Part 29 (1/2)
”Nay, I know better. Lucy will be worn out, dusty and hungry, and she'll thank n.o.body for bothering her, until she is rested. I'll go early next morning. Lucy knows there is a time to call and a time to bide at home.”
John took dinner with his mother, and as they were eating it, Mrs.
Hatton said, ”I suppose Jane is at Thirsk Hall tonight.”
”Yes,” answered John. ”I refused the invitation. I could not think of feasting and dancing with the cry of War and Famine at my door.”
”You are saying too much, John. Neither war nor famine can touch you.”
”If it touches those who work for me and with me, it touches me. I must think of them as well as myself.”
”How is little Martha? I never see her now.”
”Jane keeps her at her own side. She has many fine new ideas about the bringing up of children.”
”Did she take Martha to Thirsk with her?”
”Not likely. I hope not.”
”_Hum-m!!_”
Towards dusk John rode slowly down the hill. Somehow he had missed the usual tonic of his mother's company, and Harry's unexpected expenses troubled him, for it is the petty details of life rather than its great sorrows which fret and irritate the soul. Indeed, to face simple daily duties and trials bravely and cheerfully is the most heroic struggle and the greatest victory the soul can win. That it is generally unwitnessed and unapplauded, that it seldom gains either honor or grat.i.tude, that it is frequently despised and blamed, is not to be regarded. It is the fine tooling or graving on the soul capable of bearing it, of that supreme grace we call character; that grace that makes all the difference between one human being and another that there is between a block of granite and a reach of s.h.i.+fting sand. Every person we meet, has more or less of this quality, and not to be influenced by it is to belong to those hard blocks of humanity whom Carlyle calls formulas and phantoms.
Well, this little incident of Harry's unexpected extravagance was a line of character-tooling on John's soul. He felt the first keen touches, was suddenly angry, then pa.s.sive, and as he rode down the hill, satisfied.
Some way or other he felt sure the expense would not interfere with the things so vitally important to him. As he rode through the village he noticed that the Spinners' Hall was lit up and that there was a mixed sound of song and laughter and loud talking within and as Jane was at Thirsk he alighted at the door of the hall and went in.
On the platform there was one of his own spinners, a lad of seventeen years old. The audience were mostly young men and women, and they were dressed for dancing. A mirthful spirit pervaded the room and the usual order was wanting. The lad speaking appeared to be an object of criticism and amus.e.m.e.nt rather than of respect but he went on talking in a schoolboy fas.h.i.+on of ”the rights of the people.” He was in a West Riding evening-suit, he had a flower in his coat, and a pair of white gloves in his hand.
”Rich people all hev their rights,” he said, ”but a poor lad like me can't spend his hard-earned wage without heving to pay this and that sixpenny claim--”
”For board and lodging, Sam,” cried a pretty girl impatient for the talking to cease, and the dance to begin.
”Silence!” a voice called authoritatively and the lecturer stopped and looked round. Then a big dark man pushed his way through the t.i.ttering crowd of girls and reaching the platform, stretched out his hand and grasping one of its supports, leaped lightly to it. The feat was not an easy one and it was boldly and gracefully done; a hearty cheer greeted its success. Even John joined in it and then he looked at the man and though there was a slight change in appearance, knew him. It was Ralph Lugur, and as soon as he was generally recognized, order and silence reigned. He turned first to the speaker.
”Samuel, my boy,” he said, ”keep quiet until you learn how to talk. Your place is at a bobbin frame, it isn't on a platform. What do you know about a rich man's rights?” and a pretty girl looked saucily at the blus.h.i.+ng lad and laughed.
”I'll tell you, friends,” continued Lugur, ”how much right a rich man has in his wealth. He has practically very little. The Poor Laws, the Sunday Laws, the School Laws, the Income Tax, and twenty other taxes that he must pay completely prevent him from doing as he likes with his own money. Rich men are only the stewards of the poor man. They have to provide him with bread, homes, roads, s.h.i.+ps, railways, parks, music, schools, doctors, hospitals, and a large variety of other comforts and amus.e.m.e.nts. And, my dear friends, this is not tyranny. Oh no! It is civilization. And if all these obligations did not control him, there are two powerful and significant people whom he _has_ to obey whether he likes to or not. I mean a lady you don't know much about, called Mrs.
Grundy; and a gentleman whom you know as much of as you want to know, called Policeman A. Don't you fall into the mistake of taking sides against your country. No! Don't do that but,
”Let the laws of your own land, Good or bad, between you stand.”
Then he slipped off the platform, and the band began to tune up. And the boy who had been sent off the platform to his bobbin frame went up to the pretty girl who had laughed at his oratorical efforts and asked her to dance. She made a mocking curtsey, and refused his request, and John who knew both of them said, ”Don't be so saucy, Polly. Samuel will do better next time.” But Polly with a little laugh turned away singing,
”He wears a penny flower in his coat, lah-de-dah!
And a penny paper collar round his throat, lah-de-dah!
In his mouth a penny pick, In his hand a penny stick, And a penny in his pocket, lah-de-dah-heigh!”
John and Lugur walked through the village together, and then John discovered that the remodeling of Yoden was Lugur's gift to the young people who were really to begin life over again in its comfortable handsome shelter.