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.
“Go to London, father, and see what sort of a job these new men make of a parliamentary opening.”
“I suppose Jonathan and thysen could manage for a week without me?”
“We would do our best. Nothing could go far wrong in a week. This is the twenty-fifth of January, father. Parliament opens on the twenty-ninth. London was getting crowded with the new fellows as Faith and I came through it. They were crowding the hotels, and showing themselves off as the ‘Reformed Parliament.’ I would have enjoyed hearing thee set them down a peg or two.”
Then the old fire blazed in the squire’s eyes, and he said, “I’ll be off to-morrow afternoon, Dick. I’m glad thou told me. If there’s anything I hev a contempt for it is a conceited upstart. I’ll turn any of that crowd down to the bottom of their class;” and the squire who left the Pomfret house that night was a very different man from the squire who entered it that afternoon.
Two days afterwards the squire was off to London. He went first to the Clarendon and sent word to his sister of his arrival. She answered his note in person within an hour. “My dear, dear lad!” she cried. “My carriage is at the door and we will go straight home.”
“No, we won’t, Josepha. I want a bit of freedom. I want to go and come as I like. I want to stay in the House of Commons all night long, if the new members are passing compliments on each other’s records and abilities. I hev come up to London to feel what it’s like to do as I please, and above all, not to be watched and cared for.”
“I know, Antony! I know! Some men are too happily married. In my opinion, it is the next thing to being varry – ”
“I mean nothing wrong, Josepha. I only want to be let alone a bit until I find mysen.”
“Find thysen?”
“To be sure. Here’s our medical man at the mill telling me ‘I hev what he calls nerves.’ I hevn’t! Not I! I’m a bit tired of the days being all alike. I’d enjoy a bit of a scolding from Annie now for lying in bed half the morning, and as sure as I hev a varry important engagement at the mill, I hear the hounds, and the view, holloa! and it is as much as I can do to hold mysen in my chair. It is that thou doesn’t understand, I suppose.”
“I do understand. I hev the same feeling often. I want to do things I would do if I was only a man. Do exactly as thou feels to do, Antony, while the mill is out of sight and hearing.”
“Ay, I will.”
“How is our mill doing?”
“If tha calls making money doing well, then the Temple and Annis mill can’t be beat, so far.”
“I am glad to hear it. Wheniver the notion takes thee, come and see me. I hev a bit of private business that I want to speak to thee about.”
“To be sure I’ll come and see thee – often.”
“Then I’ll leave thee to thysen”
“I’ll be obliged to thee, Josepha. Thou allays hed more sense than the average woman, who never seems to understand that average men like now and then to be left to their awn will and way.”
“I’ll go back with thee to Annis and we can do all our talking there.”
“That’s sensible. We will take the early coach two weeks from to-day. I’ll call for thee at eleven o’clock, and we’ll stay over at the old inn at Market Harborough.”
“That is right. I’ll go my ways now. Take care of thysen and behave thysen as well as tha can,” and then she clasped his hand and went good-naturedly away. But as she rode home, she said to herself – “Poor lad! I’ll forgive and help him, whativer he does. I hope Annie will be as loving. I wonder why God made women so varry good. He knew what kind of men they would mebbe hev to live with. Poor Antony! I hope he’ll hev a real good time – I do that!” and she smiled and shrugged her shoulders and kept the rest of her speculations to herself.
The two weeks the squire had specified went its daily way, and Josepha received no letter from her brother, but at the time appointed he knocked at her door promptly and decidedly. Josepha had trusted him. She met him in warm traveling clothes, and they went away with a smile and a perfect trust in each other. Josepha knew better than to ask a man questions. She let him talk of what he had seen and heard, she made no inquiries as to what he had done, and when they were at Market Harborough he told her he had slept every hour away except those he spent in The House. “I felt as if I niver, niver, could sleep enough, Josepha. It was fair wonderful, and as it happened there were no night sessions I missed nothing I wanted to see or hear. But tha knows I’ll hev to tell Annie and mebbe others about The House, so I’ll keep that to mysen till we get all together. It wouldn’t bear two talks over. Would it now?”
“It would be better stuff than usual if it did, Antony. Thou wilt be much missed when it comes to debating.”
“I think I shall. I hev my word ready when it is the right time to say it, that is, generally speaking.”
Josepha’s visit was unexpected but Annie took it with apparent enthusiasm, and the two women together made such a fuss over the improvement in the squire’s appearance that Josepha could not help remembering the plaintive remarks of her brother about being too much cared for. However, nothing could really dampen the honest joy in the squire’s return, and when the evening meal had been placed upon the table and the fire stirred to a cheering blaze, the room was full of a delightful sense of happiness. A little incident put the finishing touch to Annie’s charming preparation. A servant stirred the fire with no apparent effect. Annie then tried to get blaze with no better result. Then the squire with one of his heartiest laughs took the apparently ineffectual poker.
“See here, women!” he cried. “You do iverything about a house better than a man except stirring a fire. Why? Because a woman allays stirs a fire from the top. That’s against all reason.” Then with a very decided hand he attacked the lower strata of coals and they broke up with something like a big laugh, crackling and sputtering flame and sparks, and filling the room with a joyful illumination. And in this happy atmosphere they sat down to eat and to talk together.
Josepha had found a few minutes to wash her face and put her hair straight, the squire had been pottering about his wife and the luggage and the fire and was still in his fine broadcloth traveling suit, which with its big silver buttons, its smart breeches and top boots, its line of scarlet waistcoat and plentiful show of white cambric round the throat, made him an exceedingly handsome figure. And if the husbands who may chance to read of this figure will believe it, this good man, so carefully dressed, had thought as he put on every garment, of the darling wife he wished still to please above all others.
The first thing the squire noticed was the absence of Dick and Faith.
“Where are they?” he asked in a disappointed tone.
“Well, Antony,” said Josepha, “Annie was just telling me that Dick hed gone to Bradford to buy a lot of woolen yarns; if so be he found they were worth the asking price, and as Faith’s father is now in Bradford, it was only natural she should wish to go with him.”
“Varry natural, but was it wise? I niver could abide a woman traipsing after me when I hed any business on hand.”
“There’s where you made a mistake, Antony. If Annie hed been a business woman, you would hev built yoursen a mill twenty years ago.”
“Ay, I would, if Annie hed asked me. Not without. When is Dick to be home?”
“Some time to-morrow,” answered Annie. “He is anxious to see thee. He isn’t on any loitering business.”
“Well, Josepha, there is no time for loitering. All England is spinning like a whipped top at full speed. In Manchester and Preston the wheels of the looms go merrily round. Oh, there is so much I want to do!”
They had nearly finished a very happy meal when there was a sound of men’s voices coming nearer and nearer and the silver and china stopped their tinkling and the happy trio were still a moment as they listened. “It will be Jonathan and a few of the men to get the news from me,” said the squire.
“Well, Antony, I thought of that and there is a roaring fire in the ballroom and the chairs are set out, and thou can talk to them from the orchestra.” And the look of love that followed this information made Annie’s heart feel far too big for everyday comfort.
There were about fifty men to seat. Jonathan was their leader and spokesman, and he went to the orchestra with the squire and stood by the squire’s chair, and when ordinary courtesies had been exchanged, Jonathan said, “Squire, we want thee to tell us about the Reform Parliament. The Yorkshire Post says thou were present, and we felt that we might ask thee to tell us about it.”
“For sure I will. I was there as soon as the House was opened, and John O’Connell went in with me. He was one of the ‘Dan O’Connell household brigade,’ which consists of old Dan, his three sons, and two sons-in-law. They were inclined to quarrel with everyone, and impudently took their seats on the front benches as if to awe the Ministerial Whigs who were exactly opposite them. William Cobbett was the most conspicuous man among them. He was poorly dressed in a suit of pepper and salt cloth, made partly like a Quaker’s and partly like a farmer’s suit, and he hed a white hat on.3 His head was thrown backward so as to give the fullest view of his shrewd face and his keen, cold eyes. Cobbett had no respect for anyone, and in his first speech a bitter word niver failed him if he was speaking of the landed gentry whom he called ‘unfeeling tyrants’ and the lords of the loom he called ‘rich ruffians.’ Even the men pleading for schools for the poor man’s children were ‘education-cantors’ to him, and he told them plainly that nothing would be good for the working man that did not increase his victuals, his drink and his clothing.
“Is that so, men?” asked the squire. He was answered by a “No!” whose style of affirmation was too emphatic to be represented by written words.
“But the Reform Bill, squire? What was said about the Reform Bill and the many good things it promised us?”
“I niver heard it named, men. And I may as well tell you now that you need expect nothing in a hurry. All that really has been given you is an opportunity to help yoursens. Listen to me. The Reform Bill has taken from sixty boroughs both their members, and forty-seven boroughs hev been reduced to one member. These changes will add at least half a million voters to the list, and this half-million will all come from the sturdy and generally just, great middle class of England. It will mebbe take another generation to include the working class, and a bit longer to hev the laboring class educated sufficiently to vote. That is England’s slow, sure way. It doan’t say it is the best way, but it is our way, and none of us can hinder or hasten it.4
“In the meantime you have received from your own class of famous inventors a loom that can make every man a master. Power-loom weaving is the most healthy, the best paid, and the pleasantest of all occupations. With the exception of the noise of the machinery, it has nothing disagreeable about it. You that already own your houses take care of them. Every inch of your ground will soon be worth gold. I wouldn’t wonder to see you, yoursens, build your awn mills upon it. Oh, there is nothing difficult in that to a man who trusts in God and believes in himsen.
“And men, when you hev grown to be rich men, doan’t forget your God and your Country. Stick to your awn dear country. Make your money in it. Be Englishmen until God gives you a better country, Which won’t be in this world. But whether you go abroad, or whether you stay at home, niver forget the mother that bore you. She’ll niver forget you. And if a man hes God and his mother to plead for him, he is well off, both for this world and the next.”
“That is true, squire.”
“God has put us all in the varry place he thought best for the day’s work He wanted from us. It is more than a bit for’ardson in us telling Him we know better than He does, and go marching off to Australia or New Zealand or Canada. It takes a queer sort of a chap to manage life in a strange country full of a contrary sort of human beings. Yorkshire men are all Yorkshire. They hevn’t room in their shape and make-up for new-fangled ways and ideas. You hev a deal to be proud of in England that wouldn’t be worth a half-penny anywhere else. It’s a varry difficult thing to be an Englishman and a Yorkshireman, which is the best kind of an Englishman, as far as I know, and not brag a bit about it. There’s no harm in a bit of honest bragging about being himsen a Roman citizen and I do hope a straight for-ard Englishman may do what St. Paul did – brag a bit about his citizenship. And as I hev just said, I say once more, don’t leave England unless you hev a clear call to do so; but if you do, then make up your minds to be a bit more civil to the strange people than you usually are to strangers. It is a common saying in France and Italy that Englishmen will eat no beef but English beef, nor be civil to any God but their awn God. I doan’t say try to please iverybody, just do your duty, and do it pleasantly. That’s about all we can any of us manage, eh, Jonathan?”
“We are told, sir, to do to others as we would like them to do to us.”
“For sure! But a great many Yorkshire people translate that precept into this – ‘Tak’ care of Number One.’ Let strangers’ religion and politics alone. Most – I might as well say all– of you men here, take your politics as seriously as you take your religion, and that is saying a great deal. I couldn’t put it stronger, could I, Jonathan?”
“No, sir! I doan’t think you could. It is a varry true comparison. It is surely.”
“Now, lads, in the future, it is to be work and pray, and do the varry best you can with your new looms. It may so happen that in the course of years some nation that hes lost the grip of all its good and prudent senses, will try to invade England. It isn’t likely, but it might be. Then I say to each man of you, without an hour’s delay, do as I’ve often heard you sing —