_“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.”