“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 colored 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.