“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.”