_“Nothing seems to have happened so long ago as an affair of Love.”_
_“To offend any person is the next foolish thing to being offended.”_
_“When you can talk of a new lover, you have forgotten the old one.”_
LIFE is full of issues. Nothing happens just as we expect or prepare
for it, and when the squire returned home late in the afternoon, weary
but full of enthusiasm, he was yet ignorant concerning the likely
nomination of Bradley for the united boroughs of Annis and Bradley. He
had walked all of fourteen miles, and he told his wife proudly, that
“Jonathan was more weary with the exercise than he was.”
“All the same, Annie,” he added, as he kissed her fondly, “I was glad to
see Britton with the horse and gig at the foot of the hill. That was a
bit of thy thoughtfulness. God bless thee, dearie!”
“Yes, it was. I knew thou hed not walked as much as tha ought to hev
done while we were in London. I don’t want thy fine figure spoiled, but
I thought thou would be tired enough when thou got to the foot of the
hill.”
“So I was, and Jonathan was fairly limping, but we hev settled on t’
mill site--there’s nothing can lick Clitheroe Moor side, just where it
touches the river. My land covers twenty acres of it, and on its south
edge it is almost within touch of the new railway going to Leeds.
Jonathan fairly shouted, as soon as we stood on it. ‘Squire,’ he said,
‘here’s a mill site in ten thousand. There cannot be a finer one
found in England, and it is the varry bit of land that man Boocock
wanted--_and didn’t get as tha knows?_’ Now I must write to Josepha, and
tell her to come quickly and see it. She must bring with her also her
business adviser.”
“Does tha reckon to be under thy sister?”
“Keep words like those behind thy lips, and set thy teeth for a barrier
they cannot pass. We are equal partners, equal in power and profit,
equal in loss or gain.” Then he was silent, and Annie understood
that she had gone far enough. Yet out of pure womanly wilfulness, she
answered--
“I shall not presume to speak another word about thy partner,” and
Antony Annis looked at her over the rim of his tea cup, and the ready
answer was on his lips, but he could not say it. Her personal beauty
smote the reproving words back, her handsome air of defiance conquered
his momentary flash of anger. She had her husband at her feet. She knew
it, and her steady, radiant smile completed her victory. Then she leaned
towards him, and he put down his cup and kissed her fondly. He had
intended to say “O confound it, Annie! What’s up with thee? Can’t thou
take a great kindness with anything but bitter biting words?” And what
he really said was--“Oh, Annie! Annie! sweet, dear Annie!” And lo! there
came no harm from this troubling of a man’s feelings, because Annie knew
just how far it was safe for her to go.
This little breeze cleared the room that had been filled with unrestful
and unfair suspicions all the day long. The squire suddenly found out it
was too warm, and rose and opened the window. Then he asked--like a man
who has just recovered himself from some mental neglect--“Wheriver hev
Dick and Kitty gone to? I hevn’t seen nor heard them since I came home.”
“They went to the village before two o’clock. They went to the Methodist
preacher’s house, I hev no doubt. Antony, what is to come of this
foolishness? I tell thee Dick acts as never before.”
“About Faith?”
“Yes.”
“What hes he said to thee about Faith? How does he act?” asked the
squire.
“He hes not said so much to me as he usually does about the girl he is
carrying-on-with, but he really believes himself in love with her for
iver and iver.”
“I’ll be bound, he thinks that very thing. Dick is far gone. But the
girl is fair and good. He might do worse.”
“I don’t like her, far from it.”
“She is always busy in some kind of work.”
“Busy to a fault.”
“I’ll tell thee what, my Joy. We shall hev to make the best we can of
this affair. If Dick is bound to marry her, some day their wedding will
come off. So there is no good in worrying about it. But I am sure in the
long run, all will be well.”
“My mind runs on this thing, and it troubles me. Thou ought to speak
sharp and firm to Dick. I am sure Josepha hes other plans for him.”
“I’ll break no squares with my lad, about any woman.”
“The girls all make a dead set for Dick.”
“Not they! It hes allays been the other way about. We wanted him to
marry pretty Polly Raeburn, and as soon as he found that out, he gave
her up. That is Dick’s awful way. Tell him he ought to marry Faith, and
he will make easy shift to do without her. That is the short and
the long of this matter. Now, Annie, thou must not trouble me about
childish, foolish love affairs. I hev work for two men as strong as
mysen to do, and I am going to put my shoulder to the collar and do it.
Take thy awn way with Dick. I must say I hev a fellow feeling with the
lad. Thou knows I suffered a deal, before I came to the point of running
away with thee.”
“What we did, is neither here nor there, the circumstances were
different. I think I shall let things take their chance.”
“Ay, I would. Many a ship comes bravely into harbor, that hes no pilot
on board.”
“Did tha hear any political news? It would be a strange thing if
Jonathan could talk all day with thee, and the both of you keep off
politics.”
“Well, tha sees, we were out on business and business means ivery
faculty a man hes. I did speak once of Josepha, and Jonathan said, ‘She
is good for any sum.’”
“Antony, hes thou ever thought about the House of Commons since thou
came home? What is tha going to do about thy business there?”
“I hevn’t thought on that subject. I am going to see Wetherall about it.
I cannot be in two places at one time, and I am going to stick to Annis
Mill.”
“Will it be any loss to thee to give up thy seat?”
“Loss or gain, I am going to stand firmly by the mill. I don’t think it
will be any money loss. I’ll tell Wetherall to sell the seat to any
man that is of my opinions, and will be bound to vote for the Liberal
party.”
“I would see Wetherall soon, if I was thee.”
“What’s the hurry? Parliament is still sitting. Grey told me it could
not get through its present business until August or later.”
“It will not be later. September guns and rods will call ivery man to
the hills or the waters.”
“That’s varry likely, and if so, they won’t go back to London until
December. So there’s no need for thee to worry thysen about December.
It’s only June yet, tha knows.”
“Will tha lose money by selling thy seat?”
“Not I! I rayther think I’ll make money. And I’ll save a bag of
sovereigns. London expenses hes been the varry item that hes kept us
poor,--that is, poorer than we ought to be. There now! That will do
about London. I am a bit tired of London. I hear Dick and Kitty’s
voices, and there’s music in them. O God, what a grand thing it is to be
young!”
“I must order fresh tea for them, they are sure to be hungry.”
“Not they! There’s no complaining in their voices. Listen how gayly Dick
laughs. And I know Kitty is snuggling up to him, and saying some loving
thing or ither. Bless the children! It would be a dull house wanting
them.”
“Antony!”
“So it would, Annie, and thou knows it. Hev some fresh food brought for
them. Here they are!” And the squire rose to meet them, taking Kitty
within his arm, and giving his hand to Dick.
“Runaways!” he said. “Whativer kept you from your eating? Mother hes
ordered some fresh victuals. They’ll be here anon.”
“We have had our tea, mother--such a merry meal!”
“Wheriver then?
“At Mr. Foster’s,” said Dick promptly. “Mr. Foster came in while Kitty
and I were sitting with Faith, and he said ‘it was late, and he was
hungry, and we had better get tea ready.’ And ‘so full of fun and
pleasure we all four went to work. Mr. Foster and I set the table, and
Faith and Kitty cut the bread and butter, and all of us together brought
on cold meat and Christ-Church patties, and it was all done in such a
joyous mood, that you would have thought we were children playing at
having a picnic. Oh! it was such a happy hour! Was it not, Kitty?”
“Indeed it was. I shall never forget it.”
But who can prolong a joy when it is over? Both Kitty and Dick tried to
do so, but the squire soon turned thoughtful, and Mistress Annis, though
she said only nice words, put no sympathy into them; and they were only
words, and so fell to the ground lifeless. The squire was far too genial
a soul, not to feel this condition, and he said suddenly--“Dick, come
with me. I hev a letter to write to thy aunt, and thou can do it for me.
I’ll be glad of thy help.”
“I will come gladly, father. I wish you would let me do all the writing
about business there is to be done. Just take me for your secretary.”
“That is a clever idea. We will talk it out a bit later. Come thy ways
with me, now. No doubt thy mother and sister hev their awn things to
talk over. Women hev often queer views of what seems to men folk varry
reasonable outcomes.”
So the two men went out very confidingly together, and Kitty remained
with her mother, who sat silently looking into the darkening garden.
Neither spoke for a few minutes, then Kitty lifted her cape and bonnet
and said, “I am tired, mother. I think I will go to my room.”
“Varry well, but answer me a few questions first. What do you now think
of Dick’s fancy for Faith?”
“It is not a fancy, mother. It is a love that will never fade or grow
old. He will marry Faith or he will never marry.”
“Such sentimentality! It is absurd!”
“Dick thinks his love for Faith Foster the great fact of his life. He
will never give her up. Her ways are his ways. He thinks as she thinks.
He would do anything she asked him to do. Dear mammy, try and make the
best of it. You cannot alter it. It is Destiny, and I heard Mr. Foster
say, that no person, nor yet any nation, could fight Destiny unless God
was on their side. I think it is Dick’s destiny to marry Faith.”
“Think as you like, Katherine, but be so kind as to omit quoting Mr.
Foster’s opinions in my presence.”
“Very well, mother.”
“And I do wish you would make up your quarrel with Harry Bradley; it is
very unpleasant to have you go mourning about the house and darkening
the only bit of good fortune that has ever come to your father. Indeed,
I think it is very selfish and cruel. I do that!”
“I am sorry. I try to forget, but--” and she wearily lifted her cape and
left the room. And her mother listened to her slow, lifeless steps on
the stairway, and sorrowfully wondered what she ought to do. Suddenly
she remembered that her husband had asked her not to trouble him about
foolish love affairs and Dick was sure to take Katherine’s view of the
matter, whatever the trouble was; and, indeed, she was quite aware that
the squire himself leaned to the side of the lovers, and there was no
one else she could speak to. It was all a mixed up anxiety, holding
apparently no hope of relief from outside help.
Yes, there was Aunt Josepha, and as soon as she stepped into the
difficulty, Katherine’s mother felt there would be some explanation or
help. It was only waiting a week, and Madam Temple would be in Annis,
and with this reflection she tried to dismiss the subject.
Indeed, everyone in Annis Hall was now looking forward to the visit of
Josepha. But more than a fortnight elapsed before she arrived, bringing
with her experts and advisers of various kinds. The latter were
pleasantly located in the village inn, and Josepha was delighted with
the beautiful and comfortable arrangements her sister-in-law had made
for her. She came into their life with overflowing good humor and
spirits, and was soon as busily interested in the great building work as
her happy brother.
She had to ride all through the village to reach the mill site, and she
did not think herself a day too old to come down to breakfast in her
riding habit and accompany her brother. It was not long, however, before
the pair separated. Soon after her arrival, the village women, one by
one, renewed their acquaintance with her, and every woman looked to Miss
Josepha for relief, or advice about their special tribulations. Many of
them were women of her own age. They remembered her as Miss Josepha,
and prided themselves on the superiority of their claim. To the younger
women she was Madam, just Madam, and indeed it was a queer little
incident that quite naturally, and without any word of explanation,
made all, both old and young, avoid any other name than Miss Josepha.
“Yorkshire is for its awn folk, we doan’t take to strange people and
strange names,” said Israel Naylor, when questioned by some of the
business experts Josepha had brought down with her; “and,” he explained,
“Temple is a Beverley name, or I mistake, and Annis folk know nothing
about Beverley names.” So Madam Temple was almost universally Miss
Josepha, to the villagers, and she liked the name, and people who used
it won her favor.
In a few weeks she had to hire a room in Naylor’s house, and go there at
a fixed hour to see any of the people who wanted her. All classes came
to this room, from the Episcopal curate and the Methodist preacher, to
the poor widow of a weaver, who had gone to Bradford for work, and died
of cholera there. “Oh, Miss Josepha!” she cried, “Jonathan Hartley told
me to come to thee, and he said, he did say, that thou hed both wisdom
and money in plenty, and that thou would help me.”
“What is thy trouble, Nancy?”
“My man died in Bradford, and he left me nothing but four helpless
childer, and I hev a sister in Bradford who will take care of them while
I go back to my old place as pastry cook at the Black Swan Hotel.”
“That would be a good plan, Nancy.”
“For sure it would, Miss Josepha, but we awned our cottage, and our bee
skeps, and two dozen poultry, and our old loom. I can’t turn them into
brass again, and so I’m most clemmed with it all.”
“How much do you want for the ‘all you awn’?”
“I would count mysen in luck, if I got one hundred and fifty pounds.”
“Is that sum its honest worth, not a penny too much, or a penny too
little?”
“It is just what it cost us; ivery penny, and not a penny over, or
less.”
“Then I’ll buy it, if all is as thou says. I’ll hev my lawyer look it
over, and I’ll see what the squire says, and if thou hes been straight
with me, thou can go home, and pack what tha wants to take with thee.”
This incident was the initial purchase of many other cottages sold for
similar reasons, and when Josepha went back to London, she took with
her the title deeds of a large share of Annis village property. “But,
Antony,” she said, “I hev paid the full value of ivery deed I hold, ay,
in some cases more than their present value, but I do not doubt I shall
get all that is mine when the time is ripe for more, and more, and more
mills.”
“Was this thy plan, when thou took that room in the Inn?”
“Not it! I took it for a meeting place. I know most of the women
here, and I saw plainly Annie would not be able to stand the constant
visitations that were certain to follow. It made trouble in the kitchen,
and the voice of the kitchen soon troubles the whole house. Annie must
be considered, and the comfort of the home. That is the great right.
Then I hev other business with Annis women, not to be mixed up with thy
affairs. We are going to plan such an elementary school as Annis needs
for its children, with classes at night for the women who doan’t want
their boys and girls to be ashamed of them. And there must be a small
but perfectly fitted up hospital for the workers who turn sick or get
injured in the mill. And the Reverend Mr. Bentley and the Reverend Mr.
Foster come to me with their cases of sorrow and sickness, and I can
tell thee a room for all these considerations was one of the necessities
of our plans.”
“I hevn’t a bit of doubt of it. But it is too much for thee to manage.
Thou art wearying soul and body.”
“Far from it. It is as good and as great a thing to save a soul as it is
to make it. I am varry happy in my work, and as Mr. Foster would put it,
I feel a good deal nearer God, than I did counting up interest money in
London.”
In the meantime the home life at Annis Hall was not only changed but
constantly changing. There was always some stranger--some expert of one
kind or another--a guest in its rooms, and their servants or assistants
kept the kitchen in a racket of cooking, and eating, and unusual
excitement. Mistress Annis sometimes felt that it would be impossible to
continue the life, but every day the squire came home so tired, and
so happy, that all discomforts fled before his cheery “Hello!” and his
boyish delight in the rapidly growing edifice. Dick had become his paid
secretary, and in the meantime was studying bookkeeping, and learning
from Jonathan all that could be known, concerning long and short staple
wools.
Katherine was her mother’s right hand all the long day, but often,
towards closing time, she went down to the village on her pony, and then
the squire, or Dick, or both, rode home with her. Poor Kitty! Harry no
longer wrote to her, and Josepha said she had heard that he had gone to
America on a business speculation, “and it is a varry likely thing,”
she said, “for Harry knew a penny from a pound, before he learned how to
count. I wouldn’t fret about him, dearie.”
“I am not fretting, aunt, but how would you feel, if you had shut the
door of your heart, and your love lay dead on its threshold. Nothing is
left to me now, but the having loved.”
“Well, dearie, when we hevn’t what we love, we must love what we hev.
Thou isn’t a bit like thy sen.”
“I have never felt young since Harry left me.”
“That is a little thing to alter thee so much.”
“No trouble that touches the heart is a little thing.”
“Niver mind the past, dearie. Love can work miracles. If Harry really
loved thee he will come back to thee. Love is the old heartache of the
world, and then all in a minute some day, he is the Healing Love and The
Comforter. I hev a good mind to tell thee something, that I niver told
to any ither mortal sinner.”
“If it would help me to bear more cheerfully my great loss, I would be
glad to hear anything of that kind.”
Then Josepha sat down and spread her large capable hands one over each
knee and looking Kitty full in the eyes said--“I was at thy age as far
gone in love, with as handsome a youth as your Harry is. One morning
we hed a few words about the value of good birth, and out of pure
contradiction I set it up far beyond what I really thought of it; though
I’ll confess I am yet a bit weak about my awn ancestors. Now my lover
was on this subject varry touchy, for his family hed money, more than
enough, but hed no landed gentry, and no coat of arms, in fact, no
family. And I hed just hed a few words with mother, and Antony hedn’t
stood up for me. Besides, I wasn’t dressed fit to be seen, or I thought
I wasn’t, and I was out with mother, and out with Antony, well then, I
was out with mysen, and all the world beside; and I asked varry crossly:
‘Whativer brings thee here at this time of day? I should hev thought
thou knew enough to tell thysen, a girl hes no liking for a lover that
comes in the morning. He’s nothing but in her way.’”
“Oh, auntie, how could you?”
“Well, then, there was a varry boisterous wind blowing, and they do say,
the devil is allays busy in a high wind. I suppose he came my road
that morning, and instead of saying ‘be off with thee’ I made him so
comfortable in my hot temper, he just bided at my side, and egged me on,
to snap out ivery kind of provoking thing.”
“I am very much astonished, aunt. The fair word that turneth away wrath
is more like you.”
“For sure it is, or else there hes been a great change for t’ better
since that time. Well, that day it was thus, and so; and I hev often
wondered as to the why and wherefore of that morning’s foolishness.”
“Did he go away forever that morning?”
“He did not come for a week, and during that week, Admiral Temple came
to see father, and he stayed until he took with him my promise to be his
wife early in the spring.”
“Were you very miserable, auntie?”
“Oh, my dear, I was sick in love, as I could be.”
“Why didn’t you make it up with him?”
“I hed several reasons for not doing so. My father hed sailed with
Admiral Temple, and they were friends closer than brothers, for they hed
saved each other’s lives--that was one reason. I was angry at my
lover staying away a whole week. That was reason number two. Ten years
afterwards I learned, quite accidentally, that his coming was prevented
by circumstances it was impossible for him to control. Then my mother
hed bragged all her fine words over the country-side, about the great
marriage I was to make. That was another reason;--and I am a bit ashamed
to say, the splendid jewels and the rich silks and Indian goods my new
lover sent me seemed to make a break with him impossible. At any rate,
I felt this, and mother and father niver spoke of the Admiral that they
did not add another rivet to the bond between us. So at last I married
my sailor, and I thank God I did so!”
“Did your lover break his heart?”
“Not a bit of it! He married soon after I was married.”
“Whom did he marry?”
“Sophia Ratcliffe, a varry pretty girl from the old town of
Boroughbridge. I niver saw her. I went with the Admiral, by permission,
to various ports, remaining at some convenient town, while he sailed far
and wide after well-loaded ships of England’s enemies, and picking up as
he sailed, any bit of land flying no civilized flag. I did not come back
to Annis for five years. My father was then dead, my mother hed gone
back to her awn folks, and my brother Antony was Squire of Annis.”
“Then did you meet your old lover?”
“One day, I was walking with Antony through the village, and we met the
very loveliest child I iver saw in all my life. He was riding a Shetland
pony, and a gentleman walked by his side, and watched him carefully, and
I found out at once by his air of authority that he was the boy’s tutor.
I asked the little fellow for a kiss, and he bent his lovely face and
smilingly let me take what I wanted. Then they passed on and Antony
said, ‘His mother died three months ago, and he nearly broke his heart
for her.’ ‘Poor little chap,’ I said, and my eyes followed the little
fellow down the long empty street. ‘His father,’ continued Antony, ‘was
just as brokenhearted. All Annis village was sorry for him.’
‘Do I know him?’ I asked. ‘I should think so!’ answered thy father with
a look of surprise, and then someone called, ‘Squire,’ and we waited,
and spoke to the man about his taxes. After his complaint had been
attended to we went forward, and I remembered the child, and asked,
‘What is the name of that lovely child?’ And Antony said,
“‘His name is Harry Bradley. His father is John Thomas Bradley. Hes thou
forgotten him?’
“Then I turned and looked after the boy, but the little fellow was
nearly out of sight. I only got a last glimpse of some golden curls
lying loose over his white linen suit and black ribbons.”
Then Josepha ceased speaking and silently took the weeping girl in her
arms. She kissed her, and held her close, until the storm of sorrow was
over, then she said softly:
“There it is, Lovey! The lot of women is on thee. Bear it bravely for
thy father’s sake. He hes a lot to manage now, and he ought not to see
anything but happy people, or hear anything but loving words. Wash thy
face, and put on thy dairymaid’s linen bonnet and we will take a
breath of fresh air in the lower meadow. Its hedges are all full of
the Shepherd’s rose, and their delicious perfume gives my soul a fainty
feeling, and makes me wonder in what heavenly paradise I had caught that
perfume before.”
“I will, aunt. You have done me good, it would be a help to many girls
to have heard your story. We have so many ideas that, if examined,
would not look as we imagine them to be. Agatha De Burg used to say that
‘unfaithfulness to our first love was treason to our soul.’”
“I doan’t wonder, if that was her notion. She stuck through thick and
thin to that scoundrel De Burg, and she was afraid De Burg was thinking
of thee, and afraid thou would marry him. When girls first go into
society they are in a bit of a hurry to get married; if they only wait a
year or two, it does not seem such a pressing matter. Thou knows De
Burg was Agatha’s first love, and she hes not realized yet, that it is a
God’s mercy De Burg hes not kep the promises he made her.”
“The course of true love never yet ran smooth,” and Katherine sighed as
she poured out some water and prepared to wash her face.
“Kitty,” said her aunt, “the way my life hes been ordered for me,
shows that God, and only God, orders the three great events of ivery
life--birth, marriage and death; that is, if we will let Him do so.
Think a moment, if I hed married John Thomas Bradley, I would hev spent
all my best days in a lonely Yorkshire hamlet, in the midst of worrying
efforts to make work pay, that was too out-of-date to struggle along.
Until I was getting to be an old woman, I would hev known nothing but
care and worry, and how John Thomas would hev treated me, nobody but God
knew. I hated poverty, and I would hev been poor. I wanted to see Life
and Society and to travel, and I would hardly hev gone beyond Annis
Village. Well, now, see how things came about. I mysen out of pure bad
temper made a quarrel with my lover, and then perversely I wouldn’t make
it up, and then the Admiral steps into my life, gives me ivery longing
I hed, and leaves me richer than all my dreams. I hev seen Life and
Society, and the whole civilized world, and found out just what it
is worth, and I hev made money, and am now giving mysen the wonderful
pleasure of helping others to be happy. Sit thee quiet. If Harry is
thine, he will come to thee sure as death! If he does not come of his
awn free will, doan’t thee move a finger to bring him. Thou wilt mebbe
bring nothing but trouble to thysen. There was that young banker thou
met at Jane’s house, he loved thee purely and sincerely. Thou might
easily hev done far worse than marry him. Whativer hed thou against
him?”
“His hair.”
“What was wrong with the lad’s hair?”
“Why, aunt, Jane called it ‘sandy’ but I felt sure it was turning
towards red.”
“Stuff and nonsense! It will niver turn anything but white, and it
won’t turn white till thy awn is doing the same thing. And tha knaws
it doesn’t make much matter what color a man’s hair is. Englishmen are
varry seldom without a hat of one kind or another. I doan’t believe I
would hev known the Admiral without his naval hat, or in his last years,
his garden hat. Does tha remember an old lady called Mrs. Sam Sagar? She
used to come and see thy mother, when thou was only a little lass about
eight years old, remember her, she was a queer old lady.”
“Queer, but Yorkshire; queer, but varry sensible. Her husband, like the
majority of Yorkshiremen, niver took off his hat, unless to put on his
nightcap, or if he was going inside a church, or hed to listen to the
singing of ‘God Save the King.’ When he died, his wife hed his favorite
hat trimmed with black crape, and it hung on its usual peg of the hat
stand, just as long as she lived. You see his hat was the bit of his
personality that she remembered best of all. Well, what I wanted to show
thee was, the importance of the hat to a man, and then what matters the
color of his hair.”
By this time they were in the thick green grass of the meadow, and
Kitty laughed at her aunt’s illustration of the Yorkshire man’s habit
of covering his head, and they chatted about it, as they gathered great
handfuls of shepherd’s roses. And after this, Josepha spoke only of her
plans for the village, and of Faith’s interest in them. She felt she
had said plenty about love, and she hoped the seed she had sown that
afternoon had fallen on good ground. Surely it is a great thing to know
_how and when to let go._