“She says she freely forgives yo’, ma’m.”
“The imperence on her. Ah! wait till I get better, an’ I’ll gi’e her forgive me!”
“She promises to pray for you, Mrs. Bamforth.”
“To pray for me! Hannah Garside, pray for me! Oh! this must be stopped, doctor. It’s too bad ’at she’s none content wi’ makin’ th’ village unbearable an’ nah mun’ be bringing me into bad odour wi’ th’ saints above.”
“She sends her compliments, ma’am, and says if I prescribe custards she won’t venture to send any batter as it’s well known your family knows a way o’ never being short o’ eggs.”
“Oh! trust her for taking a mean advantage o’ me, an’ me laid o’ mi back an’ not able to stick up for missen. Take her a cruet o’ water, doctor, an’ say I’d be glad if she’d look into it an’ turn it to vinegar. But yo’r taking nothing, doctor. Fill your glass, now do, and have another pipe. Never mind th’ smoke. It’s good for moths.” And thus did Doctor Dean pass the time in those professional visits the portentous length of which gave so much anxiety to our friends.
It was Soldier Jack who told me the news of poor John Booth’s sad end. Soldier had been chary of coming at first for fear of arousing the suspicions of our neighbours, but he was very useful in spreading the news of my mother’s illness. He had her one day on the brink of death, another day rallying. One day it was current through the village that my mother had sent for Lawyer Blackburn, and the undertaker went about with a visibly expectant face. When Mr. Webster called, all hope was abandoned. When he went away without being admitted to the sick chamber, tho’ my mother had to bite her tongue to prevent herself calling out to him from the stairhead, our kinsfolk of all degrees began to look up their mourning, and the stone–cutter at Powle Moor got ready a selection of appropriate head–lines.
At length Jack could keep away no longer and came one afternoon into my room, walking softly in on tip–toe of one foot and a limp of the other, as tho’ I were dead or sleeping. Poor Jack, he looked sadly worn and harassed of these days and had lost all his swagger and even his cheerfulness.
“Yes, it’s too true, Ben. Poor John Booth’s dead as a nit. Shot through th’ leg, an’ no stamina to bear it. He died th’ same neet.
“Tell me about it Soldier? Poor lad, poor lad.”
“He died at Tommy Sheard’s at th’ Star i’ Roberdta’n. He wer’ a good plucked ’un, an’ his father a parson too. His mother mun ha’ been a none such, aw reckon.”
“Who was with him Jack? Was he in much pain? Did he say owt? Tell me all about it.”
“Well, as far as aw can gather, after we carried yo’ off t’others didn’t stay long behind. Th’ game wor up.”
“How did we come to leave Booth? We ought not to have left Booth. I promised I’d see to him, and a pretty way I’ve kept my word.”
“Dunnot yo’ fash yersen, Ben. Yo’d your work set wi’ Enoch. John brought it on hissen. He wer’ all ovver th’ shop’, egging th’ men on. Aw told him to keep i’ covver, but he seemed fair to run agen th’ bullets as if he wanted killing. Well he gate what he wanted. Still if we hadn’t had our hands full wi yo’, we might ha’ carried him off. But he’s dead, so we should nobbud ha’ had our wark for nowt, an’ a mort o’ trouble to account for th’ corpse. Yo’ mebbe hannot thowt o’ that. What should we ha’ done wi’ a dead body wi’ a leg smashed to mush, on our hands?”
Aye, what, I thought.
“Well, theer John lay among broken glass, an’ stones, an’ sticks, an’ plaster, in front o’ th’ mill, an’ Sam Hartley shot through th’ lung an’ vomiting quarts o’ blood, not far off him. After a bit owd Hammond Roberson, th’ feightin’ parson, come gallopin’ up wi’ a lot o’ soldiers, an’ Cartwright oppens th’ mill door, an’ him an’ his men comes out, an’ they do say Cartwright took on rarely when he see’d th’ mess we’d made o’ th’ mill front. Poor John were beggin’ some o’ th’ folk ’at had run up to fetch him a drop o’ water. Aw know what it’s like when yo’r wounded. Yo’ feel as if yo’d got a little hell o’ yo’r own inside yo’. But Cartwright wer’ noan for lettin’ him have a drop, not even to wet his lips, till he’d gi’en th’ names o’ those ’at wer’ th’ leaders. But John tak’ no notice nor Hartley nawther, but nobbut begged for water. Old Roberson, dam him, wor as bad as Cartwright. It wer’ confession first, an’ water after. But a chap called Billy Clough ran an’ put a stone under John’s yed, an’ then fot him a drink. If awther th’ parson or Cartwright had stopped him, aw’m told th’ folk round ’ud ha’ mobbed ’em. Aw can forgi’e Cartwright, for it’s none calc’lated to put a chap into th’ best o’ tempers to ha’ his mill made such a mullock on; but, curse Roberson, an’ all such like, say I, an’ him a parson, too!”
“But what of John, Soldier?”
“Well at last when he’d say nowt, water or no water, they put him on a gate an’ carried him an’ Hartley to th’ Star. A doctor wer’ noan long i’ turnin’ up, for them chaps smell blood like vultures. He said ther’ wer’ nowt for it but to hampotate th’ leg, an’ that wer’ just more nor John could stand, an’ he cheat both th’ parson an’ th’ gallows, an’ deed like a man an’ a Briton at he wor.
“How cheat th’ parson, Jack?”
“Well owd Roberson wouldn’t let him die i’ peace, but wer all th’ time naggin’ him to confess. Then when Booth knew his end were near, he called old Roberson to stand ovver him, an’ th’ owd sinner’s face lit up wi’ glee, an’ he stepped up to John as brisk as a bee.”
“You see, gentlemen, the power of the Church! And now, my good man.”
“Can yo’ keep a secret, sir?” said John, in a whisper; but all were so still yo’ could have heard a pin drop. Even Sammy Hartley, who wer’ deein’ fast, stopped moanin’, they say; tho’ that mun be either accident or fancy.”
“Can yo’ keep a secret, sir?” whispered John.
“I can, I can,” said th’ parson.
“An’ so can I,” said John, wi’ a smile, an he put his head back an’ never spak’ no more; an’, oh! Ben, when aw talk on it aw’m fit to blubber like a child. He wer’ a rare un, wer’ John.”
Mary was there and my mother, and Mary’s face was buried in the counterpane and I heard her sob, and a tear trickled down my mother’s cheek, and I turned my face to the wall and mourned for my friend.
“We got his body,” went on Jack after a long pause. “Mr. Wright, th’ saddler, saw to that. It wer’ brought to his house, an’ th’ funeral wer’ fra’ theer. He wer’ buried i’ Huddersfield Churchyard, an’ all th’ town wer’ theer. George Mellor and Thorpe walked after th’ hearse, an’ all th’ folk, hundreds on ’em, ’at could lay the’r hands on a bit, wore white crape around their arm. It wer’ a gran’ funeral.”
“And Faith?” said Mary.
“’Oo leaned o’ Mrs. Wright, ’at wer’ like a mother to her. Th’ owd father weren’t theer. But Faith looked just all brokken to pieces, poor wench.”
“I’ll go to her, straight away,” cried Mary.
“Aye, do, Mary,” said my mother, “and bring her up to Holme wi’ yo’. She wants some kitchen physic as well as other folk.”
“Yo’ forget yo’r ill i’ bed, aunt,” said Mary, “and Ben’s away to Macclesfield.”
“Well, if aw amn’t, aw soon shall be, if this mak’ o’ wark goes on. Oh! George, tha’s a deal to answer for, an’ it’s much if tha doesn’t break thi mother’s heart afore tha’s done, an’ then there ’ll be an end o’ poor Matty, too.”
I fret a deal over John Booth’s awful death and felt in a manner that it lay at my door. Faith’s sad face haunted my fevered dreams, and I reproached myself not a little that I had not taken more care of the lad. And yet, looking back, I do not see that I could have done other than I did. I spoke with Mary on the matter.
“It’s a bad job for Faith losing her brother like this, Mary. I doubt she’ll take it sore to heart. Her whole life seemed centred and wrapped up in John. They might have been twins. I blame misen shocking that aw left him to shift for hissen.”
“I don’t see how yo’r to blame, Ben. From all I can make out, yo’d enough to do to look out for yersen; and it’s only natural that ’Siah an’ Soldier, anyway ’Siah, our own man, should look to yo’ first an’ foremost, choose how others fared.”
“But I promised Faith that I’d have an eye to him.”
“Well you did your best, and th’ best can do no more. It’s no use thee working thissen into a fever, an’ tossin’ about as if tha wer’ on a hot backstone, an’ kickin’ th’ clo’es off thee as fast as aw can put them on, over summat at’s done an’ can’t be undone.”
“Yo’r only a Job’s comforter, Mary. Aw should have thought tha’d more feeling in thee.”
“Feeling! aw’ve feeling enough. But it’s time to talk a bit o’ sense. There’s been mischief enough an’ to spare o’ late about feeling. It’s feeling baht sense ’at brought yo’ into this mess, an’ yo’r noan aht o’ th’ wood yet. Happen tha’ll live to envy John Booth, an’ wish tha’d been left for dead at Rawfolds i’stead o’ ’scaping to find a worse fate. I declare aw never hear a step come to th’ door but my heart goes into mi mouth an mi knees shake so aw can hardly stand. There’s feeling for yo’, if yo’ like. Mr. Chew says it’s a hanging job for them ’at’s caught.”
I flushed at this you may be sure, tho’ Mary only put into words the thought that had tortured my waking hours and made my dreams hideous. That was a subject not to be dwelt on. So I made haste to revert to Faith.
“Aw hannot told yo’ yet, Mary, that I made a promise to John, too.”
“Yo seem to ha’ been precious free wi thi promises.”
“Nay, Mary, what’s come ovver thee? Its noan like thee to turn agen them ’at’s i’ trouble. It wer’ at Kirklees, just before we started for Rawfolds.”
And I told Mary of what had passed between John Booth and me.
“Well, what is it all leading to?” she asked.
“A’ve been turning things ovver i’ mi mind, Mary, as aw’ve laid o’ mi back. Yo’ see, Faith’s nobbut a poor weak thing, an’ fra all aw can hear her father’s awmost as bad. Don’t yo’ think we ought to do summat to help her?”
“With all my heart—as how?”
“Nay, that’s wheer aw’m fast. Cannot yo’ suggest summat?”
“Yo’ might happen ask her if she wants a home—Martha ’ll mebbe be so accommodatin’ as to mak’ room for her i’ th’ house. Martha could get another job fast enough, an’ then yo’ll have Faith under yo’r own e’en, an’ it’ll be little trouble to look after her then.”
“The thing’s preposterous, Mary. The idea of Faith scouring and, milking and such like.”
“Yo’ might perhaps offer her work at the spinning.”
“Why, Faith’s been brought’ up a lady,” I cried.
“It’s no more nor yo’r mother an’ me does every day of our lives. But to be sure I’m not a lady. But, perhaps, yo’d like to make Faith a present or allow her a pension. I’m glad to see things are mending wi’ yo’, Ben. Aw allus thowt yo’ had nought but what yo’ addled, an’ that’s like to be little enough for many a month to come. But, perhaps, tha’s come in for a fortin’, an’ been keepin’ it secret for fear o’ killin’ us wi’ joy. Tell us on it, Ben. Aw’ll try to bear it, if it isn’t too dazzling.”
“Do quit thi teasing, Mary, an’ talk some sense. It’s no jesting matter for poor Faith.”
“And that’s true enough, cousin, and I’m a wicked girl to run on so. But yo’ aggravate me so wi’ thi wild schemes an’ foolish talk.”
“How foolish!”
“Why, how can ta help Faith? It were reight enough for poor John to speak to yo’. I expect his heart wer’ full, an’ it eased him to speak to thee. But now what can yo’ do? Tha has nowt, an’ half nought’s nought all th’ world over.”
“I could be a brother to her, Mary.”
“Oh! a brother! I should ha’ thowt yo’d had enough o’ brotherhoods to sicken thi for life. Aw’ve no patience wi’ thee. There’s Faith living at Low Moor wi’ her father, an’ needed there, aw’ve little doubt, an’ wi’ her hands full enough, an’ now yo’ mun strike up a brotherhood wi’ her. Aw suppose we’st ha’ yo’, as soon as yo’r up, settin’ off every week end to Low Moor to play the brother. Yo’ll ha’ to take yo’r sister out for long walks aw suppose, an’ to buy her rings an’ keepsakes an’ all that. Yo’ll find it cheaper to buy her a plain ’un to begin wi’.”
“Well, and why not?” I said, getting nettled, for Mary had told me some home truths that had been none too pleasant in the hearing and digestion.
“And why not?” I repeated. “Faith’s a sweet lass, and a good one an’ true. She’s over pale an’ thin mebbe, for everyone’s fancy.”
“Oh! beauty’s in the eye of the beholder,” put in Mary, tossing her head.
“But she’d cure o’ that, wi’ plenty o’ good milk an’ fresh air such as we han at Holme. An’ aw think she leans a bit to me. Don’t yo’ think so yoursen, Mary.
“Dunnot ask me. My head doesn’t run on such trash. What’s ta talking to me for? Aw’m noan Faith. Yo’d soon have an answer, an’ one ’at ’ud tak’ th’ conceit out on thee if owt could. Ask hersen.”
“Well! I happen will,” I said. “Aw’ve a good mind.”
“It’s a pity to spoil a good mind then. I’d waste no time about it, chance some’dy snaps her up. An’ while th’ art abaht it, yo might ask her to come an’ nurse thee, so’s ’oo’ll know what’s afore her.”
And Mary bounced out of the room in a tantrum.
The frame of mind in which she left me was certainly not one that Dr. Dean could have desired for a feverish patient. It. was clear to me that my own position was anything but an enviable one. Large rewards had been offered, I knew, for such information as would lead to the conviction of those concerned in the attack on Rawfolds, and machine breaking had been made a capital offence. My own participation in that affair was known to scores, and suspected by hundreds more. An incident that befel shortly afterwards aggravated my alarm. My father was still away. A letter had come from him, written in an obviously bad temper, complaining of the awful state of trade and driving my mother to distraction by telling of the trial and punishment of the Nottingham Luddites. However, I had so far proceeded to convalescence as to leave my bed, and I was looking forwards to being out and about in a few days, and I was turning over in my mind the feasibility of leaving home for a few months till things blew over a bit. I did not feel safe at home and that’s the fact, and I was on tenterhooks to put a hundred miles and more between me and Justice Radcliffe, who was scouring the district for Luds.
I was meditating on these matters and wondering why George Mellor never came near me even to ask after my recovery, when I heard the dog give tongue in the yard and the sound of horses’ hoofs. I managed to support myself to the stairhead. I heard a clatter at the door, which was opened by Martha.
“Does William Bamforth live here?” asked a voice, and there was the pawing of a horse’s hoof, the jingling of a bit–chain, the sound of one swinging himself heavily to the ground, and the clinking of spurs.
“Does ta’ mean Bill o’ Ben’s?” queried Martha.
“I mean William Bamforth.”
“Well yo’see, there’s a seet o’ Bamforths i’ Holme, an’ four on ’em’s Bills. It’ll be Bill o’ Luke’s yo’r wantin’, or happen Bill o’ Nan’s Back Side.”
“I mean William Bamforth, who has a son called Ben.”
“Well, he’s noan at wom. He’s i’ Macclesfield. But aw munnot stop talkin’ here. Aw’m churnin’, an’ th’ butter’s just on th’ turn. Aw’ll tell him a felly come to see him.”
“Not so fast, my good woman.”
“I’ll trouble yo’ to keep a civil tongue in yo’r head. My name’s Martha. Don’t ‘Good woman’ me, if yo’ please.”
“Where’s yo’r mistress?”
“’Oo’s i’ bed. ’Oo’s ill. ’Oo’s getten th’ small pox, an’ tha’d better be off afore th’ smell on it comes dahn stairs an’ smittles thee.”
“I’m sorry to seem rude, my sweet Martha. But duty’s duty. I must search yo’r house.”
“If tha comes in aw’ll set th’ dog at thee. Here Vixen, Vixen.” And Martha called to an imaginary bitch.
There was a slight scuffle, and someone strode into the house.
“No one here anyhow. Now for upstairs.” My mother had fled to her bed and drawn the clothes about her. For me, I lay back in my chair incapable of thought or movement. The stairs creaked under a heavy tread. Mary stood by my side, my hand stole into hers, and she faced the door, battle in her eyes. A big, burly trooper pushed it open, ducking his head as he advanced over the threshold. It was Long Tom with whom I had fought at Marsden.
“What want you here?” cried Mary. “How dare you force your way into decent folks’ house in broad day?”
“The gamesome wench that slapped my face!” cried Long Tom.
“Aye, and will slap it again if yo’r not off.”
“Gently, Mary, gently,” I said. “The sergeant has doubtless business here. Your errand, sir?” I said. “You see you intrude.”
“Why this beats Banagher, where the cows run barefoot!” exclaimed the soldier. “If this isn’t the youngster spoiled my beauty for me. Nay, sit still,” he went on, as I tried to rise.
“What! bandaged, too, and in the forearm. A queer treatment for small pox.”
“Sir, if you have business here, I pray you do it.”
“Is your name Ben Bamforth?”
“It is.”
“The son of William Bamforth?”
“His son.”
“And what the devil are yo’ doing here, you thundering young idiot? Why in the name of common sense aren’t you a thousand miles away if horse or mail could carry you?”
“And what the devil are yo’ doing here, you thundering young idiot? Why in the name of common sense aren’t you a thousand miles away if horse or mail could carry you?”
“I am not accountable to you for my actions that I know of. Again, your business?”
My mother had issued from her room in petticoat and scarlet jacket.
“Keep your distance, good woman, if its yo’ have the small pox. If I must be riddled let it be with pellets not pustules,” cried the soldier, starting back in horror.
“Oh! good Mr. Soldier. What do yo’ want with our Ben? A quiet, harmless lad, as ever lived, that never harmed a flee. I’m sure he’s done nothing wrong, and him bedfast these six months past.”
Now heaven forgive you, mother!
“He played a mighty heavy fist for a sick man not three months gone, anyhow, good dame. Nay, keep your distance. Good God! if the old lady isn’t going to kneel to me.”
For my mother made as if she would throw herself at the soldier’s feet.
“Mother, calm yourself,” I said. “Pray, sir, you see I am in no case to bear much talking. What is your will with me.”
“I’m sorry, I’m very sorry. A man like you that ought to be fighting Mounseer, and a proper Life Guardsman yo’d make, for sure. Well, well, of all the tomfoolery! However, I see no help for it.”
And Long Tom strode about the room in evident perplexity, muttering to himself: “A brave lad,” “a sad case,” “too good for the gallows,” and “I owe the wench one, too.”
I seemed to watch the working of his mind, and hope stole trembling back into my heart.
Another too was scanning his face as anxiously as manner marks the witness of the skies.
“And so, madam,” he said, “you are his mother, and I suppose this tale of small pox is all flam. And you, Miss, what is this long–limbed game cock to you?”
“Oh! Sergeant,” cried Mary, “I am sure you have a good heart, and are a brave and generous man. You must not think ill of Ben for besting you when yo’ fought. It was all for me.”
“I don’t’ think any the worse of him, pretty. I think all the better of him. It served me right, and if I hadn’t taken a drop too much, I shouldn’t have tried to steal a kiss. Tho’ you will admit the provocation.” And here the gallant sergeant doffed his shako and made a low bow to Mary, who blushed and curtsied and cast down her eyes.
“But I owe you some return, miss, for my ill manners, and as for the trouncing, a soldier bears no malice. But you haven’t told me, yet, what is this Ben here to you? Your brother?”
“No, good sir, my cousin!”
“H’m. Aught else?”
Then did Mary catch her breath and hold me tighter by the hand; and for a moment I could hear my own heart beat.
“He is my sweetheart, sir, an’t please you. And we’re to be wed when he’s well. And oh! sir, it will kill me if yo’ take him from me.”
“And a lucky dog he is to have so fair a bride. Well, well, I’ll risk it. But hark you, Ben Bamforth, you’ve had a narrow shave. I won’t enquire how you came by that bandaged arm. Perhaps I know more than yo think. A change of air will do you good. I say no more than this: ‘Next time yo’ go out of nights, take missy with you. Veils are dangerous, especially with such eyes behind them’”—another bow to Mary—“but masks are worse. You take me.”
Indeed I did take him.
“And now I’m off. You need fear nothing from my report. But be careful of the company you keep. A wink’s as good as a nod, they say, and there’s a man in your confounded league who has no love for Ben Bamforth.”
“Good day, ma’am, and I wish you better of the small pox.”
Long Tom clinked his heels together, drew himself up to the salute, nearly knocking his head against the rafters as he did it, and turned to go. He had reached the head of the stairs.
“Stay, sir,” cried Mary, her face as red as a peony.
He looked back.
“I thought yo’ wanted a kiss t’other night.”
“Aye, but yo’ refused me smartly.”
“Well,” and here Mary drooped her head and played with the corner of her apron. “Well—I’ve, I’ve changed my mind.”
And Tom laughed a great laugh and stooped over my cousin and she raised her crimson face to his.
“Gad! Bamforth, my lad, I’d change places with you this minute and risk Jack Ketch. Good luck and good day.”
And Long Tom strode down the stairs. There were three other mounted soldiers in the yard.
“A false scent again,” we heard him say. “Only an old woman in a fever. The bird’s flown.”
“It isn’t often you stay upstairs so long with an old woman, sergeant!” laughed a trooper; and they shook their reins and clattered out of the yard, the hens scurrying with beating wings, and the ducks waddling, quacking loudly, out of their way.
I made to thank Mary, but she fled from my room and I saw her no more all that day, and when, the next morning, she brought me, instead of the bowl of porridge on which I break my fast when hearty, a dish of tea and a buttered egg, and I would have drawn her to my heart, as surely lover may draw his mistress, Mary held aloof.
“Why, Mary, lass, surely tha’ll give me a kiss now?”
“And why now?” she said, as cold as ice.
“Why, after what yo’ said yesterday to Long Tom, ’at yo’ an’ me wer’ engaged to be wed.”
“Oh! that wer’ nowt. I just said it because I thowt it might help thee.”
“And then, don’t yo’ mind, Mary, that neet after I’d fought Long Tom at Marsden—how yo’ come behind th’ chair an’ kissed me.”
“Well, what o’ that?”
“Dost ta mean to say, after that, tha cares nowt about me more nor common?”
“It it comes to that, Ben, didn’t yo’ see me do much th’ same wi Long Tom yesterday?”
“In truth, I did, Mary. And I think it was unnecessary, not to say unmaidenly.”
“Thank yo’, Ben. I’ll mind my manners better i’ future. But at least yo’ mun see that yo’ munnot argy from what aw did when yo’r eye wer’ blacked i’ Marsden; for bi the same token Long Tom might leap to conclusions. And heigh–ho! Long Tom’s a proper sort o’ man, and I’m awmost stalled o’ Sloughit. Sup thi tea, Ben, afore it gets cold, an’ if tha’rt in such a hurry to get wed, remember yo’r more nor hauf promised to Faith Booth.”
Long Tom was true to his word. Justice Radcliffe was hot on the trail of the Luddites. The patrols were more active than ever, and first one and then another was summoned to Milnsbridge House and questioned keenly as to his doings, but for a time nothing came of all this questioning, except that there grew up among the Luds an uneasy feeling that there was a tell–tale in their midst. I lived in daily dread of a visit from Justice Radcliffe, but I never came across him but once. It was about this time, when I was just beginning to get about a bit, my father and ’Siah being back from the markets, and I supposed to be returned with them, I was going through Milnsbridge when I was aware of Mr. Radcliffe on horseback riding towards me, a handsome hearty man as ever you saw in your life. “A fine old English gentleman,” his friends all called him. He drew rein, and at his motion I stood by his saddle.
“Ben Bamforth of Holme, if I mistake not?” he questioned.
“At your service, sir,” I said, with confidence in my voice and little in my heart.
“Good Mr. Bamforth, the clothier’s son.
“The same, sir,—his only son.”
“And following his trade, I hear.”
“What there is of it, sir.”
“A worthy man is your father, Master Bamforth, and a loyal subject of His Majesty. You have been sick of late they say.”
Who said? I wondered but dared not ask, so muttered:
“Nowt to speak on, I’m all right now.”
“Still yo’ must be careful. Who’s your doctor?”
“Dr. Dean.”
“What, my good friend Dean? The sly dog! Still a patient’s a patient”—this rather to himself than to me. “And has Dr. Dean said nothing to you about avoiding the night air for a time?”
“I don’t know that he has, your worship.”
“Well tell him you’ve seen me, and that my advice is that yo’ keep in doors these spring nights, fine or dark, and ask him if he doesn’t agree with me.”
“It is unnecessary, sir, I am entirely of that opinion myself.”
“Come that’s good hearing. Mind you stick to it. And, hark ye, thank God as long as you live that you’d a good father before yo’ and that Justice Radcliffe doesn’t give heed to every idle tale that’s brought to him.”
And he touched his hat as I uncovered and bent my head to him, for I knew all our precautions had been in vain, and that Justice Radcliffe had in his keeping a secret that could send me to the gallows.
But who had betrayed me?
Sir Joseph Radcliffe
Sir Joseph Radcliffe.
CHAPTER X.
I HAVE told how I met Justice Radcliffe and what he said to me. That was after I was better and about. But many things had happened before that, of which I have yet to tell, and I scarce know how to frame the telling. Events so crowded one on the heels of the other that it is difficult to write of them connectedly and in order.
It was Tuesday, April 28th, something more than a fortnight after the affair at Rawfolds, and I still kept my room but not my bed. I had seen nothing all this time of my cousin George, and took it hard that he should not have come near me, but found excuses for him in the thought that perhaps he feared to bring notice on our house by being seen to visit it. Martha that night had gone into the village to meet the carrier’s cart by which my mother expected sundry things that she had ordered from Huddersfield. It drew late, and my mother began to fidget and to worrit about the difficulty of getting a servant that would not tarry to gossip whenever sent an errand and the readiness with which young women lent themselves to gallivanting, so different from what it was when she was a girl, when, she gave Mary and me to understand, a self–respecting maid entrenched herself in a barricade of frigid reserve that only the most intrepid, the most persistent and the most respectful approaches could surmount. About nine o’clock, however, Martha came home, and my mother called to her to come upstairs to give an account of herself, and presently we heard her panting up the steps. She dropped into the first chair she came to—
“Oh! my poor side,” she gasped. “That broo ’ll be the death on me yet. Such a pain as awn got an’ sich a gettin’ up th’ hill as never wor, an’ th’ pack hauf as heavy agen as ever it had used to be, an’ me awmost running, all th’ way for fear sum’dy sud be afore me an’ no one to oppen th’ door to ’em. Aw do believe aw’st faint.” And indeed Martha was in a very bad way.
“If yo’ didn’t stop talkin’ wi’ every young felly tha’ met at’s nowt better to do nor be tittle–tattlin’ wi’ ony idle wench he meets, tha could tak’ thi time an’ not come home an hour late an’ lookin’ as if tha’d been rolled i’ th’ hedge bottom, a sight not fit to be seen in a decent house,” said my mother severely.
“Oh! Mrs. Bamforth, God forgive yo’ those words. Yo’ll live to repent ’em, an’ yo’ll never die easy till yo’n said so, an’ me that keeps misen respectable tho’ sore tempted.”
Now if ever kindly Nature laboured to shield a helpless virgin from the craft and allurements of man, it had so laboured on behalf of honest Martha.
“But p’r’aps yo’ dunnot want to be hearing th’ news, an’ aw’m sure aw can do wi’ all th’ wind awn got i’stead o’ was–tin’ it wheer its noan wanted. So aw’ll just put th’ shop stuff away an’ yo’ll happen count yo’r change an’ I’st go to bed, for it’s little supper aw’st want to neet or for mony a neet to come, if we live to see another neet. But yo’ needn’t be so sure o’ that. It’s more nor likely we’st all be murdered i’ our beds, an’ th’ mester and ’Siah away when they’re most wanted.”
“What is it’s upset yo’, Martha?” asked Mary, giving Martha a little cold tea which had been left in the pot.
“It’s about Edmund Eastwood.”
“What o’ Slough’it? What on him?” asked my mother. “I’ll lay he’s had a stroke. Aw told their Lucy only th’ last time aw seed her he wor puttin’ on flesh a deal too fast for a man o’ his years.”
“Well it’s noan a stroke, so tha’rt off thi horse this time, missus, choose how, an’ so’s Eastwood too, come to that.”
“Don’t be so aggravating, Martha,” said I. “If you’ve ought to tell, let’s hear it.”
“Well, there’s all maks o’ tales dahn i’ th’ village, an’ aw stopped to get th’ reights on it, if aw could, for aw thowt it wer’ no use bringing hauf a tale, an’ it’s little thanks aw get for my trouble. But there’s justice i’ Heaven, that’s one comfort, for there’s little on earth, certain sure. But as aw wer’ sayin’, Eastwood wer’ comin’ fra’ th’ market, an’ they do say he rode hard, for he wer’ trying to catch up wi’ Horsfall o’ Ottiwells.”
“Aye, they oft rode home together,” I put in.
“Weel, they’ll nivver ride home together again if all they sen be true,” continued Martha. “Eastwood had just getten sight o’ Horsfall opposite Radcliffe’s Plantation, when bang coom a shot out o’ th’ wood, an’ he seed, they say, a felly jump on top o’ th’ wall an’ wave his arms. An’ Horsfall fell off his horse just as Eastwood wer riding up.”
“Dead?” I gasped.
“Who said he wor dead? Noa, but as good as dead by all accounts. Eastwood’s horse swerved at him as he ligged across th’ road, an’ Edmund wer thrown off into th’ road. But he sammed hissen up an’ bent ovver Horsfall, an’ a lad caught th’ mare up th’ road as it wer’ makin’ for home as if Owd Harry wer’ behind it, as he might be for owt aw can tell. But Eastwood nivver stayed for th’ mare. He set off for Huddersfield as fast as he could split to fot a doctor.”
“And Mr. Horsfall?”
“They carried him to th’ Warrener, an’ in a bit Eastwood comes back in th’ gig wi’ Dr. Houghton fra Huddersfield, they say i’ a hand gallop an’ covered wi ‘sweat. Th’ doctor jumps out o’ th’ trap an’ runs into th’ inn an’ Eastwood wer’ following him. But th’ doctor comes running out again. He’d left some on his tools behind him.”
“Aye, aye, most haste least speed,” from my mother.
“And th’ lad come up wi’ Eastwood’s horse, an’ he up into th’ saddle an’ galloped off to th’ town helter–skelter, an’ reight at th’ corner o’ th’ churchyard, just as if th’ sensible crittur knew that were where th’ rider wer’ bun for, it threw him agean. They sen he’s twisted his innards, an’ they do say it’s a toss up which ’ll go first, him or Horsfall.”
“What! is Mr. Horsfall so badly hit?”
“Aye, he’s at th’ Warrener. They cannot move him wom, and Mr. Scott o’ Woodsome’s theer to tak’ his dying speech an’ confession.”
“Deposition,” I corrected.
“Well, it’s th’ same thing, an’ aw’m no scholar to crack on. An’ little use learnin’ is, it seems to me, if folk cannot keep theirsen out o’ such mullocks as this. It’s a mercy ’Siah’s away, say I, for if they can they’ll put it on to th’ poor folk, an’ let their betters go scot free, tho’ its them as puts ’em up to it.”
I did not sleep a wink that night. Horsfall shot dead! A man done to death in broad daylight by a shot from an assassin lurking behind a wall! It comes home to you when you know the man, when you know well the very spot on which he fell, when you can see in your mind’s eye the murderers crouching behind the stones of a wall on which you have rested in many a homeward walk. How much more does it touch you when, as you ponder this picture of these crouched and waiting men, a face starts forth, with murder in its eyes, and the face is that of one you have loved and leaned on! I could not be certain, but I felt the hand of George Mellor was in this awful deed, and every instinct of manliness, of fair play, of humanity, rose up within, me and cried shame on the bloody deed. I remembered what George had said the night Horsfall had struck him with his riding–whip. I knew how his proud spirit must have chafed at our repulse at Rawfolds. But murder! oh it is an ugly thing. To stand up in fair fight, to pit strength against strength, craft against craft, to stake limb for limb, life for life, why, that, who shall cry fie upon. But to steal upon your foe in the dark, to stab in the back, to smite him unawares, to speed him unsummoned and unfit to judgment—there is no cause so righteous as to redeem an act so dastard. And that George, so frank, so full of sunshine and gay candour, should do this cowardly deed, passed comprehension. And yet who of all the others would dare? And if the thing had to be done, was George one to leave to others what he shrank from doing himself?
It was a night of torture. I looked back on the night I had passed in the barn after the fight at Rawfolds, and it seemed by comparison a night of restful bliss. Once, about midnight, I thought I heard the rattle of a pebble against the window pane. I stole softly out of bed and raised the window. But all was still around, and not far away in the little village a widow mourned a murdered husband and anguished hearts cried to heaven for just revenge.
After breakfast my mother set off to the village in quest of news. Work was out of the question. Mary busied herself about the house, and I tried to fix my mind upon straightening the books, which, after a fashion, it was my duty to keep. Alas! the invoices to be made out were few and slight, and an hour or so a week was enough for all the accountancy our business called for.
To me, thus engaged, tho’ with wandering thoughts, came Martha, care upon her brow and secrecy in her gait.
“There’s som’b’dy in th’ shippen wants thee, Ben. Oh! dunnot let Mary know. He doesn’t want any but thee to know he’s here.”
“Who is it?” I said beneath my breath. “It’s him,” said Martha, and nodded to me significantly.
“George?”
“Aye, George.”
Just then Mary came out of the parlour with a duster in her hand, and I made pretence to be wrapt up in my ledger. Martha turned to go.
“What are yo’ two whispering about?” Mary said suspiciously.
“Oh, nought,” said Martha.
“Summot an’ nought,” I said, for Mary kept looking from one to the other.
“I don’t believe you, Ben. What’s agate? oh! Ben, don’t trifle wi’ me this morn for aw feel as if th’ world were coming to an end, and more mysteries and horrors will drive me mad.”
I reflected. If George were indeed anything to Mary, who had so much right to see him now as she? Anyway the day had gone by for me to be mixed up with any more secrets.
“There’s George in th’ mistal, Mary, he wants to see me by misen.”
“Tell George Mellor to come in here and show himself like, a man,” cried Mary. “Go this minute, Martha, and bid him come to his aunt’s house as a man should come. Tell him, I, Mary, say so.” And Martha went.
I rose from the little desk at which I sat and stood upon the hearth. Mary stood by my side, her face pale, her eyes lustrous, her breath coming short. The door opened slowly, and George came in. My God! I see him yet! I had passed a sleepless night, but George looked as if he had known no sleep for weeks. His face was white and drawn. His eyes were deep sunk in his head, and even by this they had a hunted shifting look—and when they looked at you, which by rare times they did, they seemed as tho’ they asked a question and feared the answer. His neckchief was all awry, his boots clay covered, his breeches soiled, his hands were stained with dirt and torn with thorns, and his whole body seemed bent and unstrung. He advanced but two uncertain paces into the house. I stood my stand upon the hearth. George half lifted his hand to meet mine. For the life of me I could not raise my own, and words died from my lips. And Mary moved closer to my side, and half her figure drew behind me.
“What ta, Ben?” and George moaned and flung up his arms and sank upon a chair by the little round table in the kitchen centre and bowed his head on his arms and great sobs shook his frame.
“Leave us, Mary,” I said very soft.
“I winna, aw’st see it aat. Tha’t too soft, Ben.”
I shaped to lay my hand on George’s shoulder, but even as I raised my arm the thought of the murdered man came like a shock at me again, and I stood stiff and still once more. The convulsion passed, and George lifted his face.
“Tha knows all, Ben?”
“All I fear, George.”
“And tha flings me off?”
“I fling thee off.”
The angry colour came to his face, some of the old fire to his eye. He sprang to his feet, something of a man once more.
“And is this thi trust and this thi loyalty; hast ta forgotten thi oath, Ben?”
“I have forgotten nought, George.”
“And yo’ desert the Luds? Our greatest enemy lies low. I have struck the blow that others feared to strike, and terror palsies the oppressors of the poor. And in the supreme hour of our triumph you draw back?”
“I draw back.”
“You brave the consequences of your broken oath, you earn for yourself the hatred of the poor, the obloquy and the doom of the traitor?”
“I brave them.”
“Then out upon you, Ben Bamforth, for a false and perjured knave. The hour of trial and of danger has come, and it finds thee false. Oh! bitter the day and cursed the hour I took yo’ to my heart, and bitter the rue thou’st sup for this. And yo’ Mary, I’ve a word to say to yo’. But cannot I speak to thee alone?”
I made as tho’ to leave the house, but Mary stayed me by a touch.
“Say what yo’ have to say before Ben. Yo’ can have nought to say to me he cannot hear.”
“Nay I care not if tha does’na. He may listen if tha likes. All th’ world may know for me. It has to be said, as well now as another time, tho’ it’s a rum courting to be sure. Tha knows aw love thee, Mary; tha knows aw’ve sought thee and only thee this many a month back?”
“I know yo’ve said so, George.”
“And yo’ did not say me nay. Yo’ bid me bide my time, said yo’ did not know yor own mind, that yo’ were ower young to think o’ such things yet, and put me off. But tha did not send me away wi’out hope, Mary, and I thought that in the bottom of your heart there was a tiny seedling that in time would flower to love.”
“And so it might have done, George, but when it was a tender plant, a cold frost came and nipped it.”
“I cannot follow yo’, Mary, I am distraught in mind. All this night I have wandered the fields and in the lanes. A hundred times I have set my face over the hills to leave this cursed country.”
“And your work behind you!” I put in, but he heeded me not.
“But the thought of you, Mary, held me back. I must know your heart, your mind to me. If yo’ will be mine, if yo’ will give me your word to wed me in quieter days, I will quit this work. Things will quieten themselves. A month or two and the Luddites will be forgotten. Our secrets are well kept. The Government will be only too glad to let sleeping dogs lie, and in another country, under another sky under the flag of the free Republic that has spurned the fetters of its English mother, you and I will seek fortune, hand–in–hand.”
“There is blood upon your hand, George Mellor. Mine it shall never clasp again.”
“So be it I need not stoop to woo too humbly. My star is o’ercast now, but a day shall come when yo’ will regret the hour yo’ spurned George Mellor’s love. And yo! Ben Bamforth, traitor to your friend’s confided love,” . . . . and he turned upon me fiercely with flashing eye and clenched fist, and all his wrath surged to his lips and he would have gladly poured it out on me.
“Nay, George, I have not said my say,” Mary broke in. “Yo’ have told me yo’ loved me, and when first I knew you I think I could have been easy won to love. But you were here when Ben Walker told how Long Tom had outraged me. Yo’ heard every word he said, and I grant yo’ you talked big. But what did you do? The girl yo’ woo’d for your bride told her tale, and yo’—yo’ made a speech and went home to bed, leaving to another arm to wreak the punishment you only threatened. My love, such as it was, died that night, that was the icy breath that killed it, and from that night I have almost loathed myself that ever I wasted a tender thought on you. But go, leave this house, your mind should be on other things than love. I ask no questions. But if my fears are true, it is of making your peace with an offended Maker you should be thinking, and crying for mercy rather than suing for love.”
“You have had your answer, George,” I said, as Mary hastened from the room leaving us confronting each other.
“Aye, I have had my answer. Yo’ have stolen my love from me, yo’r desertion will wreck our cause, and now, finish what tha has begun, go to Justice Radcliffe, tell him George Mellor did not sleep at his father’s house last night, put the bloodhounds of the law upon my track, and when tha draws the price of blood make a merry wedding for thissen an’ th’ lass tha’s stolen to lay her head upon thi false an’ perjured heart!”
And he waxed me off as I strode towards him, and made with quick step across the yard, and for many months I saw George Mellor no more.
Horsfall’s death had an effect just the opposite to that expected by the Luds. It did not bring the masters to their knees: on the contrary it hardened and united them. It did not embolden the Luddites; rather they became alarmed at their own extremes. A reward was offered for the discovery of those concerned in the attack on Rawfolds, and a large sum, three thousand pounds, if my memory serves me, was put together by the millowners and given to Mr. Cartwright to mend his windows and to reward his pluck. Another reward, of two thousand pounds, was offered by the Government to anyone, not the actual murderer, who should betray to justice those who had shot Mr. Horsfall. Justice Radcliffe never rested. The least rumour that reached his ear was sufficient to justify an arrest, and no one knew when it would be his turn to be summoned to Milnsbridge House and have an ugly half–hour in the sweating room where the magistrate examined the men, women and children he hauled before him. I do not know what warrant Justice Radcliffe had for such examinations—probably none. But, then, how were ignorant folk, half frightened out of their wits, to know this; or if they knew it, how was their knowledge to serve them? To refuse to answer would be construed as a sure sign of guilty knowledge, if not of actual partnership: so people made themselves as gaumless as they could, and when driven into a corner lied like blacks.
The manufacturers who felt themselves or their goods in danger took heart. All eyes at this time were fixed on Marsden. Enoch and James Taylor, who made the new cropping frames, were looked upon as marked men, and Woodbottom mill was fortified as if for a siege; soldiers sleeping in the mill at night.
“Arthur Hirst’s a main clever chap,” said ’Siah, with unwilling admiration.
Arthur Hirst was the engineer at Woodbottom.
“How so, ’Siah?” I asked.
“Why mon he’s laid a trap for th’ Luds ’at ’ll give ’em what for, if they pay a visit to th’ Bottom. It’s like th’ owd nominy, ’walk into my garden said th’ arrunder to th’ flea.’”
“What’s the’ trap, ’Si?”
“Why he leaves a door open that leads ovver th’ wheel race; an’ there’s a false flure ovver th’ race, an’ if anybody wer’ to walk ovver it, it ’ud give way an’ souse into th’ race he’d go. Then up wi’ t’ shuttle, in with th’ watter, an’ in a jiffy th’ wheel ’ud be turnin’ an’ hauf–a–dozen Luds turnin’ wi’ it, if so be as they be so obligin’ as to walk into th’ trap.”
But no one did. Woodbottom was not attacked. The midnight raids became rare, and then ceased, and people went about saying the power of the Luds was broken and that we should hear no more of them. For my part I asked for nothing better.
Mary was true to her promise. She went to Low Moor and returned with Faith, a paler, thinner, sadder Faith. And Mary was very kind to her, very gentle with her, which surprised me not a little, for more than once she had been somewhat waspish whenever I had spoken of John’s sister. But all that was past and over, and Mary and Faith seemed as thick as thieves. They slept in the same bed, and would go about the place with arms about each other’s waists—a pretty picture: Mary in her blue print, with rosy cheeks and plump figure, and dancing eye and saucy speech; Faith in a plain close fitting dress of some black stuff, pale and pensive, with many a sigh and at times a tear of chastened sorrow when her mind fled back to the brother she had lost.
Of George Mellor we never spoke, though he was not long absent from the minds of any one of us. Mary put me on my guard.
“Yo’ thought, Ben, ’at Faith wer’ sweet on yo’!”
I made haste to disclaim the impeachment.
“Now it’s no use lying, Ben, yo’ six feet o’ vanity that ye’ are. An’ what’s more yo’ were wi’in an ace o’ bein’ i’ love wi’ her.”
I vowed by all my gods that this was false.
“Oh, yo’ may swear as hard as yo’ like; but aw know ye’, Ben. Yo’d gotten into yo’r head ’at it wer’ yo’r mission i’ life to look after folk i’ general an’ they’d nowt to do but look ailin’ an’ pinin’ as if they couldn’t stick up for theirsen, an’ yo’ wer’ ready to tak’ them an’ their trouble on them big shoulders o’ yo’rn. That wer’ th’ way thi vanity showed itsen.”
“I was sorry for Faith, Mary. But bein’ sorry an bein’ i’ love ’s two different things.”
“Pity’s o’ kin to love,” quoted Mary. “An’ aw tell ye’, wi’ precious little encouragement an’ th’ chapter o’ accidents helpin’, yo’d ha’ been sprawling at Faith’s little feet, an ’ud ha’ gone to yo’r grave believin’ yo’d loved her sin’ first yo’ set eyes on her.”
“And who was it taught me the difference atween love and pity, Mary?” I asked.
“How should I know and why should I care quoth Mary.
“No voice has ever told me, Mary, but the voice of my own heart; no words that maid e’er spoke, but a pair of arms around my neck and a maid’s kiss upon my brow.”
“Then if that’s all yo’r warrant, I’d ‘vise yo’ not to be over certain on it. There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup ’an the lip, an’ a woman doesn’t like a felly to be too sure.”
“Nay, if yo’d have me plead on,” I began and asked nothing better than to say my say; but Mary had ever a way of slipping from my grasp.
“Do yo’ think I’ve nowt better to do nor listenin’ to this nonsense? We wer’ talkin’ about Faith, an’ how we wandered off aw’ cannot tell.”
“Well what of Faith?”
“Aw tell yo’, Ben, Faith thought more of George Mellor’s little finger nor of all yo’r big body. Aye an’ still thinks. He’s her hero. Her brother stuffed her head wi’ such a pack o’ nonsense that she thinks George the finest man that ever lived, and yo’ not much better nor a coward for deserting him. She frets because he doesn’t come here, and there’s no tellin’ what mak’ o’ folly her silly fancy mayn’t lead her to.”
“But George cares nowt for her,” I said.
“What’s that to do wi’ it? Let a felly go sighing an’ pinin’ after a wench—an’ it’s long odds she’ll laugh i’ his long face. Let him seem beyond her reach an’ it’s just as likely she’ll break her heart longing for him.”
“Does she know about Horsfall?”
“Of course she does.”
“What, all?”
“Aye, all. I took care she should.”
“Well?”
“Well, she doesn’t believe a word of it.”
CHAPTER XI.
MAY came, sweet, fair and smiling. The crops bade fair to be good, and we looked forward to hay–making time with every assurance of a rich harvest. Everything was quiet as quiet could be. Of George I saw nothing at all. True I did not seek him, rather I shrank from meeting him. Our household settled down into its accustomed ways, and, such is the elasticity of the human mind, I began to look back upon the winter months as a troubled dream, only an occasional twinge in my right arm giving me a sharp reminder of the days I slung a hammer and pounded at the massive door of Rawfolds. I was wondrous happy. Health returned to my frame like the sap to the branch, and my heart was filled with all the sweet delight of love given and returned. There was no troth plighted as yet between Mary and me, but there grew up between us an unspoken acknowledgment of our love that bettered words. Faith was still with us, and as the weeks grew to months her melancholy melted away and a pensive content took its place. You did not find her singing like a lark, carolling the live–long day, as you did Mary, but there was about her an air of serene restfulness and calm that won all our hearts. With Mr. Webster she was an especial favourite, and she began, to his great delight, to teach a class in the Sunday school at Powle Moor. Faith was a rare scholar, tho’ not, of course, learned in foreign tongues like John had been. She could write a beautiful hand and draw beautiful designs of birds and flowers and faces, which she wove in a marvellous way into the flourishes in her copy–books. And her figures and summing were like print. She taught the girls at the Powle to read and write, and she taught them so well that the boys rose in revolt and demanded that they too should join Miss Booth’s class. It was a sight to see her leaving chapel of a Sunday afternoon. The scholars, boys and girls both, would wait till service was done that they might walk homewards with Miss Faith, and it was as sweet a sight as ever gladdened the eye of man to see her crossing the fields by the narrow lanes through the waving, nodding, rustling grass, that now began to sigh its own dirge, for hay–time drew near, a crowd of children in her train, a toddling urchin on either side clutching with chubby hand the folds of her skirt, and an advanced guard of sturdy lads marching on in front prepared to face imaginary lions and tigers in defence of their beloved teacher. Little Joe Gledhill and Jim Sugden fought a battle royal on Wimberlee because Faith had kissed Joe, whereas she had only given a lollipop to Jim, and on the strength of the kiss Joe went about bragging that when he was a man he should wed Faith and live happy ever after, the envy of all the boys in Slaithwaite, Lingards and Outlane.
Wonders never cease. At this time Soldier Jack turned religious, and began to be very constant in his attendance at Powle Moor, and there was much rejoicing in the camp of the godly over this brand plucked from the burning. Of a surety there is more rejoicing over one sinner that is saved than over ninety and nine righteous men. And Jack announced his resolve to forswear sack and live cleanly. He took a little cottage in the village, which he minded himself, and it was a picture of cleanliness, tho’ it was not over stocked with furniture. You should have seen Jack polishing his fender, pipe–claying he called it.
There was a stormy scene, folk said, between him and Widow Walker, the buxom landlady of the Black Bull, the day Jack paid his last shot and announced his resolve to frequent that hostelry no more. The lady wept and stormed and even threatened Jack with the terrors of the law; but Jack was adamant.
“Dost think awn goin’ to tak’ up wi’ that owd swill–tub’s leavin’s?” Jack asked when I questioned him as to his rupture with the hostess of the Black Bull.
“Yo’ used to crack on her famous,” I replied. “Ah! that wer’ i’ mi salat days, Ben, an’ aw’ll thank yo’ not to throw them days of darkness i’ mi face.”
“But what’s converted yo, Soldier?” I asked.
“Parson Webster.”
“H…m”
“Aye, tha may h…m, that’s ever the way wi’ scoffer’s an’ unbelievers. Aw tell yo’ th’ little man’s getten th’ reight end o’ th’ stick an’ owd Chew at th’ church isn’t fit to fasten th’ latchet o’ his shoes, as th’ Book says: an’ if tha thinks contrariwise I’ll feight thee for it big as tha art.”
“That’s what they call muscular Christianity,” I said.
“An’ a very good sort, too,” quoth Jack.
Anyhow a great change had undoubtedly come over the man, and none of us was surprised when he broached to my father and mother his schemes for establishing himself in life.
“It’s about time, Mrs. Bamforth, aw settled dahn. Aw’ve had mi fling an’ sown mi wild oats, an’ nah it’s time aw turned mi hand to a reg’lar job.”
“Yo’ should get wed,” said my mother, very promptly.
“Would yo’ reilly advise me so, maam?” asked Jack.
“Indeed aw should an’ th’ sooner the better.”
“Aw dunnot see as how I can afford.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks, what ’ll keep one ’ll keep two, an’ God never sends mouths but he sends meat.”
“That’s cheering anyhow. But don’t yo’ think awm too old, Mrs. Bamforth?”
“An’ what age may yo’ be, if aw may make so bold?”
“Well yo’ see awm noan rightly sure. But put it at forty–two or three, an’ a gamey leg to boot.”
“Limps dunnot run i’ fam’lies,” replied my mother with conviction. “There was that lad o’ Crowthers ’at fell off a scaffold twenty foot high an’ had to be taken to th’ ’Firmary at Leeds, an’ came back wi’out his arm an’ went about wi’ th’ left sleeve o’ his jacket pinned across his chest an’ wed Kerenhappuch Hoyle, which aw shall allers say were no name to give a Christian woman, tho’ Mr. Webster did say it meant ‘the horn of beauty’: an’ yet when th’ first child came, an’ Kerenhappuch that anxious as never was an’ not knowing for certain whether to mak th’ long clo’es wi’ one sleeve or two, it had two as fine arms as ever yo’d wish to see on a babe. So it’s clear arms isn’t like squints, which it’s well known run i’ families same as bald heads, an’ it stan’s to reason if arms dunnot legs winnot, not to name a bit of a limp.”
“That seems to settle it,” admitted Jack.
“An’ han yo’ fixed yo’r mind on anyone particler, Jack? Awm sure yo’n ta’en time enough, an’ reason enough too you should. Marry i’ haste an’ repent at leisure’s God’s truth, an’ aw’ve no patience wi’ young folk weddin’ ’at could awmost go to th’ hedge an’ see their nippins.”
“Nay, ma’am,” said the foxy warrior, “In so weighty a matter aw thowt it best to seek advice, and who can counsel me better nor yo’rsen.”
“Aw thank yo’ for the compliment, Soldier, Aw will say that it’s th’ army for puttin’ a polish on a man if he do get but little moss. All i’ good time for th’ moss. An yo’ll be lookin’ maybe for a tidy body wi’ summot o’ her own put bye. A decent, quiet, God–fearing, steady woman, that could manage a house an’ make yo’ comfortable. There’s Betty Lumb, now, o’ th’ Town End. She’s pretty warm, I’ll be bun, for she spends nowt.”
“‘Why she’s forty, ma’am, if she’s a month, an’ wi’ a tongue like a flail.”
“An’ what age might yo’ be thinkin’ on, Soldier?” asked my mother with asperity, suspicion in her voice.
“Well, aw haven’t fixed to a year or two, but she mun be younger nor that. Else what about discipline, ma’am, what about discipline? ‘Discipline must be maintained,’ the Duke always said, and, zounds, I agree with him.”
And Jack made his escape leaving my mother the agreeable task of turning over in her mind all the single women of middle age for miles around, weighing their merits and by no means unmindful of their failings.
With my father Jack’s converse was on sterner matters. It seemed the Soldier was not without a little money laid by, and he was anxious to engage his modest capital in some enterprise in which his want of experience, would not be fatal. Farming he rejected with little consideration as being too tame a pursuit, tho’ Mr. Webster, who was also taken into council, pointed out the excellency of beating the sword into a plowshare and the spear into a pruning hook.
Jack’s doubts were, as often happens to man, rather solved for him than by him. Say what folk will, Rawfolds was not attacked nor Horsfall shot in vain. Those two events pleaded harder with our masters in Parliament than Mr. Brougham. They were arguments that could not be resisted. In June of that year, on the 18th to be exact, the Orders in Council were repealed, and our Valley and all the West Riding was soon busy with the stir of a revived industry. It was as tho’ we breathed free after the weight and pressure of a long nightmare. The markets briskened at once, as tho’ under a fairy’s touch. Men went about shaking each other by the hand and with glad smiles upon their faces and in their eyes. The idle looms began to click, the roads were again busy as of yore with the traffic of great waggons departing laden and returning empty of their load. The canal began to be used freely for the carriage of piles of pieces. We could not make goods fast enough. The ports were once more open, and it seemed as if, all the world over, the nations were crying for our goods. It was as if the waters of commerce, frozen and banked up, had been thawed by a sudden heat and hounded forth in tumultuous volume. The church bells all over the Riding rang out the glad news. The manufacturers of our parts had a great dinner at the Cherry Tree and many another hostelry besides, and for the first time in my life and the last, I saw my father overcome by strong waters. He held down his head many a day at after before the awful face of my mother.
We shared in this great outburst of glorious sunshine. Our house was filled with pieces that my mother had vowed could have no other end than to be eaten by moths and rats. They found now a ready market, and the cry was still for more. We were all as busy as Thropp’s wife from morning till night. I could not be spared from my own loom and from the warping and seeing to the bunting and country work. And so it came about that Jack went with my father on one of his rounds and proved himself so apt at cozening customers and became so great a favourite with the farmers’ wives that came to buy suit lengths, that he was in time deemed fit to be trusted with a load on his own account. He bought a horse and waggon, established a round of his own, where he wouldn’t clash with us, purchased his goods for the most part of us, and in a smallish way began to build a business, and laid the foundations of a thriving trade for his son and his son’s son.
But with it all Soldier ever delighted to spend his nights at Holme and his Sundays at Powle Moor. I soon found he wanted none of my company. He had eyes only for Faith. He would talk to Faith by the hour of the singular virtues and the unparalleled learning of poor John, and that was a theme Faith never wearied of. What a saint, what a hero, what a philosopher they made of him between them! I only hope Jack believed half of what he said: else, there was a heavy account scoring against him somewhere.
We were all very happy during those months of summer and early autumn, lulled in a false security. We might have known that sooner or later the authorities were bound to get the information for which they never ceased to seek. In the middle of October it was rumoured in the market that George Mellor and Ben Walker had been arrested by Justice Radcliffe, but after a few hours detention had been released for lack of evidence. I breathed freely after this, and itched to go to George and hear all he had to tell. But I had to bite my thumb and wait, for, apart altogether from the coolness between George and me, it would never have done to be seen in his company just then. Still it was something to know that the police could make out no case against him and Walker, and we all felt that was more than a little in our favour. Then, like a bolt from the blue, came a piece of news in the “Leeds Mercury.” Mr. Webster was the first to tell us of it, for we did not, at Holme, see the daily paper till after Mr. Mellor the schoolmaster had done with it, he and my father joining at the cost of it. I have the paper still before me as I write, tho’ it is now yellow with age and hangs together very loosely and it is worn through at the creases. I may as well copy out what Mr. Webster read to us, and you may judge for yourself what a flustration it threw us into:
“A man has been taken up and examined by that indefatigable magistrate, Joseph Radcliffe, Esq., and has given the most complete and satisfactory evidence of the murder of Mr. Horsfall. The villains accused have been frequently examined before.”—I never heard of but once—”but have always been discharged for want of sufficient evidence. The man charged behaved with the greatest effrontery till he saw the informer, when he changed colour and gasped for breath. When he came out of the room after hearing, the informer’s evidence, he exclaimed ‘Damn that fellow, he has done me.’ It appears that this man and another have been the chief in all the disgraceful transactions that have occurred in this part of the country, especially at Rawfolds. This will lead to many more apprehensions.”
When he had read this aloud Mr. Webster handed the paper to me, and I read the bit he pointed out to me again and again, for I was too stunned to take the sense of it in at first. The paragraph referred to the murderers of Mr. Horsfall. Well, I was clear of that at all events. You see my first thoughts were of myself and my own neck. It is no use pretending to be different from what I am, and I may as well confess that my first feeling was one of relief that the murderers of Mr. Horsfall only were indicated by the paragraph. But the feeling was short–lived. If Walker, for of course it must be Walker, it never entered my mind to question that, if Walker had told about the murder of Horsfall, would he hold his tongue about other matters. And if he told about the doings at Rawfolds, how many weeks purchase was my life worth. “This will lead to many more apprehensions.” These words stood out and stared me in the face, and I broke out into a cold sweat and my hand trembled as I gave the paper back to Mr. Webster.
What was to be done? My father was all for flight, but Mr. Webster thought that would be of little use, for, said he, six feet two are not so easy hid as three feet one. He should like to see Ben Walker’s father, who was or had been one of his deacons, and learn from him the exact truth of the matter. But he was fearful lest he should bungle the business, being as he said little used to the subtleties of the law and having a fatal habit of being prodigal in the matter of the truth.
“There’s Soldier,” said my father, who had unbounded confidence in our new foreman’s resources, and who also probably felt that whatever qualms Jack might feel about parsimony in the matter in which the parson was prodigal he would be able to overcome.
“But Jack’s in it knee deep,” I objected.
“He’ll wade out,” said my father. And Jack was fetched from the scourhole, and came in with his arms bare and sweating from the steam, and smelling abominably of lant.
The paragraph was read to him.
“Phew! so George is nabbed. Well he’ll noan split aw hope.”
“‘It appears that the man and another have been the chief in all the disgraceful transactions that have occurred in this part of the country, especially at Rawfolds’ read Mr. Webster again. ‘The man and another . . . . especially at Rawfolds?’ You see the betrayal has not been confined to the murder of that unfortunate but headstrong man—‘The man and another.’ Who can the other be?”