tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">CHAPTER VI—FASHION AND FAMINE

CHAPTER VII—IN THE FOURTH WATCH

CHAPTER VIII—LOVE'S TENDER PHANTASY

CHAPTER IX—LOVERS QUARREL AND THE SQUIRE MAKES A SPEECH

CHAPTER X—THE GREAT BILL PASSES

CHAPTER XI—AUNT JOSEPHA INTERFERES

CHAPTER XII—THE SQUIRE MAKES GOOD

CHAPTER XIII—MARRIAGE BELLS AND GOOD-BY TO ANNIS

CHAPTER XIV—A RECALL

THE PAPER CAP

CHAPTER I—THE SQUIRE OF ANNIS

"The 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."

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 "look" 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 husbands' 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 mother's milk. They lived with their flocks of Merino sheep half their lives in the night and its aërial mysteries. The doctrine of "Assurance" was their own spiritual confidence, and John Wesley's 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: "I wonder at a fine lad like thee leaving a bit of work like that. If I could do it I would keep at it daylight through."

And the weaver would look him bravely in the face and answer—"Not thou, squire! It wouldn't be a bit like thee. I see thee on t' grandstand, at ivery race I go to. I like a race mysen, it is a varry democratic meeting."

Then the squire would give the child at the spinning wheel a shilling and go off with a laugh. He knew that in any verbal contest with Jimmy Riggs, he would not be the victor.

Also if the squire met any mother of the village he would touch his hat and listen to what she wished to say. And if one of her lads was in trouble for "catching a rabbit on the common"—though he suspected the animal was far more likely from his own woods—he always promised to help him and he always did so.

"Our women have such compelling eyes," he would remark in excuse, "and when they would look at you through a mist of tears a man that can say 'no' to them isn't much of a man."

Naturally proud, the squire was nevertheless broadly affable. He could not resist the lifted paper cap of the humblest man and his lofty stature and dignified carriage won everyone's notice. His face was handsome, and generally wore a kind thoughtful expression, constantly breaking into broad smiles. And all these advantages were seconded and emphasized by his scrupulous dress, always fit and proper for every occasion.

He was riding slowly through the village one morning when he met a neighbor with whom he had once been on intimate friendly terms. It was John Thomas Bradley, who had just built a large mill within three miles of Annis village and under the protecting power of the government had filled it with the latest power-looms and spinning jennies.

"Good morning, Annis!" he said cheerfully. "How dost tha do?"

"I do none the better for thy late doings. I can tell thee that!"

"Is tha meaning my new building?"

"Is tha ashamed to speak its proper name? It's a factory, call it that. And I wouldn't wonder, if tha hes been all through Annis, trying to get some o' my men to help thee run it."

"Nay, then. I wouldn't hev a man that hes been in thy employ, unless it were maybe Jonathan Hartley. They are all petted and spoiled