all this
change was permitted went on with unceasing energy. The squire’s
interest in it constantly increased, and Dick’s enthusiasm and ability
developed with every day’s exigencies. Then Josepha was constantly
bringing the village affairs into the house affairs, and poor women
with easy, independent manners, were very troublesome to Britton and
his wife. They were amazed at the tolerance with which Mistress Annis
permitted their frequent visits and they reluctantly admitted such
excuses as she made for them.

“You must remember, Betsy,” she frequently explained, “that few of them
have ever been in any home but their father’s and their own. They have
been as much mistress in their own home, as I have been in my home.
Their ideas of what is fit and respectful, come from their heart and are
not in any degree habits of social agreement. If they like or respect a
person, they are not merely civil or respectful, they are kind and free,
and speak just as they feel.”

“They do that, Madam--a good bit too free.”

“Well, Betsy, they are Mistress Temple’s business at present. Thou need
not mind them.”

“I doan’t, not in the least.”

“They are finding out for her, things she wants to know about the
village, the number of children that will be to teach--the number of men
and women that know how to read and write.”

“Few of that kind, Madam, if any at all.”

“You know she is now making plans for a school, and she wants, of
course, to have some idea as to the number likely to go there, and other
similar questions. Everyone ought to know how to read and write.”

“Well, Madam, Britton and mysen hev found our good common senses all we
needed. They were made and given to us by God, when we was born. He gave
us senses enough to help us to do our duty in that state of life it had
pleased Him to call us to. These eddicated lads are fit for nothing.
Britton won’t be bothered with them. He says neither dogs nor horses
like them. They understand Yorkshire speech and ways, but when a lad
gets book knowledge, they doan’t understand his speech, and his ways
of pronouncing his words; and they just think scorn of his
perliteness--they kick up their heels at it, and Britton says they do
right. _Why-a!_ We all know what school teachers are! The varry childher
feel suspicious o’ them, and no wonder! They all hev a rod or a strap
somewhere about them, and they fairly seem to enjoy using it. I niver
hed a lick from anybody in my life. I wouldn’t hev stood it, except from
dad, and his five senses were just as God made them; and if dad gave
any o’ the lads a licking, they deserved it, and they didn’t mind taking
it.”

“If they got one from a schoolmaster, I dare say they would deserve it.”

“No, Madam, begging your pardon, I know instances on the contrary. My
sister-in-law’s cousin’s little lad was sent to a school by Colonel
Broadbent, because he thought the child was clever beyond the usual run
of lads, and he got such a cruel basting as niver was, just because
he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, learn something they called parts of
speech--hard, long names, no meaning in them.”

“That was too bad. Did he try to learn them?”

“He tried himsen sick, and Britton he tried to help him. Britton learned
one word, called in-ter-jec-tions. He tried that word on both dogs and
horses----”

“Well, what followed?”

“Nothing, Madam. He wanted the horses to go on, and they stood stock
still. The dogs just looked up at him, as if they thought he hed lost
his senses. And Britton, he said then and there, ‘the Quality can hev
all my share of grammar, and they are varry welcome to it.’ Our folk,
young and old, learn greedily to read. Writing hes equal favor with
them, arithmatic goes varry well with their natural senses, but grammar!
What’s the use of grammar? They talk better when they know nothing about
it.”

So it must be confessed, Miss Josepha did not meet with the eager
gratitude she expected. She was indeed sometimes tempted to give up her
plans, but to give up was to Josepha so difficult and so hateful that
she would not give the thought a moment’s consideration. “I hev been
taking the wrong way about the thing,” she said to Annie. “I will go and
talk to them, mysen.”

“Then you will make them delighted to do all your will. Put on your bib
and tucker, and ask Mr. Foster’s permission to use the meeting room of
the Methodist Chapel. That will give your plans the sacred touch women
approve when the subject concerns themselves.” This advice was followed,
and two days afterward, Josepha dressed herself for a chapel interview
with the mothers of Annis. The special invitation pleased them, and they
went to the tryst with their usual up-head carriage, and free and easy
manner, decidely accentuated.

Josepha was promptly at the rendezvous appointed, and precisely as
the clock struck three, she stepped from the vestry door to the little
platform used by the officials of the church in all their secular
meetings. She smiled and bowed her head and then cried--“Mothers of
Annis, good afternoon to every one of you!” And they rose in a body, and
made her a courtesy, and then softly clapped their hands, and as soon as
there was silence, Jonathan Hartley’s daughter welcomed her. There was
nothing wanting in this welcome, it was brimful of honest pleasure.
Josepha was Annis. She was the sister of their squire, she was a very
handsome woman, and she had thought it worth while to dress herself
handsomely to meet them. She was known to every woman in the village,
but she had never become commonplace or indifferent. There was no other
woman just like her in their vicinity, and she had always been a ready
helper in all the times of their want and trouble.

As she stood up before them, she drew every eye to her. She wore or
this occasion, her very handsomest, deepest, mourning garments. Her long
nun-like crêpe veil would have fallen below her knees had it not been
thrown backward, and within her bonnet there was a Maria Stuart border
of the richest white crêpe. Her thick wavy hair was untouched by Time,
and her stately figure, richly clothed in long garments of silk poplin,
was improved, and not injured, by a slight _embonpoint_ that gave her a
look of stability and strength. Her face, both handsome and benign, had
a rather austere expression, natural and approved,-though none in that
audience understood that it was the result of a strong will, tenaciously
living out its most difficult designs.

Without a moment’s delay she went straight to her point, and with
vigorous Yorkshire idioms soon carried every woman in the place with
her; and she knew so well the mental temperature of her audience, that
she promptly declined their vote. “I shall take your word, women,” she
said in a confident tone, “and I shall expect ivery one of you to keep
it.”

Amid loud and happy exclamations, she left the chapel and when she
reached the street, saw that her coachman was slowly walking the ponies
in an opposite direction, in order to soothe their restlessness. She
also was too restless to stand still and wait their leisurely pace and
she walked in the same direction, knowing that they must very soon meet
each other. Almost immediately someone passed her, then turned back and
met face to face.

It was a handsome man of about the squire’s age, and he put out his
hand, and said with a charming, kindly manner:--

“_Why-a, Josepha! Josepha!_ At last we hev met again.”

For just a moment Josepha hesitated, then she gave the apparent stranger
her hand, and they stood laughing and chatting together, until the
ponies were at hand, and had to be taken away for another calming
exercise.

“I hevn’t seen you, Josepha, for twenty-four years and five months and
four days. I was counting the space that divided us yesterday, when
somebody told me about this meeting of Annis women, and I thought, ‘I
will just go to Annis, and hang round till I get a glimpse of her.’”

“Well, John Thomas,” she answered, “it is mainly thy awn fault. Thou hed
no business to quarrel with Antony.”

“It was Antony’s fault.”

“No, it was not.”

“Well, then, it was all my fault.”

“Ay, thou must stick to that side of the quarrel, or I’ll not hev to
know thee,” and both laughed and shook hands again. Then she stepped
into her carriage, and Bradley said:

“But I shall see thee again, surely?”

“It might so happen,” she answered with a pretty wave of her hand. And
all the way home she was wandering what good or evil Fate had brought
John Thomas Bradley into her life again.

When she got back to the Hall, she noticed that her sister-in-law was
worried, and she asked, “What is bothering thee now, Annie?”

“Well, Josepha, Antony hed a visit from Lawyer Wetherall and he told
Antony Annis that he hes not a particle of right to the seat in The
House of Commons, as matters stand now. He says the new borough will
be contested, and that Colonel Frobisher of Annis is spoken of for
the Liberals, and Sir John Conyers or John Thomas Bradley are likely
candidates for the Tory side of affairs. They hed a long talk and it
wasn’t altogether a pleasant one, and Wetherall went away in a huff, and
Antony came to me in one of his still passions, and I hev been heving
a varry disagreeable hour or two; and I do think Antony’s ignorance
on this matter quite shameful. He ought to hev known, on what right or
title he held such an honor. I am humiliated by the circumstance.”

“Well, then, thou needn’t be so touchy. A great many lords and earls and
men of high degree hev been as ignorant as Antony. Thy husband stands in
varry good company. Antony isn’t a bit to blame. Not he! Antony held his
right from the people of Annis--his awn people--he did not even buy it,
as some did. It had been his, with this authenticity, for centuries.
Thou shared with him all of the honor and profit it brought, and if
there was any wrong in the way it came, thou sanctioned and shared it.
And if I was Antony I would send Wetherall to the North Pole in his
trust or esteem. If he knew different he ought to hev told Antony
different long ago. I shall take ivery bit of business I hev given
Wetherall out of his hands to-morrow morning. And if he charges me a
penny-piece too much I’ll give him trouble enough to keep on the fret
all the rest of his life. I will that!”

“I hev no doubt of it.”

“Where is Antony now?”

“Wheriver that weary mill is building, I suppose.”

“Well, thou ought to be a bit beyond ‘supposing.’ Thou ought to _know_.
It is thy place to know, and if he is in trouble, to be helping him to
bear it.”

“Josepha, there is no use in you badgering and blaming me. What would
you hev done if Wetherall hed said such and such things, in your
presence, as he did in mine?”

“I would hev told him he was a fool, as well as a rascal, to tell at the
end what he ought to hev told at the beginning. If Antony hed no right
to the seat, why did he take money, year after year, for doing business
connected with the seat; and niver open his false mouth? I shall get
mysen clear of him early to-morrow morning.”

“Don’t go away now, Josepha. I will send someone to look for the
squire.”

“I will go mysen, Annie. Thank you!”

She found the squire in a very troubled, despondent mood. “Josepha,” he
cried, “to think that I hev been filling a position on sufferance that I
thought was my lawful right!”

“And that rascal, Wetherall, niver said a word to thee?”

“It is my awn fault. I aught to hev inquired into the matter long ago.”

“Then so ought the rest of the legislators. Custom becomes right,
through length of years, and thou art not to blame, not in the least.
Now, however, I would give it up to the people, who gave it to thee. Not
to Wetherall! Put him out of the affair. _Entirely!_ There is to be a
meeting on the village green to-night. Go to it, and then and there say
the words that will give thy heart satisfaction.”

“Ay, I intend to go, but Annie is vexed, and she makes me feel as if I
hed done something that reflects on our honor and respectability.”

“Thou hes done nothing of the kind. No man in all England or Scotland
will say such a thing. Doan’t thee take blame from anyone. If women hed
to judge men’s political character, ivery one would be wrong but their
awn men folk.”

“Annie thinks I hev been wrong.”

“Annie is peculiar. There are allays exceptions to ivery proposition.
Annie is an exception. Dress thysen in thy handsomest field suit, and
take thy short dog whip in thy hands; it will speed thy words more than
thou could believe, and a crack with it will send an epithet straight
to where it should go.” The squire laughed and leaped to his feet. “God
bless thee, Josepha! I’ll do just what tha says.”

“Then thou’ll do right.”

This promise was not an easy one to keep, in the face of Annie’s air
of reproach and suffering; but, nevertheless, it was kept, and when the
squire came in sight of the Green he saw a very large gathering of
men already standing round a rude rostrum, on which sat or stood
half-a-dozen gentlemen. Annis put his horse in the care of his servant,
and stood on the edge of the crowd. Wetherall was talking to the newly
made citizens, and explaining their new political status and duties to
them, and at the close of his speech said, “he had been instructed to
propose John Thomas Bradley for the Protective or Tory government,” and
this proposal was immediately seconded by a wealthy resident of Bradley
village.

The squire set his teeth firmly, his lips were drawn straight and tight,
and his eyes snapped and shone with an angry light. Then there was a
movement among the men on the platform, and Bradley walked to the front.
The clear soft twilight of an English summer fell all over him. It
seemed to Annis that his old friend had never before appeared so
handsome and so lovable. He looked at him until some unbidden tears
quenched the angry flame in his eyes, and he felt almost inclined to
mount and ride away.

He was, however, arrested immediately by Bradley’s words.--“Gentlemen,”
 he said with prompt decision--“I cannot, and will not, accept your
flattering invitation. Do any of you think that I would accept a
position, that puts me in antagonism to my old and well-loved friend,
Antony Annis? Not for all the honor, or power, or gold in England! Annis
is your proper and legitimate representative. Can any of you count the
generations through which the Annis family hes been your friends and
helpers? You know all that the present Squire Antony hes done, without
me saying a word about it: and I could not, and I would not, try to
stand in his shoes for anything king or country could give me. This, on
my honor, is a definite and positive refusal of your intended mark of
respect. I accept the respect which prompted the honor gratefully; the
honor itself, I positively decline. If I hev anything more to say, it
is this--send your old representative, Antony Annis, to watch over, and
speak outright, for your interests. He is the best man you can get in
all England, and be true to him, and proud of him!”

A prolonged cheering followed this speech, and during it Squire Antony
made his way through the crowd, and reached the platform. He went
straight to Bradley with outstretched hands--“John Thomas!” he said, in
a voice full of emotion, “My dear, dear friend! I heard ivery word!” and
the two men clasped hands, and stood a moment looking into each other’s
love-wet eyes; and knew that every unkind thought, and word, had been
forever forgiven.

Then Annis stepped forward, and was met with the heartiest welcome.
Never had he looked so handsome and gracious. He appeared to have thrown
off all the late sorrowful years, and something of the glory of that
authority which springs from love, lent a singular charm to this
picturesque appearance.

He stood at the side of Bradley, and still held his hand. “My friends
and fellow citizens!” he cried joyfully, giving the last two words such
an enthusiastic emphasis, as brought an instant shout of joyful triumph.
“My friends and fellow citizens! If anything could make it possible for
me to go back to the House of Commons, it would be the plea of the man
whose hand I have just clasped. As you all know, I hev pledged my word
to the men and women of Annis to give them the finest power-loom factory
in the West Riding. If I stick to my promise faithfully, I cannot take
on any other work or business. You hev hed my promise for some months.
I will put nothing before it--or with it. Men of Annis, you are my
helpers, do you really think I would go to London, and break my promise?
Not you! Not one of you! I shall stay right here, until Annis mill is
weaving the varry best broadcloths and woolen goods that can be made.
Ask Colonel Frobisher to go to London, and stand for Annis and her wool
weavers. He hes little else to do, we all know and love him, and he
will be varry glad to go for you. Antony Annis hes been a talking man
hitherto, henceforward he will be a working man, but there is a bit of
advice I’ll give you now and probably niver again. First of all, take
care how you vote, and for whom you vote. If your candidate proves
unworthy of the confidence you gave him, mebbe you are not quite
innocent. Niver sell your vote for any price, nor for any reason.
Remember voting is a religious act.”

“Nay, nay, squire!” someone in the crowd called out, with a dissenting
laugh. “There’s nothing but jobbery, and robbery, and drinking and
quarreling in it. There is no religion about it, squire, that I can
see.”

“Well, then, Tommy Raikes, thou doesn’t see much beyond thysen.”

“And, squire, I heard that the Methodist preacher prayed last Sunday in
the varry pulpit about the election. Folks doan’t like to go to chapel
to pray about elections. It isn’t right. Mr. Foster oughtn’t to do such
things. It hurts people’s feelings.”

“Speak for thysen, Tommy; I’ll be bound the people were all of Mr.
Foster’s opinion. It is a varry important election, the varry first,
that a great many of the people iver took a part in. And I do say,
that I hev no doubt all of them were thankful for the prayer. There is
nothing wrong in praying about elections. It is a religious rite, just
the same as saying grace before your food, and thanking God when you hev
eaten it. Just the same as putting _Dei gratia_ on our money, or taking
oaths in court, or when assuming important positions. Tommy, such simple
religious services proclaim the sacredness of our daily life; and so the
vote at an election, if given conscientiously, is a religious act.”

There was much hearty approval of the squire’s opinion, and Tommy Raikes
was plainly advised in various forms of speech to reserve his own.
During the altercation the squire turned his happy face to John Thomas
Bradley, and they said a few words to each other, which ended in a
mutual smile as the squire faced his audience and continued:

“The best thing I hev to say to you this night is, in the days of
prosperity fast coming to Annis, stick to your religion. Doan’t lose
yoursens in the hurry and flurry of the busy life before you all. Any
nation to become great must be a religious nation; for nationality is
a product of the soul. It is something for which ivery straight-hearted
man would die. There are many good things for which a good man would not
die, but a good man would willingly die for the good of his country. His
hopes for her will not tolerate a probability. They hev to be realized,
or he’ll die for them.

“If you are good Church of England men you are all right. She is your
spiritual mother, do what she tells you to do, and you can’t do wrong.
If you are a Dissenter from her, then keep a bit of Methodism in your
souls. It is kind and personal, and if it gets hold of a man, it does a
lot for him. It sits in the center. I am sorry to say there are a great
many atheists among weavers. Atheists do nothing. A man steeped in
Methodism can do anything! Its love and its honesty lift up them that
are cast down; it gives no quarter to the devil, and it hes a heart as
big as God’s mercy. If you hev your share of this kind of Methodist, you
will be kind, or at least civil to strangers. You knaw how you usually
treat them. The ither day I was watching the men budding, and a stranger
passed, and one of the bricklayers said to another near him, ‘Who’s
that?’ and the other looked up and answered, ‘I doan’t know. He’s a
stranger.’ And the advice promptly given was, ‘throw a brick at him!’”
 This incident was so common and so natural, that it was greeted with a
roar of laughter, and the squire nodded and laughed also, and so in the
midst of the pleasant racket, went away with John Thomas Bradley at his
side.

“It’s a fine night,” said Annis to Bradley. “Walk up the hill and hev
a bite of supper with me.” The invitation was almost an oath of renewed
friendship, and Bradley could on no account refuse it. Then the squire
sent his man ahead to notify the household, and the two men took the
hill at each other’s side, talking eagerly of the election and its
probabilities. As they neared the Hall, Bradley was silent and a little
troubled. “Antony,” he said, “how about the women-folk?”

“I am by thy side. As they treat me they will treat thee. Josepha was
allays thy friend. Mistress Annis hed a kind side for thee, so hed my
little Kitty. For awhile, they hev been under the influence of a lie set
going by thy awn son.”

“By Harry?”

“To be sure. But Harry was misinformed, by that mean little lawyer that
lives in Bradley. I hev forgotten the whole story, and I won’t hev it
brought up again. It was a lie out of the whole cloth, and was varry
warmly taken up by Dick, and you know how our women are--they stand by
ivery word their men say.”

The men entered together. Josepha was not the least astonished. In fact,
she was sure this very circumstance would happen. Had she not advised
and directed John Thomas that very afternoon what to do, and had he not
been only too ready and delighted to follow her advice? When the door
opened she rose, and with some enthusiasm met John Thomas, and while she
was welcoming him the squire had said the few words that were sufficient
to insure Annie’s welcome. An act of oblivion was passed without a word,
and just where the friendship had been dropped, it was taken up again.
Kitty excused herself, giving a headache as her reason, and Dick was
in Liverpool with Hartley, looking over a large importation of South
American wool.

The event following this rearrangement of life was the return of Josepha
to her London home. She said a combination of country life and November
fogs was beyond her power of cheerful endurance; and then she begged
Katherine to go back to London with her. Katherine was delighted to do
so. Harry’s absence no longer troubled her. She did not even wish to see
him and the home circumstances had become stale and wearisome. The
coming and going of many strangers and the restlessness and uncertainty
of daily life was a great trial to a family that had lived so many years
strictly after its own ideals of reposeful, regular rule and order.
Annie, very excusably, was in a highly nervous condition, the squire was
silent and thoughtful, and in the evenings too tired to talk. Katherine
was eager for more company of her own kind, and just a little weary of
Dick’s and Faith’s devotion to each other. “I wish aunt would go to
London and take me with her,” she said to herself one morning, as she
was rather indifferently dressing her own hair.

And so it happened that Josepha that very day found the longing for her
own home and life so insistent that she resolved to indulge it. “What am
I staying here for?” she asked herself with some impatience. “I am not
needed about the business yet to be, and Antony is looking after the
preparations for it beyond all I expected. I’m bothering Annie, and
varry soon John Thomas will begin bothering me; and poor Kitty hes no
lover now, and is a bit tired of Faith’s perfections. As for Dick, poor
lad! he is kept running between the mill’s business, and the preacher’s
daughter. And Antony himsen says things to me, nobody else hes a right
to say. I see people iverywhere whom no one can suit, and who can’t suit
themsens. I’ll be off to London in two days--and I’ll take Kitty with
me.”

Josepha’s private complaint was not without truth and her resolve was
both kind and wise. A good, plain household undertaking was lacking;
every room was full of domestic malaria, and the best-hearted person
in the world, can neither manage nor yet control this insidious unhappy
element. It is then surely the part of prudence, where combat is
impossible, to run away.

So Josepha ran away, and she took her niece with her. They reached
London in time to see the reopening of Parliament, and Mrs. Temple’s
cards for dinner were in the hands of her favorites within two weeks
afterwards. Katherine was delighted to be the secretary for such
writing, and she entered heartily into her aunt’s plans for a busy,
social winter. They chose the parties to carry out their pleasant ideas
together, and as Kitty was her aunt’s secretary, it soon became evident
to both that the name of Edward Selby was never omitted. One or other of
the ladies always suggested it, and the proposal was readily accepted.

“He is a fine young man,” said Josepha, “and their bank hes a sound
enviable reputation. I intend, for the future, to deposit largely there,
and it is mebbe a good plan to keep in social touch with your banker.”

“And he is very pleasant to dance with,” added Kitty, “he keeps step
with you, and a girl looks her best with him; and then he is not always
paying you absurd compliments.”

“A varry sensible partner.”

“I think so.”

And during the long pleasant winter this satisfaction with Selby grew
to a very sweet and even intense affection. The previous winter Harry
Bradley had stood in his way, but the path of love now ran straight and
smooth, and no one had any power to trouble it. Selby was so handsome,
so deeply in love, so desirable in every way, that Katherine knew
herself to be the most fortunate of women. She was now also in love,
really in love. Her affection for her child lover had faded even out of
her memory. Compared with her passion for Selby, it was indeed a child
love, just a sentimental dream, nursed by contiguity, and the tolerance
and talk of elder people. Nothing deceives the young like the idea of
first love--a conquering idea if a true one, a pretty dangerous mirage,
if it is not true.

While this affair was progressing delightfully in London things were not
standing still in Annis. The weather had been singularly propitious, and
the great, many-windowed building was beginning to show the length and
breadth of its intentions. Meanwhile Squire Annis was the busiest and
happiest man in all Yorkshire, and Annie was rejoicing in the restored
peace and order of her household. It did not seem that there could now
have been any cause of anxiety in the old Annis home. But there was a
little. Dick longed to have a more decided understanding concerning his
own marriage, but the squire urged him not to think of marriage until
the mill was opened and at work and Dick was a loyal son, as well as
a true lover. He knew also that in many important ways he had become
a great help to his father, and that if he took the long journey he
intended to take with his bride, his absence would be both a trial and
a positive loss in more ways than one. The situation was trying to all
concerned, but both Faith and her father made it pleasant and hopeful,
so that generally speaking his soul walked in a straight way. Sometimes
he asked his father with one inquiring look, “How long, father, how
long now?” And the squire had hitherto always under’ stood the look, and
answered promptly, “Not just yet, dear lad, not just yet!”

Josepha and Katherine had returned from London. So continually the
days grew longer, and brighter, and warmer, and the roses came and
sent perfume through the whole house, as the small group of women made
beautiful garments, and talked and wondered, and speculated; and the
squire and Dick grew more and more reticent about the mill and its
progress, until one night, early in July, they came home together, and
the very sound of their footsteps held a happy story. Josepha understood
it. She threw down the piece of muslin in her hand and stood up
listening. The next moment the squire and his son entered the room
together. “What is it, Antony?” she cried eagerly. “_The mill?_”

“The mill is finished! The mill is perfect! We can start work to-morrow
morning if we wish. It is thy doing!” Then he turned to his wife, and
opened his arms, and whispered his joy to her, and Annie’s cheeks were
wet when they both turned to Katherine.

And that day the women did not sew another stitch.

The next morning Annis village heard a startling new sound. It was the
factory bell calling labor to its duty. And everyone listened to its
fateful reverberations traveling over the surrounding hills and telling
the villages in their solitary places, “Your day also is coming.”
 The squire sat up in his bed to listen, and his heart swelled to the
impetuous summons and he whispered in no careless manner, “_Thank God!_”




CHAPTER XIII--MARRIAGE BELLS AND GOOD-BY TO ANNIS


                   “All will be well, though how or where

                   Or when it will we need not care.

                   We cannot see, and can’t declare:

                   ‘Tis not in vain and not for nought,

                   The wind it blows, the ship it goes,

                   Though where, or whither, no one knows.”


 IMMEDIATELY after this event preparations for Katherine’s marriage were
revived with eager haste and diligence, and the ceremony was celebrated
in Annis Parish Church. She went there on her father’s arm, and
surrounded by a great company of the rich and noble relatives of the
Annis and Selby families. It was a glorious summer day and the gardens
from the Hall to the end of the village were full of flowers. It seemed
as if all nature rejoiced with her, as if her good angel loved her so
that she had conniv’d with everything to give her love and pleasure.
There had been some anxiety about her dress, but it turned out to be a
marvel of exquisite beauty. It was, of course, a frock of the richest
white satin, but its tunic and train and veil were of marvelously fine
Spanish lace. There were orange blooms in her hair and myrtle in
her hands, and her sweetness, beauty and happiness made everyone
instinctively bless her.

Dick’s marriage to Faith Foster was much longer delayed; not because his
love had lost any of its sweetness and freshness, but because Faith had
taught him to cheerfully put himself in his father’s place. So without
any complaining, or any explanation, he remained at his father’s side.
Then the Conference of the Methodist Church removed Mr. Foster from
Annis to Bradford, and the imperative question was then whether Faith
would go with her father or remain in Annis as Dick’s wife. Dick was
never asked this question. The squire heard the news first and he went
directly to his son:--

“Dick, my good son, thou must now get ready to marry Faith, or else thou
might lose her. I met Mr. Foster ten minutes ago, and he told me that
the Methodist Conference had removed him from Annis to Bradford.”

“Whatever have they done that for? The people here asked him to remain,
and he wrote the Conference he wished to do so.”

“It is just their awful way of doing ‘according to rule,’ whether the
rule fits or not. But that is neither here nor there. Put on thy hat and
go and ask Faith how soon she can be ready to marry thee.”

“Gladly will I do that, father; but where are we to live? Faith would
not like to go to the Hall.”

“Don’t ask her to do such a thing. Sir John Pomfret wants to go to
southern France for two or three years to get rid of rheumatism, and his
place is for rent. It is a pretty place, and not a mile from the mill.
Now get married as quick as iver thou can, and take Faith for a month’s
holiday to London and Paris and before you get home again I will hev the
Pomfret place ready for you to occupy. It is handsomely furnished, and
Faith will delight her-sen in keeping it in fine order.”

“What will mother say to that?”

“Just what I say. Not a look or word different. She knows thou hes stood
faithful and helpful by hersen and by me. Thou hes earned all we can
both do for thee.”

These were grand words to carry to his love, and Dick went gladly to her
with them. A couple of hours later the squire called on Mr. Foster and
had a long and pleasant chat with him. He said he had gone at once to
see Sir John Pomfret and found him not only willing, but greatly pleased
to rent his house to Mr. Richard Annis and his bride. “I hev made a good
bargain,” he continued, “and if Dick and Faith like the place, I doan’t
see why they should not then buy it. Surely if they winter and summer a
house for three years, they ought to know whether it is worth its price
or not.”

In this conversation it seemed quite easy for the two men to arrange
a simple, quiet marriage to take place in a week or ten days, but when
Faith and Mrs. Annis were taken into the consultation, the simple, quiet
marriage became a rather difficult problem. Faith said that she would
not leave her father until she had packed her father’s books and seen
all their personal property comfortably arranged in the preacher’s house
in Bradford. Then some allusion was made to her wardrobe, and the men
remembered the wedding dress and other incidentals. Mistress Annis found
it hard to believe that the squire really expected such a wedding as he
and Mr. Foster actually planned.

“_Why-a, Antony!_” she said, “the dear girl must have a lot to do both
for her father and hersen. A marriage within two or three months is
quite impossible. Of course she must see Mr. Foster settled in his new
home and also find a proper person to look after his comfort. And after
that is done, she will have her wedding dress to order and doubtless
many other garments. And where will the wedding ceremony take place?”

“In Bradford, I suppose. Usually the bridegroom goes to his bride’s home
for her. I suppose Dick will want to do so.”

“He cannot do so in this case. The future squire of Annis must be
married in Annis church.”

“Perhaps Mr. Foster might----”

“Antony Annis! What you are going to say is impossible! Methodist
preachers cannot marry anyone legally. I have known that for years.”

“I think that law has been abrogated. There was a law spoken of that was
to repeal all the disqualifications of Dissenters.”

“We cannot have any uncertainties about our son’s marriage. Thou knows
that well. And as for any hole-in-a-corner ceremony, it is impossible.
We gave our daughter Katherine a proper, public wedding; we must do the
same for Dick.”

It is easy under these circumstances to see how two loving, anxious
women could impose on themselves extra responsibilities and thus
lengthen out the interval of separation for nearly three months. For
Faith, when the decision was finally left to her, refused positively
to be married from the Hall. Thanking the squire and his wife for their
kind and generous intentions, she said without a moment’s hesitation,
that “she could not be married to anyone except from her father’s home.”

“It would be a most unkind slight to the best of fathers,” she said. “It
would be an insult to the most wise and tender affection any daughter
ever received. I am not the least ashamed of my simple home and simple
living, and neither father nor myself look on marriage as an occasion
for mirth and feasting and social visiting.”

“How then do you regard it?” asked Mistress Annis, “as a time of
solemnity and fear?”

“We regard it as we do other religious rites. We think it a condition
to be assumed with religious thought and gravity. Madam Temple is of our
opinion. She said dressing and dancing and feasting over a bridal always
reminded her of the ancient sacrificial festivals and its garlanded
victim.”

The squire gave a hearty assent to Faith’s opinion. He said it was not
only right but humane that most young fellows hated the show, and fuss,
and wastry over the usual wedding festival, and would be grateful to
escape it. “And I don’t mind saying,” he added, “that Annie and I
did escape it; and I am sure our married life has been as near to a
perfectly happy life as mortals can hope for in this world.”

“Dick also thinks as we do,” said Faith.

“_That_, of course,” replied Mistress Annis, just a little offended at
the non-acceptance of her social plans.

However, Faith carried out her own wishes in a strict but sweetly
considerate way. Towards the end of November, Mr. Foster had been
comfortably settled in his new home at Bradford. She had arranged his
study and put his books in the alphabetical order he liked, and every
part of the small dwelling was in spotless order and comfort.

In the meantime Annie was preparing with much love and care the Pomfret
house for Dick and Dick’s wife. It was a work she delighted herself in
and she grudged neither money nor yet personal attention to make it a
House Beautiful.

She did not, however, go to the wedding. It was November, dripping and
dark and cold, and she knew she had done all she could, and that it
would be the greatest kindness, at this time, to retire. But she kissed
Dick and sent him away with love and good hopes and valuable gifts of
lace and gems for his bride. The squire accompanied him to Bradford, and
they went together to The Black Swan Inn. A great political meeting was
to occur that night in the Town Hall, and the squire went there, while
Dick spent a few hours with his bride and her father. As was likely
to happen, the squire was immediately recognized by every wool-dealer
present and he was hailed with hearty cheers, escorted to the platform,
and made what he always considered the finest speech of his life. He was
asked to talk of the Reform Bill and he said:

“_Not I_! That child was born to England after a hard labor and will
hev to go through the natural growth of England, which we all know is a
tremendously slow one. But it will go on! It will go on steadily, till
it comes of full age. Varry few, if any of us, now present will be in
this world at that time; but I am sure wherever we are, the news will
find us out and will gladden our hearts even in the happiness of a
better world than this, though I’ll take it on me to say that this world
is a varry good world if we only do our duty in it and to it, and
love mercy and show kindness.” Then he spoke grandly for labor and the
laboring man and woman. He pointed out their fine, though uncultivated
intellectual abilities, told of his own weavers, learning to read after
they were forty years old, of their unlearning an old trade and learning
a new one with so much ease and rapidity, and of their great natural
skill in oratory, both as regarded religion and politics. “Working men
and working women are _the hands_ of the whole world,” he said. “With
such men as Cartwright and Stevenson among them, I wouldn’t dare to say
a word lessening the power of their mental abilities. Mebbe it was as
great a thing to invent the power loom or conceive of a railroad as to
run a newspaper or write a book.”

He was vehemently applauded. Some time afterwards, Faith said the
Yorkshire roar of approval was many streets away, and that her father
went to find out what had caused it. “He was told by the man at the
door, ‘it’s nobbut one o’ them Yorkshire squires who hev turned into
factory men. A great pity, sir!’ he added. ‘Old England used to pin her
faith on her landed gentry, and now they hev all gone into the money
market.’ My father then said that they might be just as useful there,
and the man answered warmly: ‘And thou art the new Methodist preacher,
I suppose! I’m ashamed of thee--I am that!’ When father tried to explain
his meaning, the man said: ‘Nay-a! I’m not caring what _tha means_. A
man should stand by what he _says_. Folks hevn’t time to find out his
meanings. I’ve about done wi’ thee!’ Father told him he had not done
with him and would see him again in a few days.” And then she smiled and
added, “Father saw him later, and they are now the best of friends.” The
wedding morning was gray and sunless, but its gloom only intensified the
white loveliness of the bride. Her perfectly plain, straight skirt of
rich, white satin and its high girlish waist looked etherially white in
the November gloom. A wonderful cloak of Russian sable which was Aunt
Josepha’s gift, covered her when she stepped into the carriage with her
father, and then drove with the little wedding party to Bradford parish
church. There was no delay of any kind. The service was read by a solemn
and gracious clergyman, the records were signed in the vestry, and in
less than an hour the party was back at Mr. Foster’s house. A simple
breakfast for the eight guests present followed, and then Faith, having
changed her wedding gown for one of light gray broadcloth of such fine
texture that it looked like satin, came into the parlor on her father’s
arm. He took her straight to Dick, and once more gave her to him. The
tender little resignation was made with smiles and with those uncalled
tears which bless and consecrate happiness that is too great for words.

After Dick’s marriage, affairs at Annis went on with the steady
regularity of the life they had invited and welcomed. The old church
bells still chimed away the hours, but few of the dwellers in Annis paid
any attention to their call. The factory bell now measured out the days
and the majority lived by its orders. To a few it was good to think of
Christmas being so nearly at hand; they hoped that a flavor of the old
life might come with Christmas. At Annis Hall they expected a visit from
Madam Temple, and it might be that Dick and Faith would remember this
great home festival, and come back to join in it. Yet the family were
so scattered that such a hope hardly looked for realization. Selby and
Katherine were in Naples, and Dick and Faith in Paris and Aunt Josepha
in her London home where she hastily went one morning to escape the
impertinent clang of the factory bell. At least that was her excuse for
a sudden homesickness for her London house. Annie, however, confided
to the squire her belief that the rather too serious attentions of John
Thomas Bradley were the predisposing grievances, rather than the factory
bell. So the days slipped by and the squire and Jonathan Hartley were in
full charge of the mill.

It did exceedingly well under their care, but soon after Christmas the
squire began to look very weary, and Annie wished heartily that Dick
would return, and so allow his father to take a little change or rest.
For Annie did not know that Dick’s father had been constantly adding
to Dick’s honeymoon holiday. “Take another week, Dick! We can do a bit
longer without thee,” had been his regular postscript, and the young
people, a little thoughtlessly, had just taken another week.

However, towards the end of January, Dick and his wife returned and took
possession of their own home in the Pomfret place. The squire had made
its tenure secure for three years, and Annie had spared no effort to
render it beautiful and full of comfort, and it was in its large sunny
parlor she had the welcome home meal spread. It was Annie that met and
kissed them on the threshold, but the squire stood beaming at her side,
and the evening was not long enough to hear and to tell of all that
happened during the weeks in which they had been separated.

Of course they had paid a little visit to Mr. and Mistress Selby and had
found them preparing to return by a loitering route to London. “But,”
 said Dick, “they are too happy to hurry themselves. Life is yet a
delicious dream; they do not wish to awaken just yet.”

“They cannot be ‘homed’ near a factory,” said Annie with a little laugh.
“Josepha found it intolerable. It made her run home very quickly.”

“I thought she liked it. She said to me that it affected her like the
marching call of a trumpet, and seemed to say to her, ‘Awake, Josepha!
There is a charge for thy soul to-day!’”

Hours full of happy desultory conversation passed the joyful evening
of reunion, but during them Dick noted the irrepressible evidences
of mental weariness in his father’s usually alert mind, and as he was
bidding him good night, he said as he stood hand-clasped with him:
“Father, you must be off to London in two days, and not later.
Parliament opens on the twenty-ninth, and you must see the opening of
the First Reformed Parliament.”

“_Why-a_, Dick! To be sure! I would like to be present. I would like
nothing better. The noise of the mill hes got lately on my nerves. I
niver knew before I hed nerves. It bothered me above a bit, when that
young doctor we hev for our hands told me I was ‘intensely nervous.’ I
hed niver before thought about men and women heving nerves. I told him
it was the noise of the machinery and he said it was my nerves. I was
almost ashamed to tell thy mother such a tale.”

And Annie laughed and answered, “Of course it was the noise, Dick, and I
told thy father not to mind anything that young fellow said. The idea of
Squire Annis heving what they call ‘nerves.’ I hev heard weakly, sickly
women talk of their nerves, but it would be a queer thing if thy father
should find any nerves about himsen. Not he! It is just the noise,” and
she gave Dick’s hand a pressure that he thoroughly understood.

“Go to London, father, and see what sort of a job these new men make of
a parliamentary opening.”

“I suppose Jonathan and thysen could manage for a week without me?”

“We would do our best. Nothing could go far wrong in a week. This is the
twenty-fifth of January, father. Parliament opens on the twenty-ninth.
London was getting crowded with the new fellows as Faith and I came
through it. They were crowding the hotels, and showing themselves off
as the ‘Reformed Parliament.’ I would have enjoyed hearing thee set them
down a peg or two.”

Then the old fire blazed in the squire’s eyes, and he said, “I’ll be off
to-morrow afternoon, Dick. I’m glad thou told me. If there’s anything
I hev a contempt for it is a conceited upstart. I’ll turn any of that
crowd down to the bottom of their class;” and the squire who left the
Pomfret house that night was a very different man from the squire who
entered it that afternoon.

Two days afterwards the squire was off to London. He went first to the
Clarendon and sent word to his sister of his arrival. She answered
his note in person within an hour. “My dear, dear lad!” she cried. “My
carriage is at the door and we will go straight home.”

“No, we won’t, Josepha. I want a bit of freedom. I want to go and come
as I like. I want to stay in the House of Commons all night long, if
the new members are passing compliments on each other’s records and
abilities. I hev come up to London to feel what it’s like to do as I
please, and above all, not to be watched and cared for.”

“I know, Antony! I know! Some men are too happily married. In my
opinion, it is the next thing to being varry---”

“I mean nothing wrong, Josepha. I only want to be let alone a bit until
I find mysen.”

“Find thysen?”

“To be sure. Here’s our medical man at the mill telling me ‘I hev what
he calls nerves.’ I hevn’t! Not I! I’m a bit tired of the days being
all alike. I’d enjoy a bit of a scolding from Annie now for lying in bed
half the morning, and as sure as I hev a varry important engagement at
the mill, I hear the hounds, and the _view, holloa!_ and it is as
much as I can do to hold mysen in my chair. It is _that_ thou doesn’t
understand, I suppose.”

“I do understand. I hev the same feeling often. I want to do things I
would do if I was only a man. Do exactly as thou feels to do, Antony,
while the mill is out of sight and hearing.”

“Ay, I will.”

“How is our mill doing?”

“If tha calls making money doing well, then the Temple and Annis mill
can’t be beat, so far.”

“I am glad to hear it. Wheniver the notion takes thee, come and see me.
I hev a bit of private business that I want to speak to thee about.”

“To be sure I’ll come and see thee--often.”

“Then I’ll leave thee to thysen”

“I’ll be obliged to thee, Josepha. Thou allays hed more sense than the
average woman, who never seems to understand that average men like now
and then to be left to their awn will and way.”

“I’ll go back with thee to Annis and we can do all our talking there.”

“That’s sensible. We will take the early coach two weeks from to-day.
I’ll call for thee at eleven o’clock, and we’ll stay over at the old inn
at Market Harborough.”

“That is right. I’ll go my ways now. Take care of thysen and behave
thysen as well as tha can,” and then she clasped his hand and went
good-naturedly away. But as she rode home, she said to herself--“Poor
lad! I’ll forgive and help him, whativer he does. I hope Annie will be
as loving. I wonder why God made women so varry good. He knew what kind
of men they would mebbe hev to live with. Poor Antony! I hope he’ll hev
a real good time--I do that!” and she smiled and shrugged her shoulders
and kept the rest of her speculations to herself.

The two weeks the squire had specified went its daily way, and Josepha
received no letter from her brother, but at the time appointed he
knocked at her door promptly and decidedly. Josepha had trusted him. She
met him in warm traveling clothes, and they went away with a smile and
a perfect trust in each other. Josepha knew better than to ask a man
questions. She let him talk of what he had seen and heard, she made
no inquiries as to what he had _done_, and when they were at Market
Harborough he told her he had slept every hour away except those he
spent in The House. “I felt as if I niver, niver, could sleep enough,
Josepha. It was fair wonderful, and as it happened there were no night
sessions I missed nothing I wanted to see or hear. But tha knows I’ll
hev to tell Annie and mebbe others about The House, so I’ll keep that to
mysen till we get all together. It wouldn’t bear two talks over. Would
it now?”

“It would be better stuff than usual if it did, Antony. Thou wilt be
much missed when it comes to debating.”

“I think I shall. I hev my word ready when it is the right time to say
it, that is, generally speaking.”

Josepha’s visit was unexpected but Annie took it with apparent
enthusiasm, and the two women together made such a fuss over the
improvement in the squire’s appearance that Josepha could not help
remembering the plaintive remarks of her brother about being too much
cared for. However, nothing could really dampen the honest joy in the
squire’s return, and when the evening meal had been placed upon the
table and the fire stirred to a cheering blaze, the room was full of a
delightful sense of happiness. A little incident put the finishing touch
to Annie’s charming preparation. A servant stirred the fire with no
apparent effect. Annie then tried to get blaze with no better result.
Then the squire with one of his heartiest laughs took the apparently
ineffectual poker.

“See here, women!” he cried. “You do iverything about a house better
than a man except stirring a fire. Why? Because a woman allays stirs a
fire from the top. That’s against all reason.” Then with a very decided
hand he attacked the lower strata of coals and they broke up with
something like a big laugh, crackling and sputtering flame and sparks,
and filling the room with a joyful illumination. And in this happy
atmosphere they sat down to eat and to talk together.

Josepha had found a few minutes to wash her face and put her hair
straight, the squire had been pottering about his wife and the luggage
and the fire and was still in his fine broadcloth traveling suit, which
with its big silver buttons, its smart breeches and top boots, its
line of scarlet waistcoat and plentiful show of white cambric round the
throat, made him an exceedingly handsome figure. And if the husbands
who may chance to read of this figure will believe it, this good man,
so carefully dressed, had thought as he put on every garment, of the
darling wife he wished still to please above all others.

The first thing the squire noticed was the absence of Dick and Faith.

“Where are they?” he asked in a disappointed tone.

“Well, Antony,” said Josepha, “Annie was just telling me that Dick hed
gone to Bradford to buy a lot of woolen yarns; if so be he found they
were worth the asking price, and as Faith’s father is now in Bradford,
it was only natural she should wish to go with him.”

“Varry natural, but was it wise? I niver could abide a woman traipsing
after me when I hed any business on hand.”

“There’s where you made a mistake, Antony. If Annie hed been a business
woman, you would hev built yoursen a mill twenty years ago.”

“Ay, I would, if Annie hed asked me. Not without. When is Dick to be
home?”

“Some time to-morrow,” answered Annie. “He is anxious to see thee. He
isn’t on any loitering business.”

“Well, Josepha, there is no time for loitering. All England is spinning
like a whipped top at full speed. In Manchester and Preston the wheels
of the looms go merrily round. Oh, there is so much I want to do!”

They had nearly finished a very happy meal when there was a sound of
men’s voices coming nearer and nearer and the silver and china stopped
their tinkling and the happy trio were still a moment as they listened.
“It will be Jonathan and a few of the men to get the news from me,” said
the squire.

“Well, Antony, I thought of that and there is a roaring fire in the
ballroom and the chairs are set out, and thou can talk to them from the
orchestra.” And the look of love that followed this information made
Annie’s heart feel far too big for everyday comfort.

There were about fifty men to seat. Jonathan was their leader and
spokesman, and he went to the orchestra with the squire and stood by
the squire’s chair, and when ordinary courtesies had been exchanged,
Jonathan said, “Squire, we want thee to tell us about the Reform
Parliament. The _Yorkshire Post_ says thou were present, and we felt
that we might ask thee to tell us about it.”

“For sure I will. I was there as soon as the House was opened, and John
O’Connell went in with me. He was one of the ‘Dan O’Connell household
brigade,’ which consists of old Dan, his three sons, and two
sons-in-law. They were inclined to quarrel with everyone, and impudently
took their seats on the front benches as if to awe the Ministerial Whigs
who were exactly opposite them. William Cobbett was the most conspicuous
man among them. He was poorly dressed in a suit of pepper and salt
cloth, made partly like a Quaker’s and partly like a farmer’s suit, and
he hed a white hat on. * His head was thrown backward so as to give the
fullest view of his shrewd face and his keen, cold eyes. Cobbett had no
respect for anyone, and in his first speech a bitter word niver failed
him if he was speaking of the landed gentry whom he called ‘unfeeling
tyrants’ and the lords of the loom he called ‘rich ruffians.’ Even
the men pleading for schools for the poor man’s children were
‘education-cantors’ to him, and he told them plainly that nothing would
be good for the working man that did not increase his victuals, his
drink and his clothing.

     * A white hat was the sign of an extreme Radical.

“Is that so, men?” asked the squire. He was answered by a “_No!_” whose
style of affirmation was too emphatic to be represented by written
words.

“But the Reform Bill, squire? What was said about the Reform Bill and
the many good things it promised us?”

“I niver heard it named, men. And I may as well tell you now that you
need expect nothing in a hurry. All that really has been given you is
an opportunity to help yoursens. Listen to me. The Reform Bill has taken
from sixty boroughs both their members, and forty-seven boroughs hev
been reduced to one member. These changes will add at least half a
million voters to the list, and this half-million will all come from the
sturdy and generally just, great middle class of England. It will mebbe
take another generation to include the working class, and a bit longer
to hev the laboring class educated sufficiently to vote. That is
England’s slow, sure way. It doan’t say it is the best way, but it is
_our_ way, and none of us can hinder or hasten it. **

     **  In 1867, during Lord Derby’s administration, it was made
     to include the artizans and mechanics, and in Gladstone’s
     administration, A. D. 1884, the Reform Bill was made to
     include agricultural and all day laborers.

“In the meantime you have received from your own class of famous
inventors a loom that can make every man a master. Power-loom weaving is
the most healthy, the best paid, and the pleasantest of all occupations.
With the exception of the noise of the machinery, it has nothing
disagreeable about it. You that already own your houses take care of
them. Every inch of your ground will soon be worth gold. I wouldn’t
wonder to see you, yoursens, build your awn mills upon it. Oh, there
is nothing difficult in that to a man who trusts in God and believes in
himsen.

“And men, when you hev grown to be rich men, doan’t forget your God and
your Country. Stick to your awn dear country. Make your money in it. Be
Englishmen until God gives you a better country, Which won’t be in this
world. But whether you go abroad, or whether you stay at home, niver
forget the mother that bore you. She’ll niver forget you. And if a man
hes God and his mother to plead for him, he is well off, both for this
world and the next.”

“That is true, squire.”

“God has put us all in the varry place he thought best for the day’s
work He wanted from us. It is more than a bit for’ardson in us telling
Him we know better than He does, and go marching off to Australia or New
Zealand or Canada. It takes a queer sort of a chap to manage life in a
strange country full of a contrary sort of human beings. Yorkshire men
are _all_ Yorkshire. They hevn’t room in their shape and make-up for
new-fangled ways and ideas. You hev a deal to be proud of in England
that wouldn’t be worth a half-penny anywhere else. It’s a varry
difficult thing to be an Englishman and a Yorkshireman, which is the
best kind of an Englishman, as far as I know, and not brag a bit about
it. There’s no harm in a bit of honest bragging about being himsen a
Roman citizen and I do hope a straight for-ard Englishman may do what
St. Paul did--brag a bit about his citizenship. And as I hev just said,
I say once more, don’t leave England unless you hev a clear call to do
so; but if you do, then make up your minds to be a bit more civil to the
strange people than you usually are to strangers. It is a common saying
in France and Italy that Englishmen will eat no beef but English beef,
nor be civil to any God but their awn God. I doan’t say try to please
iverybody, just do your duty, and do it pleasantly. That’s about all we
can any of us manage, eh, Jonathan?”

“We are told, sir, to do to others as we would like them to do to us.”

“For sure! But a great many Yorkshire people translate that precept into
this--‘Tak’ care of Number One.’ Let strangers’ religion and politics
alone. Most--I might as well say _all_--of you men here, take your
politics as seriously as you take your religion, and that is saying a
great deal. I couldn’t put it stronger, could I, Jonathan?”

“No, sir! I doan’t think you could. It is a varry true comparison. It is
surely.”

“Now, lads, in the future, it is to be work and pray, and do the varry
best you can with your new looms. It may so happen that in the course
of years some nation that hes lost the grip of all its good and prudent
senses, will try to invade England. It isn’t likely, but it might be.
Then I say to each man of you, without an hour’s delay, do as I’ve often
heard you sing--

               “ ‘Off with your labor cap! rush to the van!

               The sword is your tool, and the height of your plan

               Is to turn yoursen into a fighting man.’

“Lads, I niver was much on poetry but when I was a varry young man,
I learned eleven lines that hev helped me in many hours of trial and
temptation to remember that I was an English gentleman, and so bound by
birth and honor to behave like one.”

“Will tha say them eleven lines to us, squire? Happen they might help us
a bit, too.”

“I am sure of it, Jonathan.” With these words, the kind-hearted,
scrupulously honorable gentleman lifted his hat, and as he did so, fifty
paper caps were lifted as if by one hand and the men who wore them rose
as one man.

“You may keep your standing, lads, the eleven lines are worthy of that
honor; and then in a proud, glad enthusiasm, the squire repeated them
with such a tone of love and such a grandeur of diction and expression
as no words can represent:--

               “This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,

               This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

               This other Eden, demi-Paradise;

               This fortress built by Nature for herself,

               Against infection, and the hand of war,

               This happy breed of men, this little world,

               This precious stone set in the silver sea,

               Which serves it in the office of a wall--

               Or as a moat defensive to a house--

               Against the envy of less happier lands.

               This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England!”

And the orator and his audience were all nearer crying than they knew,
for it was pride and love that made their hearts beat so high and their
eyes overflow with happy tears. The room felt as if it was on fire,
and every man that hour knew that Patriotism is one of the holiest
sentiments of the soul. With lifted caps, they went away in the
stillness of that happiness, which the language of earth has not one
word to represent.




CHAPTER XIV--A RECALL


 AFTER this event I never saw Squire Antony Annis any more. Within a
week, I had left the place, and I was not there again until the year A.
D. 1884, a period of fifty-one years. Yet the lovely village was clear
enough in my memory. I approached it by one of the railroads boring
their way through the hills and valleys surrounding the place, and as I
did so, I recalled vividly its pretty primitive cottages--each one set
in its own garden of herbs and flowers. I could hear the clattering of
the looms in the loom sheds attached to most of these dwellings. I could
see the handsome women with their large, rosy families, and the burly
men standing in groups discussing some recent sermon, or horse race,
or walking with their sweethearts; and perhaps singing “The Lily of the
Valley,” or “There is a Land of Pure Delight!” I could hear or see
the children laughing or quarreling, or busy with their bobbins at the
spinning wheel, and I could even follow every note of the melody the old
church chimes were flinging into the clear, sweet atmosphere above me.

In reality, I had no hopes of seeing or hearing any of these things
again, and the nearer I approached Annis Railroad Station, the more
surely I was aware that my expectation of disappointment was a certain
presage. I found the once lovely village a large town, noisy and dirty
and full of red mills. There were whole streets of them, their lofty
walls pierced with more windows than there are days in a year, and their
enormously high chimneys shutting out the horizon as with a wall. The
street that had once overlooked the clear fast-running river was jammed
with mills, the river had become foul and black with the refuse of
dyeing materials and other necessities of mill labor.

The village had totally disappeared. In whatever direction I looked
there was nothing but high brick mills, with enormously lofty chimneys
lifted up into the smoky atmosphere. However, as my visit was in the
winter, I had many opportunities of seeing these hundreds and thousands
of mill windows lit up in the early mornings and in the twilight of the
autumn evenings. It was a marvelous and unforget-able sight. Nothing
could make commonplace this sudden, silent, swift appearance of light
from the myriad of windows, up the hills, and down the hills, through
the valleys, and following the river, and lighting up the wolds,
every morning and every evening, just for the interval of dawning
and twilight. As a spectacle it is indescribable; there is no human
vocabulary has a word worthy of it.

The operatives were as much changed as the place. All traces of that
feudal loyalty which had existed between Squire Annis and his weavers,
had gone forever, with home and hand-labor, and individual bargaining.
The power-loom weaver was even then the most independent of all workers.
And men, women and children were well educated, for among the first
bills passed by Parliament after the Reform Bill was one founding
National schools over the length and breadth of England; and the third
generation since was then entering them. “Now that you have given the
people the vote,” said Lord Brougham, “you must educate them. The men
who say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to England’s national problems must be able to
read all about them.” So National Schools followed The Bill, and I found
in Annis a large Public Library, young men’s Debating Societies, and
courses of lectures, literary and scientific.

On the following Sunday night, I went to the Methodist chapel. The old
one had disappeared, but a large handsome building stood on its site.
The moment I entered it, I was met by the cheerful Methodist welcome and
because I was a stranger I was taken to the Preacher’s pew. Someone was
playing a voluntary, on an exceptionally fine organ, and in the midst of
a pathetic minor passage--which made me feel as if I had just lost Eden
over again--there was a movement, and with transfigured faces the whole
congregation rose to its feet and began to sing. The voluntary had
slipped into the grand psalm tune called “_Olivet_” and a thousand men
and women, a thousand West Riding voices, married the grand old Psalm
tune to words equally grand--

               “Lo! He comes with clouds descending,

                   Once for favored sinners slain;

               Thousand, thousand saints attending,

                   Swell the triumph of his train.

                        Halleluiah!

               God appears on the earth to reign.

               “Yea, Amen! let all adore thee,

                   High on Thy eternal throne;

               Savior, take the power and glory!

                   Claim the kingdom for Thine own.

                        Halleluiah!

               Everlasting God come down!”

And at this hour I am right glad, because my memory recalls that
wonderful congregational singing; even as I write the words, I hear it.
It was not Emotionalism. No, indeed! It was a good habit of the soul.

The next morning I took an early train to the cathedral city of Ripon,
and every street I passed through on my way to the North-Western Station
was full of mills. You could not escape the rattle of their machinery,
nor the plunging of the greasy piston rods at every window. It was not
yet eight o’clock, but the station was crowded with men carrying samples
of every kind of wool or cotton. They were neighbors, and often friends,
but they took no notice of each other. They were on business, and their
hands were full of bundles. So full that I saw several men who could not
manage their railway ticket, and let the conductor take it from their
teeth.

Now when I travel, I like to talk with my company, but as I looked
around, I could not persuade myself that any of these business-saturated
men would condescend to converse with an inquisitive woman. However, a
little further on, a very complete clergyman came into my compartment.
He looked at me inquiringly, and I felt sure he was speculating about
my social position. So I hastened to put him at ease, by some inquiries
about the Annis family.

“O dear me!” he replied. “So you remember the old Squire Antony! How
Time does fly! The Annis people still love and obey Squire Antony. I
suppose he is the only person they do love and obey. How long is it
since you were here?”

“Over fifty years. I saw the great Reform Bill passed, just before I
left Annis in 1833.”

“You mean the first part of it?”

“Well, then, sir, had it more than one part?”

“I should say so. It seemed to need a deal of altering and repairing.
The Bill you saw pass was Grey’s bill. It cleaned up the Lords and
Commons, and landed gentlemen of England. Thirty-five years later, Derby
and Disraeli’s Reform Bill gave the Franchise to the great middle class,
mechanics and artizan classes, and this very year Gladstone extended the
Bill to take in more than two millions of agricultural and day laborers.
It has made a deal of difference with all classes.”

“I think it is quite a coincidence that I should be here at the finish
of this long struggle. I have seen the beginning and the end of it.
Really quite a coincidence,” and I laughed a little foolish laugh,
for the clergyman did not laugh with me. On the contrary he said
thoughtfully: “Coincidences come from higher intelligences than
ourselves. We cannot control them, but they are generally fortunate.”

“Higher intelligences than ourselves?” I asked. “Yes. This world is both
the workfield and the battlefield of those sent to minister unto souls
who are to be heirs of salvation, and who perhaps, in their turn,
become comforting and helpful spirits to the children of men. Yes. A
coincidence is generally a fortunate circumstance. Someone higher than
ourselves, has to do with it. Are you an American?”

“I have lived in America for half-a-century.”

“In what part of America?”

“In many parts, north and south and west. My life has been full of
changes.”

“Change is good fortune. Yes, it is. To change is to live, and to have
changed often, is to have had a perfect life.”

“Do you think the weavers of Annis much improved by all the changes that
steam and machinery have brought to them?”

“No. Machinery confers neither moral nor physical perfection, and steam
and iron and electricity do not in any way affect the moral nature. Men
lived and died before these things were known. They could do so again.”

Here the guard came and unlocked our carriage, and my companion gathered
his magazines and newspapers together and the train began to slow up.
He turned to me with a smile and said, “Good-by, friend. Go on having
changes, and fear not.”

“But if I _do_ fear?”

“Look up, and say:

               “O Thou who changest not! Abide with me!”

With these words he went away forever. I had not even asked his name,
nor had he asked mine. We were just two wayfarers passing each other
on life’s highway. He had brought me a message, and then departed. But
there are other worlds beyond this. We had perhaps been introduced for
this future. For I do believe that no one touches our life here, who has
not some business or right to do so. For our lives before this life and
our lives yet to be are all one, separated only by the little sleep we
call death.

I reached Ripon just at nightfall, and the quiet of the cathedral city,
its closed houses, and peaceful atmosphere, did not please me. After the
stress and rush of the West Riding, I thought the place must be asleep.
On the third morning I asked myself, “What are you doing here? What
has the past to give you? To-day is perhaps yours--Yesterday is as
unattainable as To-morrow.” Then the thought of New York stirred me, and
I hastened and took the fastest train for Liverpool, and in eight days I
had crossed the sea, and was in New York and happily and busily at work
again.

But I did not dismiss Annis from my memory and when the first mutterings
of the present war was heard, I remembered Squire Antony, and his charge
to the weavers of Annis--“It may so happen,” he said, “that in the
course of years, some nation, that has lost the grip of all its good
senses, will try to invade England. It isn’t likely, but it might be
so. Then I say to each of you, and every man of you, without one hour’s
delay, do as I have often heard you sing, and say you would do:--

               “ ‘Off with your Labor Cap! rush to the van!

               The sword for your tool, and the height of your plan

               To turn yoursen into a fighting man_!

Would they do so?

As I repeated the squire’s order, I fell naturally into the Yorkshire
form of speech and it warmed my heart and set it beating high and fast.

Would the ‘Yorkshires’ still honor the charge Squire Annis had given
them? Oh, how could I doubt it! England had been in some war or other,
nearly ever since the squire’s charge, and the ‘Yorkshires’ had always
been soon and solid in rushing to her help. It was not likely that in
this tremendous struggle, they would either be too slow, or too cold.
Not they! Not they! They were early at the van, and doubly welcome; and
they are helping at this hour to fight a good fight for all humanity;
and learning the while, how to become of the highest type of manhood
that can be fashioned in this world. Not by alphabets and books, but by
the crucial living experiences that spring only from the courses of
Life and Death--divine monitions, high hopes and plans, that enlarge the
judgment, and the sympathies, the heart and the intellect, and that with
such swift and mysterious perfection, as can only be imparted while the
mortal stands on the very verge of Immortality.

Very soon, now, they will come home bringing a perfect peace with them,
_then!_ how good will be their quiet, simple lives, and their daily
labor, and their Paper Cap!

THE END







End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Paper Cap, by Amelia E. Barr

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