thou would make little of it. Thou would know that it is the richest land that hes the most weeds in its crop. The plow and the harrow will clear it of weeds and the experience of life will teach Katherine to be less generous with both her feelings and her opinions. Let her overdo, it is a fault that will cure itself.”
“And in the meantime it makes her too positive and insisting. She thinks she is right and she wants others to be right. She is even a bit forceable – ”
“And I can tell thee that women as well as men need some force of character, if they mean to do anything with their lives. Why-a! Force is in daily life all that powder is to shot. If our weavers’ wives hed more force in their characters, they wouldn’t watch their children dying of hunger upon their knees and their hearths, they would make their stubborn men go to any kind of a loom. They wouldn’t be bothering themselves about any Bill in Parliament, they would be crying out for bread for their children. We must see about the women and children to-morrow or we shall not be ready for Faith Foster’s visit.”
“To be sure, but we need not think of it to-night. I’m heart weary, Antony. Nobody can give sympathy long unless they turn kind words into kind actions.”
“Then just call Katherine and order a bit of supper in. And I’d like a tankard of home-brewed, and a slice or two of cold mutton. My word, but the mutton bred in our rich meadows is worth eating! Such a fine color, so tender and juicy and full of rich red gravy.”
“I think thou would be better without the tankard. Our ale is four years old, and tha knows what it is at that age. It will give thee a rattling headache. The cask on now is very strong.”
“To be sure it is. A man could look a lion in the face after a couple of glasses of it.”
“I advise thee to take a glass of water, with thy mutton to-night.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll hev a glass of sherry wine, and thou can be my butler. And tell Katherine not to talk about London to-night. I hevn’t got my intentions ready. I’d be making promises it would not be right to keep. Tha knows – !”
“Yes, I know.”
Katherine had not yet been promoted to a seat at the late supper table, and only came to it when specially asked. So Madam found her ungowned, and with loosened hair, in a dressing-sacque of blue flannel. She was writing a letter to a school friend, but she understood her mother’s visit and asked with a smile —
“Am I to come to supper, mother? Oh, I am so glad.”
“Then, dearie, do not speak of London, nor the poor children, nor the selfish weavers.”
“Not selfish, mother. They believe they are fighting for their rights. You know that.”
“I doan’t know it. I doan’t believe it. Their wives and children ought to be more to them than their awn way which is what they really want. Doan’t say a word about them.”
“I will not. I am going to tell father about the Arkroyds, who owned Scar Top House so long.”
“Father will like to hear anything good about Colonel Arkroyd. He is the last of a fine Yorkshire family. Who told thee anything about him?”
“Before I came to my room I went to give Polly some sugar I had in my pocket for her, and I met Britton, who had just come from the stable. He turned and went with me and he was full of the story and so I had to listen to it.”
“Well, then, we will listen to it when thou comes down. Father is hungry, so don’t keep him waiting, or he will be put out of his way.”
“I will be down in five minutes, and father is never cross with me.”
Indeed, when Madam went back to the parlor, a servant was bringing in the cold mutton and Madam had the bottle of sherry in her hand. A few minutes later Katherine had joined her parents, and they were sitting cozily round a small table, set in the very warmth and light of the hearthstone. Then Madam, fearing some unlucky word or allusion, said as quickly as possible —
“Whatever was it thou heard about Colonel Ark-royd, Katherine?”
“Ay! Ay! Colonel Arkroyd! Who has anything to say about him?” asked the squire. “One of the finest men alive to-day.”
“I heard a strange thing about his old house, an hour ago.”
“But he sold Scar Top House, and went to live in Kendal. A man from Bradford bought it, eh?”
“Yes, a man with a factory and six hundred looms, they say. Father, have you noticed how crowded our rookery is with the birds’ nests this spring?”
“I doan’t know that I hev noticed the number of the nests, but nobody can help hearing their noisy chattering all over Annis.”
“Do you remember the rookery at Scar Top?”
“Yes. I often hed a friendly threep with Ark-royd about it. He would insist, that his rookery hed the largest congregation. I let him think so – he’s twenty years older than I am – and I did hear that the Bradford man had bought the place because of the rookery.”
“So he did. And now, father, every bird has left it. There was not one nest built there this spring. Not one!”
“I never heard the like. Whoever told thee such a story?”
“The whole village knows it. One morning very early every rook in Scar Top went away. They went altogether, just before daybreak. They went to Saville Court and settled in a long row of elm trees in the home meadow. They are building there now and the Bradford man – ”
“Give him his name. It is John Denby. He was born in Annis – in my manor – and he worked for the colonel, near twenty years.”
“Very well. John Denby and Colonel Arkroyd have quarreled about the birds, and there is likely to be a law suit over them.”
“Upon my word! That will be a varry interesting quarrel. What could make birds act in such a queer way? I niver knew them to do such a thing before.”
“Well, father, rooks are very aristocratic birds. Denby could not get a caw out of the whole flock. They would not notice Denby, and they used to talk to Arkroyd, whenever he came out of the house. Denby used to work for Colonel Arkroyd, and the rooks knew it. They did not consider him a gentleman, and they would not accept his hospitality.”
“That is going a bit too far, Katherine.”
“Oh, no! Old Britton told me so, and the Yorkshire bird does not live who has not told Britton all about itself. He said further, that rooks are very vain and particularly so about their feathers. He declared they would go far out of their way in order to face the wind and so prevent ruffling their feathers.”
“Rooks are at least a very human bird,” said Madam; “our rooks make quite a distinction between thee and myself. I can easily notice it. The male birds are in a flutter when thou walks through the rookery, they moderate their satisfaction when I pay them a call and it is the female birds who do the honors then.”
“That reminds me, mother, that Britton told me rooks intermarried generation after generation, and that if a rook brought home a strange bride, he was forced to build in a tree the community selected, at some distance from the rookery. If he did not do this, his nest was relentlessly torn down.”
“Well,
