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CHAPTER II – THE PROSPECT OF LONDON LIFE
“Men who their duties know,
But know their rights, and knowing dare maintain.”
“The blind mole casts
Copp’d hills toward heaven, to tell the earth is throng’d
By man’s oppression and the poor worm doth die for’t.”
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. “Your father,” she said, “has just told us about the riot and outrages at Derby and the burning of Nottingham Castle by a frantic mob and the press says – ‘the people in London are restless and full of passion.’ 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 morning’s paper comments on this threat and says, The Duke of Wellington is not afraid of this visit, but would rather it was not paid.’ All the way up to London there is rioting. It is not a fit journey for thee to take. Mind what I say.”
“Oh, mother, only think! I might have been in the Ladies’ Gallery, in the House. I might have heard Mr. Macaulay’s answer to the Lord’s denial, with his grand question to the Commons, ‘Ought 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.’ No wonder the Commons cheered, and cheered, and cheered him. Oh, how gladly I would have helped them!”
“You are going too far and too fast, Katherine.”
“Father ought to have been in the House on the third of February and it is now the seventh of March: Is that right?”
“A 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.”
“Why?”
“He hes his reasons. I doan’t know that his reasons are any business of thine.”
“Harry Bradley was explaining things to me this morning, and I am for the Reform Bill. I am sure the people are right.”
“I wouldn’t say as much on thy opinion. Wisdom wasn’t born wi’ thee and I doan’t expect she will die wi’ 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 isn’t 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 doesn’t believe in giving every weaver and hedger and ditcher a voice in the government of England.”
“Harry Bradley says, some of their leaders and speakers are very clever eloquent men.”
“I wouldn’t talk nonsense after Harry Bradley. Who’s Harry Bradley?”
“He is my friend, mother. We have been friends nearly twenty years.”
“Not you! It is not yet eighteen years since thou showed thy face in this world.”
“I was speaking generally, mother.”
“Eh, but there’s something wrong in that way! A lot o’ bother can come out of it. I wouldn’t mind anything Harry Bradley says, thy father won’t hev any nonsense about him. I can tell thee that!”
“Father is so set in his own way. No one suits him lately. We met Captain Chandos last Monday, and he would hardly notice him.”
“Well, then, there are plenty of folk no one can suit, and varry often they can’t suit themselves.”
“Oh, I don’t care about Chandos, mother; but I feel angry when Harry is slighted. You see, mother, I might come to marry Harry Bradley.”
“I do hope thou won’t be so far left to thysen, as that would mean.”
“Then 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.”
“All 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.”
“Perhaps so, but then there is the pleasure of throwing the line.”
“And perhaps the pleasure of being caught by some varry undesireable fisherman for tha needn’t think that women are the only fishers. The men go reg’lar about that business and they will soon find out that thou hes a bit o’ money o’ thy awn and are well worth catching. See if they doan’t.”
“Mother, 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.”
“I rather think they are all married men, Katherine, and marrying for love is an unwise and generally an unprofitable bit of business.”
“Business and Love have nothing to do with each other.”
“Eh, but they hev!”
“I shall marry for love.”
“Well, then, marry for love, but love wisely.”
“Money is only one thing, mother.”
“To be sure, but it is a rayther important thing.”
“You might persuade father that he had better take me to London out of Harry’s way. Dear mammy, do this for your little girl, won’t you? You can always get round father in some way or other.”
“I 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 can’t get thy way openly and fairly make up thy mind any other way isn’t 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.”
“I will.”
“Then I’ll ask thy father again, to take thee with him to London – if he goes himsen – if he does not go at all, then – ”
“I 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.”
“Thou must stop talking nonsense or else it will stop my talking one word for thy wish.”
“I was just joking, mother.”
“Always keep everything straight between thysen and thy mother. The first deception between me and thee opens the gates of Danger.”
“I 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.”
“Well, Katherine, what with one thing and what with another, I doan’t know what tha wants. Does tha know thysen?”
“Well, 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 – ”
“I 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.”
“It was very thoughtless. I am sorry I did it. I was so touched by Faith’s description of the hunger and nakedness in Abram Oddy’s family, that I thought of nothing but how to relieve it.”
“Well, well! It is all right, someway or other. I see father coming towards the house. I wonder what he is wanting.”
“And 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.”
“Why our?”
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, “I hev hurried a bit, my Joy, to tell thee that both thysen and Katherine can go wi’ 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 wouldn’t 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.”
“However has Clitheroe made a thousand pounds to spare since his smash-up? Thou said, it wer a varry complete ruin.”
“It 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.”
“It caps me! How hes he made the money?”
“Why, 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.”
“I doan’t really want to go, Antony.”
“But 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.”
“When art thou going to start?”
“Not 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 o’ change and pleasure to think about and talk about.”
“Where does thou intend to stay while in London?”
“I am thinking of the Clarendon Hotel for thee and mysen. I suppose Katherine can be comfortable and welcome at her sister’s.”
“Certainly she can. Jane isn’t 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.”
“Thou art a good wife to me, Annie.”
“Well, then, I promised thee to be a good wife, and I’m 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, isn’t she, Antony?”
“She does not overbear me. I am her eldest brother. I make her remember that. Howiver, I shall hev to listen to such a lot o’ 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.”
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: “I’ll leave thee a few minutes, Antony. I am going to tell Katherine that thou art going to take her to London.”
“Varry well. I’ll give thee five minutes, then thou must come back here, for I hev something important to tell thee.”
“Katherine 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.”
“Then thou hed better advise her to wait until supper time. When the day’s work is all done I can stand a bit of cuddling and petting and I doan’t mind waring a few sovereigns for things necessary. Of course, I know the little wench will be happy and full o’ 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.”
“Antony 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 – ‘specially woman.”
“That may be so, Annie, perhaps it is so, but thou art different. Thou art like mysen and it’s only prudent and kind to talk changes over together. For thou hes to share the good or the bad o’ 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 man’s 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 wi’ 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 man’s face and ways iver since he came to the village, and when he offered his hand and asked me to come in I couldn’t resist the kindness and goodness of it.”
“Thou went into the preacher’s house?”
“I surely did, and I am glad of it. I think a deal o’ good may come from the visit.”
“Did thou see his daughter?”
“I did and I tell thee she is summat to see.”
“Then she is really beautiful?”
“Yes, 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, ‘with the chapel people,’ 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.”
“What did thou say to this?”
“I 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.”
“That was right.”
“I knew it would be right wi’ thee.”
“Katherine says that our Dick is in love wi’ the preacher’s daughter.”
“I wouldn’t wonder, and if a man hedn’t already got the only perfect woman in the world for his awn you could not blame him. No, you could not blame him!”
“Thou must hev stayed awhile there for it is swinging close to five o’clock.”
“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.”
