The Paper Cap. A Story of Love and Labor

“Did your lover break his heart?”

“Not a bit of it! He married soon after I was married.”

“Whom did he marry?”

“Sophia Ratcliffe, a varry pretty girl from the old town of Boroughbridge. I niver saw her. I went with the Admiral, by permission, to various ports, remaining at some convenient town, while he sailed far and wide after well-loaded ships of England’s enemies, and picking up as he sailed, any bit of land flying no civilized flag. I did not come back to Annis for five years. My father was then dead, my mother hed gone back to her awn folks, and my brother Antony was Squire of Annis.”

“Then did you meet your old lover?”

“One day, I was walking with Antony through the village, and we met the very loveliest child I iver saw in all my life. He was riding a Shetland pony, and a gentleman walked by his side, and watched him carefully, and I found out at once by his air of authority that he was the boy’s tutor. I asked the little fellow for a kiss, and he bent his lovely face and smilingly let me take what I wanted. Then they passed on and Antony said, ‘His mother died three months ago, and he nearly broke his heart for her.’ ‘Poor little chap,’ I said, and my eyes followed the little fellow down the long empty street. ‘His father,’ continued Antony, ‘was just as brokenhearted. All Annis village was sorry for him.’ ‘Do I know him?’ I asked. ‘I should think so!’ answered thy father with a look of surprise, and then someone called, ‘Squire,’ and we waited, and spoke to the man about his taxes. After his complaint had been attended to we went forward, and I remembered the child, and asked, ‘What is the name of that lovely child?’ And Antony said, “‘His name is Harry Bradley. His father is John Thomas Bradley. Hes thou forgotten him?’

“Then I turned and looked after the boy, but the little fellow was nearly out of sight. I only got a last glimpse of some golden curls lying loose over his white linen suit and black ribbons.”

Then Josepha ceased speaking and silently took the weeping girl in her arms. She kissed her, and held her close, until the storm of sorrow was over, then she said softly:

“There it is, Lovey! The lot of women is on thee. Bear it bravely for thy father’s sake. He hes a lot to manage now, and he ought not to see anything but happy people, or hear anything but loving words. Wash thy face, and put on thy dairymaid’s linen bonnet and we will take a breath of fresh air in the lower meadow. Its hedges are all full of the Shepherd’s rose, and their delicious perfume gives my soul a fainty feeling, and makes me wonder in what heavenly paradise I had caught that perfume before.”

“I will, aunt. You have done me good, it would be a help to many girls to have heard your story. We have so many ideas that, if examined, would not look as we imagine them to be. Agatha De Burg used to say that ‘unfaithfulness to our first love was treason to our soul.’”

“I doan’t wonder, if that was her notion. She stuck through thick and thin to that scoundrel De Burg, and she was afraid De Burg was thinking of thee, and afraid thou would marry him. When girls first go into society they are in a bit of a hurry to get married; if they only wait a year or two, it does not seem such a pressing matter. Thou knows De Burg was Agatha’s first love, and she hes not realized yet, that it is a God’s mercy De Burg hes not kep the promises he made her.”

“The course of true love never yet ran smooth,” and Katherine sighed as she poured out some water and prepared to wash her face.

“Kitty,” said her aunt, “the way my life hes been ordered for me, shows that God, and only God, orders the three great events of ivery life – birth, marriage and death; that is, if we will let Him do so. Think a moment, if I hed married John Thomas Bradley, I would hev spent all my best days in a lonely Yorkshire hamlet, in the midst of worrying efforts to make work pay, that was too out-of-date to struggle along. Until I was getting to be an old woman, I would hev known nothing but care and worry, and how John Thomas would hev treated me, nobody but God knew. I hated poverty, and I would hev been poor. I wanted to see Life and Society and to travel, and I would hardly hev gone beyond Annis Village. Well, now, see how things came about. I mysen out of pure bad temper made a quarrel with my lover, and then perversely I wouldn’t make it up, and then the Admiral steps into my life, gives me ivery longing I hed, and leaves me richer than all my dreams. I hev seen Life and Society, and the whole civilized world, and found out just what it is worth, and I hev made money, and am now giving mysen the wonderful pleasure of helping others to be happy. Sit thee quiet. If Harry is thine, he will come to thee sure as death! If he does not come of his awn free will, doan’t thee move a finger to bring him. Thou wilt mebbe bring nothing but trouble to thysen. There was that young banker thou met at Jane’s house, he loved thee purely and sincerely. Thou might easily hev done far worse than marry him. Whativer hed thou against him?”

“His hair.”

“What was wrong with the lad’s hair?”

“Why, aunt, Jane called it ‘sandy’ but I felt sure it was turning towards red.”

“Stuff and nonsense! It will niver turn anything but white, and it won’t turn white till thy awn is doing the same thing. And tha knaws it doesn’t make much matter what color a man’s hair is. Englishmen are varry seldom without a hat of one kind or another. I doan’t believe I would hev known the Admiral without his naval hat, or in his last years, his garden hat. Does tha remember an old lady called Mrs. Sam Sagar? She used to come and see thy mother, when thou was only a little lass about eight years old, remember her, she was a queer old lady.”

“Queer, but Yorkshire; queer, but varry sensible. Her husband, like the majority of Yorkshiremen, niver took off his hat, unless to put on his nightcap, or if he was going inside a church, or hed to listen to the singing of ‘God Save the King.’ When he died, his wife hed his favorite hat trimmed with black crape, and it hung on its usual peg of the hat stand, just as long as she lived. You see his hat was the bit of his personality that she remembered best of all. Well, what I wanted to show thee was, the importance of the hat to a man, and then what matters the color of his hair.”

By this time they were in the thick green grass of the meadow, and Kitty laughed at her aunt’s illustration of the Yorkshire man’s habit of covering his head, and they chatted about it, as they gathered great handfuls of shepherd’s roses. And after this, Josepha spoke only of her plans for the village, and of Faith’s interest in them. She felt she had said plenty about love, and she hoped the seed she had sown that afternoon had fallen on good ground. Surely it is a great thing to know how and when to let go.

CHAPTER XII – THE SQUIRE MAKES GOOD

“Busy, happy, loving people; talking, eating, singing, sewing, living through every sense they have at the same time.”

“People who are happy, do not write down their happiness.”

THE summer went quickly away, but during it the whole life of Annis Hall and Annis Village changed. The orderly, beautiful home was tossed up by constant visitors, either on business, or on simple social regulations; and the village was full of strange men, who had small respect for what they considered such an old-fashioned place. But in spite of all opinions and speculations, the work for which all this change was permitted went on with unceasing energy. The squire’s interest in it constantly increased, and Dick’s enthusiasm and ability developed with every day’s exigencies. Then Josepha was constantly bringing the village affairs into the house affairs, and poor women with easy, independent manners, were very troublesome to Britton and his wife. They were amazed at the tolerance with which Mistress Annis permitted their frequent visits and they reluctantly admitted such excuses as she made for them.

“You must remember, Betsy,” she frequently explained, “that few of them have ever been in any home but their father’s and their own. They have been as much mistress in their own home, as I have been in my home. Their ideas of what is fit and respectful, come from their heart and are not in any degree habits of social agreement. If they like or respect a person, they are not merely civil or respectful, they are kind and free, and speak just as they feel.”

“They do that, Madam – a good bit too free.”

“Well, Betsy, they are Mistress Temple’s business at present. Thou need not mind them.”

“I doan’t, not in the least.”

“They are finding out for her, things she wants to know about the village, the number of children that will be to teach – the number of men and women that know how to read and write.”

“Few of that kind, Madam, if any at all.”

“You know she is now making plans for a school, and she wants, of course, to have some idea as to the number likely to go there, and other similar questions. Everyone ought to know how to read and write.”

“Well, Madam, Britton and mysen hev found our good common senses all we needed. They were made and given to us by God, when we was born. He gave us senses enough to help us to do our duty in that state of life it had pleased Him to call us to. These eddicated lads are fit for nothing. Britton won’t be bothered with them. He says neither dogs nor horses like them. They understand Yorkshire speech and ways, but when a lad gets book knowledge, they doan’t understand his speech, and his ways of pronouncing his words; and they just think scorn of his perliteness – they kick up their heels at it, and Britton says they do right. Why-a! We all know what school teachers are! The varry childher feel suspicious o’ them, and no wonder! They all hev a rod or a strap somewhere about them, and they fairly seem to enjoy using it. I niver hed a lick from anybody in my life. I wouldn’t hev stood it, except from dad, and his five senses were just as God made them; and if dad gave any o’ the lads a licking, they deserved it, and they didn’t mind taking it.”

“If they got one from a schoolmaster, I dare say they would deserve it.”

“No, Madam, begging your pardon, I know instances on the contrary. My sister-in-law’s cousin’s little lad was sent to a school by Colonel Broadbent, because he thought the child was clever beyond the usual run of lads, and he got such a cruel basting as niver was, just because he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, learn something they called parts of speech – hard, long names, no meaning in them.”

“That was too bad. Did he try to learn them?”

“He tried himsen sick, and Britton he tried to help him. Britton learned one word, called in-ter-jec-tions. He tried that word on both dogs and horses – ”

“Well, what followed?”

“Nothing, Madam. He wanted the horses to go on, and they stood stock still. The dogs just looked up at him, as if they thought he hed lost his senses. And Britton, he said then and there, ‘the Quality can hev all my share of grammar, and they are varry welcome to it.’ Our folk, young and old, learn greedily to read. Writing hes equal favor with them, arithmatic goes varry well with their natural senses, but grammar! What’s the use of grammar? They talk better when they know nothing about it.”

So it must be confessed, Miss Josepha did not meet with the eager gratitude she expected. She was indeed sometimes tempted to give up her plans, but to give up was to Josepha so difficult and so hateful that she would not give the thought a moment’s consideration. “I hev been taking the wrong way about the thing,” she said to Annie. “I will go and talk to them, mysen.”

“Then you will make them delighted to do all your will. Put on your bib and tucker, and ask Mr. Foster’s permission to use the meeting room of the Methodist Chapel. That will give your plans the sacred touch women approve when the subject concerns themselves.” This advice was followed, and two days afterward, Josepha dressed herself for a chapel interview with the mothers of Annis. The special invitation pleased them, and they went to the tryst with their usual up-head carriage, and free and easy manner, decidely accentuated.

Josepha was promptly at the rendezvous appointed, and precisely as the clock struck three, she stepped from the vestry door to the little platform used by the officials of the church in all their secular meetings. She smiled and bowed her head and then cried – “Mothers of Annis, good afternoon to every one of you!” And they rose in a body, and made her a courtesy, and then softly clapped their hands, and as soon as there was silence, Jonathan Hartley’s daughter welcomed her. There was nothing wanting in this welcome, it was brimful of honest pleasure. Josepha was Annis. She was the sister of their squire, she was a very handsome woman, and she had thought it worth while to dress herself handsomely to meet them. She was known to every woman in the village, but she had never become commonplace or indifferent. There was no other woman just like her in their vicinity, and she had always been a ready helper in all the times of their want and trouble.

As she stood up before them, she drew every eye to her. She wore or this occasion, her very handsomest, deepest, mourning garments. Her long nun-like crêpe veil would have fallen below her knees had it not been thrown backward, and within her bonnet there was a Maria Stuart border of the richest white crêpe. Her thick wavy hair was untouched by Time, and her stately figure, richly clothed in long garments of silk poplin, was improved, and not injured, by a slight embonpoint that gave her a look of stability and strength. Her face, both handsome and benign, had a rather austere expression, natural and approved, – though none in that audience understood that it was the result of a strong will, tenaciously living out its most difficult designs.

Without a moment’s delay she went straight to her point, and with vigorous Yorkshire idioms soon carried every woman in the place with her; and she knew so well the mental temperature of her audience, that she promptly declined their vote. “I shall take your word, women,” she said in a confident tone, “and I shall expect ivery one of you to keep it.”

Amid loud and happy exclamations, she left the chapel and when she reached the street, saw that her coachman was slowly walking the ponies in an opposite direction, in order to soothe their restlessness. She also was too restless to stand still and wait their leisurely pace and she walked in the same direction, knowing that they must very soon meet each other. Almost immediately someone passed her, then turned back and met face to face.

It was a handsome man of about the squire’s age, and he put out his hand, and said with a charming, kindly manner: —

“Why-a, Josepha! Josepha! At last we hev met again.”

For just a moment Josepha hesitated, then she gave the apparent stranger her hand, and they stood laughing and chatting together, until the ponies were at hand, and had to be taken away for another calming exercise.

“I hevn’t seen you, Josepha, for twenty-four years and five months and four days. I was counting the space that divided us yesterday, when somebody told me about this meeting of Annis women, and I thought, ‘I will just go to Annis, and hang round till I get a glimpse of her.’”

“Well, John Thomas,” she answered, “it is mainly thy awn fault. Thou hed no business to quarrel with Antony.”

“It was Antony’s fault.”

“No, it was not.”