Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by the Internet Archive THE PAPER CAP A Story Of Love And Labor By Amelia E. Barr Author Of âAn Orkney Maid,â âChristine,â Etc. âA king may wear a golden crown, A Paper Cap is lighter; And when the crown comes tumbling down The Paper Cap sits tighter Frontispiece By Stockton Mulford D. Appleton And Company New York Copyright, 1918. [Illustration: 0008] [Illustration: 0009] TO SAMUEL GOMPERS THE WORKERâS FRIEND THIS STORY OF LABORâS FORTY YEARSâ STRUGGLE FOR THE RIGHT OF SUFFRAGE IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED This is the Gospel of Labor, Ring it, ye bells of the Kirk, The Lord of Love came down from above To live with the people who work. --Henry Van Dyke The headdress of nationalities, and of public and private societies, has been in all ages a remarkable point of interest. Religion, Poetry, Politics, superstitions, and so forth, have all found expression by the way they dressed or covered their heads. Priests, soldiers, sailors, lawyers, traders, professions of all kinds are known by some peculiar covering of the head which they assume. None of these symbols are without interest, and most of them typify the character or intents of their wearers. The Paper Cap has added to its evident story a certain amount of mystery, favorable in so far as it permits us to exercise our ingenuity in devising a probable reason for its selection as the symbol of Labor. A very industrious search has not yet positively revealed it. No public or private collection of old prints of the seventeenth century that I have seen or heard from has any representation of an English working man wearing a Paper Cap. There is nothing of the kind in any _Honeâs_ four large volumes of curious matters; nor does _Notes and Queries_ mention it. Not until the agitation and the political disturbance attending the Reform Bill, is it seen or mentioned. Then it may be found in the rude woodcuts and chap books of the time while in every town and village it soon became as familiar as the men who wore it. Now, if the working man was looking for a symbol, there are many reasons why the Paper Cap would appeal to him. It is square, straight, upright; it has no brim. It permits the wearer to have full sight for whatever he is doing. It adds five inches or more to his height. It is cool, light and clean, and it is made of a small square of brown paper, and costs nothing. Every man makes his own paper cap, generally while he smokes his first morning pipe. It was also capable of assuming all the expressions of more pretentious head coverings--worn straight over the brows, it imparted a steady, business-like appearance. Tilted to one side, it showed the wearer to be interested in his own appearance. If it was pushed backward he was worried or uncertain about his work. On the heads of large masterful men it had a very âhands offâ look. Employers readily understood its language. I do not remember ever seeing anyone but working men wear a Paper Cap and they generally wore it with an âairâ no pretender could assume. In the days of the Reform Bill a large company of Paper-Capped men were a company to be respected. The man whose clever fingers first folded into such admirable shape a piece of brown paper seems to be unknown. I was once told he was a Guiseley man, again he was located at Burnley, or Idle. No one pretended to know his name. It was perhaps some tired weaver or carpenter whose head was throbbing in the sultry room and who feared to expose it to the full draught from some open window near his loom or bench. No other affiliation ever assumed or copied this cap in any way and for a century it has stood bravely out as the symbol of Labor; and has been respected and recognized as the badge of a courageous and intelligent class. Now, if we do not positively know the facts about a certain matter, we can consider the circumstances surrounding it and deduct from them a likelihood of the truth; and I cannot avoid a strong belief that the Paper Cap was invented early in the agitation for the Reform Bill of A. D. 1832 and very likely directly after the immense public meeting at New Hall, where thousands of English working men took bareheaded and with a Puritan solemnity, a solemn oath to stand by the Reform Bill until it was passed. It was not fully passed until 1884, and during that interval the Paper Cap was everywhere in evidence. Might it not be the symbol of that oath and a quiet recognition of brotherhood and comradeship in the wearing of it? It is certain that after this date, 1884, its use gradually declined, yet it is very far from being abandoned. In Nova Scotia and Canada it is still common, and we all know how slowly any personal or household habit dies in England. I am very sure that if I went to-morrow to any weaving town in the West Riding, I would see plenty of Paper Caps round the great centers of Industry. Last week only, I received half-a-dozen from a large building firm in Bradford. As a symbol of a sacred obligation between men, it is fitting and unique. It has never been imitated or copied, and if the habit of making a clean one every day is observed, then whatever it promises will be kept clean and clear in the memory. Long live the Paper Cap! My theory that the Paper Cap is associated with the Reform Bill, may, or may not be correct, but the union seems to be a very natural one--the Bill deserved the friendship and long adherence of the Cap, and the Cap deserved the freedom and strength of the Bill. THE PAPER CAP CHAPTER I--THE SQUIRE OF ANNIS âThe turning point in life arrives for all of us. A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent.â NEARLY ninety years ago, there was among the hills and wolds of the West Riding of Yorkshire a lovely village called Annis. It had grown slowly around the lords of the manor of Annis and consisted at the beginning of the nineteenth century of men and women whose time was employed in spinning and weaving. The looms were among their household treasures. They had a special apartment in every home, and were worthily and cheerfully worked by their owners. There were no mills in Annis then, and no masters, and no Trade Unions. They made their own work-hours and the Leeds Cloth Hall settled the worth of their work. Squire Antony Annis owned the greater part of the village. The pretty white stone cottages, each in its own finely cared-for garden, were, generally speaking, parts of his estate and he took a fatherly, masterly care of them. It was the squire who bought their work, and who had to settle with the Leeds Cloth Hall. It was the squire who found the wool for the women to spin and who supplied the men with the necessary yarns. He lived close to them. His own ancient Hall stood on a high hill just outside the village!--a many-gabled building that had existed for nearly three hundred years. On this same hilly plateau was the church of Annis, still more ancient, and also the Rectory, a handsome residence that had once been a monastery. Both were in fine preservation and both were influential in the village life, though the ancient church looked down with grave disapproval on the big plain Wesleyan Chapel that had stolen from it the lawful allegiance it had claimed for nearly five centuries. Yet its melodious chimes still called at all canonical hours to worship, and its grand old clock struck in clarion tones the hours of their labor and their rest. They were handsome men in this locality, strong and powerful, with a passion for horses and racing that not even Methodism could control. Their women were worthy of them, tall and fine-looking, with splendid coloring, abundant hair, and not unfrequently eyes like their Lancashire neighbors; gray and large, with long dark lashes, and that âlookâ in them which the English language has not yet been able to find a word for. They were busy wives, they spun the wool for their husbandsâ looms and they reared large families of good sons and daughters. The majority of the people were Methodists--after their kind. The shepherds on the mountains around took as naturally to Methodism as a babe to its motherâs milk. They lived with their flocks of Merino sheep half their lives in the night and its aÃ«rial mysteries. The doctrine of âAssuranceâ was their own spiritual confidence, and John Wesleyâs Communion with the other world they certified by their own experience. As to the weavers, they approved of a religion that was between God and themselves only. They had a kind of feudal respect for Squire Annis. He made their pleasant independent lives possible and they would take a word or two of advice or reproof from him; and also the squire knew what it was to take a glass of strong ale when he had been to a race and seen the horse he had backed, win it--but the curate! The curate knew nothing about horses. If 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: âI 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.â And the weaver would look him bravely in the face and answer--âNot thou, squire! It wouldnât be a bit like thee. I see thee on tâ grandstand, at ivery race I go to. I like a race mysen, it is a varry democratic meeting.â 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 âcatching a rabbit on the commonâ--though he suspected the animal was far more likely from his own woods--he always promised to help him and he always did so. âOur women have such compelling eyes,â he would remark in excuse, âand when they would look at you through a mist of tears a man that can say ânoâ to them isnât much of a man.â 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 everyoneâs 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. âGood morning, Annis!â he said cheerfully. âHow dost tha do?â âI do none the better for thy late doings. I can tell thee that!â âIs tha meaning my new building?â âIs tha ashamed to speak its proper name? Itâs a factory, call it that. And I wouldnât wonder, if tha hes been all through Annis, trying to get some oâ my men to help thee run it.â âNay, then. I wouldnât hev a man that hes been in thy employ, unless it were maybe Jonathan Hartley. They are all petted and spoiled to death.â âAsk Jonathan to come to thy machine shop. He wouldnât listen to thee.â âWell, then, I wouldnât listen to his Chartist talk. I would want to cut the tongue out oâ his head. I would that! O Annis, we two hev been friends for forty years, and our fathers were hand and glove before us.â âI 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.â âSuppose they are, what by that?â âJust this; thou canât 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----â âThey do more work and better work than men can do.â âMebbe they do, and so men to keep up wiâ them, hev to work longer, and harder, and wiâ constantly increasing peril oâ 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 isnât fair and right, and thou knows it!â âWell, Annis, thou may come to see things a good deal different and tha knows well I canât quarrel wiâ thee. Does ta think I can iver forget March 21, 1823, when thou saved me and mine, from ruin?â âLet that pass, Bradley. It went into Godâs memory--into Godâs memory only. Good morning to thee!â 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. âI can talk the fret away with Annie,â 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 lifeâs sweetest and bravest sympathies. She wore an Indian calico--for Manchesterâs 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. âMother,â she said, âhow am I to go to London this spring?â âI am not yet in thy fatherâs 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.â âI did so this morning and he said I must excuse him at present.â âThen he will take thee, later.â âThatâs a bit different, mother; and it isnât what he promised me. It is my wish to go now.â âThere is no way for thee to go now. Let London wait for its proper time.â âAlura Percival, and Lady Capel, and Agatha Wickham, are already on their way there. Captain Chandos told me so an hour ago.â âIndeed! Has he learned how to speak the truth?â âLike 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.â âJane knows enough of the times to understand why people are now often prevented from keeping their promises. Is Jane going much out?â âA 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.â âI see no âoughtâ in the matter.â âShe is my sister and can introduce me to noblemen and distinguished people. She desires me to come at once. I have just had a letter from her. And what about my frocks, mother? If father is not ready to go you could go with me, dear mother! That would be just as well, perhaps better!â And she said these flattering words from the very summit of her splendid eyes. âThere are people here in Annis who are wanting bread and----â âIt is their own fault, mother, and you know it. The Annis weavers are a lot of stubborn old fogies.â âThey have only taken this world as they found it. Isnât that right?â âNo. It is all wrong. Every generation ought to make it better. You said that to father last night, I heard you.â âI doanât always talk to thy father as I do to thee. It wouldnât be a bit suitable. Whatever were thou talking to Captain Chandos for--if he is a captain--I doubt it.â âHis uncle bought him a commission in The Scotch Greys. His mother is Scotch. I suppose he has as much right there, as the rest of the Hanover fools.â âAnd if thou are going to indulge thyself in describing people in the army and the court thou wilt get thy father into trouble.â âI saw father talking to Squire Bradley for a long time this morning.â âIn what mood? I hope they were not--quarreling.â âThey were disputing rather earnestly, father looked troubled, and so did Bradley.â âThey were talking of the perishing poor and the dreadful state of. England no doubt. Itâs enough to trouble anybody, Iâm sure of that.â âSo it is, but then father has a bad way of making things look worse than they are. And he isnât friendly with Bradley now. That seems wrong, mother, after being friends all their live-long lives.â âIt is wrong. It is a bit of silent treason to each other. It is that! And how did thou happen to see them talking this morning?â âThey met on the village green. I think Bradley spoke first.â âIâll warrant it. Bradley is varry good-natured, and he thought a deal oâ thy father. How did thou happen to be on the green so early in the day?â âI was sitting with Faith Foster, and her parlor window faces the Green.â âFaith Foster! And pray what took thee to her house?â âI was helping her to sew for a lot of Annis babies that are nearly naked, and perishing with cold.â âThat was a varry queer thing for thee to do.â âI thought so myself even while I was doing it--but Faith works as she likes with everyone. You canât say âNoâ to anything she wants.â âSuch nonsense! Iâm fairly astonished at thee.â âHave you ever seen Faith, mother?â âNot I! It is none oâ my place to visit a Methodist preacherâs daughter.â âEverybody visits her--rich and poor. If you once meet her she can bring you back to her as often as she wishes.â âSuch women are very dangerous people to know. Iâd give her a wide border. Keep thyself to thyself.â âI am going to London. Maybe, mother, I ought to tell you that our Dick is in love with Faith Foster. I am sure he is. I do not see how he can help it.â âDick and his father will hev that matter to settle, and there is enough on hand at present--what with mills, and steam, and working men, not to speak of rebellion, and hunger, and sore poverty. Dickâs love affairs can wait awhile. He hes been in love with one and twenty perfect beauties already. Some of them were suitable fine girls, of good family, and Lucy Todd and Amy Schofield hed a bit of money of their awn. Father and I would hev been satisfied with either oâ them, but Dick shied off from both and went silly about that French governess that was teaching the Saville girls.â âI do not think Dick will shy off from Faith Foster. I am sure that he has never yet dared to say a word of love to her.â âDared! What nonsense! Dick wasnât born in Yorkshire to take a dare from any man or woman living.â âWell, mother, I have made you wise about Faith Foster. A word is all you want.â âI the girl pretty?â âPretty She is adorable.â âYou mean that she is a fine looking girl?â âI mean that she is a little angel. You think of violets if she comes where you are. Her presence is above a charm and every door flies open to her. She is very small. Mary Saville, speaking after her French governess, calls her _petite_. She is, however, beautifully fashioned and has heavenly blue, deep eyes.â âTell me nothing more about her. I should never get along with such a daughter-in-law. How could thou imagine it?â âNow, mother, I have told you all my news, what have you to say to me about London?â âI will speak to thy father some time to-day. I shall hev to choose both a proper way and a proper time; thou knows that. Get thy frocks ready and I will see what can be done.â âIf father will not take me, I shall write to Aunt Josepha.â âThou will do nothing of that kind. Thy Aunt Josepha is a very peculiar woman. We heard from the Wilsons that she hed fairly joined the radicals and was heart and soul with the Cobden set. In her rough, broad way she said to Mrs. Wilson, that steam and iron and red brick had come to take possession of England and that men and women who could not see that were blind fools and that a pinch of hunger would do them good. She even scolded father in her letter two weeks ago, and father her _eldest brother_. Think of that! I was shocked, and father felt it far more than I can tell thee. _Why!_--he wouldnât hev a mouthful of lunch, and that day we were heving hare soup; and him so fond of hare soup.â âI remember. Did father answer that letter?â âI should think he did. He told Josepha Temple a little of her duty; he reminded her, in clear strong words, that he stood in the place of her father, and the head of the Annis family, and that he had a right to her respect and sympathy.â âWhat did Aunt Josepha say to that?â âShe wrote a laughable, foolish letter back and said: âAs she was two years older than Antony Annis she could not frame her mouth to âfatherâ him, but that she was, and always would be, his loving sister.â You see Josepha Temple was the eldest child of the late squire, your father came two years after her.â âDid you know that Dick had been staying with her for a week?â âYes. Dick wrote us while there. Father is troubled about it. He says Dick will come home with a factory on his brain.â âYou must stand by Dick, mother. We are getting so pinched for money you know, and Lydia Wilson told me that everyone was saying: âFather was paying the menâs shortage out of his estate.â They were sorry for father, and I donât like people being sorry for him.â âAnd pray what has Lydia Wilson to do with thy fatherâs money and business? Thou ought to have asked her that question. Whether thou understands thy father or not, whatever he does ought to be right in thy eyes. Men donât like explaining their affairs to anyone; especially to women, and I doanât believe they iver tell the bottom facts, even to themselves.â âMother, if things come to the worst, would it do for me to ask Jane for money?â âI wonder at thee. Jane niver gives or lends anything to anybody, but to Jane.â âShe says she is going to entertain many great people this winter and she wishes me to meet them so I think she might help me to make a good appearance.â âI wouldnât wonder if she asked thy father to pay her for introducing thee into the titled set. She writes about them and talks about them and I dare warrant dreams about them.â âOh, mother!â âDoes she ever forget that she has managed to become Lady Leyland? She thinks that two syllables before her name makes her better than her own family. _Chut!_ Katherine! Leyland is only the third of the line. It was an official favor, too--what merit there is in it has not yet been discovered. We have lived in this old house three hundred years, and three hundred before that in old Britain.â âOld Britain?â âTo be sure--in Glamorganshire, I believe. Ask thy father. He knows his genealogy by heart. I see him coming. Go and meet him.â âYes, mother, but I think I will write a short note to Aunt Josepha. I will not name business, nor money, nor even my desire to make a visit to London.â âWrite such a letter if thou wishes but take the result--whatever it is--in a good humor. Remember that thy auntâs temper, and her words also, are entirely without frill.â âThat, of course. It is the Annis temper.â âIt is the English temper.â âWell, mother, things seem to be ordered in a very unhappy fashion but I suppose we might as well take to them at once. Indeed, we shall be compelled to do it, if so be, it pleases them above.â âJust so,â answered Madam. âBut, Katherine, The Hands of Compulsion generally turn out to be The Hands of Compassion.â Katherine smiled happily, the door opened, and the next moment she gave the smile in a kiss to her father, as he clasped her fondly in his arms, crying, âEh, my joy! I am glad to see thee!â Then the two women made that charming fuss over his âtired look,â which is so consoling to men fresh from the slings and arrows of an outrageous world that will not do as they want it to do. In his family life the squire still retained many old-fashioned customs, and his dinner at one oâclock was a settled ceremony. This day, in the very middle of it, Katherine said, âI saw you, father, this morning when you were talking to Mr. Bradley on the Green--about ten oâclock.â âAnd I saw thee trailing through the low meadows with Bradleyâs son.â âYes, he came home last night.â âAnd went out tâ varry next morning, to meet thee in tâ low meadow.â âIf you say, he happened to meet me in the low meadow, it would be better.â âWhativer hed the lad to do in my meadow so early in the morning?â âDo you call half-past ten early, dad?â âI call it too early for thee to be traipsing through tâ wet grass with Henry Bradley.â âLet us keep to facts, dear father. The grass was quite dry--too dry. Joel was wishing for rain; he said, âMaster so pampered his cattle, that they perfectly thought scorn of half-cured grass.ââ âThou art trying to slip by my question and Iâm not going to let thee do it. What was John Henry Bradley doing wiâ thee in the low meadow this morning?â âHe brought me a letter from my brother Dick. Dick and Harry have been in London together, and they stayed four days with Aunt Josepha. They liked her very much. They took her to the opera and the play and she snubbed OâConnell and some other famous men and told them to let her alone, that she had two innocent lads in her care--and so on. You know.â âWas he making love to thee?â âYou should not ask me a question of that kind, dad.â âThou need not tell me, what I should, or should not do. I hed learned all that, before thou wer born. And Iâll tell thee plainly that I will not hev any lovemaking between thee and Harry Bradley.â âVery well, father. If you are going to the stable will you tell someone to have my saddle horse at the door in half-an-hour?â âTo be sure, I will. If tha wants a ride and will go to Yoden Bridge, Iâll go with thee.â âI would like that but I promised to help Faith Foster, who is making clothing for the naked, shivering babies in Annis village. When Oddyâs little girl died a week ago, there wasnât a night-gown in the house to bury it in. Its mother tore a breadth out of her one petticoat and folded her baby in it.â âOh, Katherine Annis! Surely that tale is not true!â cried Madam. âAlas, it is too true! The babyâs one little gown was not fit even for the grave.â The Squire sat down and covered his face with his hands and when Katherine left the room he looked up pitifully at his wife. And she stooped and kissed him and as she did so comforted him with broken words of affection and assurances that it was not his fault--âthou hast pinched us all a bit to keep the cottage looms busy,â she said, âthou couldnât do more than that, could thou, Antony?â âI thought I was doing right. Is there any other way?â âThou could build--like the rest.â He did not answer the remark but stood up hurriedly, saying, âI must go and order Katherineâs mount and she will expect me to put her up. After that I may go to Yoden Bridge.â Madam sighed and turned hopelessly away. âWhen will he listen to reason?â she whispered, but there was no answer. CHAPTER II--THE PROSPECT OF LONDON LIFE âMen who their duties know, But know their rights, and knowing dare maintain.â âThe blind mole casts Coppâd hills toward heaven, to tell the earth is throngâd By manâs oppression and the poor worm doth die forât.â IT is during the hungry years of the thirties and forties of the nineteenth century that the great body of Englishmen and Englishwomen reveal themselves most nobly and clearly in their national character. They were years of hunger and strife but it is good to see with what ceaseless, persistent bravery they fought for their ideals year after year, generation after generation, never losing hope or courage but steadily working and waiting for the passage of that great Reform Bill, which would open the door for their recognition at least as members of the body politic. Yet this Reform Bill terrified the aristocracy and great land holders and they were sure that its passage would sweep away both the monarchy and the House of Lords. What else could be looked for if the franchise was given to the laborer and the mechanic? The Bill had been well received by the House of Commons, but rejected by the House of Lords on the twentieth day of the previous October; and the condition of the country was truly alarming. Madam Annis reminded her daughter of this fact but Katherine was not to be frightened. âYour father,â she said, âhas just told us about the riot and outrages at Derby and the burning of Nottingham Castle by a frantic mob and the press says--âthe people in London are restless and full of passion.â Still more to be wondered at is the letter which Thomas Attwood, the great banker, has just sent to the Duke of Wellington. In this letter he dared to threaten the government, to tell them he would march on London with a hundred thousand men, in order to inquire why the Reform Bill was hindered and delayed. This morningâs paper comments on this threat and says, The Duke of Wellington is not afraid of this visit, but would rather it was not paid.â All the way up to London there is rioting. It is not a fit journey for thee to take. Mind what I say.â âOh, mother, only think! I might have been in the Ladiesâ Gallery, in the House. I might have heard Mr. Macaulayâs answer to the Lordâs denial, with his grand question to the Commons, âOught we to abandon the Reform Bill because the Lords have rejected it? No! We must respect the lawful privileges of their House, but we ought also to assert our own.â No wonder the Commons cheered, and cheered, and cheered him. Oh, how gladly I would have helped them!â âYou are going too far and too fast, Katherine.â âFather ought to have been in the House on the third of February and it is now the seventh of March: Is that right?â âA great many landed men will not go to this session. The Reform Bill, re-written by Lord Russell, is to come up again and father does not want to vote either for, or against it.â âWhy?â âHe hes his reasons. I doanât know that his reasons are any business of thine.â âHarry Bradley was explaining things to me this morning, and I am for the Reform Bill. I am sure the people are right.â âI wouldnât say as much on thy opinion. Wisdom wasnât born wiâ thee and I doanât expect she will die wiâ thee. I think if thou went to London this spring thou would make more enemies than thou could manage. Father is following my advice in staying home, and London isnât a fit place for a young girl like thee and the way there is full of rioters. Thy father is a landed man and he doesnât believe in giving every weaver and hedger and ditcher a voice in the government of England.â âHarry Bradley says, some of their leaders and speakers are very clever eloquent men.â âI wouldnât talk nonsense after Harry Bradley. Whoâs Harry Bradley?â âHe is my friend, mother. We have been friends nearly twenty years.â âNot you! It is not yet eighteen years since thou showed thy face in this world.â âI was speaking generally, mother.â âEh, but thereâs something wrong in that way! A lot oâ bother can come out of it. I wouldnât mind anything Harry Bradley says, thy father wonât hev any nonsense about him. I can tell thee that!â âFather is so set in his own way. No one suits him lately. We met Captain Chandos last Monday, and he would hardly notice him.â âWell, then, there are plenty of folk no one can suit, and varry often they canât suit themselves.â âOh, I donât care about Chandos, mother; but I feel angry when Harry is slighted. You see, mother, I might come to marry Harry Bradley.â âI do hope thou wonât be so far left to thysen, as that would mean.â âThen you would be wise to let me go to London. A girl must have a lover, or she feels out in the cold, and Harry is the best specimen of a man round about Annis.â âAll right. Let me tell thee that I hev noticed that the girls who never throw a line into the sea of marriage, do a deal better than them that are allays fishing.â âPerhaps so, but then there is the pleasure of throwing the line.â âAnd perhaps the pleasure of being caught by some varry undesireable fisherman for tha neednât think that women are the only fishers. The men go regâlar about that business and they will soon find out that thou hes a bit oâ money oâ thy awn and are well worth catching. See if they doanât.â âMother, I want to go to London and see the passing of the great Reform Bill. I am in love with those brave men Earl Grey and Lord Russell and Mr. Macaulay, who dared to speak up for the poor, before all England.â âI rather think they are all married men, Katherine, and marrying for love is an unwise and generally an unprofitable bit of business.â âBusiness and Love have nothing to do with each other.â âEh, but they hev!â âI shall marry for love.â âWell, then, marry for love, but love wisely.â âMoney is only one thing, mother.â âTo be sure, but it is a rayther important thing.â âYou might persuade father that he had better take me to London out of Harryâs way. Dear mammy, do this for your little girl, wonât you? You can always get round father in some way or other.â âI will ask thy father again but I shall take no roundabout way. Straightforrard is the best. And I am above a bit astonished at thee, a Yorkshire lass, thinking of any crooked road to what thou wants! If tha canât get thy way openly and fairly make up thy mind any other way isnât worth while, for it will be full of ups and downs, and lonely bits, and stony bits, and all sorts and kinds of botherations. Keep these words in thy mind.â âI will.â âThen Iâll ask thy father again, to take thee with him to London--if he goes himsen--if he does not go at all, then----â âI must find out some other way, and really the most straightforward way would be to marry Harry Bradley, and go to London with him as a wedding trip.â âThou must stop talking nonsense or else it will stop my talking one word for thy wish.â âI was just joking, mother.â âAlways keep everything straight between thysen and thy mother. The first deception between me and thee opens the gates of Danger.â âI will never forget that, mother. And if I should go away I ask you to take my place with Faith Foster, who is making clothing for the poor in the village.â âWell, Katherine, what with one thing and what with another, I doanât know what tha wants. Does tha know thysen?â âWell, I think it would look better if the Hall should trouble itself a little about the suffering in the village. Faith Foster is the only person doing anything. I was helping her, but----â âI should think thou would have told thysen that it was varry forrard in a young person putting herself in my place without even a word to me on the matter. She ought to hev come and told me what was needed and offered her help to me. Thy father is Lord of the Manor of Annis, and it is his business to see the naked clothed. I wonder at thee letting any one take my place and then asking me to help and do service for them. That is a bit beyond civility, I think.â âIt was very thoughtless. I am sorry I did it. I was so touched by Faithâs description of the hunger and nakedness in Abram Oddyâs family, that I thought of nothing but how to relieve it.â âWell, well! It is all right, someway or other. I see father coming towards the house. I wonder what he is wanting.â âAnd 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.â âWhy _our?_â 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, âI hev hurried a bit, my Joy, to tell thee that both thysen and Katherine can go wiâ 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 wouldnât 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.â âHowever has Clitheroe made a thousand pounds to spare since his smash-up? Thou said, it wer a varry complete ruin.â âIt 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.â âIt caps me! How hes he made the money?â âWhy, 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.â âI doanât really want to go, Antony.â âBut 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.â âWhen art thou going to start?â âNot 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 oâ change and pleasure to think about and talk about.â âWhere does thou intend to stay while in London?â âI am thinking of the Clarendon Hotel for thee and mysen. I suppose Katherine can be comfortable and welcome at her sisterâs.â âCertainly she can. Jane isnât 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.â âThou art a good wife to me, Annie.â âWell, then, I promised thee to be a good wife, and Iâm 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, isnât she, Antony?â âShe does not overbear me. I am her eldest brother. I make her remember that. Howiver, I shall hev to listen to such a lot oâ 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.â 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: âIâll leave thee a few minutes, Antony. I am going to tell Katherine that thou art going to take her to London.â âVarry well. Iâll give thee five minutes, then thou must come back here, for I hev something important to tell thee.â âKatherine 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.â âThen thou hed better advise her to wait until supper time. When the dayâs work is all done I can stand a bit of cuddling and petting and I doanât mind waring a few sovereigns for things necessary. Of course, I know the little wench will be happy and full oâ 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.â âAntony 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--âspecially woman.â âThat may be so, Annie, perhaps it _is_ so, but thou art different. Thou art like mysen and itâs only prudent and kind to talk changes over together. For thou hes to share the good or the bad oâ 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 manâs 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 wiâ 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 manâs face and ways iver since he came to the village, and when he offered his hand and asked me to come in I couldnât resist the kindness and goodness of it.â âThou went into the preacherâs house?â âI surely did, and I am glad of it. I think a deal oâ good may come from the visit.â âDid thou see his daughter?â âI did and I tell thee she is summat to see.â âThen she is really beautiful?â âYes, 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, âwith the chapel people,â 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.â âWhat did thou say to this?â âI 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.â âThat was right.â âI knew it would be right wiâ thee.â âKatherine says that our Dick is in love wiâ the preacherâs daughter.â âI wouldnât wonder, and if a man hednât already got the only perfect woman in the world for his awn you could not blame him. No, you could not blame him!â âThou must hev stayed awhile there for it is swinging close to five oâclock.â âAy, but I wasnât at the preacherâs long. I went from his house to Jonathan Hartleyâs, and I smoked a pipe with him, and we hed a long talk on the situation of our weavers. Many oâ them are speaking of giving-in, and going to Bradleyâs factory, and I felt badly, and I said to Jonathan, âI suppose thou is thinking of tâ same thing.â And he looked at me, Annie, and I was hot wiâ shame, and I was going to tell him so, but he looked at me again, and said: ââNay, nay, squire, thou didnât mean them words, and weâll say nothing about themâ; so we nodded to each other, and I wouldnât be sure whether or not we werâ not both nearer tears than weâd 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. âEzra Dixonâs eldest and youngest child died yesterday and they are gathering a bit of money among the chapel folk to bury them.â Then
{'title': 'The Paper Cap: A Story of Love and Labor by Amelia E. Barr', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}