Kitabı oku: «The Paper Cap. A Story of Love and Labor», sayfa 14
CHAPTER XII – THE SQUIRE MAKES GOOD
“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!”
