they saw the curate approaching them they got out of his way; if they saw the squire coming they waited for him. He might call them idle lads, but he would walk to their looms with them and frankly admire the excellence of their work, and perhaps say: “I wonder at a fine lad like thee leaving a bit of work like that. If I could do it I would keep at it daylight through.”
And the weaver would look him bravely in the face and answer – “Not thou, squire! It wouldn’t be a bit like thee. I see thee on t’ grandstand, at ivery race I go to. I like a race mysen, it is a varry democratic meeting.”
Then the squire would give the child at the spinning wheel a shilling and go off with a laugh. He knew that in any verbal contest with Jimmy Riggs, he would not be the victor.
Also if the squire met any mother of the village he would touch his hat and listen to what she wished to say. And if one of her lads was in trouble for “catching a rabbit on the common” – though he suspected the animal was far more likely from his own woods – he always promised to help him and he always did so.
“Our women have such compelling eyes,” he would remark in excuse, “and when they would look at you through a mist of tears a man that can say ‘no’ to them isn’t much of a man.”
Naturally proud, the squire was nevertheless broadly affable. He could not resist the lifted paper cap of the humblest man and his lofty stature and dignified carriage won everyone’s notice. His face was handsome, and generally wore a kind thoughtful expression, constantly breaking into broad smiles. And all these advantages were seconded and emphasized by his scrupulous dress, always fit and proper for every occasion.
He was riding slowly through the village one morning when he met a neighbor with whom he had once been on intimate friendly terms. It was John Thomas Bradley, who had just built a large mill within three miles of Annis village and under the protecting power of the government had filled it with the latest power-looms and spinning jennies.
“Good morning, Annis!” he said cheerfully. “How dost tha do?”
“I do none the better for thy late doings. I can tell thee that!”
“Is tha meaning my new building?”
“Is tha ashamed to speak its proper name? It’s a factory, call it that. And I wouldn’t wonder, if tha hes been all through Annis, trying to get some o’ my men to help thee run it.”
“Nay, then. I wouldn’t hev a man that hes been in thy employ, unless it were maybe Jonathan Hartley. They are all petted and spoiled to death.”
“Ask Jonathan to come to thy machine shop. He wouldn’t listen to thee.”
“Well, then, I wouldn’t listen to his Chartist talk. I would want to cut the tongue out o’ his head. I would that! O Annis, we two hev been friends for forty years, and our fathers were hand and glove before us.”
“I know, Bradley, I know! But now thou art putting bricks and iron before old friendship and before all humanity; for our workers are men, first-rate men, too – and thou knows it.”
“Suppose they are, what by that?”
“Just this; thou can’t drive men by machines of iron tethered to steam! It is an awful mastership, that it is! It is the drive of the devil. The slaves we are going to set free in the West Indies are better off, far better off than factory slaves. They hed at any rate human masters, that like as not, hev a heart somewhere about them. Machines hev no heart, and no sympathy and no weakness of any make. They are regular, untiring, inexorable, and – ”
“They do more work and better work than men can do.”
“Mebbe they do, and so men to keep up wi’ them, hev to work longer, and harder, and wi’ constantly increasing peril o’ their lives. Yes, for the iron master, the man must work, work, work, till he falls dead at its iron feet. It is a cruel bad do! A bad do! Bradley, how can thou fashion to do such things? Oh, it isn’t fair and right, and thou knows it!”
“Well, Annis, thou may come to see things a good deal different and tha knows well I can’t quarrel wi’ thee. Does ta think I can iver forget March 21, 1823, when thou saved me and mine, from ruin?”
“Let that pass, Bradley. It went into God’s memory – into God’s memory only. Good morning to thee!” And the men parted with a feeling of kindness between them, though neither were able to put it into words.
Still the interview made the squire unhappy and he instantly thought of going home and telling his wife about it. “I can talk the fret away with Annie,” he thought, and he turned Annisward.
At this time Madam Annis was sitting in the morning sunshine, with her finest set of English laces in her hand. She was going carefully over them, lifting a stitch here and there, but frequently letting them fall to her lap while she rested her eyes upon the wealth of spring flowers in the garden which at this point came close up to the windows.
Madam Annis was fifty years old but still a beautiful woman, full of life, and of all life’s sweetest and bravest sympathies. She wore an Indian calico – for Manchester’s printed calicoes were then far from the perfection they have since arrived at – and its bizarre pattern, and wonderfully brilliant colors, suited well her fine proportions and regal manner. A small black silk apron with lace pockets and trimmings of lace, and black silk bows of ribbon – a silver chatelaine, and a little lace cap with scarlet ribbons on it, were the most noticeable items of her dress though it would hardly do to omit the scarlet morocco slippers, sandaled and trimmed with scarlet ribbon and a small silver buckle on the instep.
Suddenly she heard rapid footsteps descending the great stairway, and in the same moment she erected her position, and looked with kind but steady eyes at the door. It opened with a swift noiseless motion and a girl of eighteen years entered; a girl tall and slender, with masses of bright brown hair, a beautiful mouth and star-like eyes.
“Mother,” she said, “how am I to go to London this spring?”
“I am not yet in thy father’s intentions about the journey, Katherine. He promised to take thee when he went up to the House. If he forswears his promise, why then, child, I know not. Ask him when he is going.”
“I did so this morning and he said I must excuse him at present.”
“Then he will take thee, later.”
“That’s a bit different, mother; and it isn’t what he promised me. It is my wish to go now.”
“There is no way for thee to go now. Let London wait for its proper time.”
“Alura Percival, and Lady Capel, and Agatha Wickham, are already on their way there. Captain Chandos told me so an hour ago.”
“Indeed! Has he learned how to speak the truth?”
“Like other people, he speaks as much of it as is profitable to him. If father is not going just yet cannot you go, dear mother? You know Jane will expect us to keep our promise.”
“Jane knows enough of the times to understand why people are now often prevented from keeping their promises. Is Jane going much out?”
“A great deal and she says Lord Leyland wishes her to keep open house for the rest of the season. Of course, I ought to be with her.”
“I see no ‘ought’ in the matter.”
“She
