_“Busy, happy, loving people; talking, eating, singing, sewing, living
through every sense they have at the same time.”_
_“People who are happy, do not write down their happiness.”_
THE summer went quickly away, but during it the whole life of Annis
Hall and Annis Village changed. The orderly, beautiful home was tossed
up by constant visitors, either on business, or on simple social
regulations; and the village was full of strange men, who had small
respect for what they considered such an old-fashioned place. But in
spite of all opinions and speculations, the work for which all this
change was permitted went on with unceasing energy. The squire’s
interest in it constantly increased, and Dick’s enthusiasm and ability
developed with every day’s exigencies. Then Josepha was constantly
bringing the village affairs into the house affairs, and poor women
with easy, independent manners, were very troublesome to Britton and
his wife. They were amazed at the tolerance with which Mistress Annis
permitted their frequent visits and they reluctantly admitted such
excuses as she made for them.
“You must remember, Betsy,” she frequently explained, “that few of them
have ever been in any home but their father’s and their own. They have
been as much mistress in their own home, as I have been in my home.
Their ideas of what is fit and respectful, come from their heart and are
not in any degree habits of social agreement. If they like or respect a
person, they are not merely civil or respectful, they are kind and free,
and speak just as they feel.”
“They do that, Madam--a good bit too free.”
“Well, Betsy, they are Mistress Temple’s business at present. Thou need
not mind them.”
“I doan’t, not in the least.”
“They are finding out for her, things she wants to know about the
village, the number of children that will be to teach--the number of men
and women that know how to read and write.”
“Few of that kind, Madam, if any at all.”
“You know she is now making plans for a school, and she wants, of
course, to have some idea as to the number likely to go there, and other
similar questions. Everyone ought to know how to read and write.”
“Well, Madam, Britton and mysen hev found our good common senses all we
needed. They were made and given to us by God, when we was born. He gave
us senses enough to help us to do our duty in that state of life it had
pleased Him to call us to. These eddicated lads are fit for nothing.
Britton won’t be bothered with them. He says neither dogs nor horses
like them. They understand Yorkshire speech and ways, but when a lad
gets book knowledge, they doan’t understand his speech, and his ways
of pronouncing his words; and they just think scorn of his
perliteness--they kick up their heels at it, and Britton says they do
right. _Why-a!_ We all know what school teachers are! The varry childher
feel suspicious o’ them, and no wonder! They all hev a rod or a strap
somewhere about them, and they fairly seem to enjoy using it. I niver
hed a lick from anybody in my life. I wouldn’t hev stood it, except from
dad, and his five senses were just as God made them; and if dad gave
any o’ the lads a licking, they deserved it, and they didn’t mind taking
it.”
“If they got one from a schoolmaster, I dare say they would deserve it.”
“No, Madam, begging your pardon, I know instances on the contrary. My
sister-in-law’s cousin’s little lad was sent to a school by Colonel
Broadbent, because he thought the child was clever beyond the usual run
of lads, and he got such a cruel basting as niver was, just because
he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, learn something they called parts of
speech--hard, long names, no meaning in them.”
“That was too bad. Did he try to learn them?”
“He tried himsen sick, and Britton he tried to help him. Britton learned
one word, called in-ter-jec-tions. He tried that word on both dogs and
horses----”
“Well, what followed?”
“Nothing, Madam. He wanted the horses to go on, and they stood stock
still. The dogs just looked up at him, as if they thought he hed lost
his senses. And Britton, he said then and there, ‘the Quality can hev
all my share of grammar, and they are varry welcome to it.’ Our folk,
young and old, learn greedily to read. Writing hes equal favor with
them, arithmatic goes varry well with their natural senses, but grammar!
What’s the use of grammar? They talk better when they know nothing about
it.”
So it must be confessed, Miss Josepha did not meet with the eager
gratitude she expected. She was indeed sometimes tempted to give up her
plans, but to give up was to Josepha so difficult and so hateful that
she would not give the thought a moment’s consideration. “I hev been
taking the wrong way about the thing,” she said to Annie. “I will go and
talk to them, mysen.”
“Then you will make them delighted to do all your will. Put on your bib
and tucker, and ask Mr. Foster’s permission to use the meeting room of
the Methodist Chapel. That will give your plans the sacred touch women
approve when the subject concerns themselves.” This advice was followed,
and two days afterward, Josepha dressed herself for a chapel interview
with the mothers of Annis. The special invitation pleased them, and they
went to the tryst with their usual up-head carriage, and free and easy
manner, decidely accentuated.
Josepha was promptly at the rendezvous appointed, and precisely as
the clock struck three, she stepped from the vestry door to the little
platform used by the officials of the church in all their secular
meetings. She smiled and bowed her head and then cried--“Mothers of
Annis, good afternoon to every one of you!” And they rose in a body, and
made her a courtesy, and then softly clapped their hands, and as soon as
there was silence, Jonathan Hartley’s daughter welcomed her. There was
nothing wanting in this welcome, it was brimful of honest pleasure.
Josepha was Annis. She was the sister of their squire, she was a very
handsome woman, and she had thought it worth while to dress herself
handsomely to meet them. She was known to every woman in the village,
but she had never become commonplace or indifferent. There was no other
woman just like her in their vicinity, and she had always been a ready
helper in all the times of their want and trouble.
As she stood up before them, she drew every eye to her. She wore or
this occasion, her very handsomest, deepest, mourning garments. Her long
nun-like crêpe veil would have fallen below her knees had it not been
thrown backward, and within her bonnet there was a Maria Stuart border
of the richest white crêpe. Her thick wavy hair was untouched by Time,
and her stately figure, richly clothed in long garments of silk poplin,
was improved, and not injured, by a slight _embonpoint_ that gave her a
look of stability and strength. Her face, both handsome and benign, had
a rather austere expression, natural and approved,-though none in that
audience understood that it was the result of a strong will, tenaciously
living out its most difficult designs.
Without a moment’s delay she went straight to her point, and with
vigorous Yorkshire idioms soon carried every woman in the place with
her; and she knew so well the mental temperature of her audience, that
she promptly declined their vote. “I shall take your word, women,” she
said in a confident tone, “and I shall expect ivery one of you to keep
it.”
Amid loud and happy exclamations, she left the chapel and when she
reached the street, saw that her coachman was slowly walking the ponies
in an opposite direction, in order to soothe their restlessness. She
also was too restless to stand still and wait their leisurely pace and
she walked in the same direction, knowing that they must very soon meet
each other. Almost immediately someone passed her, then turned back and
met face to face.
It was a handsome man of about the squire’s age, and he put out his
hand, and said with a charming, kindly manner:--
“_Why-a, Josepha! Josepha!_ At last we hev met again.”
For just a moment Josepha hesitated, then she gave the apparent stranger
her hand, and they stood laughing and chatting together, until the
ponies were at hand, and had to be taken away for another calming
exercise.
“I hevn’t seen you, Josepha, for twenty-four years and five months and
four days. I was counting the space that divided us yesterday, when
somebody told me about this meeting of Annis women, and I thought, ‘I
will just go to Annis, and hang round till I get a glimpse of her.’”
“Well, John Thomas,” she answered, “it is mainly thy awn fault. Thou hed
no business to quarrel with Antony.”
“It was Antony’s fault.”
“No, it was not.”
“Well, then, it was all my fault.”
“Ay, thou must stick to that side of the quarrel, or I’ll not hev to
know thee,” and both laughed and shook hands again. Then she stepped
into her carriage, and Bradley said:
“But I shall see thee again, surely?”
“It might so happen,” she answered with a pretty wave of her hand. And
all the way home she was wandering what good or evil Fate had brought
John Thomas Bradley into her life again.
When she got back to the Hall, she noticed that her sister-in-law was
worried, and she asked, “What is bothering thee now, Annie?”
“Well, Josepha, Antony hed a visit from Lawyer Wetherall and he told
Antony Annis that he hes not a particle of right to the seat in The
House of Commons, as matters stand now. He says the new borough will
be contested, and that Colonel Frobisher of Annis is spoken of for
the Liberals, and Sir John Conyers or John Thomas Bradley are likely
candidates for the Tory side of affairs. They hed a long talk and it
wasn’t altogether a pleasant one, and Wetherall went away in a huff, and
Antony came to me in one of his still passions, and I hev been heving
a varry disagreeable hour or two; and I do think Antony’s ignorance
on this matter quite shameful. He ought to hev known, on what right or
title he held such an honor. I am humiliated by the circumstance.”
“Well, then, thou needn’t be so touchy. A great many lords and earls and
men of high degree hev been as ignorant as Antony. Thy husband stands in
varry good company. Antony isn’t a bit to blame. Not he! Antony held his
right from the people of Annis--his awn people--he did not even buy it,
as some did. It had been his, with this authenticity, for centuries.
Thou shared with him all of the honor and profit it brought, and if
there was any wrong in the way it came, thou sanctioned and shared it.
And if I was Antony I would send Wetherall to the North Pole in his
trust or esteem. If he knew different he ought to hev told Antony
different long ago. I shall take ivery bit of business I hev given
Wetherall out of his hands to-morrow morning. And if he charges me a
penny-piece too much I’ll give him trouble enough to keep on the fret
all the rest of his life. I will that!”
“I hev no doubt of it.”
“Where is Antony now?”
“Wheriver that weary mill is building, I suppose.”
“Well, thou ought to be a bit beyond ‘supposing.’ Thou ought to _know_.
It is thy place to know, and if he is in trouble, to be helping him to
bear it.”
“Josepha, there is no use in you badgering and blaming me. What would
you hev done if Wetherall hed said such and such things, in your
presence, as he did in mine?”
“I would hev told him he was a fool, as well as a rascal, to tell at the
end what he ought to hev told at the beginning. If Antony hed no right
to the seat, why did he take money, year after year, for doing business
connected with the seat; and niver open his false mouth? I shall get
mysen clear of him early to-morrow morning.”
“Don’t go away now, Josepha. I will send someone to look for the
squire.”
“I will go mysen, Annie. Thank you!”
She found the squire in a very troubled, despondent mood. “Josepha,” he
cried, “to think that I hev been filling a position on sufferance that I
thought was my lawful right!”
“And that rascal, Wetherall, niver said a word to thee?”
“It is my awn fault. I aught to hev inquired into the matter long ago.”
“Then so ought the rest of the legislators. Custom becomes right,
through length of years, and thou art not to blame, not in the least.
Now, however, I would give it up to the people, who gave it to thee. Not
to Wetherall! Put him out of the affair. _Entirely!_ There is to be a
meeting on the village green to-night. Go to it, and then and there say
the words that will give thy heart satisfaction.”
“Ay, I intend to go, but Annie is vexed, and she makes me feel as if I
hed done something that reflects on our honor and respectability.”
“Thou hes done nothing of the kind. No man in all England or Scotland
will say such a thing. Doan’t thee take blame from anyone. If women hed
to judge men’s political character, ivery one would be wrong but their
awn men folk.”
“Annie thinks I hev been wrong.”
“Annie is peculiar. There are allays exceptions to ivery proposition.
Annie is an exception. Dress thysen in thy handsomest field suit, and
take thy short dog whip in thy hands; it will speed thy words more than
thou could believe, and a crack with it will send an epithet straight
to where it should go.” The squire laughed and leaped to his feet. “God
bless thee, Josepha! I’ll do just what tha says.”
“Then thou’ll do right.”
This promise was not an easy one to keep, in the face of Annie’s air
of reproach and suffering; but, nevertheless, it was kept, and when the
squire came in sight of the Green he saw a very large gathering of
men already standing round a rude rostrum, on which sat or stood
half-a-dozen gentlemen. Annis put his horse in the care of his servant,
and stood on the edge of the crowd. Wetherall was talking to the newly
made citizens, and explaining their new political status and duties to
them, and at the close of his speech said, “he had been instructed to
propose John Thomas Bradley for the Protective or Tory government,” and
this proposal was immediately seconded by a wealthy resident of Bradley
village.
The squire set his teeth firmly, his lips were drawn straight and tight,
and his eyes snapped and shone with an angry light. Then there was a
movement among the men on the platform, and Bradley walked to the front.
The clear soft twilight of an English summer fell all over him. It
seemed to Annis that his old friend had never before appeared so
handsome and so lovable. He looked at him until some unbidden tears
quenched the angry flame in his eyes, and he felt almost inclined to
mount and ride away.
He was, however, arrested immediately by Bradley’s words.--“Gentlemen,”
he said with prompt decision--“I cannot, and will not, accept your
flattering invitation. Do any of you think that I would accept a
position, that puts me in antagonism to my old and well-loved friend,
Antony Annis? Not for all the honor, or power, or gold in England! Annis
is your proper and legitimate representative. Can any of you count the
generations through which the Annis family hes been your friends and
helpers? You know all that the present Squire Antony hes done, without
me saying a word about it: and I could not, and I would not, try to
stand in his shoes for anything king or country could give me. This, on
my honor, is a definite and positive refusal of your intended mark of
respect. I accept the respect which prompted the honor gratefully; the
honor itself, I positively decline. If I hev anything more to say, it
is this--send your old representative, Antony Annis, to watch over, and
speak outright, for your interests. He is the best man you can get in
all England, and be true to him, and proud of him!”
A prolonged cheering followed this speech, and during it Squire Antony
made his way through the crowd, and reached the platform. He went
straight to Bradley with outstretched hands--“John Thomas!” he said, in
a voice full of emotion, “My dear, dear friend! I heard ivery word!” and
the two men clasped hands, and stood a moment looking into each other’s
love-wet eyes; and knew that every unkind thought, and word, had been
forever forgiven.
Then Annis stepped forward, and was met with the heartiest welcome.
Never had he looked so handsome and gracious. He appeared to have thrown
off all the late sorrowful years, and something of the glory of that
authority which springs from love, lent a singular charm to this
picturesque appearance.
He stood at the side of Bradley, and still held his hand. “My friends
and fellow citizens!” he cried joyfully, giving the last two words such
an enthusiastic emphasis, as brought an instant shout of joyful triumph.
“My friends and fellow citizens! If anything could make it possible for
me to go back to the House of Commons, it would be the plea of the man
whose hand I have just clasped. As you all know, I hev pledged my word
to the men and women of Annis to give them the finest power-loom factory
in the West Riding. If I stick to my promise faithfully, I cannot take
on any other work or business. You hev hed my promise for some months.
I will put nothing before it--or with it. Men of Annis, you are my
helpers, do you really think I would go to London, and break my promise?
Not you! Not one of you! I shall stay right here, until Annis mill is
weaving the varry best broadcloths and woolen goods that can be made.
Ask Colonel Frobisher to go to London, and stand for Annis and her wool
weavers. He hes little else to do, we all know and love him, and he
will be varry glad to go for you. Antony Annis hes been a talking man
hitherto, henceforward he will be a working man, but there is a bit of
advice I’ll give you now and probably niver again. First of all, take
care how you vote, and for whom you vote. If your candidate proves
unworthy of the confidence you gave him, mebbe you are not quite
innocent. Niver sell your vote for any price, nor for any reason.
Remember voting is a religious act.”
“Nay, nay, squire!” someone in the crowd called out, with a dissenting
laugh. “There’s nothing but jobbery, and robbery, and drinking and
quarreling in it. There is no religion about it, squire, that I can
see.”
“Well, then, Tommy Raikes, thou doesn’t see much beyond thysen.”
“And, squire, I heard that the Methodist preacher prayed last Sunday in
the varry pulpit about the election. Folks doan’t like to go to chapel
to pray about elections. It isn’t right. Mr. Foster oughtn’t to do such
things. It hurts people’s feelings.”
“Speak for thysen, Tommy; I’ll be bound the people were all of Mr.
Foster’s opinion. It is a varry important election, the varry first,
that a great many of the people iver took a part in. And I do say,
that I hev no doubt all of them were thankful for the prayer. There is
nothing wrong in praying about elections. It is a religious rite, just
the same as saying grace before your food, and thanking God when you hev
eaten it. Just the same as putting _Dei gratia_ on our money, or taking
oaths in court, or when assuming important positions. Tommy, such simple
religious services proclaim the sacredness of our daily life; and so the
vote at an election, if given conscientiously, is a religious act.”
There was much hearty approval of the squire’s opinion, and Tommy Raikes
was plainly advised in various forms of speech to reserve his own.
During the altercation the squire turned his happy face to John Thomas
Bradley, and they said a few words to each other, which ended in a
mutual smile as the squire faced his audience and continued:
“The best thing I hev to say to you this night is, in the days of
prosperity fast coming to Annis, stick to your religion. Doan’t lose
yoursens in the hurry and flurry of the busy life before you all. Any
nation to become great must be a religious nation; for nationality is
a product of the soul. It is something for which ivery straight-hearted
man would die. There are many good things for which a good man would not
die, but a good man would willingly die for the good of his country. His
hopes for her will not tolerate a probability. They hev to be realized,
or he’ll die for them.
“If you are good Church of England men you are all right. She is your
spiritual mother, do what she tells you to do, and you can’t do wrong.
If you are a Dissenter from her, then keep a bit of Methodism in your
souls. It is kind and personal, and if it gets hold of a man, it does a
lot for him. It sits in the center. I am sorry to say there are a great
many atheists among weavers. Atheists do nothing. A man steeped in
Methodism can do anything! Its love and its honesty lift up them that
are cast down; it gives no quarter to the devil, and it hes a heart as
big as God’s mercy. If you hev your share of this kind of Methodist, you
will be kind, or at least civil to strangers. You knaw how you usually
treat them. The ither day I was watching the men budding, and a stranger
passed, and one of the bricklayers said to another near him, ‘Who’s
that?’ and the other looked up and answered, ‘I doan’t know. He’s a
stranger.’ And the advice promptly given was, ‘throw a brick at him!’”
This incident was so common and so natural, that it was greeted with a
roar of laughter, and the squire nodded and laughed also, and so in the
midst of the pleasant racket, went away with John Thomas Bradley at his
side.
“It’s a fine night,” said Annis to Bradley. “Walk up the hill and hev
a bite of supper with me.” The invitation was almost an oath of renewed
friendship, and Bradley could on no account refuse it. Then the squire
sent his man ahead to notify the household, and the two men took the
hill at each other’s side, talking eagerly of the election and its
probabilities. As they neared the Hall, Bradley was silent and a little
troubled. “Antony,” he said, “how about the women-folk?”
“I am by thy side. As they treat me they will treat thee. Josepha was
allays thy friend. Mistress Annis hed a kind side for thee, so hed my
little Kitty. For awhile, they hev been under the influence of a lie set
going by thy awn son.”
“By Harry?”
“To be sure. But Harry was misinformed, by that mean little lawyer that
lives in Bradley. I hev forgotten the whole story, and I won’t hev it
brought up again. It was a lie out of the whole cloth, and was varry
warmly taken up by Dick, and you know how our women are--they stand by
ivery word their men say.”
The men entered together. Josepha was not the least astonished. In fact,
she was sure this very circumstance would happen. Had she not advised
and directed John Thomas that very afternoon what to do, and had he not
been only too ready and delighted to follow her advice? When the door
opened she rose, and with some enthusiasm met John Thomas, and while she
was welcoming him the squire had said the few words that were sufficient
to insure Annie’s welcome. An act of oblivion was passed without a word,
and just where the friendship had been dropped, it was taken up again.
Kitty excused herself, giving a headache as her reason, and Dick was
in Liverpool with Hartley, looking over a large importation of South
American wool.
The event following this rearrangement of life was the return of Josepha
to her London home. She said a combination of country life and November
fogs was beyond her power of cheerful endurance; and then she begged
Katherine to go back to London with her. Katherine was delighted to do
so. Harry’s absence no longer troubled her. She did not even wish to see
him and the home circumstances had become stale and wearisome. The
coming and going of many strangers and the restlessness and uncertainty
of daily life was a great trial to a family that had lived so many years
strictly after its own ideals of reposeful, regular rule and order.
Annie, very excusably, was in a highly nervous condition, the squire was
silent and thoughtful, and in the evenings too tired to talk. Katherine
was eager for more company of her own kind, and just a little weary of
Dick’s and Faith’s devotion to each other. “I wish aunt would go to
London and take me with her,” she said to herself one morning, as she
was rather indifferently dressing her own hair.
And so it happened that Josepha that very day found the longing for her
own home and life so insistent that she resolved to indulge it. “What am
I staying here for?” she asked herself with some impatience. “I am not
needed about the business yet to be, and Antony is looking after the
preparations for it beyond all I expected. I’m bothering Annie, and
varry soon John Thomas will begin bothering me; and poor Kitty hes no
lover now, and is a bit tired of Faith’s perfections. As for Dick, poor
lad! he is kept running between the mill’s business, and the preacher’s
daughter. And Antony himsen says things to me, nobody else hes a right
to say. I see people iverywhere whom no one can suit, and who can’t suit
themsens. I’ll be off to London in two days--and I’ll take Kitty with
me.”
Josepha’s private complaint was not without truth and her resolve was
both kind and wise. A good, plain household undertaking was lacking;
every room was full of domestic malaria, and the best-hearted person
in the world, can neither manage nor yet control this insidious unhappy
element. It is then surely the part of prudence, where combat is
impossible, to run away.
So Josepha ran away, and she took her niece with her. They reached
London in time to see the reopening of Parliament, and Mrs. Temple’s
cards for dinner were in the hands of her favorites within two weeks
afterwards. Katherine was delighted to be the secretary for such
writing, and she entered heartily into her aunt’s plans for a busy,
social winter. They chose the parties to carry out their pleasant ideas
together, and as Kitty was her aunt’s secretary, it soon became evident
to both that the name of Edward Selby was never omitted. One or other of
the ladies always suggested it, and the proposal was readily accepted.
“He is a fine young man,” said Josepha, “and their bank hes a sound
enviable reputation. I intend, for the future, to deposit largely there,
and it is mebbe a good plan to keep in social touch with your banker.”
“And he is very pleasant to dance with,” added Kitty, “he keeps step
with you, and a girl looks her best with him; and then he is not always
paying you absurd compliments.”
“A varry sensible partner.”
“I think so.”
And during the long pleasant winter this satisfaction with Selby grew
to a very sweet and even intense affection. The previous winter Harry
Bradley had stood in his way, but the path of love now ran straight and
smooth, and no one had any power to trouble it. Selby was so handsome,
so deeply in love, so desirable in every way, that Katherine knew
herself to be the most fortunate of women. She was now also in love,
really in love. Her affection for her child lover had faded even out of
her memory. Compared with her passion for Selby, it was indeed a child
love, just a sentimental dream, nursed by contiguity, and the tolerance
and talk of elder people. Nothing deceives the young like the idea of
first love--a conquering idea if a true one, a pretty dangerous mirage,
if it is not true.
While this affair was progressing delightfully in London things were not
standing still in Annis. The weather had been singularly propitious, and
the great, many-windowed building was beginning to show the length and
breadth of its intentions. Meanwhile Squire Annis was the busiest and
happiest man in all Yorkshire, and Annie was rejoicing in the restored
peace and order of her household. It did not seem that there could now
have been any cause of anxiety in the old Annis home. But there was a
little. Dick longed to have a more decided understanding concerning his
own marriage, but the squire urged him not to think of marriage until
the mill was opened and at work and Dick was a loyal son, as well as
a true lover. He knew also that in many important ways he had become
a great help to his father, and that if he took the long journey he
intended to take with his bride, his absence would be both a trial and
a positive loss in more ways than one. The situation was trying to all
concerned, but both Faith and her father made it pleasant and hopeful,
so that generally speaking his soul walked in a straight way. Sometimes
he asked his father with one inquiring look, “How long, father, how
long now?” And the squire had hitherto always under’ stood the look, and
answered promptly, “Not just yet, dear lad, not just yet!”
Josepha and Katherine had returned from London. So continually the
days grew longer, and brighter, and warmer, and the roses came and
sent perfume through the whole house, as the small group of women made
beautiful garments, and talked and wondered, and speculated; and the
squire and Dick grew more and more reticent about the mill and its
progress, until one night, early in July, they came home together, and
the very sound of their footsteps held a happy story. Josepha understood
it. She threw down the piece of muslin in her hand and stood up
listening. The next moment the squire and his son entered the room
together. “What is it, Antony?” she cried eagerly. “_The mill?_”
“The mill is finished! The mill is perfect! We can start work to-morrow
morning if we wish. It is thy doing!” Then he turned to his wife, and
opened his arms, and whispered his joy to her, and Annie’s cheeks were
wet when they both turned to Katherine.
And that day the women did not sew another stitch.
The next morning Annis village heard a startling new sound. It was the
factory bell calling labor to its duty. And everyone listened to its
fateful reverberations traveling over the surrounding hills and telling
the villages in their solitary places, “Your day also is coming.”
The squire sat up in his bed to listen, and his heart swelled to the
impetuous summons and he whispered in no careless manner, “_Thank God!_”