LADY LEYLAND had ordered breakfast at ten o’clock and at that hour her guests were ready for it. Mistress Temple and Katherine showed no signs of weariness, but Lord Ley-land looked bored and Mistress Annis was silent concerning the squire and his manner of passing the night. Then Leyland said:
“By George! Madam, you are very right to be anxious. The company of ladies always makes me anxious. I will go to my club and read the papers. I feel that delay is no longer possible.”
“Your breakfast, Fred,” cried Katherine, but Fred was as one that heard not, and with a smile and a good-by which included all present, Leyland disappeared, and as his wife smilingly endorsed his
“Love puts out all other cares.”
and anxious but soon voiced her trouble in a wish forget everything else but now if I can be excused apologies, no one made the slightest attempt to detain him. Certainly Mistress Annis looked curiously at her daughter and, when the door was closed, said:
“I wonder at you, Jane—Leyland had not drank his first cup of coffee and as to his breakfast it is still on his plate. It is not good for a man to go to politics fasting.”
“O mother! you need not worry about Fred’s breakfast. He will order one exactly to his mind as soon as he reaches his club and he will be ten times happier with the newspapers than with us.”
Just at this point the squire and his son entered the room together and instantly the social temperature of the place rose.
“I met Leyland running away from you women,” said the squire. “Whatever hev you been doing to him?”
“He wanted to see the papers, father,” said Katherine.
“It was a bit of bad behavior,” said Madam Temple.
“Oh, dear, no,” Jane replied. “Fred is incapable of anything so vulgar. Is he not, father?”
“To be sure he is. No doubt it was a bit of fine feeling for the women present that sent him off. He knew you would want to discuss the affair of last night and also the people mixed up in it and he felt he would be in everybody’s way, and so he was good-natured enough to leave you to the pleasure of describing one another. It was varry agreeable and polite for Fred to do so. I hedn’t sense enough to do the same.”
“Nay, nay, Antony, that isn’t the way to put it. Dick, my dear lad, say a word for me.”
“I could not say a word worthy of you, mother, and now I came to bid you good-by. I am off as quick as possible for Annis. Father had a letter from Mr. Foster this morning. It is best that either father or I go there for a few days and, as father cannot leave London at this crisis, I am going in his place.”
“What is the matter now, Dick?”
“Some trouble with the weavers, I believe.”
“Of course! and more money needed, I suppose.”
“To be sure,” answered the squire, with a shade of temper; “and if needed, Dick will look after it, eh, Dick?”
“Of course Dick will look after it!” added Madam Temple, but her “of course” intimated a very different meaning from her sister-in-law’s. They were two words of hearty sympathy and she emphasized them by pushing a heavy purse across the table. “Take my purse as well as thy father’s, Dick; and if more is wanted, thou can hev it, and welcome. I am Annis mysen and I was born and brought up with the men and women suffering there.”
She spoke with such feeling that her words appeared to warm the room and the squire answered: “Thy word and deed, Josepha, is just like thee, my dear sister!” He clasped her hand as he spoke, and their hands met over the purse lying on the table and both noticed the fact and smiled and nodded their understanding of it. Then the squire with a happy face handed the purse to Dick, telling him to “kiss his mother,” and be off as soon as possible. “Dick,” he said in a voice full of tears—“Dick, my lad, it is hard for hungry men to wait.”
“I will waste no time, father, not a minute,” and with these words he clasped his father’s hand, leaned over and kissed his mother, and with a general good-by he went swiftly on his errand of mercy.
Then Jane said: “Let us go to the parlor. We were an hour later than usual this morning and must make it up if we can.”
“To be sure, Jane,” answered Mistress Temple. “We can talk as well in one room as another. Houses must be kept regular or we shall get into the same muddle as old Sarum—we shall be candidates for dinner and no dinner for us.”
“Well, then, you will all excuse me an hour while I give some orders about household affairs.” The excuse was readily admitted and the squire, his wife, sister and daughter, took up the question which would intrude into every other question whether they wished it or not.
The parlor to which they went looked precisely as if it was glad to see them; it was so bright and cheerful, so warm and sunny, so everything that the English mean by the good word “comfortable.” And as soon as they were seated, Annie asked: “What about The Bill, Antony?”
“Well, dearie, The Bill passed its third reading at seven o’clock this morning.”
“Thou saw it pass, eh, Antony?”
“That I did! Why-a! I wouldn’t hev missed Lord Grey’s final speech for anything. He began it at five o’clock and spoke for an hour and a half—which considering his great age and the long night’s strain was an astonishing thing to do. I was feeling a bit tired mysen.”
“But surely the people took its passing very coldly, Antony.”
“The people aren’t going to shout till they are sure they hev something to shout for. Nobody knows what changes the lords may make in it. They may even throw it out again altogether.”
“They dare not! They dare not for their lives try any more such foolishness,” said Josepha Temple with a passion she hardly restrained. “Just let them try it! The people will not allow that step any more! Let them try it! They will quickly see and feel what will come of such folly.”
“Well, Josepha, what will come of it? What can the people do?”
“Iverything they want to do! Iverything they ought to do! One thing is sure—they will send the foreigners back to where they belong. The very kith and kin of the people now demanding their rights founded, not many generations ago, a glorious Republic of their own, and they gave themsens all the rights they wanted and allays put the man of their choice at the head of it. Do you think our people don’t know what their fathers hev done before them? They know it well. They see for themsens that varry common men can outrank noble men when it comes to intellect and courage. What was it that Scotch plowboy said:—
“A king can mak’ a belted knight,
A marquis, duke and a’ that,
But an honest man’s aboon his might—
and a God’s mercy it is, for if he tried it, he would waste and spoil the best of materials in the making.”
“All such talk is sheer nonsense, Josepha.”
“It is nothing of the kind. Josepha has seen how such sheer nonsense turns out. I should think thou could remember what happened fifty years ago. People laughed then at the sheer nonsense of thirteen little colonies in the wilds of America trying to make England give them exactly what Englishmen are this very day ready to fight for— representation in parliament. And you need not forget this fact also, that the majority of Englishmen at that day, both in parliament and out of it, backed with all the power they hed these thirteen little colonies. Why, the poor button makers of Sheffield refused to make buttons for the soldiers’ coats, lest these soldiers should be sent to fight Englishmen. It was then all they could do but their children are now two hundred thousand strong, and king and parliament hev to consider them. They hev to do it or to take the consequences, Antony Annis! Your father was hand and purse with that crowd and I knew you would see things as they are sooner or later. For our stock came from a poor, brave villager, who followed King Richard to the Crusades, and won the Annis lands for his courage and fidelity. That is why there is allays a Richard in an Annis household.”
“I believe all you say, Josepha, and our people, the rich and the poor, both believe it. They hev given the government ivery blessed chance to do fairly by them. Now, if it does so, well and good. If it does not do so, the people are full ready to make them do it. I can tell you that.”
“I am so tired of it all,” said Annie wearily. “Why do poor, uneducated men want to meddle with elections for parliament? I can understand and feel with them in their fight about their looms—it means their daily bread; but why should they care about the men who make our laws and that sort of business?”
“I’ll tell thee why. They hev to do it or else go on being poor and ignorant and of no account among men. Our laws are made to please the men who have a vote or a say-so in any election. The laboring men of England hev no vote at all. They can’t say a word about their rights in the country for through the course of centuries the nobles and the rich men hev got all the votes in their awn pockets.”
“Maybe there is something right in that arrangement, Antony. They are better educated.”
“Suppose that argument stood, Annie; still a poor man might like one rich man better than another, and he ought to be able to hev his chance for electing his choice; but that, however, is only the tag-end of the question.”
“Then what is the main end?”
“This:—In the course of centuries, places once of some account hev disappeared, as really as Babylon or Nineveh, and little villages hev grown to be big cities. There is no town of Sarum now, not a vestige, but the Chatham family represent it in parliament to-day or they sell the position or give it away. The member for the borough of Ludgershall is himself the only voter in the borough and he is now in parliament on his awn nomination. Another place has two members and only seven voters; and what do you think a foreigner visiting England would say when told that a green mound without a house on it sent two members to Parliament, or that a certain green park without an inhabitant also sent two members to Parliament? Then suppose him taken to Manchester, Bradford, Sheffield, and other great manufacturing cities, and told they had no representative in Parliament; what do you suppose he would think and say?”
“He would advise them to get a few paper caps among their coronets,” said Josepha.
“And so it goes all over England,” said the squire. “Really, my dears, two-thirds of the House of Commons are composed of the nominees of the nobles and the great landowners. What comes of the poor man’s rights under such circumstances? He hes been robbed of them for centuries; doesn’t tha think, Annie, it is about time he looked after them?”
“I should think it was full time,” Josepha said hotly.
“It is a difficult question,” replied Annie. “It must have many sides that require examination.”
“Whatever is right needs no examination, Annie.”
“Listen, women, I have but told you one-half of the condition. There is another side of it, for if some places hev been growing less and less during the past centuries, other places, once hardly known, have become great cities, like Birmingham, Leeds, Liverpool, Sheffield, and so forth, and have no representation at all. What do you think of that? Not a soul in parliament to speak for them. Now if men hev to pay taxes they like to know a little bit about their whys and wherefores, eh, women?”
“Did they always want to know, father?” asked Katherine.
“I should say so. It would only be natural, Kitty, but at any rate since the days of King John; and I don’t believe but what the ways of men and the wants of men hev been about the same iver since God made men. They hev allays wanted a king and they hev allays been varry particular about hev-ing some ways and means of making a king do what they want him to do.”
“Suppose the lords pass The Bill but alter it so much that it is not The Bill, what then, father?”
“Well, Kitty, they could do that thing but as your aunt said, they had better not. Nothing but the whole Bill will now satisfy. No! they dare not alter it. Now you can talk over what I hev told you. I must go about my awn business and the first thing I hev to do is to take my wife home. Come, Annie, I am needing thee.”
Annie rose with a happy alacrity. She was glad to go. To be alone with her husband after the past days of society’s patented pleasures was an unspeakable rest and refreshment. They drove to the Clarendon in silent contentment, holding each other’s hand and putting off speech until they could talk without restraint of any kind. And if anyone learned in the expression of the flesh had noticed their hands they would have seen that Annie’s thumb in the clasp was generally the uppermost, a sure sign that she had the strongest will and was made to govern. The corollary of this fact is, that if the clasping thumb in both parties is the right thumb, then complications are most likely to frequently occur.
Indeed Annie did not speak until she had thrown aside her bonnet and cloak and was comfortably seated in the large soft chair she liked best; then she said with an air of perfect satisfaction, “O Antony! It was so kind and thoughtful of thee to come for me. I was afraid there might be some unpleasant to-do before I got away. Josepha was ready for one, longing for one, and Jane hed to make that excuse about getting dinner ready, in order to avoid it. Jane, you know, supports the whole House of Lords, and she goes on about ‘The Constitution of the British Government’ as if it was an inspired document.”
“Well tha knows, Leyland is a Tory from his head to his feet. I doan’t think his mind hes much to do with his opinions. He inherited them from his father, just as he inherited his father’s face and size and money. And a woman hes to think as her husband thinks—if she claims to be a good wife.”
“That idea is an antiquated lie, Antony. A good wife, Antony, thinks not only for herself, she thinks also for her husband.”
“I niver noticed thee making thysen contrary. As I think, thou thinks. Allays that is so.”
“Nay, it is not. There is many a thing different in my mind to what is in thy mind, and thou knows it, too; and there are subjects we neither of us want to talk of because we cannot agree about them. I often thank thee for thy kind self-denial in this matter.”
“I’m sure I doan’t know what thou art so precious civil about. I think of varry little now but the Reform Bill and the poor weavers; and thou thinks with me on both of them subjects. Eh, Joy?”
“To be sure I do—with some sub-differences.”
“I doan’t meddle with what thou calls thy ‘subdifferences.’ I’ll warrant they are innocent as thysen and thy son Dick is a good son and he thinks just as I think on ivery subject. That’s enough, Annie, on sub-differences. Let us hev a bit of a comfortable lunch. Jane’s breakfast was cold and made up of fancy dishes like oysters and chicken minced with mushrooms, and muffins and such miscarriages of eatable dishes. I want some sensible eating at one o’clock and I feel as if it was varry near one now.”
“What shall I order for you?”
“Some kidney soup and cold roast beef and a good pudding, or some Christ Church tartlets, the best vegetables they hev and a bottle of Bass’ best ale or porter, but thou can-hev a cup of sloppy tea if tha fancies it.”
“I think no better of sloppy things than thou does, Antony. I’ll hev a glass of good, pale sherry wine, and the same would be better for thee than anything Bass brews. Bass makes a man stout, and thou art now just the right weight; an ounce more flesh would spoil thy figure and take the spring out of thy step and put more color in thy face and take the music out of thy voice; but please thy dear self about thy eating; perhaps I am a bit selfish about thy good looks, but when a woman gets used to showing herself off with a handsome man she can’t bear to give up that bit of pride.”
“Well, then, Annie dear, whativer pleases thee, pleases me. Send for number five, and order what thou thinks best.”
“Nay, Antony, thou shalt have thy own wish. It is little enough to give thee.”
“It is full and plenty, if thou puts thy wish with it.”
Then Annie happily ordered the kidney soup and cold roast and the particular tarts he liked and the sherry instead of the beer, and the fare pleased both, and they ate it with that smiling cheerfulness which is of all thanksgiving the most acceptable to the Bountiful Giver of all good things. And as they ate they talked of Katherine’s beauty and loving heart and of Dick’s ready obedience and manly respect for his father, and food so seasoned and so cheerfully eaten is the very best banquet that mortals can ever hope to taste in this life.
In the meantime, Dick, urged both by his father’s desire and his own wistful longing to see Faith Foster, lost no time in reaching his home village. He was shocked by its loneliness and silence. He did not meet or see a single man. The women were shut up in their cottages. Their trouble had passed all desire for company and all hope of any immediate assistance. Talking only enervated them and they all had the same miserable tale to tell. It might have been a deserted village but for the musical chime of the church clock and the sight of a few little children sitting listlessly on the doorsteps of the cottages. Hunger had killed in them the instinct of play. “It hurts us to play. It makes the pain come,” said one little lad, as he looked with large suffering eyes into Dick’s face; but never asked from him either pity or help. Yet his very silence was eloquence. No words could have moved to sympathy so strongly as the voiceless appeal of his sad suffering eyes, his thin face, and the patient helplessness of his hopeless quiet. Dick could not bear it. He gave the child some money, and it began to cry softly and to whimper “Mammy! Mammy!” and Dick hurried homeward, rather ashamed of his own emotion, yet full of the tenderest pity.
He found Britton pottering about the stable and his wife Sarah trying with clumsy fingers to fashion a child’s frock. “Oh, Master Dick!” she cried. “Why did tha come back to this unhappy place? I think there is pining and famishing in ivery house and sickness hard following it.”
“I have come, Sarah, to see what can be done to help the trouble.”
“A God’s mercy, sir! We be hard set in Annis village this day.”
“Have you a room ready for me, Sarah? I may be here for a few days.”
“It would be a varry queer thing if I hedn’t a room ready for any of the family, coming in a hurry like. Your awn room is spick and span, sir. And I’ll hev a bit of fire there in ten minutes or thereby, but tha surely will hev summat to eat first.”
“Nothing to eat just yet, Sarah. I shall want a little dinner about five o’clock if you will have it ready.”
“All right, sir. We hev no beef or mutton in t’ house, sir, but I will kill a chicken and make a rice pudding, if that will do.”
“That is all I want.”
Then Dick went to the stables and interviewed Britton, and spoke to every horse in it, and asked Britton to turn them into the paddock for a couple of hours. “They are needing fresh air and a little liberty, Britton,” he said, and as Britton loosened their halters and opened the door that led into the paddock they went out prancing and neighing their gratitude for the favor.
“That little gray mare, sir,” said Britton, “she hes as much sense as a human. She knew first of all of them what was coming, and she knew it was your doing, sir, that’s the reason she nudged up against you and fairly laid her face against yours.”
“Yes, she knew me, Britton. Lucy and I have had many a happy day together.” Then he asked Britton about the cattle and the poultry, and especially about the bulbs and the garden flowers, which had always had more or less the care of Mistress Annis.
These things attended to, he went to his room and dressed himself with what seemed to be some unnecessary care. Dick, however, did not think so. He was going to see Mr. Foster and he might see Faith, and he could not think of himself as wearing clothing travel-soiled in her presence. In an hour, however, he was ready to go to the village, fittingly dressed from head to feet, handsome as handsome Youth can be, and the gleam and glow of a true love in his heart. “It may be—it may be!” he told himself as he walked speedily down the nearest way to the village.
When about half-way there, he met the preacher. “I heard you were here, Mr. Annis,” he said. “Betty Bews told me she saw you pass her cottage.”
“I came in answer to your letter, sir. The Bill is at a great crisis, and my father’s vote on the right side is needed. And I was glad to come, if I can do good in any way.”
“Oh, yes, sir, there are things to do, and words to say that I cannot do or say—and the need is urgent.”
“Then let us go forward. I was shocked by the village as I passed through it. I did not meet a single man. I saw only a few sickly looking women, and some piteous children.”
“The men have gone somewhere four days ago. I suppose they were called by their society. They did not tell me where they were going and I thought it was better not to ask any questions. The women are all sick and despairing, the children suffer all they can bear and live. That is one phase of the trouble; but there is another coming that I thought you would like to be made acquainted with.”
“Not the cholera, I hope? It has reached London, you know, and the doctors are paralyzed by their ignorance of its nature and can find no remedy for it.”
“Our people think it a judgment of God. I am told it broke out in Bristol while the city was burning and outrages of all kinds rampant.”
“You know, sir, that Bristol is one of our largest seaports. It is more likely to have been brought here by some traveler from a strange country. I heard a medical man who has been in India with our troops say that it was a common sickness in the West Indies.”
“It was never seen nor heard of in England before. Now it is going up the east coast of Britain as far north as the Shetland Isles. These coast people are nearly all fishermen, very good, pious men, and they positively declare that they saw a gigantic figure of a woman, shadowy and gray, with a face of malignant vengeance, passing through the land.”
“God has sent such messengers many times—ministers of His Vengeance. His Word is full of such instances.”
“But a woman with a malignant face! Oh, no!”
“Whatever is evil, must look evil—but here we are at Jonathan Hartley’s. Will you go in?”
“He is coming to us. I will give him my father’s letter. That will be sufficient.”
But Jonathan had much to say and he seemed troubled beyond outside affairs to move him, and the preacher asked—“What is personally out of the right way with you, Jonathan?”
“Well, sir, my mother is down at the ford; she may cross any hour—she’s only waiting for the guide—and my eldest girl had a son last night—the little lad was born half-starved. We doan’t know yet whether either of them can be saved—or not. So I’ll not say ‘Come in,’ but if you’ll sit down with me on the garden bench, I’ll be glad of a few minutes fresh air.” He opened the little wicket gate as he spoke and they sat down on a bench under a cherry tree full dressed in perfumed white for Easter tide.
As soon as they were seated the young squire delivered his father’s letter and then they talked of the sudden disappearance of the men of the village. “What does it mean, Jonathan?” asked Dick, and Jonathan said—
“Well, sir, I hevn’t been much among the lads for a week now. My mother hes been lying at the gate of the grave and I couldn’t leave her long at a time. They were all loitering about the village when I saw them last. Suddenly they all disappeared, and the old woman at the post office told me ivery one of them hed received a letter four mornings ago, from the same Working Man’s Society. I hed one mysen, for that matter, and that afternoon they all left together for somewhere.”
“But,” asked Dick, “where did they get the money necessary for a journey?”
“Philip Sugden got the money from Sugbury Bank. He hed an order for it, that was cashed quick enough. What do you make of that, sir?”
“I think there may be fighting to do if parliament fails the people this time.”
“And in the very crisis of this trouble,” said Dick, “I hear from Mr. Foster that a man has been here wanting to build a mill. Who is he, Jonathan? And what can be his motive?”
“His name is Jonas Boocock. He comes from Shipley. His motive is to mak’ money. He thinks this is the varry place to do it. He talked constantly about its fine water power, and its cheap land, and thought Providence hed fairly laid it out for factories and power-looms; for he said there’s talk of a branch of railway from Bradley’s place, past Annis, to join the main track going to Leeds. He considered it a varry grand idea. Mebbe it is, sir.”
“My father would not like the plan at all. It must be prevented, if possible. What do you think, Jonathan?”
“I think, sir, if it would be a grand thing for Jonas Boocock, it might happen be a good thing for Squire Antony Annis. The world is moving for-rard, sir, and we must step with it, or be dragged behind it. Old as I am, I would rayther step for-rard with it. Gentlemen, I must now go to my mother.”
“Is she worse, Jonathan?”
“She is quite worn out, worn out to the varry marrow. I would be thankful, sir, if tha would call and bid her good-by.”
“I will. I will come about seven o’clock.”
“That will be right. I’ll hev all the household present, sir.”
Then they turned away from Jonathan’s house and went to look at the land Boocock hankered for. The land itself was a spur descending from the wold, and was heathery and not fit for cultivation; but it was splendidly watered and lay along the river bank. “Boocock was right,” said Mr. Foster. “It is a bit of land just about perfect for a factory site. Does the squire own it, sir?”
“I cannot say. I was trying to fix its position as well as I could, and I will write to my father tonight. I am sorry Jonathan did not know more about the man Boocock and his plans.”
“Jonathan’s mother is a very old woman. While she lives, he will stay at her side. You must remember her?”
“I do. She was exceedingly tall and walked quite erect and was so white when I met her last that she looked like a ghost floating slowly along the road.”
“She had always a sense of being injured by being here at all—wondered why she had been sent to this world, and though a grand character was never really happy. Jonathan did not learn to read until he was over forty years of age; she was then eighty, and she helped him to remember his letters, and took the greatest pride in his progress. There ought to be schools for these people, there are splendid men and women mentally among them. Here we are at home. Come in, sir, and have a cup of tea with us before you climb the brow.”
Dick was very glad to accept the invitation and the preacher opened the door and said: “Come in, sir, and welcome!” and they went into a small parlor plainly furnished, but in perfect order, and Dick heard someone singing softly not far away. Before the preacher had more than given his guest a chair the door opened and Faith entered the room. If he had not been already in love with her he would have fallen fathoms deep in the divine tide that moment, for his soul knew her and loved her, and was longing to claim its own. What personal charm she had he knew not, he cared not, he had been drawn to her by some deep irresistible attraction, and he succumbed absolutely to its influence. At this moment he cast away all fears and doubts and gave himself without reservation to the wonderful experience.
Faith had answered her father’s call so rapidly, that Dick was not seated when she entered the room. She brought with her into the room an atmosphere of light and peace, through which her loveliness shone with a soft, steady glow. There was something unknown and unseen in her very simplicity. All that was sweet and wise, shone in her heavenly eyes, and their light lifted her higher than all his thoughts; they were so soft and deep and compelling. Very singularly their influence seemed to be intensified by the simple dress she wore. It was of merino and of the exact shade of her eyes, and it appeared in some way to increase their mystical power by the prolongation of the same color. There was nothing of intention in this arrangement. It was one of those coincidences that are perhaps suggested or induced by the angel that guards our life and destiny. For there are angels round all of us. Earth is no strange land to them. The dainty neatness of her clothing delighted Dick. After a season of ruffles and flounces and extravagant trimming, its soft folds falling plainly and unbrokenly to her feet, charmed him. Something of white lace, very narrow and unpretentious, was around the neck and sleeves which were gathered into a band above the elbows. Her hair, parted in the center of the forehead, lay in soft curls which fell no lower than the tip of the ears and at the back was coiled loosely on the crown of the head, where it was fastened by a pretty shell comb. The purity and peace of a fervent transparent soul was the first and the last impression she made, and these qualities revealed themselves in a certain homely sweetness, that drew everyone’s affection and trust like a charm.
She had in her hands a clean tablecloth and some napkins, but when she saw Dick, she laid them down, and went to meet him. He took her hand and looked into her eyes, and a rush of color came into her face and gave splendor to her smile and her beauty. She hastened to question him about his mother and Katherine, but even as they talked of others, she knew he was telling her that he loved her, and longed for her to love him in return.
“Faith, my dear,” said Mr. Foster, “our friend, Mr. Annis, will have a cup of tea with us before he goes up the brow,” and she looked at Dick and smiled, and began to lay the round table that stood in the center of the room. Dick watched her beautiful white arms and hands among the white china and linen and a very handsome silver tea service, with a pleasure that made him almost faint. Oh, if he should lose this lovely girl! How could he bear it? He felt that he might as well lose life itself.
For though Dick had loved her for some months, love not converted into action, becomes indolent and unbelieving. So he had misgivings he could not control and amid the distractions of London, his love, instead of giving a new meaning to his life, had infected him rather with a sense of dreamland. But in this hour, true honest love illumined life, he saw things as they were, he really fell in love and that is a wonderful experience, a deep, elemental thing, beyond all reasoning with. In this experience he had found at last the Key to Life, and he understood in a moment, as it were, that this Key is in the Heart, and not in the Brain. He had been very wise and prudent about Faith and one smile from her had shattered all his reasoning, and the love-light now in his eyes, and shining in his face, was heart-work and not brain work. For love is a state of the soul; anger, grief and other passions can change their mental states; but love? No! Love absorbs the whole man, and if not satisfied, causes a state of great suffering. So in that hour Love was Destiny and fashioned his life beyond the power of any other passion to change.
In the meantime Faith brought in tea and some fresh bread and butter, and a dish of broiled trout. “Mr. Braithwaite was trout fishing among the fells to-day,” she said, “and as he came home, he left half a dozen for father. He is one of the Chapel Trustees and very fond of line fishing. Sometimes father goes with him. You know,” she added with a smile, “fishing is apostolical. Even a Methodist preacher may fish.”
For a short time they talked of the reel and line, and its caprices, but conversation quickly drifted to the condition of the country and of Annis particularly, and in this conversation an hour drifted speedily away. Then Faith rose and brought in a bowl of hot water, washed the china and silver and put them away in a little corner cupboard.
“That silver is very beautiful,” said Dick.
“Take it in your hand, Mr. Annis, and read what is engraved on the tea pot.” So Dick took it in his hand and read that the whole service had been given by the Wesleyans of Thirsk to Reverend Mr. Foster, as a proof of their gratitude to him as their spiritual teacher and comforter. Then Dick noticed the china and said his mother had a set exactly like it and Mr. Foster answered—“I think, Mr. Annis, every family in England has one, rich and poor. Whoever hit upon this plain white china, with its broad gold band round all edges, hit on something that fitted the English taste universally. It will be a wedding gift, and a standard tea set, for many generations yet; unless it deteriorates in style and quality—but I must not forget that I am due at Hartley’s at seven o’clock, so I hope you will excuse me, Mr. Annis.”
“May I ask your permission to remain with Miss Foster until your return, sir? I have a great deal to tell her about Katherine and many messages from my sister to deliver.”
For a moment Mr. Foster hesitated, then he answered frankly, “I will be glad if you stay with Faith until I return.” Then Faith helped him on with his top coat and gave him his hat and gloves and walking stick and both Dick and Faith stood at the open door, and watched him go down the street a little way. But this was Dick’s opportunity and he would not lose it.
“Come into the parlor, dear, dear Faith! I have something to tell you, something I must tell you!” And all he said in the parlor was something he had never dared to say before, except in dreams.
Faith knew what he wished to say. He had wooed her silently for months, but she had not suffered him to pass beyond the horizon of her thoughts. Yet she knew well, that though they were in many things dissimilar as two notes of music, they were made for each other. She told herself that he knew this fact as well as she did and that at the appointed hour he would come to her. Until that hour she would not provoke Destiny by her impatience. A change so great for her would doubtless involve other changes and perhaps their incidentals were not yet ready. So she never doubted but that Dick would tell her he loved her, as soon as he thought the right hour had come.
And now the hour had come, and Dick did tell her how he loved her with a passionate eloquence that astonished himself. She did not try to resist its influence. It was to her heart all that cold water would be to parching thirst; it was the coming together of two strong, but different temperaments, and from the contact the flashing forth of love like fire. His words went to her head like wine, her eyes grew soft, tender, luminous, her form was half mystical, half sensuous. Dick was creating a new world for them, all their own. Though her eyes lifted but an instant, her soul sought his soul, gradually they leaned closer to each other in visible sweetness and affection and then it was no effort, but a supreme joy, to ask her to be his wife, to love and counsel and guide him, as his mother had loved and guided his father; and in the sweet, trembling patois of love, she gave him the promise that taught him what real happiness means. And her warm, sweet kisses sealed it. He felt they did so and was rapturously happy. Is there anything more to be said on this subject? No, the words are not yet invented which could continue it. Yet Faith wrote in her Diary that night—“To-day I was born into the world of Love. That is the world God loves best.”
“No mortal thing can bear so high a price,
But that with mortal thing it may be bought;
No pearls, no gold, no gems, no corn, no spice,
No cloth, no wine, of Love can pay the price.
Divine is Love and scorneth worldly pelf,
And can be bought with nothing but itself.”
A MAN in love sees miracles, as well as expects them. Outsiders are apt to think him an absurd creature, he himself knows that he is seeking the only love that can complete and crown his life. Dick was quite sure of his own wisdom. Whenever he thought of Faith, of her innocence, her high hopes, her pure eyes, and flowerlike beauty, he felt that his feet were on a rock and his soul went after her and everything was changed in his life.
It was not until great London was on his horizon, that any fear touched his naturally high spirit. His father’s good will, he was sure, could be relied on. He himself had made what his father called “a varry inconsiderate marriage,” but it had proved to be both a very wise and a very happy union, so Dick expected his father would understand and sympathize with his love for Faith Foster.
About the women of his family he felt more uncertain, his mother and sister and aunt would doubtless be harder to please. Yet they must see that Faith was everyway exceptional. Was she not the very flower and pearl of womanhood? He could not understand how they could find any fault with his wonderfully fortunate choice. Yet he kindly considered the small frailties of the ordinary woman and made some allowances for their jealousies and for the other interferences likely to spring from family and social conditions.
But Dick was no coward and he was determined to speak of his engagement to Faith as soon as he had rid his mind of the business which had sent him to Annis. Nor had he any love-lorn looks or attitudes; he appeared to be an exceedingly happy man, when he opened the parlor door of his father’s apartments in the Clarendon. Breakfast was on the table and the squire and his wife were calmly enjoying it. They cried out joyfully when they saw him. The squire hastily stood up with outstretched hands, while Dick’s mother cried out, “O Dick! Dick! how good it is to see thee!”
Dick was soon seated between them and as he ate he told the news he had brought from the home village. It was all interesting and important to them—from the change in its politics—which Dick said had become nearly Radical—to the death of Jonathan Hartley’s mother, who had been for many years a great favorite of Mistress Annis.
Dick was a little astonished to find that his father pooh-pooh’d Boocock’s design of building a mill in Annis. “He can’t build ef he can’t get land and water,” he answered with a scornful laugh; “and Antony Annis will not let him hev either. He is just another of those once decent weavers, who hev been turned into arrant fools by making brass too easy and too quick. I hev heard them talk. They are allays going to build another mill somewhere, they are going to mak’ a bid for all Yorkshire and mebbe tak’ Lancashire into their plans. Boocock does not trouble me. And if Squire Annis puts him in Cold Shoulder Lane, there will not be a man in t’ neighborhood poor and mean enough to even touch his cap to him. This is all I hev to say about Boocock at the present time and I don’t want him mentioned again. Mind that!”
“I think, then, father, that you will have to get rid of Jonathan Hartley.”
“Rid of Jonathan! Whativer is tha talking about? I could spare him as little as my right hand.”
“Jonathan told me to tell you that you had better build a mill yourself, than let Boocock, or some other stranger, in among Annis folk. He said the world was stepping onward and that we had better step with the world, than be dragged behind it. He said that was his feeling.”
“Well, he hes a right to his feeling, but he need not send it to me. Let him go. I see how it is. I am getting a bit older than I was and men that are younger five or ten years are deserting me. They fear to be seen with an old fogy, like Squire Annis. God help me, but—I’m not downed yet. If they can do without me, I can jolly well do without them. Why-a! Thy mother is worth iverybody else to me and she’ll love and cherish me if I add fifty years more to my present fifty-five.”
“I want no other love, Antony, than yours. It is good enough for life—and thereafter.”
“Dear, dear Annie! And don’t fear! When I am sure it is time to move, I’ll move. I’ll outstrip them all yet. By George, I’ll keep them panting after me! How is it, Dick? Wilt thou stand with thy father? If so, put thy hand in thy father’s and we will beat them all at their awn game”—and Dick put his hand in his father’s hand and answered, “I am your loving and obedient son. Your will is my pleasure, sir.”
“Good, dear lad! Then we two will do as we want to do, we’ll do it in our awn time, and in our awn way, and we hev sense enough, between us, to tak’ our awn advice, whativer it be. For first of all, we’ll do whativer is best for the village, and then for oursens, without anybody’s advice but our awn. Just as soon as The Bill is off my mind we will hev a talk on this subject. Annis Hall and Annis land and water is our property—mine and thine—and we will do whativer is right, both to the land and oursens.”
And Dick’s loving face, and the little sympathizing nod of his head, was all the squire needed. Then he stood up, lifting himself to his full height, and added, “Boocock and his mill will have to wait on my say-so, and I haven’t room in my mind at present to consider him; so we will say no more on that subject, until he comes and asks me for the land and water he wants. What is tha going to do with thysen now?”
“That depends upon your wish, father. Are you going to—The House?”
“The House! Hes tha forgotten that the English Government must hev its usual Easter recreation whativer comes or goes? I told thee—I told thee in my first letter to Annis, that parliament hed given themsens three weeks’ holiday. They feel a good bit tired. The Bill hed them all worn out.”
“I remember! I had forgotten The Bill!”
“Whativer hes tha been thinking of to forget that?”
“Where then are you going to-day, father?”
“I doan’t just know yet, Dick, but——”
“Well, I know where I am going,” said Mistress Annis. “I have an engagement with Jane and Katherine at eleven and I shall have to hurry if I am to keep it.”
“Somewhere to go, or something to do. Which is it, Annie?”
“It is both, Antony. We are going to Exeter Hall, to a very aristocratic meeting, to make plans for the uplifting of the working man. Lord Brougham is to be chairman. He says very few can read and hardly any write their names. Shocking! Lord Brougham says we ought to be ashamed of such a condition and do something immediately to alter it.”
“Brougham does not know what he is talking about. He thinks a man’s salvation is in a spelling book and an inkhorn. There is going to be a deal of trouble made by fools, who want to uplift the world, before the world is ready to be uplifted. They can’t uplift starving men. It is bread, not books, they want; and I hev allays seen that when a man gets bare enough bread to keep body and soul together, the soul, or the mind, gets the worst of it.”
“I cannot help that,” said Mistress Annis. “Lord Brougham will prove to us, that body and mind must be equally cared for or the man is not developed.”
“Well, then, run away to thy developing work. It is a new kind of job for thee; and I doan’t think it will suit thee—not a bit of it. I would go with thee but developing working men is a step or two out of my way. And I’ll tell thee something, the working men—and women, too—will develop theirsens if we only give them the time and the means, and the brass to do it. But go thy ways and if thou art any wiser after Brougham’s talk I’ll be glad to know what he said.”
“I shall stay and dine with Jane and thou hed better join us. We may go to the opera afterwards.”
“Nay, then, I’ll not join thee. I wouldn’t go to another opera for anything—not even for the great pleasure of thy company. If I hev to listen to folk singing, I want them to sing in the English language. It is good enough, and far too good, for any of the rubbishy words I iver heard in any opera. What time shall I come to Jane’s for thee?”
“About eleven o’clock, or soon after.”
“That’s a nice time for a respectable squire’s wife to be driving about London streets. I wish I hed thee safe at Annis Hall.”
With a laugh Annie closed the door and hurried away and Dick turned to his father.
“I want to talk with you, sir,” he said, “on a subject which I want your help and sympathy in, before I name it to anyone else. Suppose we sit still here. The room is quiet and comfortable and we are not likely to be disturbed.”
“Why then, Dick! Hes tha got a new sweetheart?”
“Yes, sir, and she is the dearest and loneliest woman that ever lived. I want you to stand by me in any opposition likely to rise.”
“What is her name? Who is she?” asked the squire not very cordially.
“Her name is Faith Foster. You know her, father?”
“Yes, I know her. She is a good beautiful girl.”
“I felt sure you would say that, sir. You make me very happy.”
“A man cannot lie about any woman. Faith Foster is good and beautiful.”
“And she has promised to be my wife. Father, I am so happy! So happy! And your satisfaction with Faith doubles my pleasure. I have been in love with her for nearly a year but I was afraid to lose all by asking all; and I never found courage or opportunity to speak before this to her.”
“That is all buff and bounce. Thou can drop the word ‘courage,’ and opportunity will do for a reason. I niver knew Dick Annis to be afraid of a girl but if thou art really afraid of this girl—let her go. It is the life of a dog to live with a woman that you fear.”
“Father, you have seen Faith often. Do you fear her in the way your words seem to imply?”
“Me! Does tha think I fear any woman? What’s up with thee to ask such a question as that?”
“I thought from your kind manner with Faith and your admiring words both to her and about her that you would have congratulated me on my success in winning her love.”
“I doan’t know as thou deserves much congratulation on that score. I think it is mebbe, to me mysen, and to thy mother thou art mainly indebted for what success there is in winning Miss Foster’s favor. We gave thee thy handsome face and fine form, thy bright smile and that coaxing way thou hes—a way that would win any lass thou choose to favor—it is just the awful way young men hev, of choosing the wrong time to marry even if they happen to choose the right woman.”
“Was that your way, father?”
“Ay, was it! I chose the right time, but the girl was wrong enough in some ways.”
“My mother wrong! Oh, no, father!”
“My father thought she was not rich enough for me. He was a good bit disappointed by my choice but I knew what I was doing.”
“Father, I also know what I am doing. I suppose you object to Faith’s want of fortune.”
“Mebbe I do, and I wouldn’t be to blame if I did, but as it happens I think a man is better without his wife’s money. A wife’s money is a quarrelsome bit of either land or gold.”
“I consider Faith’s goodness a fortune far beyond any amount of either gold or land.”
“Doan’t thee say anything against either land or gold. When thou hes lived as long as I hev thou wilt know better than do that.”
“Wisdom is better than riches. I have heard you say that often.”
“It was in Solomon’s time. I doan’t know that it is in Victoria’s. The wise men of this day would be a deal wiser if they hed a bit of gold to carry out all the machines and railroads and canals they are planning; and what would the final outcome be, if they hed it? Money, money, and still more money. This last year, Dick, I hev got some new light both on poverty and riches and I have seen one thing plainly, it is that money is a varry good, respectable thing, and a thing that goes well with lovemaking; but poverty is the least romantic of all misfortunes. A man may hide, or cure, or forget any other kind of trouble, but, my lad, there is no Sanctuary for Poverty.”
“All you say is right, father, but if Faith’s want of fortune is no great objection, is there any other reason why I should not marry her? We might as well speak plainly now, as afterwards.”
“That is my way. I hate any backstair work, especially about marrying. Well, then, one thing is that Faith’s people are all Chapel folk. The Squire of Annis is a landed gentleman of England, and the men who own England’s land hev an obligation to worship in England’s Church.”
“You know, father, that wives have a duty laid on them to make their husbands’ church their church. Faith will worship where I worship and that is in Annis Parish Church.”
“What does tha know of Faith’s father and mother?”
“Her grandfather was a joiner and carpenter and a first class workman. He died of a fever just before the birth of Faith’s mother. Her grandmother was a fine lace maker, and supported herself and her child by making lace for eight years. Then she died and the girl, having no kindred and no friends willing to care for her, was taken to the Poor House.”
“Oh, Dick! Dick! that is bad—very bad indeed!”
“Listen, father. At the Poor House Sunday school she learned to read, and later was taught how to spin, and weave, and to sew and knit. She was a silent child, but had fine health and a wonderfully ambitious nature. At eleven years of age she took her living into her own hands. She went into a woolen mill and made enough to pay her way in the family of Samuel Broadbent, whose sons now own the great Broadbent mill with its six hundred power-looms. When she was fifteen she could manage two looms, and was earning more than a pound a week. Every shilling nearly of this money went for books. She bought, she borrowed, she read every volume she could reach; and in the meantime attended the Bradford Night School of the Methodist Church. At seventeen years of age she was a very good scholar and had such a remarkable knowledge of current literature and authors that she was made the second clerk in the Public Library. Soon after, she joined the Methodist Church, and her abilities were quickly recognized by the Preacher, and she finally went to live with his family, teaching his boys and girls, and being taught and protected by their mother. One day Mr. Foster came as the second preacher in that circuit and he fell in love with her and they married. Faith is their child, and she has inherited not only her mother’s beauty and intellect, but her father’s fervent piety and humanity. Since her mother’s death she has been her father’s companion and helped in all his good works, as you know.”
“Yes, I know—hes her mother been long dead?
“About six years. She left to the young girls who have to work for their living several valuable text-books to assist them in educating themselves, a very highly prized volume of religious experiences and a still more popular book of exquisite poems. Is there anything in this record to be called objectionable or not honorable?”
“Ask thy mother that question, Dick.”
“Nay, father, I want your help and sympathy. I expect nothing favorable from mother. You must stand by me in this strait. If you accept Faith my mother will accept her. Show her the way. Do, father! Always you have been right-hearted with me. You have been through this hard trial yourself, father. You know what it is.”
“To be sure I do; and I managed it in a way that thou must not think of, or I will niver forgive thee. I knew my father and mother would neither be to coax nor to reason with, and just got quietly wedded and went off to France with my bride. I didn’t want any browbeating from my father and I niver could hev borne my mother’s scorn and silence, so I thought it best to come to some sort of terms with a few hundred miles between us—but mind what I say, Dick! I was niver again happy with them. They felt that I hed not trusted their love and they niver more trusted my love. There was a gulf between us that no love could bridge. Father died with a hurt feeling in his heart. Mother left my house and went back to her awn home as soon as he was buried. All that thy mother could do niver won her more than mere tolerance. Now, Dick, my dear lad, I hev raked up this old grief of mine for thy sake. If tha can win thy mother’s promise to accept Faith as a daughter, and the future mistress of Annis Hall, I’ll put no stone in thy way. Hes tha said anything on this subject to Mr. Foster? If so, what answer did he give thee?”
“He said the marriage would be a great pleasure to him if you and mother were equally pleased; but not otherwise.”
“That was right, it was just what I expected from him.”
“But, father, until our engagement was fully recognized by you and mother, he forbid us to meet, or even to write to each other. I can’t bear that. I really can not.”
“Well, I doan’t believe Faith will help thee to break such a command. Not her! She will keep ivery letter of it.”
“Then I shall die. I could not endure such cruelty! I will—I will——”
“Whativer thou shall, could, or will, do try and not make a fool of thysen. Drat it, man! Let me see thee in this thy first trial right-side-out. Furthermore, I’ll not hev thee going about Annis village with that look on thy face as if ivery thing was on the perish. There isn’t a man there, who wouldn’t know the meaning of it and they would wink at one another and say ‘poor beggar! it’s the Methody preacher’s little lass!’ There it is! and thou knows it, as well as I do.”
“Let them mock if they want to. I’ll thrash every man that names her.”
“Be quiet! I’ll hev none of thy tempers, so just bid thy Yorkshire devil to get behind thee. I hev made thee a promise and I’ll keep it, if tha does thy part fairly.”
“What is my part?”
“It is to win over thy mother.”
“You, sir, have far more influence over mother than I have. If I cannot win mother, will you try, sir?”
“No, I will not. Now, Dick, doan’t let me see thee wilt in thy first fight. Pluck up courage and win or fail with a high heart. And if tha should fail, just take the knockdown with a smile, and say,
“If she is not fair for me,
What care I how fair she be!
That was the young men’s song in my youth. Now we will drop the subject and what dost tha say to a ride in the Park?”
“All right, sir.”
The ride was not much to speak of. One man was too happy, and the other was too unhappy and eventually the squire put a stop to it. “Dick,” he said, “tha hed better go to thy room at The Yorkshire Club and sleep thysen into a more respectable temper.” And Dick answered, “Thank you, sir. I will take your advice”—and so raising his hand to his hat he rapidly disappeared.
“Poor lad!” muttered his father; “he hes some hard days before him but it would niver do to give him what he wants and there is no ither way to put things right”—and with this reflection the squire’s good spirits fell even below his son’s melancholy. Then he resolved to go back to the Clarendon. “Annie may come back there to dress before her dinner and opera,” he reflected—“but if she does I’ll not tell her a word of Dick’s trouble. No, indeed! Dick must carry his awn bad news. I hev often told her unpleasant things and usually I got the brunt o’ them mysen. So if Annie comes home to dress—and she does do so varry often lately—I’ll not mention Dick’s affair to her. I hev noticed that she dresses hersen varry smart now and, by George, it suits her well! In her way she looks as handsome as either of her daughters. I did not quite refuse to dine at Jane’s, I think she will come to the Clarendon to dress and to beg me to go with her and I might as well go—here she comes! I know her step, bless her!”
When Dick left his father he went to his sister’s residence. He knew that Jane and his mother were at the lecture but he did not think that Katherine would be with them and he felt sure of Katherine’s sympathy. He was told that she had just gone to Madam Temple’s and he at once followed her there and found her writing a letter and quite alone.
“Kitty! Kitty!” he cried in a lachrymose tone. “I am in great trouble.”
“Whatever is wrong, Dick? Are you wanting money?”
“I am not thinking or caring anything about money. I want Faith and her father will not let me see her or write to her unless father and mother are ready to welcome her as a daughter. They ought to do so and father is not very unwilling; but I know mother will make a stir about it and father will not move in the matter for me.”
“Move?”
“Yes, I want him to go to mother and make her do the kind and the right thing and he will not do it for me, though he knows that mother always gives in to what he thinks best.”
“She keeps her own side, Dick, and goes as far as she can, but it is seldom she gets far enough without father’s consent. Father always keeps the decisive word for himself.”
“That is what I say. Then father could—if he would—say the decisive word and so make mother agree to my marriage with Faith.”
“Well you see, Dick, mother is father’s love affair and why should he have a dispute with his wife to make you and your intended wife comfortable and happy? Mother has always been in favor of Harry Bradley and she does not prevent us seeing or writing each other, when it is possible, but she will not hear of our engagement being made public, because it would hurt father’s feelings and she is half-right anyway. A wife ought to regard her husband’s feelings. You would expect that, if you were married.”
“Oh, Kitty, I am so miserable. Will you sound mother’s feelings about Faith for me? Then I would have a better idea how to approach her on the subject.”
“Certainly, I will.”
“How soon?”
“To-morrow, if possible.”
“Thank you, dearie! I love Faith so truly that I have forgotten all the other women I ever knew. Their very names tire me now. I wonder at myself for ever thinking them at all pretty. I could hardly be civil to any of them if we met. I shall never care for any woman again, if I miss Faith.”
“You know, Dick, that you must marry someone. The family must be kept up. Is the trouble Faith’s lack of money?”
“No. It is her father and mother.”
“Her father is a scholar and fine preacher.”
“Yes, but her mother was a working girl, really a mill hand,” and then Dick told the story of Faith’s mother with enthusiasm. Kitty listened with interest, but answered, “I do not see what you are going to do, Dick. Not only mother, but Jane will storm at the degradation you intend to inflict upon the house of Annis.”
“There are two things I can do. I will marry Faith, and be happier than words can tell; or I will leave England forever.”
“Dick, you never can do that. Everything good forbids it—and there. Jane’s carriage is coming.”
“Then good-by. When can I see you tomorrow?”
“In the afternoon, perhaps. I may speak to mother before three o’clock.”
Then Dick went away and a servant entered with a letter. It was from Lady Jane, bidding Katherine return home immediately or she would not be dressed in time for dinner. On her way home she passed Dick walking slowly with his head cast down and carrying himself in a very dejected manner. Katherine stopped the carriage and offered to give him a lift as far as his club.
“No, thank you, Kitty,” he answered. “You may interview mother for me if you like. I was coming to a resolution to take the bull by the horns, or at least in some manner find a way that is satisfactory in the meantime.”
“That is right. There is nothing like patient watching and waiting. Every ball finally comes to the hand held out for it.”
Then with a nod and a half-smile, Dick lifted his hat and went forward. While he was in the act of speaking to Katherine an illuminating thought had flashed through his consciousness and he walked with a purposeful stride towards his club. Immediately he sat down and began to write a letter, and the rapid scratching of the goose quill on the fine glazed paper indicated there was no lack of feeling in what he was writing. The firm, strong, small letters, the wide open long letters, the rapid fluency and haste of the tell-tale quill, all indicated great emotion, and it was without hesitation or consideration he boldly signed his name to the following letter:—
To the Rev. John Foster.
Dear Sir:
You have made me the most wretched of men. You have made Faith the most unhappy of women. Faith never wronged you in all her life. Do you imagine she would do for me what she has never before done? I never wronged you by one thought. Can you not trust my word and my honor? I throw myself and Faith on your mercy. You are punishing us before we have done anything worthy of punishment. Is that procedure just and right? If so, it is very unlike you. Let me write to Faith once every week and permit her to answer my letter. I have given you my word; my word is my honor. I cannot break it without your permission, and until you grant my prayer, I am bound by a cruel obligation to lead a life, that being beyond Love and Hope, is a living death. And the terrible aching torture of this ordeal is that Faith must suffer it with me. Sir, I pray your mercy for both of us.