Roses and Lace
Chapter 4
John found himself strolling idly around the pleasant hamlet of Helstone. Strolling. Idly. It was something he had never done in his life, never imagined himself doing.
He had stayed a night at the local inn and chatted with the the inn keeper and some of the local farmers with their slow, easy speech. They had fond memories of Reverend Hale, as they called him, and were delighted to hear a northerner speak well of him.
And now here he was feeling the warmth of the sun through his shirt sleeves, jacket and cravat discarded, tracing his fingers along the leaves of the hedge rows. There was an endless, echoing chirping and fluttering of birdsong and animals in the brush. There was the dappled light through the branches of the trees. There was the rustling of a gentle breeze.
Something about the height of the trees and the smell of the air... something peaceful yet awe-inspiring, something greater than all the might and clamor of his industrial home.
And here... John found a spray of yellow roses, growing amidst the green. Lovelier and softer than anything his workers could weave.
How hard it must have been, to go from this... to Milton.
Mother -
He would have to send a telegram. She would be worrying about him.
Mother, it's like a small piece of heaven here.
Mother, she is even stronger than we knew.
To leave this for the smoke and the snow, to support her frail parents and never falter.
Mother, there is warmth and quiet and loveliness away from the city.
But no... John knew that this was not for them.
Their God was the God of striving and strife. Slave cotton and city slums and markets and money and machines.
The same God of forests and farms to watch over it all.
John knew himself and he knew his work. He knew that he could run a mill and run it well, with respect for his clients and his workers and himself.
The telegram he sent read:
Mother, I am to London to finish my affairs. I will return home in a few days to seek new work. All will be well.