The Paper Cap. A Story of Love and Labor

“Well, well! It is all right, someway or other. I see father coming towards the house. I wonder what he is wanting.”

“And he is walking so rapidly and looks so happy, something must have pleased him. I will go away, mother. This may be a good hour for our request.”

“Why our?”

Katherine had disappeared. She left the room by one door as the squire entered by the other. Madam rose to meet him but before she could speak the squire had kissed her and was saying in glad eager tones, “I hev hurried a bit, my Joy, to tell thee that both thysen and Katherine can go wi’ me to London. I had a lump of good fortune this afternoon. Mark Clitheroe sent me the thousand pounds he owed, when he broke up five years ago. He told me he wouldn’t die till he had paid it; and I believed him. The money came to-day and it came with a letter that does us both credit.”

“However has Clitheroe made a thousand pounds to spare since his smash-up? Thou said, it wer a varry complete ruin.”

“It was all of that, yet he tells me, he will be able to pay the last farthing he owes to anyone, during this year some time.”

“It caps me! How hes he made the money?”

“Why, Annie, his father built a factory for him and filled it with the finest power-looms and he says he hes been doing a grand business. Old Clitheroe hed allays told him he was wasting time and good brass in hand weaving but Mark would hev his awn way, and somehow his awn way took him to ruin in three years. I was his main creditor. Well, well! I am both astonished and pleased, I am that! Now get thysen and Katherine ready for London.”

“I doan’t really want to go, Antony.”

“But I cannot do without thee. Thou wilt hev to go, and there is Katherine, too! Ten to one, she will need a bit of looking after.”

“When art thou going to start?”

“Not for a month. I must see to the sowing of the land – the land feeds us. I thought, though, it would be right to give thee the bit o’ change and pleasure to think about and talk about.”

“Where does thou intend to stay while in London?”

“I am thinking of the Clarendon Hotel for thee and mysen. I suppose Katherine can be comfortable and welcome at her sister’s.”

“Certainly she can. Jane isn’t anything but kind at heart. It is just her you-shallness that makes her one-sided to live with. But Katherine can hold her own side, without help, she can that! And if thou art bound for London, then London is the place where my heart will be and we will go together.”

“Thou art a good wife to me, Annie.”

“Well, then, I promised thee to be a good wife, and I’m Yorkshire enough to keep a promise – good or bad. I am glad thou art going to the Clarendon. It is a pleasant house but thy sister Josepha is a bit overbearing, isn’t she, Antony?”

“She does not overbear me. I am her eldest brother. I make her remember that. Howiver, I shall hev to listen to such a lot o’ strong language in the House that I must hev only thee about me when I can get away from committees, and divisions, taking of votes, and the like.”

By this time the squire had filled his pipe, and seated himself in his favorite corner on that side of the hearth, that had no draughts whichever way the wind blew. Then Madam said: “I’ll leave thee a few minutes, Antony. I am going to tell Katherine that thou art going to take her to London.”

“Varry well. I’ll give thee five minutes, then thou must come back here, for I hev something important to tell thee.”

“Katherine will want to come back here with me. She will be impatient to thank thee for thy goodness and to coax some sovereigns in advance for a new dress and the few traveling things women need when they are on the road.”

“Then thou hed better advise her to wait until supper time. When the day’s work is all done I can stand a bit of cuddling and petting and I doan’t mind waring a few sovereigns for things necessary. Of course, I know the little wench will be happy and full o’ what she is going to see, and to do, and to hear. Yet, Annie, I hev some important thoughts in my mind now and I want thy help in coming to their settlement.”

“Antony Annis! I am astonished at thee, I am that! When did thou ever need or take advice about thy awn business? Thou hes sense for all that can be put up against thy opinion, without asking advice from man or woman – ‘specially woman.”

“That may be so, Annie, perhaps it is so, but thou art different. Thou art like mysen and it’s only prudent and kind to talk changes over together. For thou hes to share the good or the bad o’ them, so it is only right thou should hev time to prepare for whatever they promise. Sit thee down beside me. Now, then, this is what happened just as soon as I hed gotten my money – and I can assure thee, that a thousand pounds in a man’s pocket is a big set up – I felt all my six feet four inches and a bit more, too – well, as I was going past the Green to hev a talk wi’ Jonathan Hartley, I saw Mr. Foster come to his door and stand there. As he was bare-headed, I knew he was waiting to speak to me. I hev liked the man’s face and ways iver since he came to the village, and when he offered his hand and asked me to come in I couldn’t resist the kindness and goodness of it.”

“Thou went into the preacher’s house?”

“I surely did, and I am glad of it. I think a deal o’ good may come from the visit.”

“Did thou see his daughter?”

“I did and I tell thee she is summat to see.”

“Then she is really beautiful?”

“Yes, and more than that. She was sitting sewing in a plain, small parlor but she seemed to be sitting in a circle of wonderful peace. All round her the air looked clearer than in the rest of the room and something sweet and still and heavenly happy came into my soul. Then she told me all about the misery in the cottages and said it had now got beyond individual help and she was sure if thou knew it, and the curate knew it, some proper general relief could be carried out. She had began, she said, ‘with the chapel people,’ but even they were now beyond her care; and she hoped thou would organize some society and guide all with thy long and intimate knowledge of the people.”

“What did thou say to this?”

“I said I knew thou would do iverything that it was possible to do. And I promised that thou would send her word when to come and talk the ways and means over with thee and a few others.”

“That was right.”

“I knew it would be right wi’ thee.”

“Katherine says that our Dick is in love wi’ the preacher’s daughter.”

“I wouldn’t wonder, and if a man hedn’t already got the only perfect woman in the world for his awn you could not blame him. No, you could not blame him!”

“Thou must hev stayed awhile there for it is swinging close to five o’clock.”

“Ay, but I wasn’t at the preacher’s long. I went from his house to Jonathan Hartley’s, and I smoked a pipe with him, and we hed a long talk on the situation of our weavers. Many o’ them are speaking of giving-in, and going to Bradley’s factory, and I felt badly, and I said to Jonathan, ‘I suppose thou is thinking of t’ same thing.’ And he looked at me, Annie, and I was hot wi’ shame, and I was going to tell him so, but he looked at me again, and said:

“‘Nay, nay, squire, thou didn’t mean them words, and we’ll say nothing about them’; so we nodded to each other, and I wouldn’t be sure whether or not we wer’ not both nearer tears than we’d show. Anyway, he went on as if nothing had happened, telling me about the failing spirit of the workers and saying a deal to excuse them. ‘Ezra Dixon’s eldest and youngest child died yesterday and they are gathering a bit of money among the chapel folk to bury them.’ Then I said: ‘Wait a minute, Jonathan,’ and I took out of my purse a five pound note and made him go with it to the mother and so put her heart at ease on that score. You know our poor think a parish funeral a pitiful disgrace.”

“Well, Antony, if that was what kept thee, thou wert well kept. Faith Foster is right. I ought to be told of such sorrow.”

“To be sure we both ought to know, but tha sees, Annie, my dearie, we hev been so much better off than the rest of weaving villages that the workers hev not suffered as long and as much as others. But what’s the use of making excuses? I am going to a big meeting of weavers on Saturday night. It is to be held in t’ Methodist Chapel.”

“Antony! Whatever art thou saying? What will the curate say? What will all thy old friends say?”

“Annie, I hev got to a place where I don’t care a button what they say. I hev some privileges, I hope, and taking my awn way is one o’ them. The curate hes been asked to lend his sanction to the meeting, and the men are betting as to whether he’ll do so or not. If I was a betting man I would say ‘No’!”

“Why?”

“His bishop. The bishops to a man were against the Reform Bill. Only one is said to have signed for it. That is not sure.”

“Then do you blame him?”

“Nay, I’m sorry for any man, that hesn’t the gumption to please his awn conscience, and take his awn way. However, his career is in the bishop’s hand, and he’s varry much in love with Lucy Landborde.”

“Lucy Landborde! That handsome girl! How can he fashion himself to make up to Lucy?”

“She thinks he is dying of love for her, so she pities him. Women are a soft lot!”

“It is mebbe a good thing for men that women are a soft lot. Go on with thy story. It’s fair wonderful.”