The Paper Cap. A Story of Love and Labor

Suddenly she heard rapid footsteps descending the great stairway, and in the same moment she erected her position, and looked with kind but steady eyes at the door. It opened with a swift noiseless motion and a girl of eighteen years entered; a girl tall and slender, with masses of bright brown hair, a beautiful mouth and star-like eyes.

“Mother,” she said, “how am I to go to London this spring?”

“I am not yet in thy father’s intentions about the journey, Katherine. He promised to take thee when he went up to the House. If he forswears his promise, why then, child, I know not. Ask him when he is going.”

“I did so this morning and he said I must excuse him at present.”

“Then he will take thee, later.”

“That’s a bit different, mother; and it isn’t what he promised me. It is my wish to go now.”

“There is no way for thee to go now. Let London wait for its proper time.”

“Alura Percival, and Lady Capel, and Agatha Wickham, are already on their way there. Captain Chandos told me so an hour ago.”

“Indeed! Has he learned how to speak the truth?”

“Like other people, he speaks as much of it as is profitable to him. If father is not going just yet cannot you go, dear mother? You know Jane will expect us to keep our promise.”

“Jane knows enough of the times to understand why people are now often prevented from keeping their promises. Is Jane going much out?”

“A great deal and she says Lord Leyland wishes her to keep open house for the rest of the season. Of course, I ought to be with her.”

“I see no ‘ought’ in the matter.”

“She is my sister and can introduce me to noblemen and distinguished people. She desires me to come at once. I have just had a letter from her. And what about my frocks, mother? If father is not ready to go you could go with me, dear mother! That would be just as well, perhaps better!” And she said these flattering words from the very summit of her splendid eyes.

“There are people here in Annis who are wanting bread and – ”

“It is their own fault, mother, and you know it. The Annis weavers are a lot of stubborn old fogies.”

“They have only taken this world as they found it. Isn’t that right?”

“No. It is all wrong. Every generation ought to make it better. You said that to father last night, I heard you.”

“I doan’t always talk to thy father as I do to thee. It wouldn’t be a bit suitable. Whatever were thou talking to Captain Chandos for – if he is a captain – I doubt it.”

“His uncle bought him a commission in The Scotch Greys. His mother is Scotch. I suppose he has as much right there, as the rest of the Hanover fools.”

“And if thou are going to indulge thyself in describing people in the army and the court thou wilt get thy father into trouble.”

“I saw father talking to Squire Bradley for a long time this morning.”

“In what mood? I hope they were not – quarreling.”

“They were disputing rather earnestly, father looked troubled, and so did Bradley.”

“They were talking of the perishing poor and the dreadful state of. England no doubt. It’s enough to trouble anybody, I’m sure of that.”

“So it is, but then father has a bad way of making things look worse than they are. And he isn’t friendly with Bradley now. That seems wrong, mother, after being friends all their live-long lives.”

“It is wrong. It is a bit of silent treason to each other. It is that! And how did thou happen to see them talking this morning?”

“They met on the village green. I think Bradley spoke first.”

“I’ll warrant it. Bradley is varry good-natured, and he thought a deal o’ thy father. How did thou happen to be on the green so early in the day?”

“I was sitting with Faith Foster, and her parlor window faces the Green.”

“Faith Foster! And pray what took thee to her house?”

“I was helping her to sew for a lot of Annis babies that are nearly naked, and perishing with cold.”

“That was a varry queer thing for thee to do.”

“I thought so myself even while I was doing it – but Faith works as she likes with everyone. You can’t say ‘No’ to anything she wants.”

“Such nonsense! I’m fairly astonished at thee.”

“Have you ever seen Faith, mother?”

“Not I! It is none o’ my place to visit a Methodist preacher’s daughter.”

“Everybody visits her – rich and poor. If you once meet her she can bring you back to her as often as she wishes.”

“Such women are very dangerous people to know. I’d give her a wide border. Keep thyself to thyself.”

“I am going to London. Maybe, mother, I ought to tell you that our Dick is in love with Faith Foster. I am sure he is. I do not see how he can help it.”

“Dick and his father will hev that matter to settle, and there is enough on hand at present – what with mills, and steam, and working men, not to speak of rebellion, and hunger, and sore poverty. Dick’s love affairs can wait awhile. He hes been in love with one and twenty perfect beauties already. Some of them were suitable fine girls, of good family, and Lucy Todd and Amy Schofield hed a bit of money of their awn. Father and I would hev been satisfied with either o’ them, but Dick shied off from both and went silly about that French governess that was teaching the Saville girls.”

“I do not think Dick will shy off from Faith Foster. I am sure that he has never yet dared to say a word of love to her.”

“Dared! What nonsense! Dick wasn’t born in Yorkshire to take a dare from any man or woman living.”

“Well, mother, I have made you wise about Faith Foster. A word is all you want.”

“I the girl pretty?”

“Pretty She is adorable.”

“You mean that she is a fine looking girl?”

“I mean that she is a little angel. You think of violets if she comes where you are. Her presence is above a charm and every door flies open to her. She is very small. Mary Saville, speaking after her French governess, calls her petite. She is, however, beautifully fashioned and has heavenly blue, deep eyes.”

“Tell me nothing more about her. I should never get along with such a daughter-in-law. How could thou imagine it?”

“Now, mother, I have told you all my news, what have you to say to me about London?”