The Paper Cap. A Story of Love and Labor

But Dick was no coward and he was determined to speak of his engagement to Faith as soon as he had rid his mind of the business which had sent him to Annis. Nor had he any love-lorn looks or attitudes; he appeared to be an exceedingly happy man, when he opened the parlor door of his father’s apartments in the Clarendon. Breakfast was on the table and the squire and his wife were calmly enjoying it. They cried out joyfully when they saw him. The squire hastily stood up with outstretched hands, while Dick’s mother cried out, “O Dick! Dick! how good it is to see thee!”

Dick was soon seated between them and as he ate he told the news he had brought from the home village. It was all interesting and important to them – from the change in its politics – which Dick said had become nearly Radical – to the death of Jonathan Hartley’s mother, who had been for many years a great favorite of Mistress Annis.

Dick was a little astonished to find that his father pooh-pooh’d Boocock’s design of building a mill in Annis. “He can’t build ef he can’t get land and water,” he answered with a scornful laugh; “and Antony Annis will not let him hev either. He is just another of those once decent weavers, who hev been turned into arrant fools by making brass too easy and too quick. I hev heard them talk. They are allays going to build another mill somewhere, they are going to mak’ a bid for all Yorkshire and mebbe tak’ Lancashire into their plans. Boocock does not trouble me. And if Squire Annis puts him in Cold Shoulder Lane, there will not be a man in t’ neighborhood poor and mean enough to even touch his cap to him. This is all I hev to say about Boocock at the present time and I don’t want him mentioned again. Mind that!”

“I think, then, father, that you will have to get rid of Jonathan Hartley.”

“Rid of Jonathan! Whativer is tha talking about? I could spare him as little as my right hand.”

“Jonathan told me to tell you that you had better build a mill yourself, than let Boocock, or some other stranger, in among Annis folk. He said the world was stepping onward and that we had better step with the world, than be dragged behind it. He said that was his feeling.”

“Well, he hes a right to his feeling, but he need not send it to me. Let him go. I see how it is. I am getting a bit older than I was and men that are younger five or ten years are deserting me. They fear to be seen with an old fogy, like Squire Annis. God help me, but – I’m not downed yet. If they can do without me, I can jolly well do without them. Why-a! Thy mother is worth iverybody else to me and she’ll love and cherish me if I add fifty years more to my present fifty-five.”

“I want no other love, Antony, than yours. It is good enough for life – and thereafter.”

“Dear, dear Annie! And don’t fear! When I am sure it is time to move, I’ll move. I’ll outstrip them all yet. By George, I’ll keep them panting after me! How is it, Dick? Wilt thou stand with thy father? If so, put thy hand in thy father’s and we will beat them all at their awn game” – and Dick put his hand in his father’s hand and answered, “I am your loving and obedient son. Your will is my pleasure, sir.”

“Good, dear lad! Then we two will do as we want to do, we’ll do it in our awn time, and in our awn way, and we hev sense enough, between us, to tak’ our awn advice, whativer it be. For first of all, we’ll do whativer is best for the village, and then for oursens, without anybody’s advice but our awn. Just as soon as The Bill is off my mind we will hev a talk on this subject. Annis Hall and Annis land and water is our property – mine and thine – and we will do whativer is right, both to the land and oursens.”

And Dick’s loving face, and the little sympathizing nod of his head, was all the squire needed. Then he stood up, lifting himself to his full height, and added, “Boocock and his mill will have to wait on my say-so, and I haven’t room in my mind at present to consider him; so we will say no more on that subject, until he comes and asks me for the land and water he wants. What is tha going to do with thysen now?”

“That depends upon your wish, father. Are you going to – The House?”

“The House! Hes tha forgotten that the English Government must hev its usual Easter recreation whativer comes or goes? I told thee – I told thee in my first letter to Annis, that parliament hed given themsens three weeks’ holiday. They feel a good bit tired. The Bill hed them all worn out.”

“I remember! I had forgotten The Bill!”

“Whativer hes tha been thinking of to forget that?”

“Where then are you going to-day, father?”

“I doan’t just know yet, Dick, but – ”

“Well, I know where I am going,” said Mistress Annis. “I have an engagement with Jane and Katherine at eleven and I shall have to hurry if I am to keep it.”

“Somewhere to go, or something to do. Which is it, Annie?”

“It is both, Antony. We are going to Exeter Hall, to a very aristocratic meeting, to make plans for the uplifting of the working man. Lord Brougham is to be chairman. He says very few can read and hardly any write their names. Shocking! Lord Brougham says we ought to be ashamed of such a condition and do something immediately to alter it.”

“Brougham does not know what he is talking about. He thinks a man’s salvation is in a spelling book and an inkhorn. There is going to be a deal of trouble made by fools, who want to uplift the world, before the world is ready to be uplifted. They can’t uplift starving men. It is bread, not books, they want; and I hev allays seen that when a man gets bare enough bread to keep body and soul together, the soul, or the mind, gets the worst of it.”

“I cannot help that,” said Mistress Annis. “Lord Brougham will prove to us, that body and mind must be equally cared for or the man is not developed.”

“Well, then, run away to thy developing work. It is a new kind of job for thee; and I doan’t think it will suit thee – not a bit of it. I would go with thee but developing working men is a step or two out of my way. And I’ll tell thee something, the working men – and women, too – will develop theirsens if we only give them the time and the means, and the brass to do it. But go thy ways and if thou art any wiser after Brougham’s talk I’ll be glad to know what he said.”

“I shall stay and dine with Jane and thou hed better join us. We may go to the opera afterwards.”

“Nay, then, I’ll not join thee. I wouldn’t go to another opera for anything – not even for the great pleasure of thy company. If I hev to listen to folk singing, I want them to sing in the English language. It is good enough, and far too good, for any of the rubbishy words I iver heard in any opera. What time shall I come to Jane’s for thee?”

“About eleven o’clock, or soon after.”

“That’s a nice time for a respectable squire’s wife to be driving about London streets. I wish I hed thee safe at Annis Hall.”

With a laugh Annie closed the door and hurried away and Dick turned to his father.

“I want to talk with you, sir,” he said, “on a subject which I want your help and sympathy in, before I name it to anyone else. Suppose we sit still here. The room is quiet and comfortable and we are not likely to be disturbed.”

“Why then, Dick! Hes tha got a new sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir, and she is the dearest and loneliest woman that ever lived. I want you to stand by me in any opposition likely to rise.”

“What is her name? Who is she?” asked the squire not very cordially.

“Her name is Faith Foster. You know her, father?”

“Yes, I know her. She is a good beautiful girl.”

“I felt sure you would say that, sir. You make me very happy.”

“A man cannot lie about any woman. Faith Foster is good and beautiful.”

“And she has promised to be my wife. Father, I am so happy! So happy! And your satisfaction with Faith doubles my pleasure. I have been in love with her for nearly a year but I was afraid to lose all by asking all; and I never found courage or opportunity to speak before this to her.”

“That is all buff and bounce. Thou can drop the word ‘courage,’ and opportunity will do for a reason. I niver knew Dick Annis to be afraid of a girl but if thou art really afraid of this girl – let her go. It is the life of a dog to live with a woman that you fear.”

“Father, you have seen Faith often. Do you fear her in the way your words seem to imply?”

“Me! Does tha think I fear any woman? What’s up with thee to ask such a question as that?”

“I thought from your kind manner with Faith and your admiring words both to her and about her that you would have congratulated me on my success in winning her love.”

“I doan’t know as thou deserves much congratulation on that score. I think it is mebbe, to me mysen, and to thy mother thou art mainly indebted for what success there is in winning Miss Foster’s favor. We gave thee thy handsome face and fine form, thy bright smile and that coaxing way thou hes – a way that would win any lass thou choose to favor – it is just the awful way young men hev, of choosing the wrong time to marry even if they happen to choose the right woman.”

“Was that your way, father?”

“Ay, was it! I chose the right time, but the girl was wrong enough in some ways.”

“My mother wrong! Oh, no, father!”

“My father thought she was not rich enough for me. He was a good bit disappointed by my choice but I knew what I was doing.”

“Father, I also know what I am doing. I suppose you object to Faith’s want of fortune.”

“Mebbe I do, and I wouldn’t be to blame if I did, but as it happens I think a man is better without his wife’s money. A wife’s money is a quarrelsome bit of either land or gold.”

“I consider Faith’s goodness a fortune far beyond any amount of either gold or land.”

“Doan’t thee say anything against either land or gold. When thou hes lived as long as I hev thou wilt know better than do that.”