The Paper Cap. A Story of Love and Labor

“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.”