“Ay, but I wasn’t at the preacher’s long. I went from his house to Jonathan Hartley’s, and I smoked a pipe with him, and we hed a long talk on the situation of our weavers. Many o’ them are speaking of giving-in, and going to Bradley’s factory, and I felt badly, and I said to Jonathan, ‘I suppose thou is thinking of t’ same thing.’ And he looked at me, Annie, and I was hot wi’ shame, and I was going to tell him so, but he looked at me again, and said:

“‘Nay, nay, squire, thou didn’t mean them words, and we’ll say nothing about them’; so we nodded to each other, and I wouldn’t be sure whether or not we wer’ not both nearer tears than we’d 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. ‘Ezra Dixon’s eldest and youngest child died yesterday and they are gathering a bit of money among the chapel folk to bury them.’ Then I said: ‘Wait a minute, Jonathan,’ and I took out of my purse a five pound note and made him go with it to the mother and so put her heart at ease on that score. You know our poor think a parish funeral a pitiful disgrace.”

“Well, Antony, if that was what kept thee, thou wert well kept. Faith Foster is right. I ought to be told of such sorrow.”

“To be sure we both ought to know, but tha sees, Annie, my dearie, we hev been so much better off than the rest of weaving villages that the workers hev not suffered as long and as much as others. But what’s the use of making excuses? I am going to a big meeting of weavers on Saturday night. It is to be held in t’ Methodist Chapel.”

“Antony! Whatever art thou saying? What will the curate say? What will all thy old friends say?”

“Annie, I hev got to a place where I don’t care a button what they say. I hev some privileges, I hope, and taking my awn way is one o’ them. The curate hes been asked to lend his sanction to the meeting, and the men are betting as to whether he’ll do so or not. If I was a betting man I would say ‘No’!”

“Why?”

“His bishop. The bishops to a man were against the Reform Bill. Only one is said to have signed for it. That is not sure.”

“Then do you blame him?”

“Nay, I’m sorry for any man, that hesn’t the gumption to please his awn conscience, and take his awn way. However, his career is in the bishop’s hand, and he’s varry much in love with Lucy Landborde.”

“Lucy Landborde! That handsome girl! How can he fashion himself to make up to Lucy?”

“She thinks he is dying of love for her, so she pities him. Women are a soft lot!”

“It is mebbe a good thing for men that women are a soft lot. Go on with thy story. It’s fair wonderful.”

“Mr. Foster will preside, and they’ll ask the curate to record proceedings. St. George Norris and Squire Charington and the Vicar of Harrowgate will be on the platform, I hear. The vicar is going to marry Geraldine Norris next week to a captain in the Guards.”

“I declare, Antony, thou finds out iverything going on.”

“To be sure. That is part o’ my business as Lord of the Manor. Well tha sees now, that it is going to be a big meeting, especially when they add to it a Member of Parliament, a Magistrate, and a Yorkshire Squire.”

“Who art thou talking about now?”

“Mysen! Antony Annis! Member of Parliament, Squire of Annis and Deeping Wold, and Magistrate of the same district.”

“Upon my word, I had forgotten I was such a big lady. And I am to go to London with thee. I am as set up about that as a child would be. I think I ought to go and tell Katherine.”

“Mebbe it would be the kind thing. Sharing a pleasure doubles it;” and as the squire uttered the words, Katherine rather impetuously opened the parlor door.

“O daddy!” she cried as she pulled a chair to his side. “What are you talking about? I know it is about London; are you going to take me there with you? Say yes. Say it surely.”

“Give me a kiss and I will take both thee and thy mother there with me.”

“How soon, daddy? How soon?”

“As soon as possible. We must look after the poor and the land and then we can go with a good heart.”

“Let us talk it all over. Where are you going to stay?”

“Nay, my dear lass. I am talking to thy mother now and she is on a different level to thee. Run away to thy room and make up thy mind about thy new dress and the other little tricks thou wants.”

“Such as a necklace and a full set of amber combs for my hair.”

“Nay, nay! I hev no money for jewelry, while little childer and women all round us are wanting bread. Thou wouldn’t suit it and it wouldn’t be lucky to thee. Run away now, I’ll talk all thou wants to-morrow.”

“Verry well, dear daddy. Thy word is enough to build on. I can sit quiet and arrange my London plans, for a promise from thee is as sure as the thing itself.”

Then the squire laughed and took a letter out of his pocketbook. “It is good for a thousand pounds, honey,” he said, “and that is a bit of security for my promise, isn’t it?”

“Not a penny’s worth. Thy promise needs no security. It stands alone as it ought to do.”

She rose as she spoke and the squire rose and opened the door for her and then stood and watched her mount the darkening stairway. At the first reach, she turned and bent her lovely face and form towards him. The joyful anticipations in her heart transfigured her. She was radiant. Her face shone and smiled; her white throat, and her white shoulders, and her exquisite arms, and her firm quick feet seemed to have some new sense given them. You would have said that her body thought and that her very voice had a caress in it as she bridged the space between them with a “Thank you, dear, dear daddy! You are the very kindest father in all the world!”

“And thou art his pet and his darling!” With these words he went back to his wife. “She is justtip-on-top,” he said. “There’s no girl I know like her. She sits in the sunlight of my heart. Why, Annie, she ought to make a better marriage than Jane, and Jane did middling well.”

“Would thou think Harry Bradley a good match?”

“I wouldn’t put him even in a passing thought with Katherine. Harry Bradley, indeed! I am fairly astonished at thee naming the middle class fellow!”

“Katherine thinks him all a man should be.”

“She will change her mind in London.”

“I doubt that.”

“Thou lets her hev opinions and ideas of her awn. Thou shouldn’t do it. Jane will alter that. Jane will tell her how to rate men and women. Jane is varry clever.”

“Jane is no match for Katherine. Dost thou think Antony Annis will be?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Then don’t try conclusions with her about Harry Bradley, and happen then thou may keep thy illusion. Katherine’s fault is a grave one, though it often looks like a virtue.”

“I doan’t see what thou means. Faults are faults, and virtues are virtues. I hev niver seen a fault of any kind in her, unless it be wanting more guineas than I can spare her just now, but that is the original sin o’ women as far as I can make out. Whativer is this fault that can look like a virtue?”

“She overdoes everything. She says too little, or too much; she does too little, or too much; she gives too little, or too much. In everything she exceeds. If she likes anyone, she is unreasonable about them; if she dislikes them, she is unjust.”

“I doan’t call that much of a fault – if thou knew anything about farming 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, my Joy, I am glad to learn so much from thee. How do the rooks treat thee?”

“With but moderate notice, father, unless I am at Britton’s side. Then they ‘caw’ respectfully, as I take my way through their colony. Britton taught me to lift my hat now and then, as father does.” The squire laughed, and was a bit confused. “Nay, nay!” he said. “Britton hes been making up that story, though I vow, I would rayther take off my hat to gentlemanly rooks than to some humans I know; I would that! There is one thing I can tell thee about rooks, Britton seems to have forgot; they can’t make a bit of sunshine for themselves. If t’ weather is rainy, no bird in the world is more miserable. They sit with puffed out feathers in uncontrollable melancholy, and they hevn’t a caw for anybody. Yet I hev a great respect for rooks.”

“And I hev a great liking for rook pies,” said Madam. “There is not a pie in all the records of cookery, to come near it. Par excellence is its name. I shall miss my rook pies, if we go away this summer.”

“But we shall have something better in their place, dear mother.”

“Who can tell? In the meantime, sleep will be the best thing for all. To-morrow is a new day. Sleep will make us ready for it.”