The Paper Cap. A Story of Love and Labor

And during the long pleasant winter this satisfaction with Selby grew to a very sweet and even intense affection. The previous winter Harry Bradley had stood in his way, but the path of love now ran straight and smooth, and no one had any power to trouble it. Selby was so handsome, so deeply in love, so desirable in every way, that Katherine knew herself to be the most fortunate of women. She was now also in love, really in love. Her affection for her child lover had faded even out of her memory. Compared with her passion for Selby, it was indeed a child love, just a sentimental dream, nursed by contiguity, and the tolerance and talk of elder people. Nothing deceives the young like the idea of first love – a conquering idea if a true one, a pretty dangerous mirage, if it is not true.

While this affair was progressing delightfully in London things were not standing still in Annis. The weather had been singularly propitious, and the great, many-windowed building was beginning to show the length and breadth of its intentions. Meanwhile Squire Annis was the busiest and happiest man in all Yorkshire, and Annie was rejoicing in the restored peace and order of her household. It did not seem that there could now have been any cause of anxiety in the old Annis home. But there was a little. Dick longed to have a more decided understanding concerning his own marriage, but the squire urged him not to think of marriage until the mill was opened and at work and Dick was a loyal son, as well as a true lover. He knew also that in many important ways he had become a great help to his father, and that if he took the long journey he intended to take with his bride, his absence would be both a trial and a positive loss in more ways than one. The situation was trying to all concerned, but both Faith and her father made it pleasant and hopeful, so that generally speaking his soul walked in a straight way. Sometimes he asked his father with one inquiring look, “How long, father, how long now?” And the squire had hitherto always under’ stood the look, and answered promptly, “Not just yet, dear lad, not just yet!”

Josepha and Katherine had returned from London. So continually the days grew longer, and brighter, and warmer, and the roses came and sent perfume through the whole house, as the small group of women made beautiful garments, and talked and wondered, and speculated; and the squire and Dick grew more and more reticent about the mill and its progress, until one night, early in July, they came home together, and the very sound of their footsteps held a happy story. Josepha understood it. She threw down the piece of muslin in her hand and stood up listening. The next moment the squire and his son entered the room together. “What is it, Antony?” she cried eagerly. “The mill?”

“The mill is finished! The mill is perfect! We can start work to-morrow morning if we wish. It is thy doing!” Then he turned to his wife, and opened his arms, and whispered his joy to her, and Annie’s cheeks were wet when they both turned to Katherine.

And that day the women did not sew another stitch.

The next morning Annis village heard a startling new sound. It was the factory bell calling labor to its duty. And everyone listened to its fateful reverberations traveling over the surrounding hills and telling the villages in their solitary places, “Your day also is coming.” The squire sat up in his bed to listen, and his heart swelled to the impetuous summons and he whispered in no careless manner, “Thank God!”

CHAPTER XIII – MARRIAGE BELLS AND GOOD-BY TO ANNIS

“All will be well, though how or where
Or when it will we need not care.
We cannot see, and can’t declare:
‘Tis not in vain and not for nought,
The wind it blows, the ship it goes,
Though where, or whither, no one knows.”

IMMEDIATELY after this event preparations for Katherine’s marriage were revived with eager haste and diligence, and the ceremony was celebrated in Annis Parish Church. She went there on her father’s arm, and surrounded by a great company of the rich and noble relatives of the Annis and Selby families. It was a glorious summer day and the gardens from the Hall to the end of the village were full of flowers. It seemed as if all nature rejoiced with her, as if her good angel loved her so that she had conniv’d with everything to give her love and pleasure. There had been some anxiety about her dress, but it turned out to be a marvel of exquisite beauty. It was, of course, a frock of the richest white satin, but its tunic and train and veil were of marvelously fine Spanish lace. There were orange blooms in her hair and myrtle in her hands, and her sweetness, beauty and happiness made everyone instinctively bless her.

Dick’s marriage to Faith Foster was much longer delayed; not because his love had lost any of its sweetness and freshness, but because Faith had taught him to cheerfully put himself in his father’s place. So without any complaining, or any explanation, he remained at his father’s side. Then the Conference of the Methodist Church removed Mr. Foster from Annis to Bradford, and the imperative question was then whether Faith would go with her father or remain in Annis as Dick’s wife. Dick was never asked this question. The squire heard the news first and he went directly to his son: —

“Dick, my good son, thou must now get ready to marry Faith, or else thou might lose her. I met Mr. Foster ten minutes ago, and he told me that the Methodist Conference had removed him from Annis to Bradford.”

“Whatever have they done that for? The people here asked him to remain, and he wrote the Conference he wished to do so.”

“It is just their awful way of doing ‘according to rule,’ whether the rule fits or not. But that is neither here nor there. Put on thy hat and go and ask Faith how soon she can be ready to marry thee.”

“Gladly will I do that, father; but where are we to live? Faith would not like to go to the Hall.”

“Don’t ask her to do such a thing. Sir John Pomfret wants to go to southern France for two or three years to get rid of rheumatism, and his place is for rent. It is a pretty place, and not a mile from the mill. Now get married as quick as iver thou can, and take Faith for a month’s holiday to London and Paris and before you get home again I will hev the Pomfret place ready for you to occupy. It is handsomely furnished, and Faith will delight her-sen in keeping it in fine order.”

“What will mother say to that?”

“Just what I say. Not a look or word different. She knows thou hes stood faithful and helpful by hersen and by me. Thou hes earned all we can both do for thee.”

These were grand words to carry to his love, and Dick went gladly to her with them. A couple of hours later the squire called on Mr. Foster and had a long and pleasant chat with him. He said he had gone at once to see Sir John Pomfret and found him not only willing, but greatly pleased to rent his house to Mr. Richard Annis and his bride. “I hev made a good bargain,” he continued, “and if Dick and Faith like the place, I doan’t see why they should not then buy it. Surely if they winter and summer a house for three years, they ought to know whether it is worth its price or not.”

In this conversation it seemed quite easy for the two men to arrange a simple, quiet marriage to take place in a week or ten days, but when Faith and Mrs. Annis were taken into the consultation, the simple, quiet marriage became a rather difficult problem. Faith said that she would not leave her father until she had packed her father’s books and seen all their personal property comfortably arranged in the preacher’s house in Bradford. Then some allusion was made to her wardrobe, and the men remembered the wedding dress and other incidentals. Mistress Annis found it hard to believe that the squire really expected such a wedding as he and Mr. Foster actually planned.

“Why-a, Antony!” she said, “the dear girl must have a lot to do both for her father and hersen. A marriage within two or three months is quite impossible. Of course she must see Mr. Foster settled in his new home and also find a proper person to look after his comfort. And after that is done, she will have her wedding dress to order and doubtless many other garments. And where will the wedding ceremony take place?”

“In Bradford, I suppose. Usually the bridegroom goes to his bride’s home for her. I suppose Dick will want to do so.”

“He cannot do so in this case. The future squire of Annis must be married in Annis church.”

“Perhaps Mr. Foster might – ”

“Antony Annis! What you are going to say is impossible! Methodist preachers cannot marry anyone legally. I have known that for years.”

“I think that law has been abrogated. There was a law spoken of that was to repeal all the disqualifications of Dissenters.”

“We cannot have any uncertainties about our son’s marriage. Thou knows that well. And as for any hole-in-a-corner ceremony, it is impossible. We gave our daughter Katherine a proper, public wedding; we must do the same for Dick.”

It is easy under these circumstances to see how two loving, anxious women could impose on themselves extra responsibilities and thus lengthen out the interval of separation for nearly three months. For Faith, when the decision was finally left to her, refused positively to be married from the Hall. Thanking the squire and his wife for their kind and generous intentions, she said without a moment’s hesitation, that “she could not be married to anyone except from her father’s home.”

“It would be a most unkind slight to the best of fathers,” she said. “It would be an insult to the most wise and tender affection any daughter ever received. I am not the least ashamed of my simple home and simple living, and neither father nor myself look on marriage as an occasion for mirth and feasting and social visiting.”

“How then do you regard it?” asked Mistress Annis, “as a time of solemnity and fear?”

“We regard it as we do other religious rites. We think it a condition to be assumed with religious thought and gravity. Madam Temple is of our opinion. She said dressing and dancing and feasting over a bridal always reminded her of the ancient sacrificial festivals and its garlanded victim.”

The squire gave a hearty assent to Faith’s opinion. He said it was not only right but humane that most young fellows hated the show, and fuss, and wastry over the usual wedding festival, and would be grateful to escape it. “And I don’t mind saying,” he added, “that Annie and I did escape it; and I am sure our married life has been as near to a perfectly happy life as mortals can hope for in this world.”

“Dick also thinks as we do,” said Faith.

“That, of course,” replied Mistress Annis, just a little offended at the non-acceptance of her social plans.

However, Faith carried out her own wishes in a strict but sweetly considerate way. Towards the end of November, Mr. Foster had been comfortably settled in his new home at Bradford. She had arranged his study and put his books in the alphabetical order he liked, and every part of the small dwelling was in spotless order and comfort.

In the meantime Annie was preparing with much love and care the Pomfret house for Dick and Dick’s wife. It was a work she delighted herself in and she grudged neither money nor yet personal attention to make it a House Beautiful.

She did not, however, go to the wedding. It was November, dripping and dark and cold, and she knew she had done all she could, and that it would be the greatest kindness, at this time, to retire. But she kissed Dick and sent him away with love and good hopes and valuable gifts of lace and gems for his bride. The squire accompanied him to Bradford, and they went together to The Black Swan Inn. A great political meeting was to occur that night in the Town Hall, and the squire went there, while Dick spent a few hours with his bride and her father. As was likely to happen, the squire was immediately recognized by every wool-dealer present and he was hailed with hearty cheers, escorted to the platform, and made what he always considered the finest speech of his life. He was asked to talk of the Reform Bill and he said:

“Not I! That child was born to England after a hard labor and will hev to go through the natural growth of England, which we all know is a tremendously slow one. But it will go on! It will go on steadily, till it comes of full age. Varry few, if any of us, now present will be in this world at that time; but I am sure wherever we are, the news will find us out and will gladden our hearts even in the happiness of a better world than this, though I’ll take it on me to say that this world is a varry good world if we only do our duty in it and to it, and love mercy and show kindness.” Then he spoke grandly for labor and the laboring man and woman. He pointed out their fine, though uncultivated intellectual abilities, told of his own weavers, learning to read after they were forty years old, of their unlearning an old trade and learning a new one with so much ease and rapidity, and of their great natural skill in oratory, both as regarded religion and politics. “Working men and working women are the hands of the whole world,” he said. “With such men as Cartwright and Stevenson among them, I wouldn’t dare to say a word lessening the power of their mental abilities. Mebbe it was as great a thing to invent the power loom or conceive of a railroad as to run a newspaper or write a book.”

He was vehemently applauded. Some time afterwards, Faith said the Yorkshire roar of approval was many streets away, and that her father went to find out what had caused it. “He was told by the man at the door, ‘it’s nobbut one o’ them Yorkshire squires who hev turned into factory men. A great pity, sir!’ he added. ‘Old England used to pin her faith on her landed gentry, and now they hev all gone into the money market.’ My father then said that they might be just as useful there, and the man answered warmly: ‘And thou art the new Methodist preacher, I suppose! I’m ashamed of thee – I am that!’ When father tried to explain his meaning, the man said: ‘Nay-a! I’m not caring what tha means. A man should stand by what he says. Folks hevn’t time to find out his meanings. I’ve about done wi’ thee!’ Father told him he had not done with him and would see him again in a few days.” And then she smiled and added, “Father saw him later, and they are now the best of friends.” The wedding morning was gray and sunless, but its gloom only intensified the white loveliness of the bride. Her perfectly plain, straight skirt of rich, white satin and its high girlish waist looked etherially white in the November gloom. A wonderful cloak of Russian sable which was Aunt Josepha’s gift, covered her when she stepped into the carriage with her father, and then drove with the little wedding party to Bradford parish church. There was no delay of any kind. The service was read by a solemn and gracious clergyman, the records were signed in the vestry, and in less than an hour the party was back at Mr. Foster’s house. A simple breakfast for the eight guests present followed, and then Faith, having changed her wedding gown for one of light gray broadcloth of such fine texture that it looked like satin, came into the parlor on her father’s arm. He took her straight to Dick, and once more gave her to him. The tender little resignation was made with smiles and with those uncalled tears which bless and consecrate happiness that is too great for words.

After Dick’s marriage, affairs at Annis went on with the steady regularity of the life they had invited and welcomed. The old church bells still chimed away the hours, but few of the dwellers in Annis paid any attention to their call. The factory bell now measured out the days and the majority lived by its orders. To a few it was good to think of Christmas being so nearly at hand; they hoped that a flavor of the old life might come with Christmas. At Annis Hall they expected a visit from Madam Temple, and it might be that Dick and Faith would remember this great home festival, and come back to join in it. Yet the family were so scattered that such a hope hardly looked for realization. Selby and Katherine were in Naples, and Dick and Faith in Paris and Aunt Josepha in her London home where she hastily went one morning to escape the impertinent clang of the factory bell. At least that was her excuse for a sudden homesickness for her London house. Annie, however, confided to the squire her belief that the rather too serious attentions of John Thomas Bradley were the predisposing grievances, rather than the factory bell. So the days slipped by and the squire and Jonathan Hartley were in full charge of the mill.

It did exceedingly well under their care, but soon after Christmas the squire began to look very weary, and Annie wished heartily that Dick would return, and so allow his father to take a little change or rest. For Annie did not know that Dick’s father had been constantly adding to Dick’s honeymoon holiday. “Take another week, Dick! We can do a bit longer without thee,” had been his regular postscript, and the young people, a little thoughtlessly, had just taken another week.

However, towards the end of January, Dick and his wife returned and took possession of their own home in the Pomfret place. The squire had made its tenure secure for three years, and Annie had spared no effort to render it beautiful and full of comfort, and it was in its large sunny parlor she had the welcome home meal spread. It was Annie that met and kissed them on the threshold, but the squire stood beaming at her side, and the evening was not long enough to hear and to tell of all that happened during the weeks in which they had been separated.

Of course they had paid a little visit to Mr. and Mistress Selby and had found them preparing to return by a loitering route to London. “But,” said Dick, “they are too happy to hurry themselves. Life is yet a delicious dream; they do not wish to awaken just yet.”

“They cannot be ‘homed’ near a factory,” said Annie with a little laugh. “Josepha found it intolerable. It made her run home very quickly.”

“I thought she liked it. She said to me that it affected her like the marching call of a trumpet, and seemed to say to her, ‘Awake, Josepha! There is a charge for thy soul to-day!’”

Hours full of happy desultory conversation passed the joyful evening of reunion, but during them Dick noted the irrepressible evidences of mental weariness in his father’s usually alert mind, and as he was bidding him good night, he said as he stood hand-clasped with him: “Father, you must be off to London in two days, and not later. Parliament opens on the twenty-ninth, and you must see the opening of the First Reformed Parliament.”

“Why-a, Dick! To be sure! I would like to be present. I would like nothing better. The noise of the mill hes got lately on my nerves. I niver knew before I hed nerves. It bothered me above a bit, when that young doctor we hev for our hands told me I was ‘intensely nervous.’ I hed niver before thought about men and women heving nerves. I told him it was the noise of the machinery and he said it was my nerves. I was almost ashamed to tell thy mother such a tale.”

And Annie laughed and answered, “Of course it was the noise, Dick, and I told thy father not to mind anything that young fellow said. The idea of Squire Annis heving what they call ‘nerves.’ I hev heard weakly, sickly women talk of their nerves, but it would be a queer thing if thy father should find any nerves about himsen. Not he! It is just the noise,” and she gave Dick’s hand a pressure that he thoroughly understood.