“Yes, I know.”
Katherine had not yet been promoted to a seat at the late supper table, and only came to it when specially asked. So Madam found her ungowned, and with loosened hair, in a dressing-sacque of blue flannel. She was writing a letter to a school friend, but she understood her mother’s visit and asked with a smile—
“Am I to come to supper, mother? Oh, I am so glad.”
“Then, dearie, do not speak of London, nor the poor children, nor the selfish weavers.”
“Not selfish, mother. They believe they are fighting for their rights. You know that.”
“I doan’t know it. I doan’t believe it. Their wives and children ought to be more to them than their awn way which is what they really want. Doan’t say a word about them.”
“I will not. I am going to tell father about the Arkroyds, who owned Scar Top House so long.”
“Father will like to hear anything good about Colonel Arkroyd. He is the last of a fine Yorkshire family. Who told thee anything about him?”
“Before I came to my room I went to give Polly some sugar I had in my pocket for her, and I met Britton, who had just come from the stable. He turned and went with me and he was full of the story and so I had to listen to it.”
“Well, then, we will listen to it when thou comes down. Father is hungry, so don’t keep him waiting, or he will be put out of his way.”
“I will be down in five minutes, and father is never cross with me.”
Indeed, when Madam went back to the parlor, a servant was bringing in the cold mutton and Madam had the bottle of sherry in her hand. A few minutes later Katherine had joined her parents, and they were sitting cozily round a small table, set in the very warmth and light of the hearthstone. Then Madam, fearing some unlucky word or allusion, said as quickly as possible—
“Whatever was it thou heard about Colonel Ark-royd, Katherine?”
“Ay! Ay! Colonel Arkroyd! Who has anything to say about him?” asked the squire. “One of the finest men alive to-day.”
“I heard a strange thing about his old house, an hour ago.”
“But he sold Scar Top House, and went to live in Kendal. A man from Bradford bought it, eh?”
“Yes, a man with a factory and six hundred looms, they say. Father, have you noticed how crowded our rookery is with the birds’ nests this spring?”
“I doan’t know that I hev noticed the number of the nests, but nobody can help hearing their noisy chattering all over Annis.”
“Do you remember the rookery at Scar Top?”
“Yes. I often hed a friendly threep with Ark-royd about it. He would insist, that his rookery hed the largest congregation. I let him think so—he’s twenty years older than I am—and I did hear that the Bradford man had bought the place because of the rookery.”
“So he did. And now, father, every bird has left it. There was not one nest built there this spring. Not one!”
“I never heard the like. Whoever told thee such a story?”
“The whole village knows it. One morning very early every rook in Scar Top went away. They went altogether, just before daybreak. They went to Saville Court and settled in a long row of elm trees in the home meadow. They are building there now and the Bradford man——”
“Give him his name. It is John Denby. He was born in Annis—in my manor—and he worked for the colonel, near twenty years.”
“Very well. John Denby and Colonel Arkroyd have quarreled about the birds, and there is likely to be a law suit over them.”
“Upon my word! That will be a varry interesting quarrel. What could make birds act in such a queer way? I niver knew them to do such a thing before.”
“Well, father, rooks are very aristocratic birds. Denby could not get a caw out of the whole flock. They would not notice Denby, and they used to talk to Arkroyd, whenever he came out of the house. Denby used to work for Colonel Arkroyd, and the rooks knew it. They did not consider him a gentleman, and they would not accept his hospitality.”
“That is going a bit too far, Katherine.”
“Oh, no! Old Britton told me so, and the Yorkshire bird does not live who has not told Britton all about itself. He said further, that rooks are very vain and particularly so about their feathers. He declared they would go far out of their way in order to face the wind and so prevent ruffling their feathers.”
“Rooks are at least a very human bird,” said Madam; “our rooks make quite a distinction between thee and myself. I can easily notice it. The male birds are in a flutter when thou walks through the rookery, they moderate their satisfaction when I pay them a call and it is the female birds who do the honors then.”
“That reminds me, mother, that Britton told me rooks intermarried generation after generation, and that if a rook brought home a strange bride, he was forced to build in a tree the community selected, at some distance from the rookery. If he did not do this, his nest was relentlessly torn down.”
“Well, my Joy, I am glad to learn so much from thee. How do the rooks treat thee?”
“With but moderate notice, father, unless I am at Britton’s side. Then they ‘caw’ respectfully, as I take my way through their colony. Britton taught me to lift my hat now and then, as father does.” The squire laughed, and was a bit confused. “Nay, nay!” he said. “Britton hes been making up that story, though I vow, I would rayther take off my hat to gentlemanly rooks than to some humans I know; I would that! There is one thing I can tell thee about rooks, Britton seems to have forgot; they can’t make a bit of sunshine for themselves. If t’ weather is rainy, no bird in the world is more miserable. They sit with puffed out feathers in uncontrollable melancholy, and they hevn’t a caw for anybody. Yet I hev a great respect for rooks.”
“And I hev a great liking for rook pies,” said Madam. “There is not a pie in all the records of cookery, to come near it. Par excellence is its name. I shall miss my rook pies, if we go away this summer.”
“But we shall have something better in their place, dear mother.”
“Who can tell? In the meantime, sleep will be the best thing for all. To-morrow is a new day. Sleep will make us ready for it.”
“Beneath this starry arch,
Naught resteth, or is still;
And all things have their march,
As if by one great will.
Move on! Move all!
Hark to the footfall!
On, on! forever!”
THE next morning Katherine came to her mother full of enthusiasm. She had some letters in her hand and she said: “I have written these letters all alike, mother, and they are ready to send away, if you will give me the names of the ladies you wish them to go to.”
“How many letters hast thou written?”
“Seven. I can write as many as you wish.”
“Thou hes written too many already.”
“Too many!”
“Yes, tha must not forget, that this famine and distress is over all Yorkshire—over all England. Every town and village hes its awn sick and starving, and hes all it can do to look after them. Thy father told me last night he hed been giving to all the villages round us for a year back but until Mr. Foster told him yesterday he hed no idea that there was any serious trouble in Annis. Tha knows, dearie, that Yorkshire and Lancashire folk won’t beg. No, not if they die for want of begging. The preacher found out their need first and he told father at once. Then Jonathan Hartley admitted they were all suffering and that something must be done to help. That is the reason for the meeting this afternoon.”
“Oh, dear me!”
“Jonathan hes been preparing for it for a week but he did not tell father until yesterday. I will give thee the names of four ladies that may assist in the way of sending food—there is Mrs. Benson, the doctor’s wife—her husband is giving his time to the sick and if she hedn’t a bit of money of her awn, Benson’s family would be badly off, I fear. She may hev the heart to do as well as to pinch and suffer, but if she hesn’t, we can’t find her to blame. Send her an invitation. Send another to Mistress Craven. Colonel Craven is with his regiment somewhere, but she is wealthy, and for anything I know, good-hearted. Give her an opportunity. Lady Brierley can be counted on in some way or other and perhaps Mrs. Courtney. I can think of no others because everyone is likely to be looking for assistance just as we are. What day hev you named for the meeting?”
“Monday. Is that too soon?”
“About a week too soon. None of these ladies will treat the invitation as a desirable one. They doubtless hev many engagements already made. Say, next Saturday. It is not reasonable to expect them to drop iverything else and hurry to Annis, to sew for the hungry and naked.”
“O mother! Little children! Who would not hurry to them with food and clothing?”
“Hes thou been with Faith Foster to see any children hungry and naked?”
“No, mother; but I do not need to see in order to feel. And I have certainly noticed how few children are on the street lately.”
“Well, Katherine, girls of eighteen shouldn’t need to see in order to feel. Thank God for thy fresh young feelings and keep them fresh as long as thou can. It will be a pity when thou begins to reason about them. Send letters to Mrs. Benson, Mrs. Craven, Lady Brierley, and Mrs. Courtney, and then we shall see what comes from them. After all, we are mere mortals!”
“But you are friendly with all these four ladies?”
“Good friends to come and go upon. By rights they ought to stand by Annis—but ‘ought’ stands for nothing.”
“Why ought, mother?”
“Thy father hes done ivery one o’ them a good turn of one kind or the other but it isn’t his way to speak of the same. Now send off thy letters and let things slide until we see what road they are going to take. I’m afraid I’ll hev to put mysen about more than I like to in this matter.”
“That goes without saying but you don’t mind it, do you, mother?”
“Well, your father took me on a sudden. I hedn’t time to think before I spoke and when my heart gets busy, good-by to my head.”
“Mrs. Courtney has not been here for a long time.”
“She is a good deal away but I saw her in London last year every now and then. She is a careless woman; she goes it blind about everything, and yet she wants to be at the bottom of all county affairs.”
“Mother, could we not do a little shopping today?”
“At the fag end of the week? What are you talking about? Certainly not. Besides, thy father is worried about the meeting this afternoon. He says more may come of it than we can dream of.”
“How is that?”
“Why, Katherine, it might end in a factory here, or it might end in the weavers heving to leave Annis and go elsewhere.”
“Cannot they get work of some other kind, in, or near by Annis?”
“Nay, tha surely knows, that a weaver hes to keep his fingers soft, and his hands supple. Hard manual work would spoil his hands forever for the loom, and our men are born weavers. They doan’t fashion to any other work, and to be sure England hes to hev her weavers.”
“Mother, would it not be far better to have a factory? Lately, when I have taken a walk with father he always goes to the wold and looks all round considering just like a man who was wondering about a site for a building. It would be a good thing for us, mother, would it not?”
“It seems so, but father does not want it. He says it will turn Annis into a rough village, full of strangers, with bad ways, and also that it will spoil the whole country-side with its smoke and dirt.”
“But if it makes money?”
“Money isn’t iverything.”
“The want of it is dreadful.”
“Thy father got a thousand pounds this morning. If he does not put most of it into a factory, he will put it into bread, which will be eaten to-day and wanted again to-morrow. That would make short work of a thousand pounds.”
“Have you reminded father of that?”
“I doan’t need to. Father seems an easy-going man but he thinks of iverything; and when he hes to act no one strikes the iron quicker and harder. If thou saw him in London, if thou heard him in the House, brow-beating the Whigs and standing up for Peel and Wellington and others, thou would wonder however thou dared to tease, and contradict, and coax him in Annis. Thou would that! Now I am going to the lower summer house for an hour. Send away thy letters, and let me alone a bit.”
“I know. I saw father going down the garden. He is going to the summer house also; he intends to tell you, mother, what he is going to say to-night. He always reads, or recites his speeches to you. I have heard him sometimes.”
“Then thou ought to be ashamed to speak of it! I am astonished at thy want of honor! If by chance, thou found out some reserved way of thy father it should have been held by thee as a sacred, inviolable secret. Not even to me, should thou have dared to speak of it. I am sorry, indeed, to hev to teach thee this point of childhood’s honor. I thought it would be natural to the daughter of Antony and Annie Annis!”
“Mother! Forgive me! I am ashamed and sorry and oh, do not, for my sake, tell father! My dear, dear father! You have made it look like mocking him—I never thought how shameful it could look—oh, I never thought about it! I never spoke of it before! I never did!”
“Well, then, see thou never again listens to what was not intended for thee to hear. It would be a pretty state of things, if thy father hed to go somewhere out of the way of listeners to get a bit of private talk with me.”
“Mother, don’t be so cruel to me.”
“Was thou trying to compliment me or was thou scorning a bit about thy father’s ways? If thou thought I would feel complimented by being set above him that thought was as far wrong as it could possibly get.”
“Mother! Mother! You will break my heart! You never before spoke this way to me—Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”
For a few minutes Madam let her weep, then she bent over the crouching, sobbing girl, and said, “There now! There now!”
“I am so sorry! So sorry!”
“Well, dearie, sorrow is good for sin. It is the only thing sorrow is good for. Dry thy eyes, and we will niver name the miserable subject again.”
“Was it really a sin, mother?”
“Hes thou forgotten the fifth commandment? That little laugh at thy father’s saying his speeches to me first was more than a bit scornful. It was far enough from the commandment ‘Honor thy father and thy mother.’ It wasn’t honoring either of us.”
“I can never forgive myself.”
“Nay! nay! Give me a kiss and go and look after thy letters; also tell Yates dinner must be on the table at one o’clock no matter what his watch says.” Then Katherine walked silently away and Madam went to the lower summer house, and the dinner was on the table at one o’clock. It was an exceedingly quiet meal, and immediately after it, the squire’s horse was brought to the door.
“So thou art going to ride, Antony!” said Mistress Annis, and the squire answered, “Ay, I hev a purpose in riding, Annie.”
“Thou art quite right,” was the reply, for she thought she divined his purpose and the shadow of a smile passed between them. Then he looked at his watch, mounted his horse and rode swiftly away. His wife watched him out of sight and, as she turned into the house, she told herself with a proud and happy smile, “He is the best and the handsomest man in the West Riding, and the horse suits him! He rides to perfection! God bless him!”
It was a point with the squire to be rigidly punctual. He was never either too soon, or too late. He knew that one fault was as bad as the other, though he considered the early mistake as the worst. It began to strike two as he reached the door of the Methodist Chapel, and saw Jonathan Hartley waiting there for him; and they walked at once to a rude platform that had been prepared for the speakers. There were several gentlemen standing there in a group, and the Chapel was crowded with anxious hungry-looking men.
It was the first time that Squire Annis had ever stepped inside a Methodist Chapel. The thought was like the crack of a whip in his conscience but at that moment he would not listen to any claim or reproof; for either through liking or disliking, he was sensitive at once to Bradley’s tall, burly predominance; and could not have said, whether it was pleasant or unpleasant to him. However, the moment he appeared, there was loud handclapping, and cries of “Squire Annis! Squire Annis! Put him in the chair! He’s our man!”
Then into the squire’s heart his good angel put a good thought, and he walked to the front of the platform and said, “My men, and my friends, I’ll do something better for you. I’ll put the Reverend Samuel Foster in the chair. God’s servant stands above all others, and Mr. Foster knows all about your poverty and affliction. I am a bit ashamed to say, I do not.” This personal accusation was cut short by cries of “No! No! No! Thou hes done a great deal,” and then a cheer, that had in it all the Yorkshire spirit, though not its strength. The men were actually weak with hunger.
Mr. Foster took the chair to which the squire led him without any affectations of demur, and he was gladly welcomed. Indeed there were few things that would have pleased the audience more. They were nearly all Methodists, and their preacher alone had searched out their misery, and helped them to bear it with patience and with hope. He now stretched out his hands to them and said—“Friends, just give us four lines, and we will go at once to business”; and in a sweet, ringing voice, he began Newman’s exquisite hymn—
“Leave God to order all thy ways,
And hope in Him whate’er betide,
Thoul’t find Him in the evil days,
An all sufficient Strength and Guide.”
The words came fresh and wet with tears from every heart, and it was a five minutes’ interlude of that complete surrender, which God loves and accepts.
After a moment of intense silence, the preacher said, “We are met to-day to try and find out if hand-loom weaving must go, or if both hand-loom weaving and power-loom weaving have a chance for the weaver in them. There are many hand-loom weavers here present. They know all its good points and all points wherein it fails but they do not know either the good or bad points of power-loom weaving, and Mr. John Thomas Bradley has come to tell you something about this tremendous rival of your household loom. I will now introduce Mr. John.” He got no further in his introduction, for Bradley stepped forward, and with a buoyant good-nature said, “No need, sir, of any fine mastering or mistering between the Annis lads and mysen. We hev thrashed each ither at football, and chated each ither in all kinds of swapping odds too often, to hev forgotten what names were given us at our christening. There’s Israel Swale, he hes a bigger mill than I hev now-a-days, but he’s owing me three pence half-penny and eleven marbles, yet whenever I ask him for my brass and my marbles he says—‘I’ll pay thee, John Thomas, when we play our next game.’ Now listen, lads, next Whitsunday holidays I’ll ask him to come and see me, and I’ll propose before a house full of company—and all ready for a bit of fun—that we hev our game of marbles in the bowling alley, and I’ll get Jonathan Hartley to give you all an invitation to come and see fair play between us. Will you come?”
Noisy laughing acceptances followed and one big Guisely weaver said, “He’d come too, and see that Israel played a straight game for once in his life.”
“I’m obliged to thee, Guisely,” answered Bradley, “I hope thou’lt come. Now then, lads, I hev to speak to you about business, and if you think what I say is right, go and do what I say, do it boldly; and if you aren’t sure, then let it alone:—till you are driven to it. I am told that varry few of the men here present iver saw a power loom. And yet you mostly think ill o’ it. That isn’t a bit Yorkshire. You treat a man as you find him, you ought to do the same to a machine, that is almost a man in intelligence—that is the most perfect bit of beauty and contrivance that man iver made since man himsen was fitted wi’ fingers and thumbs by the Great Machinist of heaven and earth.”
“What is it fashioned like, Bradley?”
“It is an exceedingly compact machine and takes up little room. It is easily worked and it performs every weaving operation with neatness and perfection. It makes one hundred and seventy picks a minute or six pieces of goods in a week—you know it was full work and hard work to make one piece a week with the home loom, even for a strong man. It is made mostly of shining metal, and it is a perfect darling. Why-a! the lads and lassies in Bradley mill call their looms after their sweethearts, or husbands, or wives, and I wouldn’t wonder if they said many a sweet or snappy word to the looms that would niver be ventured on with the real Bessie or the real Joe.
“Think of your old cumbersome wooden looms, so hard and heavy and dreary to work, that it wasn’t fit or right to put a woman down to one. Then go and try a power loom, and when you hev done a day’s work on it, praise God and be thankful! I tell you God saw the millions coming whom Yorkshire and Lancashire would hev to clothe, and He gave His servant the grave, gentle, middle-aged preacher Edmund Cartwright, the model of a loom fit for God’s working men and women to use. I tell you men the power loom is one of God’s latest Gospels. We are spelling yet, with some difficulty, its first good news, but the whole world will yet thank God for the power loom!”
Here the preacher on the platform said a fervent “Thank God!” But the audience was not yet sure enough for what they were to thank God, and the few echoes to the preacher’s invitation were strangely uncertain for a Yorkshire congregation. A few of the Annis weavers compromised on a solemn “Amen!” All, however, noticed that the squire remained silent, and they were “not going”—as Lot Clarke said afterwards—“to push themsens before t’ squire.”
Then Jonathan Hartley stepped into the interval, and addressing Bradley said, “Tha calls this wonderful loom a power-loom. I’ll warrant the power comes from a steam engine.”
“Thou art right, Jonathan. I wish tha could see the wonderful engine at Dalby’s Mill in Pine Hollow. The marvelous creature stands in its big stone stable like a huge image of Destiny. It is never still, but never restless, nothing rough; calm and steady like the waves of the full sea at Scarboro’. It is the nervous center, the life, I might say, of all going on in that big building above it. It moves all the machinery, it gives life to the devil, * and speeds every shuttle in every loom.”
“It isn’t looms and engines we are worrying about, Bradley,” said a man pallid and fretful with hunger. “It is flesh and blood, that can’t stand hunger much longer. It’s our lile lads and lasses, and the babies at the mother’s breast, where there isn’t a drop o’ milk for their thin, white lips! O God! And you talk o’ looms and engines”—and the man sat down with a sob, unable to say another word.
Squire Annis could hardly sit still, but the preacher looked at him and he obeyed the silent wish, as in the meantime Jonathan Hartley had asked Bradley a question, to partly answer the request made.
“If you want to know about the workers, all their rooms are large and cheerful, with plenty of fresh air in them. The weaving rooms are as light and airy as a bird cage. The looms are mostly managed by women, from seventeen to thirty, wi’ a sprinkling o’ married men and women. A solid trade principle governs t’ weaving room—so much work, for so much money—but I hev girls of eighteen in my mill, who are fit and able to thread the shuttles, and manage two looms, keeping up the pieces to mark, without oversight or help.”
Here he was interrupted by a man with long hair parted in the middle of the forehead, and dressed in a suit of fashionable cut, but cheap tailoring. “I hev come to this meeting,” he cried out, “to ask your parliamentary representative if he intends to vote for the Reform Bill, and to urge the better education of the lower classes.”
“Who bid thee come to this meeting?” asked Jonathan Hartley. “Thou has no business here. Not thou. And we weren’t born in Yorkshire to be fooled by thee.”
“I was told by friends of the people, that your member would likely vote against Reform.”
“Put him out! Put him out!” resounded from every quarter of the building, and for the first time since the meeting opened, there was a touch of enthusiasm. Then the squire stepped with great dignity to the front of the platform.
“Young men,” he said with an air of reproof, “this is not a political meeting. It is not even a public meeting. It is a gathering of friends to consider how best to relieve the poverty and idleness for which our weavers are not to blame—and we do not wish to be interrupted.”
“The blame is all wi’ you rich landowners,” he answered; “ivery one o’ you stand by a government that robs the poor man and protects the rich. I am a representative of the Bradford Socialists.”
“Git out! Git out! Will tha? If tha doesn’t, I’ll fling thee out like any other rubbish;” and as the man made no attempt to obey the command given, Hartley took him by the shoulder, and in spite of his protestations—received with general jeers and contempt—put him outside the chapel.
Squire Annis heartily approved the word, act and manner of Hartley’s little speech. The temperature of his blood rose to fighting heat, and he wanted to shout with the men in the body of the chapel. Yet his countenance was calm and placid, for Antony Annis was Master at Home, and could instantly silence or subdue whatever his Inner Man prompted that was improper or inconvenient.
He thought, however, that it was now a fit time-for him to withdraw, and he was going to say the few words he had so well considered, when a very old man rose, and leaning on his staff, called out, “Squire Annis, my friend, I want thee to let me speak five minutes. It will varry likely be t’ last time I’ll hev the chance to say a word to so many lads altogether in this life.” And the squire smiled pleasantly as he replied, “Speak, Matthew, we shall all be glad to listen to you.”
“Ill be ninety-five years old next month, Squire, and I hev been busy wi’ spinning and weaving eighty-eight o’ them. I was winding bobbins when I was seven years old, and I was carding, or combing, or working among wool until I was twenty. Then I got married, and bought from t’ squire, on easy terms, my cottage and garden plot, and I kept a pig and some chickens, and a hutch full o’ rabbits, which I fed on the waste vegetables from my garden. I also had three or four bee skeps, that gave us honey for our bread, with a few pounds over to sell; t’ squire allays bought the overbit, and so I was well paid for a pretty bed of flowers round about the house. I was early at my loom, but when I was tired I went into my garden, and I smoked a pipe and talked to the bees, who knew me well enough, ivery one o’ them. If it was raining, I went into t’ kitchen, and smoked and hed a chat wi’ Polly about our awn concerns. I hev had four handsome lassies, and four good, steady lads. Two o’ the lads went to America, to a place called Lowell, but they are now well-to-do men, wi’ big families. My daughters live near me, and they keep my cottage as bright as their mother kept it for over fifty years. I worked more or less till I was ninety years old, and then Squire Annis persuaded me to stop my loom, and just potter about among my bees and flowers. Now then, lads, thousands hev done for years and years as much, even more than I hev done and I hev never met but varry few Home-loom weavers who were dissatisfied. They all o’ them made their awn hours and if there was a good race anywhere near-by they shut off and went to it. Then they did extra work the next day to put their ‘piece’ straight for Saturday. If their ‘piece’ was right, the rest was nobody’s business.”
“Well, Matthew,” said the squire, “for many a year you seldom missed a race.”
“Not if t’ horses were good, and well matched. I knew the names then of a’ the racers that wer’ worth going to see. I love a fine horse yet. I do that! And the Yorkshire roar when the victor came to mark! You could hear it a mile away! O squire, I can hear it yet!
“Well, lads, I hev hed a happy, busy life, and I hev been a good Methodist iver sin’ I was converted, when I was twelve years old. And I bear testimony this day to the goodness and the faithfulness of God. He hes niver broken a promise He made me. Niver one!
“Thousands of Home-loom spinners can live, and have lived, as I did and they know all about t’ life. I know nothing about power-loom weaving. I dare say a man can make good or bad o’ it, just as he feels inclined; but I will say, it brings men down to a level God Almighty niver intended. It is like this—when a man works in his awn home, and makes his awn hours, all the world, if he be good and honest, calls him A Man; when he works in a factory he’s nobbut ‘one o’ the hands.’”
At these words Matthew sat down amid a little subdued inexpressible mixture of tense feeling and the squire said—“In three weeks or less, men, I am going to London, and I give you my word, that I shall always be found on the side of Reform and Free Trade. When I return you will surely have made up your minds and formed some sort of decision; then I will try and forward your plans to my last shilling.” With these words he bowed to the gentlemen on the platform, and the audience before him, and went rapidly away. His servant was at the Chapel door with his horse; he sprang into the saddle, and before anyone could interrupt his exit, he was beyond detention.
A great disturbance was in his soul. He could not define it. The condition of his people, the changing character of his workers and weavers, the very village seemed altered, and then the presence of Bradley! He had found it impossible to satisfy both his offense with the man and his still vital affection for him. He had often told himself that “Bradley was dead and buried as far as he was concerned”; but some affections are buried alive, and have a distressing habit of being restless in their coffins. It was with the feeling of a fugitive flying for a place of rest that he went home. But, oh, how refreshing was his wife’s welcome! What comfort in her happy smile! What music in her tender words! He leaped to the ground like a young man and, clasping her hand, went gratefully with her to his own fireside.
“Still in Immortal Youth we dream of Love.”
London—“Together let us beat this ample field
Try what the open and the covert yield.”
KATHERINE’S letters bore little fruit. Lady Brierley sent fifty pounds to buy food, but said “she was going to Bourmouth for the spring months, being unable to bear the winds of the Yorkshire wolds at that time.” Mrs. Craven and Mrs. Courtney were on their way to London, and Mrs. Benson said her own large family required every hour of her time, especially as she was now only able to keep one servant. So the village troubles were confided to the charge of Faith Foster and her father. The squire put a liberal sum of money with the preacher, and its application was left entirely to his judgment.
Nor did Annis now feel himself able to delay his journey until April. He was urged constantly by the leaders of the Reform Bill to hasten his visit to the House. Letters from Lord Russell, Sir James Grahame and Lord Grey told him that among the landlords of the West Riding his example would have a great influence, and that at this “important crisis they looked with anxiety, yet certainty, for his support.”
He could not withhold it. After his enlightenment by Mr. Foster, he hardly needed any further appeal. His heart and his conscience gave him no rest, and in ten days he had made suitable arrangements, both for the care of his estate, and the relief of the village. In this business he had been greatly hurried and pressed, and the Hall was also full of unrest and confusion, for all Madam’s domestic treasures were to pack away and to put in strict and competent care. For, then, there really were women who enjoyed household rackets and homes turned up and over from top to bottom. It was their relief from the hysteria of monotony and the temper that usually attends monotony. They knew nothing of the constant changes and pleasures of the women of today—of little chatty lunches and theater parties; of their endless societies and games, and clubs of every description; of fantastic dressing and undressing from every age and nation; beside the appropriation of all the habits and pursuits and pleasures of men that seemed good in their eyes, or their imaginations.
So to the woman of one hundred years ago—and of much less time—a thorough house-cleaning, or a putting away of things for a visit or a journey was an exciting event. There was even a kind of pleasure in the discomfort and disorder it caused. The unhappy looks of the men of the house were rather agreeable to them. For a few days they had legitimate authority to make everyone miserable, and in doing so experienced a very actual nervous relief.
Madam Annis was in some measure influenced by similar conditions, for it takes a strong and powerfully constituted woman to resist the spirit and influence of the time and locality in which she lives. So the Hall was full of unrest, and the peaceful routine of life was all broken up. Ladies’ hide-covered trunks—such little baby trunks to those of the present day—and leather bags and portmanteaus littered the halls; and the very furniture had the neglected plaintive look of whatever is to be left behind.
At length, however, on the twenty-third of March, all was ready for the journey, and the squire was impatient to begin it. He was also continually worrying about his son. “Whereiver is Dick, I wonder? He ought to be here helping us, ought he not, mother?” he asked Madam reproachfully, as if he held her responsible for Dick’s absence and Madam answered sharply—“Indeed, Antony, thou ought to know best. Thou told Dick to stay in London and watch the ways of that wearisome Reform Bill and send thee daily word about its carryings on. The lad can’t be in two places at once, can he?”
“I hed forgotten mysen, Annie. How near art thou and Katherine ready to start?”
“Katherine and I are now waiting on your will and readiness.”
“Nay, then, Annie, if ta hes got to thy London English already, I’ll be quiet, I will.”
“I doan’t like thee to be unjust to Dick. He is doing, and doing well, just what thou told him to do. I should think thou couldn’t ask more than that—if thou was in thy right mind.”
“Dick is the best lad in Yorkshire, he is all that! Doan’t thee care if I seem a bit cross, Annie. I’ve been that worrited all morning as niver was. Doan’t mind it!”
“I doan’t, not in the least, Antony.”
“Well, then, can thou start to-morrow morning?”
“I can start, with an hour’s notice, any time.”
“I wouldn’t be too good, Annie. I’m not worth it.”
“Thou art worth all I can do for thee.”
“Varry good, dearie! Then we’ll start at seven to-morrow morning. We will drive to Leeds, and then tak t’ mail-coach for London there. If t’ roads don’t happen to be varry bad we may hev time enough in Leeds to go to the Queen’s Hotel and hev a plate o’ soup and a chop. I hev a bit o’ business at the bank there but it won’t keep me ten minutes. I hope we may hev a fairish journey, but the preacher tells me the whole country is in a varry alarming condition.”
“Antony, I am a little tired of the preacher’s alarm bell. He is always prophesying evil. Doan’t thee let him get too much influence over thee. Before thou knows what thou art doing thou wilt be going to a class meeting. What does the curate say? He has been fifty miles south, if not more.”
“He told me the roads were full of hungry, angry men, who were varry disrespectful to any of the Quality they met.”
Here Katherine entered the room. “Mother dear,” she said in an excited voice, “mother dear! My new traveling dress came home a little while ago, and I have put it on, to let you admire it. Is it not pretty? Is it not stylish? Is it not everything a girl would like? O Daddy! I didn’t see you.”
“I couldn’t expect thee to see me when tha hed a new dress on. I’ll tell thee, howiver, I doan’t like it as well as I liked thy last suit.”
“The little shepherd plaid? Oh, that has become quite common! This is the thing now. What do you say, mother?”
“I think it is all right. Put it on in the morning. We leave at seven o’clock.”
“Oh, delightful! I am so glad! Life is all in a mess here and I hate a tossed-up house.”
At this point the Reverend Mr. Yates entered. He had called to bid the squire and his family good-bye, but the ladies quickly left the room. They knew some apology was due the curate for placing the money intended for relieving the suffering in the village in the preacher’s care, and at his disposal. But the curate was reasonable, and readily acknowledged that “nearly all needing help were members of Mr. Foster’s church, and would naturally take relief better from him than from a stranger.”
The journey as far as Leeds was a very sad one, for the squire stopped frequently to speak to groups of despairing, desperate men and women:—“Hev courage, friends!” he said cheerfully to a gathering of about forty or more on the Green of a large village, only fourteen miles south of Annis. “Hev courage a little longer! I am Antony Annis, and I am on my way to London, with many more gentlemen, to see that the Reform Bill goes through the Lords, this time. If it does not then it will be the duty of Englishmen to know the reason why. God knows you hev borne up bravely. Try it a bit longer.”
“Squire,” said a big fellow, white with hunger, “Squire, I hevn’t touched food of any kind for forty hours. You count hours when you are hungry, squire.”
“We’re all o’ us,” said his companion, “faint and clemmed. We hevn’t strength to be men any longer. Look at me! I’m wanting to cry like a bairn.”
“I’m ready to fight, squire,” added a man standing near by; “I hev a bit o’ manhood yet, and I’d fight for my rights, I would that!—if I nobbnd hed a slice or two o’ bread.”
At the same time a young woman, little more than a child, came tottering forward, and stood at the side of Mistress Annis. She had a little baby in her arms, she did not speak, she only looked in the elder woman’s face then cast her eyes down upon the child. It was tugging at an empty breast with little sharp cries of hungry impatience. Then she said, “I hev no milk for him! The lile lad is sucking my blood!” Her voice was weak and trembling, but she had no tears left.
Madam covered her face, she was weeping, and the next moment Katherine emptied her mother’s purse into the starving woman’s hand. She took it with a great cry, lifting her face to heaven—“Oh God, it is money! Oh God, it is milk and bread!” Then looking at Katherine she said, “Thou hes saved two lives. God sent thee to do it”—and with the words, she found a sudden strength to run with her child to a shop across the street, where bread and milk were sold.
“It’s little Dinas Sykes,” said a man whose voice was weak with hunger. “Eh! but I’m glad, God hes hed mercy on her!” and all watched Dinas running for milk and bread with a grateful sympathy. The squire was profoundly touched, his heart melted within him, and he said to the little company with the voice of a companion, not of a master, “Men, how many of you are present?”
“About forty-four men—and a few half grown lads. They need food worse than men do—they suffer more—poor lile fellows!”
“And you all hev women at home? Wives and daughters?”
“Ay, squire, and mothers, too! Old and gray and hungry—some varry patient, and just dying on their feet, some so weak they are crying like t’ childer of two or four years old. My God! Squire, t’ men’s suffering isn’t worth counting, against that of t’ women and children.”
“Friends, I hev no words to put against your suffering and a ten pound note will be better than all the words I could give you. It will at least get all of you a loaf of bread and a bit of beef and a mug of ale. Who shall I give it to?”
“Ben Shuttleworth,” was the unanimous answer, and Ben stepped forward. He was a noble-looking old man just a little crippled by long usage of the hand loom. “Squire Annis,” he said, “I’ll gladly take the gift God hes sent us by thy hands and I’ll divide it equally, penny for penny, and may God bless thee and prosper thy journey! We’re none of us men used to saying ‘thank’ee’ to any man but we say it to thee. Yes, we say it to thee.”
Kindred scenes occurred in every village and they did not reach Leeds in time for the mail coach they intended to take. The squire was not troubled at the delay. He said, “he hed a bit of his awn business to look after, and he was sure Katherine hed forgotten one or two varry necessary things, that she could buy in Leeds.”
Katherine acknowledged that she had forgotten her thimble and her hand glass, and said she had “been worrying about her back hair, which she could not dress without one.”
Madam was tired and glad to rest. “But Antony,” she said, “Dick will meet this coach and when we do not come by it, he will have wonders and worries about us.”
“Not he! Dick knows something about women, and also, I told him we might sleep a night or two at some town on the way, if you were tired.”
The next day they began the journey again, half-purposing to stop and rest at some half-way town. The squire said Dick understood them. He would be on hand if they loitered a week. And Madam was satisfied; she thought it likely Dick had instructions fitting his father’s uncertainty.
Yet though the coach prevented actual contact with the miserable famine sufferers, it could not prevent them witnessing the silent misery sitting on every door step, and looking with such longing eyes for help from God or man. Upon the whole it was a journey to break a pitiful heart, and the squire and his family were glad when the coach drew up with the rattle of wheels and the blowing of the guard’s horn at its old stand of Charing Cross.
The magic of London was already around them, and the first face they saw was the handsome beaming face of Dick Annis. He nodded and smiled to his father, who was sitting—where he had sat most of the journey—at the side of the driver. Dick would have liked to help him to the street, but he knew that his father needed no help and would likely be vexed at any offer of it, but Dick’s mother and sister came out of the coach in his arms, and the lad kissed them and called them all the fond names he could think of. Noticing at the same time his father’s clever descent, he put out his left hand to him, for he had his mother guarded with his right arm. “You did that jump, dad, better than I could have done it. Are you tired?”
“We are all tired to death, Dick. Hev you a cab here?”
“To be sure, I have! Your rooms at the Clarendon are in order, and there will be a good dinner waiting when you are ready for it.”
In something less than an hour they were all ready for a good dinner; their faces had been washed, Katherine’s hair smoothed and Madam’s cap properly adjusted. The squire was standing on the hearthrug in high spirits. The sight of his son, the touch of the town, the pleasant light and comfort of his surroundings, the prospect of dinner, made him forget for a few minutes the suffering he had passed through, until his son asked, “And did you have a pleasant journey, father?”
“A journey, Dick, to break a man’s heart. It hes turned me from a Tory into a Radical. This government must feed the people or—we will kick them back——”
“Dear father, we will talk of that subject by ourselves. It isn’t fit for two tired women, now is it?”
“Mebbe not; but I hev seen and I hev heard these last two or three days, Dick, what I can niver forget. Things hev got to be altered. They hev that, or——”
“We will talk that over after mother and Kitty have gone to sleep. We won’t worry them to-night. I have ordered mother’s favorite Cabinet pudding for her, and some raspberry cream for Kitty. It wouldn’t be right to talk of unhappy things with good things in our mouths, now would it?”
“They are coming. I can hear Kitty’s laugh, when I can hear nothing else. Ring the bell, Dick, we can hev dinner now.”
There were a few pleasant moments spent in choosing their seats, and as soon as they were taken, a dish of those small delicious oysters for which England has been famous since the days of the Roman Emperors were placed before them. “I had some scalloped for mother and Kitty,” Dick said. “Men can eat them raw, alive if they choose, but women—Oh no! It isn’t womanlike! Mother and Kitty wouldn’t do it! Not they!”
“And what else hes ta got for us, Dick?” asked the squire. “I’m mortal hungry.”
The last word shocked him anew. He wished he had not said it. What made him do it? Hungry! He had never been really hungry in all his life; and those pallid men and women, with that look of suffering on their faces, and in their dry, anxious eyes, how could he ever forget them?
He was suddenly silent, and Katherine said: “Father is tired. He would drive so much. I wonder the coachman let him.”
“Father paid for the privilege of doing the driver’s work for him. I have no doubt of that, my dears,” said Madam. “Well, Dick, when did you see Jane?”
“Do you not observe, mother, that I am in evening dress? Jane has a dance and supper to-night. Members from the government side will be dropping in there after midnight, for refreshment. Both Houses are in all-night sittings now.”
“How does Leyland vote?”
“He is tremendously royal and loyal. You will have to mind your p’s and q’s with him now, father.”
“Not I! I take my awn way. Leyland’s way and mine are far apart. How is your Aunt Josepha?”
“She is all right. She is never anything else but all right. Certainly she is vexed that Katherine is not to stay with her. Jane has been making a little brag about it, I suppose.”
“Katherine could stay part of the time with her,” said the squire.
“She had better be with Jane. Aunt will ask O’Connell to her dinners, and others whom Katherine would not like.”
“Why does she do it? She knows better.”
“I suspect we all know better than we do. She says, ‘O’Connell keeps the dinner table lively.’ So he does. The men quarrel all the time they eat and the women really admire them for it. They say ‘Oh!’ at a very strong word, but they would love to see them really fighting. Women affect tenderness and fearfulness; they are actually cruel creatures. Aunt says, ‘that was what her dear departed told her, and she had no doubt he had had experiences.’ Jane sent her love to all of you, and she purposes coming for Katherine about two o’clock to-morrow.”
“Oh!” said Madam, in a rather indifferent way, “Katherine and I can find plenty to do, and to see, in London. Jane told me recently, she had a new carriage.”
“One of the finest turn-outs Long Acre could offer her. The team is good also. Leyland is a judge of horses, and he has chosen a new livery with his new honors—gray with silver trimmings. It looks handsome and stylish.”
“And will spoil quickly,” said Madam. “Jane asked me about the livery, and I told her to avoid light colors.”
“Then you should have told her to choose light colors. Jane lives and votes with the opposition.” In pleasant domestic conversation the hours slipped happily away, but after the ladies had retired, Dick did not stay long. The squire was really weary, though he “pooh-poohed” the idea. “A drive from Leeds to London, with a rest between, what is that to tire a man?” he asked, adding, “I hev trotted a Norfolk cob the distance easy in less time, and I could do it again, if I wanted to.”
“Of course you could, father. Oh, I wish to ask you if you know anything of the M.P. from Appleby?”
“A little.”
“What can you say about him?”
“He made a masterly speech last session, in favor of Peel’s ministry. I liked it then. I hevn’t one good word for it now.”
“He is a very fine looking man. I suppose he is wealthy. He lives in good style here.”
“I know nothing about his money. The De Burgs are a fine family—among the oldest in England—Cumberland, I believe, down Furness way. Why art thou bothering thysen about him?”
“He is one of Jane’s favorites. He goes to Ley-land’s house a deal. I was thinking of Katherine.”
“What about Katherine? What about Katherine?” the squire asked sharply.
“You know Katherine is beautiful, and this De Burg is very handsome—in his way.”
“What way?”
“Well, the De Burgs are of Norman descent and Stephen De Burg shows it. He has indeed the large, gray eyes of our own North Country, but his hair is black—very black—and his complexion is swarthy. However, he is tall and well-built, and remarkably graceful in speech and action—quite the young man to steal a girl’s heart away.”
“Hes he stolen any girl’s heart from thee?”
“Not he, indeed! I am Annis enough to keep what I win; but I was wondering if our little Kitty was a match for Stephen De Burg.”
“Tha needn’t worry thysen about Kitty Annis. I’ll warrant her a match for any man. Her mother says she hes a fancy for Harry Bradley, but I——”
“Harry is a fine fellow.”
“Nobody said he wasn’t a fine fellow, and there is not any need for thee to interrupt thy father in order to tell him that! Harry Bradley, indeed! I wouldn’t spoil any plan of De Burg’s to please or help Harry Bradley! Not I! Now I hope tha understands that! To-morrow thou can tell me about thy last goddess, and if she be worthy to sit after thy mother in Annis Court, I’ll help thee to get wedded to her gladly. For I’m getting anxious, Dick, about my grandsons and their sisters. I’d like to see them that are to come after me.”
Then Dick went away with a laugh, but as the father and son stood a moment hand-clasped, their resemblance was fitting and beautiful; and no one noticing this fact could wonder at the Englishman’s intense affection and anxious care for the preservation of his family type.
The squire then put out the candles and covered the fire just as he would have done at Annis and while he did so he pondered what Dick had told him and resolved to say nothing at all about it. “Then,” he reflected, “I shall get Katherine’s real opinions about De Burg. Women are so queer, they won’t iver tell you the truth about men unless they believe you don’t care what they think:—and I won’t tell Annie either. Annie would take to warning and watching, and, for anything I know, advising her to be faithful and true to her first love. Such simplicity! Such nonsense!”
Then he went to his room and found Mistress Annis sitting with her feet on the fender, sipping a glass of wine negus, and as she dipped her little strips of dry toast into it, she said, “I am so glad to see thee, Antony. I am too excited to sleep and I wanted a few words with thee and thee only. For three days I hev missed our quiet talks with each other. I heard Dick laughing; what about?”
“I told him I was getting varry anxious about my grandsons, eh?”
Then both laughed and the squire stooped and kissed his wife and in that moment he sat down by her side and frankly told her all he had heard about De Burg. They talked about it for half-an-hour and then the squire went calmly off to sleep without one qualm of conscience for his broken resolution. In fact he assured himself that “he had done right. Katherine’s mother was Katherine’s proper guardian and he was only doing his duty in giving her points that might help her to do her duty.” That reflection was a comfortable one on which to sleep and he took all the rest it gave him.
Madam lay awake worrying about Katherine’s wardrobe. After hearing of her sister’s growing social importance she felt that it should have been attended to before they left Yorkshire. For in those days there were no such things as ready-made suits, and any dress or costume lacking had to be selected from the web, the goods bought, the dressmaker interviewed, and after several other visits for the purpose of “trying-on” the gown might be ready for use. These things troubled Madam. Katherine felt more confidence in her present belongings. “I have half a dozen white frocks with me, mother,” she said, “and nothing could be prettier or richer than my two Dacca muslins. The goods are fine as spider webs, the embroidery on them is nearly priceless, and they are becoming every year more and more scarce. I have different colored silk skirts to wear under them, and sashes and beads, and bows, with which to adorn them.”
There was a little happy pause, then Katherine said, “Let us go and see Aunt Josepha. I have not seen her for six years. I was counting the time as I lay in bed this morning. I was about twelve years old.”
“That is a good idea. We can shop better after we hev hed a talk with her.”
“There, mother! You had two Yorkshireisms in that sentence. Father would laugh at you.”
“Niver mind, when my heart talks, my tongue talks as my heart does, and Yorkshire is my heart’s native tongue. When I talk to thee my tongue easily slips into Yorkshire.”
Then a carriage was summoned, and Madam An-nis and her daughter went to call on Madam Josepha Temple. They had to ride into the city and through St. James Park to a once very fashionable little street leading from the park to the river. Madam Temple could have put a fortune in her pocket for a strip of this land bordering the river, but no money could induce her to sell it. Even the city’s offer had been refused.
“Had not Admiral Temple,” she asked, “found land enough for England, and fought for land enough for England, for his widow to be allowed to keep in peace the strip of land at the foot of the garden he planted and where he had also erected a Watergate so beautiful that it had become one of the sights of London?” And her claim had been politely allowed and she had been assured that it would be respected.
The house itself was not remarkable outwardly. It was only one of those square brick mansions introduced in the Georgian era, full of large square rooms and wide corridors and, in Madam Temple’s case, of numerous cupboards and closets; for in her directions to the Admiral she had said with emphasis:
“Admiral, you may as well live in a canvas tent without a convenience of any kind as in a house without closets for your dresses and mantuas; and cupboards for your china and other things you must have under lock and key:” and the Admiral had seen to the closet and cupboard subject with such strict attention that even his widow sometimes grew testy over their number.
Whatever faults the house might have, the furnishing had been done with great judgment. It was solid and magnificent and only the best tapestries and carpets found a place there. To Madam Temple had been left the choice of silver, china, linen and damask, and the wisdom and good taste of her selection had a kind of official approbation. Artists and silversmiths asked her to permit them to copy the shapes of her old silver and she possessed many pieces of Wedgwood’s finest china of which only a very small number had been made ere the mold was broken.
After the house was finished the Admiral lived but five years and Madam never allowed anything to be changed or renewed. If told that anything was fading or wearing, she replied—“I am fading also, just wearing away. They will last my time.” However the house yet had an air of comfortable antique grandeur and it was a favorite place of resort to all who had had the good fortune to win the favor of the Admiral’s widow.
As they were nearing the Temple house, Madam said: “The old man who opens the door was the Admiral’s body servant. He has great influence with your aunt; speak pleasantly to him.” At these words the carriage stopped and the old man of whom Madam had spoken threw open the door and stood waiting their approach. He recognized Madam Annis and said with a pleasant respect—“Madam will take the right-hand parlor,” but ere Madam could do so, Mistress Temple appeared. She came hastily forward, talking as she came and full of pleasure at the visit.
“You dear ones!” she cried. “How welcome you are! Where is Antony? Why didn’t he come with you? How is he going to vote? Take off your cloaks and bonnets. So this is the little girl I left behind me! You are now a young lady, Kate. Who is the favored sweetheart?” These interjectory remarks were not twaddle, they were the overflow of the heart. Josepha Temple meant everything she said.
Physically she was a feminine portrait of her brother, but in all other respects she was herself, and only herself, the result of this world’s training on one particular soul, for who can tell how many hundred years? She had brought from her last life most of her feelings and convictions and probably they had the strength and persistence of many reincarnations behind them. Later generations than Josepha do not produce such characters; alas! their affections for anyone and their beliefs in anything are too weak to reincarnate; so they do not come back from the grave with them. Josepha was different. Death had had no power over her higher self, she was the same passionate lover of Protestantism and the righteous freedom of the people that she had been in Cromwell’s time; and she declared that she had loved her husband ever since he had fought with Drake and been Cromwell’s greatest naval officer.
She was near sixty but still a very handsome woman, for she was alive from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet and disease of any kind had not yet found a corner in her body to assail. Her hair was untouched by Time, and the widow’s cap—so disfiguring to any woman—she wore with an air that made it appear a very proper and becoming head covering. Her gowns were always black merino or cloth in the morning, silk or satin or velvet in the afternoon; but they were brightened by deep cuffs and long stomachers of white linen, or rich lace, and the skirts of all, though quite plain, were of regal length and amplitude.
“Off with your bonnets!” she cried joyfully as she kissed Katherine and began to untie the elaborate bow of pink satin ribbon under her chin. “Why, Kate, how lovely you have grown! I thought you would be just an ordinary Yorkshire girl—I find you extraordinary. Upon my word! You are a beauty!”
“Thank you, aunt. Mother never told me so.”
“Annie, do you hear Kate?”
“I thought it wiser not to tell her such things.”
“What trumpery nonsense! Do you say to your roses as they bloom, ‘Do not imagine, Miss Rose, that you are lovely, and have a fine perfume. You are well enough and your smell isn’t half-bad, but there are roses far handsomer and sweeter than you are’?”
“In their own way, Josepha, all roses are perfect.”
“In their own way, Annie, all women are perfect. Have you had your breakfast?”
“An hour ago.”
“Then let us talk. Where is Antony? What is he doing?”
“He is doing well. I think he went to see Lord John Russell.”
“What can he have to say to Russell? He hasn’t sense enough to be on Russell’s side. Russell is an A. D. 1832 man, Antony dates back two or three hundred years.”
“He does nothing of that kind. He has been wearing a pair o’ seven leagued boots the past two weeks. Antony’s now as far forward as Russell, or Grey, or any other noncontent. They’ll find that out as soon as he opens his mouth in The House of Commons.”
“We call it ‘t’ Lower House’ here, Annie.”
“I don’t see why. As good men are in it as sit in t’ Upper House or any ither place.”
“It may be because they speak better English there than thou art speaking right now, Annie.”
Then Annie laughed. “I had forgot, Josepha,” she said, “forgive me.”
“Nay, there’s nothing to forgive, Annie. I can talk Yorkshire as well as iver I did, if I want to. After all, it’s the best and purest English going and if you want your awn way or to get your rights, or to make your servants do as they’re told, a mouthful of Yorkshire will do it—or nothing will. And I was telling Dick only the other day, to try a bit o’ Yorkshire on a little lass he is varry bad in love with—just at present.”