I looked at Soldier and Soldier looked at me.
“That’ll be me,” said Jack.
“Nay, me,” I said
And the silence of dismay fell upon us all.
“Nay,” said the good parson at length, and never did dying absolution from priestly lips bring more comfort to a penitent—“Nay, that can hardly be. This paper was published in Leeds yesterday morning. The information must have been in the possession of Mr. Radcliffe for some days. If either of you had been implicated you would have been under arrest ere this.”
I breathed again.
“Well, Jack, what do yo’ say?” asked my father.
“Say? Well aw say I’m noan goin’ to be kept on th’ tenterhooks. Awm goin’ to know all at is to be known. I’m goin’ to reconnoitre. They can’t hang me for a spy, any road, an’ that’s what they nearly did in Spain. Just yo’ cower quiet, Ben. I’m off to th’ Brig. There’ll be more known there. Just you leave it to me; an’ I’ll be back wi’ my budget bi th’ afternoon drinkin.”
And Jack set off without parley, and left us to our anxieties.
He was back by four o’clock. Mr. Webster had been in and out half a dozen times, having passed the afternoon in reading the Scriptures with a distraught air at the houses of those of his flock who lived at Upper and Lower Holme.
Jack’s face was very sober when he came into the house and found us waiting, Mary and Faith with us, for I had not thought it necessary to hide from them the serious aspect of our affairs, and we had all gone about all day, my mother declared, as if we had th’ bailiffs in, which to her mind was far worse than a death.
“It’s Walker’s split, sure enough,” said Jack coming to the point at once. “Him an’ Bill Hall. George Mellor and Thorpe and Smith have been taken and sent off to York under guard. That’s for Horsfall’s job they say. John Walker, Ben’s own brother, ‘s pinched for Rawfolds. So’s Jon’than Dean an’ Tom Brook an’ two or three others, but I couldn’t reightly find out who an’ how many more. But there’s no gainsayin’ them. An’ more nor likely there’s more to folly. When aw got to th’ Brigg there wer’ a crowd round Buck Walker’s house, booin’ an’ callin’ out ‘black sheep, black sheep.’ But that’ll do no gooid. There wer’ some o’ those new constables at Mr. Radcliffe’s brought up i’ th’ front o’ th’ house, an’ bar a stone or two thrown at th’ windows no harm wer done. Aw made mi way in, an’ gate a word wi’ Mrs. Walker, Ben’s mother.”
“But George—where was he taken? Cannot yo’ tell us more of him?”
Jack glanced covertly at Faith. She sat with fingers tight interlaced upon her knee. Her eyes were fixed on Soldier, wide dilated. Her lips were parted, and she scarce breathed.
“Oh, tell us of George,” she sighed rather than spoke.
“He wer’ ta’en at th’ shop. He wer’ workin’ with th’ shears, an’ like as not thinkin’ o’ nowt so little as th’ sodjers. They’d come up, about six on ’em, very quiet, an’ owd Radcliffe hissen wer’ with ’em wi’t officer wi’ th’ warrant. Radcliffe come reight up to th’ door as bold as brass afore anyone i’side wer’ aware on him, an’ Ben Walker wer’ wi’ him. Ben sidles into th’ shop, an’ George turns to speak to him but his eye fell o’ Mr. Radcliffe stood i’ th’ door way.”
‘Hows a wi’ yo, George?’ says Ben, an’ holds out his hand.
“But George took it all in in a jiffy, an’ he maks a spring at Ben, an’ they say he’d ha’ run his shears into him if he’d got at him. But th’ chap wi’ th’ warrant rushes for’ard an’ th’ soldiers run in at a word fra Mr. Radcliffe. ‘Judas,’ hissed George, and fixed his eyes on Ben an’ nivver took them off him while they put th’ darbies on him an’ Thorpe ’at wer’ taken at th’ same time. ‘Judas, yo’ cursed Judas!’ and Walker cowered behind th’ stout owd magistrate like th’ cur at he is. But, quick, look to Faith.”
Mary and my mother sprang to Faith’s side, and Mary caught her in her arms as she was falling unconscious to the ground. The poor lass had swooned away. Jack supported her to the parlour, and laid her on the horsehair sofa and my mother and Mary busied themselves in bringing her round.
“Drat me for a tactless fool,” said Jack, when he returned to the kitchen. “Aw cannot ha’ th’ wit aw wer’ born wi’ to be ramblin’ on like that an’ her there. Well, well, it’s a pity her heart’s so set yonder, for awm feart her thowt’s ’ll be where her eyes ’ll nivver rest again.” And for a long time Jack could not be moved to continue his story. It was only when Mary returned to say that Faith was quite recovered, and that the mother would stay with her in the parlour that he went on:
“George wer’ game to th’ last, an’ Thorpe, they say, wer’ just as unconcerned as if he wer’ used to bein’ charged wi’ murder every day o’ his life. When they thrust ’em into th’ coach they had i’ waitin’, George raised his hand as well as he could for th’ irons, an’ called out, ‘Three cheers for General Lud.’ But th’ crowd wer’ fleyed to death. A lad or two in th’ throng cried out i’ answer, an’ a woman waved her shawl, but everyone feart to be seen takin’ his part, an’ folk ’at had known him fra a lad held back fra him same as if he’d getten th’ small–pox.”
“Oh! the cowards, the heartless, ungrateful wretches!” cried Mary with flashing eyes. “I wish I’d been there. I’d have, stood by him if his own mother had disowned him!” And I have no doubt Mary would have been as good as her words.
“Well and then?” said my father to prod on Soldier, who seemed to have only half his heart in the story, for he kept his eyes fixed on the door of the parlour, and seemed to be listening with all his ears for what might be passing within.
“Well, they hustled him off wi’ a clatter, th’ soldiers mounted their horses, three o’ each side o’ th’ coach, an’ off i’ a gallop to Leeds on their way to York. Ther’ wer’ more dragoons waiting for them by th’ Brigg for they feared a rescue, but, Lord bless yo’, when they’d getten George they’d gotten all th’ heart an’ all th’ pluck to be fun’ wi’ in a mile o’ th’ Brigg. A rescue say yo’? A swarm o’ rats not worth feightin’ for. That’s my judgment on ’em all.”
“But you saw Mrs. Walker yo’ said?” queried my father. “Had yo’ no speech wi’ Ben?”
“Nay, they took good care o’ that. Owd Radcliffe has him safe enough, an’ he’ll noan let him slip aat o’ his clutches till he’s kept his bargain an’ put th’ noose round George’s neck. He’s to be ta’en, they say, to Chester, an’ kept theer till th’ York ’sizes. They’ll noan gi’ th’ Luds a chance o’ stoppin’ his mouth wi’ an ounce o’ lead, worse luck. For awm noan so sure aw wouldn’t ha’ a try at him misen.”
“And what had his mother to say?”
“Oh! lots. A cunning, contrary bitch, that aw sud say so! There’s no wonder Ben Walker wer’ what he wer’ wi’ a dam like yon, whinin’ an’ quotin’ th’ Scriptures, enough to mak a man turn atheist.”
“But what did she say?”
“Oh! I cannot burden mi mind wi’ all ’oo said, about it bein’ th’ Lord’s will, an’ submission to th’ ways of th’ A’mighty, reg’lar blasphemy aw call it, callin’ in religion to cover up a piece o’ as damned rascality as ever wer’ done by man. But there’s something aw munnot forget. It concerns thee, Mary.”
“Me! what can she have to say to me.”
“That’s what aw wanted to get at. But ’oo’d noan send any word bi me. She particler wanted to know if ther’ wer’ owt ’atween yo’ an’ Ben here.”
Mary flushed and tossed her head.
“The impudence o’ some folk,” she said.
“Aw axed her what business that wer’ o hers’ an’ towd her aw thowt ’oo’d best turn her thowts to prayin’ for that scamp o’ a son o’ hers. But ’oo stuck to her guns. ’Oo wants to see thee, Mary.”
“’Oo may want,” said Mary.
“Well it’s for yo’ to judge. She made out it mut be waur for Ben here if tha didn’t go.”
“Mary ’ll noan go near such like wi’ my consent,” I cried.
“Whativver can th’ woman want?” mused Mary. “Aw’ve a good mind…. Ben Walker’s away to Chester yo’ say? For good an’ all?”
“Aye, they’ll keep him fast enough yo’ may rest content.”
“I’ve a good mind…,” continued Mary. “Waur for our Ben, did she say? I’ll go.”
“Yo’ll do nowt o’ th’ sort!” I said.
“An’ since when wer’ yo’ mi mester, cousin Ben?” she asked. “I’st go and aunt ’ll mebbe go wi’ me.”
“Not an inch,” snapped my mother, who had left Faith in a great measure composed “Aw’d be poisoned if aw’ breathed th’ same air.”
“Then aw’st go by misen. Yo’ can see me to th’ Brigg, Ben, if tha likes. But I’ll hear what ’oo has to say. She cannot harm me, an I’st happen get to know something that may help us.”
“Mary’s right,” said Soldier. “My word, Ben, thee’s getten thi mester,” he whispered to me on the sly.
But it has been a sweet thraldom. When Mary had made up her mind she was not one to let the grass grow under her feet, and the very next evening she told me to get me dressed if I meant to go with her to th’ Brigg. So off we set together by Kitchen Fold, over Crossland Moor, past the plantation where Mr. Horsfall had been shot, and so dropped down into th’ Brigg. I pointed out to Mary the marks of the bullets on the wall on the road side opposite the little wood; but Mary shivered and drew her shawl tighter about her and hurried on, casting frightened glances at the clump of trees and bush as if she feared to see a ghost. She would not let me go with her to Walker’s, bidding me meet her in an hour’s time on the Brigg and be ready to company her back. So I thought I might as well comfort myself with a glass at th’ Nag’s Head. It was not so long since that the landlord would have fussed about me as I drank my ale and offered me a treat. But now, as I sat aloof from the little company and took my drink, he talked pointedly to the other customers about the honest way he had always kept his house, saying he would have neither Luds nor their brass at th’ Nag’s Head and their room was better nor their company. But I would not be hurried for the likes of him, and called for another gill and made it last out my hour just to spite him.
Mary did not keep me waiting long on th’ Brigg, and fain I was to be off, for little knots of people were clustered in the street and many a look was cast at me, not over friendly; and faces that I knew well enough looked stonily at me, and one or two that knew me well enough, and to whom I gave the day, made as tho’ they did not know me from Adam. It was plain as a pike–staff that the folk at th’ Brigg were fleyed out of their wits of being suspected of having ought to do with the Luds. They altered their tune later on, when th’ first panic had passed, but for a week or two after George and Thorpe were taken every man was on his best behaviour, and a good many lived in hourly fear and trembling.
Be sure, then, we did not loiter in Longroyd Bridge. There was nothing there to tempt us to stay, and Mary was in a greater hurry to be gone than even I. She was very pale. She had had no spirits to talk of since we had heard George was taken, but now she was more down nor ever. Not a word spoke she right up th’ moor till we got to th’ top and turned round to look on th’ town lying at our feet. She was panting for breath, and I drew her to the roadside and made her sit upon the wall. There was nobody about, and the early night of late autumn had closed in. I tried to steal my arm about her waist, tho’ Mary was ever coy of suffering any such show of my love. But she put away my arm very gently—”Yo mustn’t do that again, Ben. It’s all ovver now. We’n had our dream, an’ it’s been a sweet ‘un. But I’ve had a rude wakening, an’ it’s all ovver, it’s all ovver.” And Mary hid her face in her hands and bent over as she sat, and tears trickled from under her hands down upon her lap.
I let her be, and she wept silently. Then she sprang to her feet and dried her eyes and tried to smile and would have had me take the road again; but I would not budge, and she had to sit by my side. The road was quiet enough, and what mattered it if all the world saw us? We’d as much right there as anyone.
“Now, Mary, tell me, like a sensible lass, what it all means.”
Mary did not speak to me. I saw she was considering so I did not hurry her. I was getting used to the ways of women. There’s nought like loving and courting for teaching a man th’ way to handle ’em, tho’ they’re kittle cattle to shoe at the’ best o’ times.
“There’s summat aw hannot told thee, Ben. Happen aw should ha’ done.”
“Aw think aw can guess it.”
“Tha nivver can.”
“Is it about Ben Walker?”
Mary nodded.
“Martha towd me.”
“Oh!”
There was a look passed over Mary’s face which I took to mean that Martha would have a piece of Mary’s mind first chance that offered.
“Well?” I said.
“Well, of course, I’d ha’ nowt to do wi’ him.”
“Aw should think not,” I said, moving a little closer to her.
“And at first he thowt aw’d promised George.”
“That comes fra not knowin’ thi own mind.” Mary drew further off.
“I told him so misen,” I said.
Mary sprang up as if she’d been shot.
“Yo’ did?”
“Aw did.”
“Then yo’ve a deal to answer for, Ben Bamforth. His mother says that’s what made him peach on George.”
“The devil!” I said, and there was silence, and we sat thinking our own thoughts.
“It wer’ happen my fault,” said Mary at last, sitting down again. “Anyway it’s no use quarrelling about it.”
“Nor crying over spilt milk,” I said.
“But that’s not th’ worst on it by a long chalk,” said Mary.
“Well, let’s hear it?”
“She’s a horrid woman, that Mrs. Walker. Just like an owd witch, an’ such wicked, wicked eyes, a peerin’ at yo’ an’ a peerin’ at yo’, an’ wantin’ to stroke yo’r hair like as if yo’ wer’ a cat. But aw’ll begin at th’ beginnin’.”
“That’s th’ best way,” I said, and my arm now was where it should be, and Mary reckoned not to know. I’d looked up th’ road an’ down th’ road an’ nobody was coming.
“When aw got in, ’oo dusted a chair wi her apron, an’ not afore it wanted it. Th’ house wer’ like a pig–stye. But I sat down, an’ ’oo stood afore me an’ looked me up an’ down same as if ’oo wer’ vallyin’ me. ‘Aw hope yo’ll know me again next time yo’ see me, an’ that won’t be soon if I’ve my way’ aw thowt, but said nowt.
‘An’ so yo’r Mary o’ Mally’s?’ ’oo said at last.
‘At yo’r service,’ aw said.
‘Yo’re not much to look at,’ ’oo said.
‘Thank yo’ kindly,’ aw answered as polite as never were.
‘But yar Ben’s a reight to ha’ his own way now he’s a gentleman.’
‘A what?’ aw cried.
‘A gentleman. A real gentleman at can ha’ th’ pick o’ th’ country side. He’s nowt to do but howd up his finger naa. It’ll be whistle an’ aw’ll come to yo’, mi lad.’
‘He’s altered strangely,’ aw said.
‘Aye, two thousand p’un’ does mak’ a differ,’ says th’ owd hag.
“And then aw remembered about th’ notice in th’ paper.
‘It’ll do him no good,’ aw says. ‘It’s blood money. There’ll be a curse on it.’
‘It’s good gold, lass!’ ’oo says. ‘Good gold, leastways it will be when th’ ’sizes is ovver. An then yar Ben’s off to ‘Meriky, an’ nowt ’ll suit him but yo’ mun go wi’ him.’
‘Then he’ll noan be suited,’ aw says.
‘Hoity–toity, mi fine wench,’ ’oo cries. ‘Don’t thee be too sure o’ that. Yo’r happen thinkin’ o’ ta’in up wi’ Ben Bamforth. Leastways that’s what yar Ben heerd just afore he wer’ off to Chester. That’s what aw’ve sent for yo’ for.’
‘What’s it to him, who aw wed?’ I asked, but aw wer’ all of a tremble.
‘It’s this. It’ll be yar Ben or nobody sin he’s set on it. ‘See her yoursen, mother,’ he said, an’ these were awmost his last words afore he set off wi’ Justice Radcliffe, two gentlemen together. ‘See her yo’rsen, an’ tell her that th’ same tongue ’at’s teed a rope round George Mellor’s neck can tee’ one round Ben Bamforth’s, an’ will too, unless she speaks the word that’ll stop my mouth.’ Now, what’s ta say, mi fine lass?’
“And what could I say, Ben,” sobbed Mary, hiding her face on my shoulder. “Aw saw she meant it. She gay’ me a month to think on it, an’ if aw don’t say yes ’oo swears Ben Walker ’ll give thee up to th’ law, an’ it’s a hangin’ job, sure an’ certain.”
“What did yo’ say, Mary?”
“At first I towd her aw wouldn’t wed their Ben if there weren’t another man i’ all England. Aw’d rayther wed a toad, aw said, an’ aw meant it. But oh, Ben, tha’rt i’ their power, an’ aw’m noan worth hangin’ for. And what would yo’ have me do, Ben? Aw mun tell her in a month.”
“There’s one thing tha shalln’t do,” I cried. “Aw’d rayther hang a million times ovver nor tha should ha’ a thing like him. Let her do her worst. Not if it would save me from ten thousand times ten thousand base deaths shall Ben Walker call thee wife. That aw’m fixed on. What say’st ta, Mary?”
“Eh, awm fair moithered, Ben. Aw know this, if wed him I must aw’ll mak’ a hole i’ th’ cut th’ same neet,” and Mary sobbed again.
And I declare that I was happier whilst I soothed her and whispered words of bye and pressed kisses on her cheek and lips than ever before. For never till then had I realized to the full all the sweet privileges of our love.
CHAPTER XII.
I HAD got my affairs into, a pretty tangle, and for the life of me I could not see my way out of the mess. I lived in daily terror of arrest. I was not even supported by what appeals so strongly to a young man’s vanity—popular good–will. When a man gets older he comes to esteem the applause of the world at its proper worth, largely indifferent to it and content if happily he can be assured of the good–will of his own conscience. But even the poor solace of the public voice was just now denied the poor Luds. The murder of Mr. Horsfall had revolted the general mind. So I found myself quaking at every step that approached the door when I kept the house, and met with looks averted or openly hostile when I took my walks abroad, which was not oftener than needs must be. Then there was that diabolic threat of Ben o’ Buck’s, which I had no reason to hope he would not make good. I could not essay to save my own skin by counselling Mary to have Ben Walker. Even had I not loved her myself I could scarce have brought her to that. Add to this the reflection that, innocently and honestly enough, I had probably been the means of drawing upon George Mellor’s head the spiteful hatred of the traitor by giving him to believe that it was a made up thing between Mary and George. I tell you I could neither eat nor sleep these days for thinking of all these matters. And Mary looked worn and ill. The rose’s began to fade from her cheeks, she had scarce a word to throw at a dog, and as the days grew to weeks her gloom deepened and misery showed more plain upon her face.
I took counsel of ’Siah. I was in such straits that I could have found it in my heart to seek wisdom from the town fool. ’Siah had a short cut out of the whole perplexity.
“Yo’ mun get untwisted, Ben,” said ’Si.
“What’s untwisted?” I asked.
“I cannot tell wher’ yo’r wits are these days,” said ’Siah impatiently. “Theer tha sits by th’ fireside, counting th’ co’wks’ an’ glowerin’ into th’ ass–hoil, as if that ’ud do thi ony good. Tha shud stir about, mon, an’ hear whats a foot. There’s more i’spiration, as th’ parson calls it, to be fun’ at th’ Black Bull i’ hauf an hour nor i’ a week o’ sulkin’ at whom bi thissen.”
“Aw’ve no faith i’ th’ counsel ’at’s to be found at th’ bottom o’ an’ ale–pot, ’Si.”
“Who want’s thee to ha? Th’art as bad as Martha for preachin’ these days. Ther’ll be no livin’ for sermons soon. There’s summat beside drinkin’ goin’ off in a public.”
“Well, lets hear it?” I said passively, for I had not much faith in what ’Siah might have picked up in his haunts.
“Aw tell thee tha should get untwisted.”
“Well?”
“Well and well an’ well. Can ta say nowt but well? Doesn’t ta know what aw mean, or mun I tell thee straight out?”
“Aw’ve no’ more notion nor th’ babe unborn,” I said.
“Yo’ know Mr. Scott o’ Woodsome?”
“Of course aw do. Didn’t aw sit next to him at th’ audit, last year?”
“Well yo’ know he’s a magistrate, an’ main good to th’ poor folk, everyone says he is. He’s everyone’s good word, an’ that’s summat out o’ th’ common for a justice.”
“And how can Mr. Scott help us in our troubles? I fear they’re a bit aboon his power.”
“Why, he can untwist thee, mon.”
“Untwist?”
“Aye! untwist! There’s Doad o’ Jamie’s an’ Lijah o’ Mo’s an’ a seet more on ’em ‘s gate untwisted, an’ it costs nowt, an’s just as easy as sinnin’, an’ a heap more comfortin’ by what they say.”
“And what in the name o’ wonder is it?” I asked, thinking ’Siah might have penetrated deeper into the mysteries of the law than I, and having much respect for him, as one who had more than once slipped through the constable’s hands and left him clinkin’.
“Yo’ know th’ oath we took at th’ Buck,” replied ’Siah, lowering his voice and looking cautiously round.
I nodded.
“Well, Mr. Scott’s untwisting th’ oath off th’ Luds for miles around. Yo’n nowt to do but go to Woodsome an’ say yo’r soary an’ let on to tell all yo’ know, an’ that needn’t be more nor yo’ can see wi’ both e’en shut, an’ he untwists yo’. It’s same as th’ Catholics, tha knows.”
“Why that’s king’s evidence,” I cried.
“Yo’ may call it what yo’ like, but it’s cheap an’ easy, an’ ’ll do nobody any harm.”
“What give evidence again mi own cousin? I’d be as bad as Ben Walker.”
“Nowt o’ th’ sort. They’n getten witnesses enew baht thee, an’ Mr. Scott ‘s a friend o’ thi father’s, an’ ’ll let thee dahn soft for auld acquaintance sake. It isn’t as if tha wer’ th’ first to split, nor as if owt tha can other say or do ’ud pull George out o’ th’ boil or thrust him further in.”
“I’ll ha none of it, ’Si,” I cried. “And what’s more yo’ an’ me quarrel if yo’ do owt o’ th’ sort thissen. Why man, aw sud nivver sleep another wink nor howd up mi head agen if aw lowered misen to that, an’ whativver tha does, ’Si, keep thissen cleaner nor Ben Walker. Aw’d never speak to thee agen, no more would any on us’. Has ta’ spoke to Martha on it?”
“Well awm not free to say but what aw han.”
“And what does Martha say?”
“Well if aw mun speak th’ truth she says th’ same as thee. All fools in a lump, say I, but gang thi own gate, an’ dunnot fear aw’st cross thi will. But its hard liggin’ for all that.”
So I got no comfort from ’Siah.
Then, as if we hadn’t troubles enough of our own, my Aunt Wood, George’s mother, came from the Brigg to see my father about George’s case. It must not be thought we had not worried about him. We had, and more than a little. Whenever I pictured to myself my cousin and more than friend, eating his heart out in a prison cell, I was near beside myself with grief. As for the end of it all, I dared not think of it. I had parted from George in anger; but I made no account of that. I was safe in Mary’s love, and those who win can afford to be generous. And if these Luddite troubles had blown over, George might have come round, and tho’ our relations might never have been what they had been, still we could have patched up a work–a–day friendship that would have served. But now George was in prison, charged with the most awful of all crimes, and tho’ my gorge rose at the deed, I sorrowed for the man.
It was sad to see the change in my Aunt Wood. She was never a strong woman, least–wise in my knowledge of her; but now she was piteous to look at. She was crushed by the burthen of sorrow and shame. Sorrow’s bad enough: but add shame to it, and it’s more than human soul can bear. My mother fair wept over her.
“Eh, lass,” she said, when she had taken my aunt’s shawl and poke bonnet and got her seated by the fire, whilst Mary busied about boiling the kettle and making some tea. “Eh! lass, that ever we should live to see this day.”
My aunt drooped her head. She did not greet nor moan. I think the fountain of her tears was dry.
“My heart’s sore for yo’, Matty, and glad I am yo’ve come to me i’ yo’r trouble.”
“I had to come, Charlotte, for if yo’r William cannot help me, I dunnot know wheer to turn.”
“Aw’ll do owt aw can. Yo’ know that, Matty. Aw set a deal o’ store on George. We all did. Aw cannot think what possessed him. More aw think on it, more awm capped, for George wer’ noan o’ th’ sort to . . . . It’s fair beyond me. What does Wood say?”
“It’s that’s brought me here, William. It’s a cruel thing to say; but in his heart o’ hearts aw think mi husband’s fair glad they’n fetched our George. He never took to th’ lad, nor George to him. But yo’d ha’ thowt at naa, when aw want all th’ comfort aw can get, mi own husband ’ud be th’ first to help.”
And Aunt Wood’s lips trembled and she pressed her thin hand to her throat to keep down the sobs that choked her.
“Dunnot tak’ on, Matty,” said my father. “We’st stand to yo’, wet or fine.”
“Aw shud think so i’deed,” cried my mother; “my own sister. If yo’ can’t look to yo’r own in th’ time o’ need, what’s relations for aw shud like to know. Onybody ’ll stan’ yo’r friend when yo’r i’ no need o’ frien’s. It’s trouble tries folk. Nah, thee drink this cup o’ tea, Matty, an’ nivver heed drawin’ to th’ table. Sit wher’ tha art an’ keep thi feet on th’ fender. An’, see yo’, there’s a drop o’ rum i’ thi tea, tho’ aw dunnot hold wi’ it as a reg’lar thing, for wilful waste ma’es woful want, but it’ll warm thee an’ hearten thi up. Tha’ looks as if tha hadn’t a drop o’ blood i’ thi body, poor thing.”
“Hast ta any notion o’ what tha’d like doin’ for George?” asked my father.
“Nay, it’ll be a law job, that’s all aw know. But see, awm noan come a beggin’. Aw dunnot know what William ’ud say, if he knew; but yo’ll noan tell.”
And my aunt lifted her dress and from under the skirt drew a linen bag, which she placed upon the table.
“Count that.” she said.
My father turned over the greasy, dirty notes, pound notes of the Huddersfield Commercial Bank, Ingham’s, wetting his forefinger and counting aloud, very grave, as he always was whenever he counted money. He used to say it gave him a turn, when he went to the Bank, to see the flippant way the young men handled the money across the counter—”But they don’t know its valley, or they’d noan finger it so free,” he would say.
“A hundred pounds, neither more nor less,” he said, after the third counting and blowing of each note to see two hadn’t stuck together. “Wherever did ta get it, Matty?”
“Aw saved it out o’ th’ housekeepin’ brass ’at Wood gives me. Aw’d meant it for George’ on th’ day he should be wed—but nah!”
“It’ll come in useful ony road,” said my father. “Am aw to keep it for thee?”
“Aye, it’s for th’ law.”
“Has ta any fancy?”
“Nay, tha knows best.”
“What does ta say to ’Torney Blackburn? He’s allus done my bit.”
“Aw dunnot know. Aw reckon there’s not much to choose among ’em he mun be th’ best brass can buy.”
“Well there’s young Allison; aw don’t know but what he’d be more cut out for a job like this. But they say he’s for th’ Crown. Him an’ Justice Radcliffe ha’ been here, there an’ everywheer huntin’ up evidence agen th’ ’sizes.”
“Aye, trust th’ quality for havin’ th’ best o’ everything,” spoke my mother.
“Well, if tha thinks ’Torney Blackburn can be trusted, tha can set him on. But awm feart them lawyers is all in a string. Yo’ never know who yo’ can trust these days.”
“Well yo’ see,” said my father, “we’n got to trust ’em an’ pray for th’ best. Aw supposes there’s summot i’ th’ nature o’ th’ law ’at makes it difficult for th’ best on ’em to be ony better nor he sud be; an’ happen if they warn’t a bit crooked theirsen, they’d noan be fit to straighten other folk’s twists. But ‘speak of a man as yo’ find him,’ say I, an’ aw’ve allus fun ’Torney Blackburn as straight as they make ’em. But aw wish we could ha’ had Mr. Allison all th’ same.”
“Why?” asked my aunt.
“Well, somehow he’st th’ name o’ bein’ thicker wi’ Owd Harry; an’ that goes a long way i’ law.”
And so it was settled that the defence of George should be entrusted to Mr. Blackburn, of the New Street.
I went with my father the very next day to see Mr. Blackburn. I did not like being seen about, but there seemed nothing for it but to brazen it out and take my luck. I had never been to a lawyer’s office before, and felt as if I were going to have a tooth pulled; but my father opened the door of the outer office as bold as brass. There was a little old wizened man with a face like yellow crinkled sheepskin, and a suit that had once been black, maybe, but now was rusty brown and white at the seams.
“Is he in?” said my father.
“Sit down, Mr. Bamforth, sit down. Come to the fire. Your son, sir? Pleased to know you, sir. A chip of the old block, Mr. Bamforth, a chip of the old block.”
And my father actually looked pleased, tho’ if I were a chip of the old block there was a deal more chip than block.
Mr. Blackburn was in, and presently we were ushered into an inner room. It would have turned my mother sick to see the dust that lay about, and the frosted windows that gave on to the New Street looked as if they hadn’t been washed for a century.
Mr. Blackburn shook us both by the hand in a jerky way, and offered my father a pinch of snuff from a big silver box. My father took a pinch with the result that he never ceased sneezing till we were out into the street and he had hurried to the Boot and Shoe and drunk a pint of ale to wash the tickling out of his throat.
“And now, Mr. Bamforth, what can I do for you?” asked Mr. Blackburn, pushing his spectacles on to his brow and laying a large brown silk handkerchief, snuff coloured, over his knee.
“It’s about George Mellor, yo know,” said my father.
Mr. Blackburn did not look as if he did know.
“Him ’at’s ta’en for Horsfall’s job, yo’ know,” explained my father.
“Well, what of him?”
“He’s my nevvy, yo’ know.”
“Yo’r nevvy? Phew! this is an ugly business, an ugly business.”
“Awm feart so.”
“Well?”
“Aw want yo’ to defend him at th’ ’sizes.”
“Why my good man, what defence is possible? Allison tells me the case is as clear as crystal. Not a loop hole in it.”
My father’s face fell. Then he pulled out the bag of notes.
“There’s a hundred pound here, Mr. Blackburn. George shalln’t stand up i’ Court wi’out one soul to take his side. Guilty or not guilty, whatever th’ law can do for him shall be done. It’ll happen soothe him at the last, if th’ worst comes to th’ worst, to know at some hearts felt for him, an’ that what brass could do to get him off, wer’ done.”
“It’s a noble sentiment, Mr. Bamforth, and does you credit I’m sure. Well, well, no man’s guilty in this country, thank God, till he’s proved guilty. But I can’t make bricks without straw, you know. What’s the defence?”
“Nay, that’s for you to find out,” said my father, more cheerfully. “That’s’ what th’ hundred pound is for.”
“But we don’t make evidence, my dear sir. There can be only one defence—an alibi. The man was shot, that’s plain. It wasn’t an accident, that’s clear. Who ever did it, did it of malice prepense. There can only be an alibi. This young man now”—turning to me—“the prisoner was your cousin?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And doubtless you were on good terms?”
“The best.”
“And equally without doubt you saw a deal of each other?”
“We did.”
“He visited you and you him?”
“That’s so.”
“And you remember the night of the—what day was it?”
“Tuesday the 28th of April last.”
“And you remember that day?”
“Only too well.”
“Now perhaps—I only say, perhaps, mark you—your cousin George spent the evening of that day in your company? A respectable young man like you—your word would go a long way.”
But I shook my head. No, I could not swear I was with George that fateful day.
“Well, well, perhaps someone else can. I must see the prisoner, and when I’ve heard what he has to say, I shall be better able to judge what is best to be done. Another pinch, Mr. Bamforth? No? a bad habit, a bad habit, don’t you begin it, young sir, but clears the brain. Good day—Jones, give Mr. Bamforth a receipt for £100. “Rex versus Mellor.” Good day—we’ll do our best, and a case is never lost till it’s won.”
“Did’ yo’ notice th’ books, Ben?” asked my father, as we crossed the street to the Boot and Shoe. “Wonderful isn’t it? Aw dunnot wonder a man wants some snuff or summat to life th’ weight o’ all them books off his brain. Aw wonder how he crams it all in, for his yed’s noan so much bigger nor other folk. Wonderful.”
When we got home that night we had to tell in detail all that we had said to Mr. Blackburn and all that Mr. Blackburn had said to us. Soldier Jack and Mr. Webster were of our council.
“It’s a tickle business is an alibi,” Jack commented. “Them lawyers turn a chap inside out. Aw once tried to get a felly out o’ a bit o’ a mess afore th’ justices at Bristol. He wer’ one o’ th’ line an’ had used his belt in a street broil. I went to swear him off.”
“I hope, Soldier, not to perjure yourself,” said Mr. Webster earnestly.
“Well not to say perjure,” said Jack. “They say if yo’ kiss yo’r thumb i’sted of th’ Book, it’s noan perjury. But aw did better nor that, aw’d a ready reckoner i’ th’ palm o’ my hand, an’ aw kissed that. So aw reckon aw wer’ clear ony road.”
Mr. Webster sighed and shook his head.
“But it wer’ o’ no use. Ther’ wer’ a little chap at wer’ persecutin’, an’ he looked that innercent yo’d ha’ thowt ony sort o’ a tale ’ud go dahn wi’ him. But aw nivver wer’ so mista’en i’ a chap i’ my life. He began to cross–question me mild as milk. He wanted to know what aw’d had for mi breakfast an’ wheer aw took my ale an’ a hundred thousand things, an’ raked out th’ whole history o’ mi life awmost fra mi pap bottle up’ards, an’ he twisted mi answers so, an’ th’ magistrates began to look at me as if aw wer th’ worst specimen o’ a criminal they’d ivver seen; an’ he back’ards an’ for’ards, lopin’ like a flea fra this spot to that spot o’ mi tale, till aw didn’t know whether aw wer’ stood o’ mi head or mi heels. An’ he looked at mi wi’ an eye like a gimlet, an’ for th’ life o’ me aw couldn’t tak’ mi e’en fra his, tho’ aw’d ha’ given owt to do it. An’ then aw saw aw’d contradicted misen, not exactly a lie, but a bit o’ a slip, an’ aw saw he’d twigged it, an’ aw saw he saw aw saw he’d twigged it; an’ ther’ come a quiet smile o’ his lips, an’ he looked at me as much as to say ‘what a clever fool yo’ are,’ an’ he played wi’ me like a cat lakin’ wi’ a mouse, an’ aw broke out into a sweat an’ aw’d ha’ swapped places wi’ th’ prisoner an’ given summat to boot. Phew! it mak’s me warm yet to think on it! It’s risky wark is a haliby, aw tell yo’, an chance it.”
“I suppose the Crown will rely mainly on the evidence of Ben Walker?” asked Mr. Webster.
My father nodded assent.
“But I think I have read that a man cannot be hanged on the unsupported testimony of an informer. If they have only Walker’s evidence to go on, or indeed that of any other participator in the deed, the case may break down.”
“It’s no go,” said Jack. “There’s others beside Ben o’ Buck’s ha’ leaked. As soon as it wer’ known he’d split there wer’ a reg’lar scramble to turn informer. Everyone wer’ anxious to be i’ th’ swim. There’s Joe Sowden.”
“O’ th’ Yews?” I asked.
Jack nodded. “Th’ same felly.”
“Why what could he say?”
“Th’ story is that th’ day after th’ job wer’ done, George went into th’ croppin’ shop, an’ him an’ Thorpe towd Sowden all about it.”
“What, that they had shot Mr. Horsfall?” exclaimed my father, in a voice of horror.
“Nowt else. An’ they made Sowden tak’ a oath to keep th’ secret an’ sweer all th’ others to keep th’ secret. Everyone i’ th’ shop wer’ sworn. There weren’t a soul i’ all John Wood’s that weren’t sworn. And folk say George held a pistol at Sowden’s head while he read th’ oath off a bit o’ papper an’ made ’em all kiss th’ book.”
We stared at each other blankly.
“But is this known to the Crown?” asked Mr. Webster at length.
“Sowden’s takin’ his tea at this minnit i’ Chester Castle, livin’ o’ th’ fat o’ th’ land, a guest o’ th’ king, feastin’ like a fightin’ cock, an’ yo’ll nivver set eyes on him agen till yo see him i’ th’ witness–box at York ’sizes,” said Jack. “An’ there’s more to tell. They say George borrowed a Russian pistol fra William Hall.”
“Well, I’ll vouch for Hall, ony road, for all awm worth,” I burst out. “He’ll noan turn traitor. He wer’ allus th’ keenest o’ th’ lot on us.”
“Tha’d lose thi brass,” said Jack quietly. “Hall’s sat just nah opposite Sowden, like as not drinkin’ success to honesty. He lent his pistol to George the very day Horsfall wer’ shot, an’ seed him load it with ball an’ slugs.”
“Why Hall lodged at Wood’s an’ slept wi’ George, i’ th’ same room if not i’ th’ same bed,” I murmured.
“Skin for shin, yea all that a man hath will he give for his fife,’ so says the Book.” Thus Mr. Webster.
“And after Horsfall wer’ shot, choose who shot him,” Jack went on. “George Mellor an’ Thorpe went to Joe Mellor’s at Dungeon Wood an’ hid two pistols, an’ one on ’em, they do say, is th’ self–same pistol ’at Hall lent to George afore th’ job wer’ done.”
I do not know whether any of us till then, clung to a hope that George might be cleared of any share in the murder. For my own part I had known from the first minute I set eyes on George when he came to me at Holme the day after the deed, known without a word spoken, that he was guilty. All the same the law’s the law, and it was none of my business to tell what I thought. Thinking’s not evidence, and if there was a loop–hole for him anywhere I’d widen it for him rather than stop it.
“All the evidence points one way,” said Mr. Webster despondently.
“Oh, no! it doesn’t, beggin’ yo’r pardon for contradictin’ yo’,” said Jack. “There’s plenty think George ’ll scrape through.”
“As how?” I asked.
“Why on th’ halibey. Mr. Blackburn ’ll have summat to go on. Yo’ know John Womersley, th’ watch maker’ i’ Cloth Hall Street?”
“Aye, aye.”
“Well he says he wer’ talkin’ wi’ George just after six bi th’ clock opposite th’ Cloth Hall, an’ had a glass wi’ him at th’ White Hart.”
“Well?”
“Why it wer’ just on six when Mr. Horsfall wer’ shot on Crosland Moor, an’ if George were i’ th’ White Hart at hauf past six, it stan’s to reason he couldn’t be shootin’ folk on th’ moor at six.”
“Womersley’s a decent man, and his word will have weight,” said my father with relief in his tone. “Perhaps we’ve been misjudgin’ the lad after all.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Soldier. “An’ like enough others ’ll turn up ’at can give similar evidence. But it’s a tickle job is a halibey, best o’ times.”
And so our council ended, Jack engaging to search high and low for any scrap of testimony that might help the prisoners.
The month within which Mary must give her answer to Walker’s mother stole on. I scarce could trust myself to look on Mary so sad and wan was she. But one morning towards the middle of December after she had sided the breakfast things she donned her Sunday clothes, a thing rarely done on week–days in our house, except for visits of more than common ceremony, or for weddings and parties.
“I’m going to Huddersfe’lt and mebbe a step beyond,” she told my mother.
“To see thi Aunt Matty?”
“I’st happen see her.”
My heart quaked.
“Yo’r never goin’ to Walker’s?” I asked when I could speak to her alone.
“Trust me for that,” she said. “I’d rather walk a good few miles another way.”
“Then where’st ta goin’?” I persisted, “an’ winnot yo’ tak’ Faith? Th’ walk ’ll happen do her good if she wraps well up.”
“Faith mun see to th’ mixin’ o’ th’ Kersmas cake. Awn towd her how to mix th’ dough, an’ aw’ll hope ’oo’ll mak’ a better job on it nor ’oo did o’ th’ parkin o’ Bunfire Day; but it’s never too late to larn, an’ awm thinkin’ it won’t be long afore she’ll need to know summat more nor to play on th’ spinnet an’ to sing hymns an’ love ditties. They’ll boil no man’s kettle.”
But of her errand to Huddersfield I could get no inkling, and off she set in the forenoon through the snow with warm hood over her head and thick Paisley shawl and mittens, and pattens to her feet, as sweet a picture as ever went down that hill before or since.
It was night, eight o’clock, when she came home, and many a time I’d gone into the lane and strained my eyes across the valley to watch the road from Kitchen Fold. The snow was falling thick, and when Mary entered her shawl was covered with the flakes and little feathery sprays were on the curls that twined and twisted from beneath the hood. Her cheeks that had grown so pale were a rosy flush with the keen frosty air, her eyes were bright and glad and there was the first smile upon her lips had played there for many a doleful day. She shook her shawl at the house door, whilst Vixen yapped and gambolled about her and Faith made haste to remove her pattens and knock the clogged snow from the irons while Mary smoothed her hair before the little glass by the window.
“An’ how’s thi Aunt Matty?” asked my mother; “an dun yo’ want owt to eit? Yo’ll be ready for yo’r porridge aw sud judge. Is ’oo bearin’ up pretty well, an’ did ta see John Wood, an’ is he lookin’ as ill favored as ivver?”
“Let th’ lass get her breath,” pleaded my father.
“Has ta met a fairy?” went on my mother. “For a month an’ more tha’s been mopin’ an’ turnin’ thi nose up at good victuals an’ comin’ dalin o’ a mornin’ lookin’ as if thi bed wer’ made o’ nettles i’stead o’ honest feathers, as well aw know ’at plucked ’em, an’ nivver a word nor a look for anyb’dy, an’ wouldn’t see th’ doctor nor tak’ th’ herb–tea aw brewed thee, an’ me thinkin’ all th’ time it wer’ a tiff atween thee an’ Ben, an’ him lookin’ waur nor a whipped cur, which it’s to be hoped yo’ll both learn more sense when yo’r well wed, for it’ll be as th’ man said ‘Bear an’ forbear’ then or yo’ll ha’ a sorry time on it; an’ now yo’ set off wi’out a wi’ yo’r leave or by yo’r leave an’ come back fra goodness knows where lookin’ as if yo’d been proved next o’ kin to a fortin’, which it’s enough to make anyone think it wor all make believe, tho’ me that anxious as aw sud be fit to shake yo’ if so aw thowt.”
My mother paused to get breath.
“I’ve summat to make me look cheerful,” said Mary. “Yo’ little know wheer I’n been this afternoon, an’ who I’ve talked to and had a cup o’ tea into th’ bargain. Aw don’t feel it’s real yet. Nip me, Faith, to let me know if I’m dreamin!”
“It’s a dream we should like to share in,” said Faith in her quiet way, taking my mother’s hard, thin hand, much worn by work, and soothing it caressingly, a way she had that always ended by bringing a reposeful look upon that eager nervous face and made my mother declare Faith was as good as hops in your pillow for restfulness.
“Well aw suppose I’st ha’ to begin at th’ beginnin’,” said Mary, settling herself for a long talk and smiling into the fire. My father filled another pipe, and my mother let her ball of wool roll upon the floor so as to have a long reach of work before her.
“Yo’ maybe hannot guessed at Ben Walker wanted me to wed him.”
“What Ben o’ Buck’s o’ th’ Brigg? Him as turned informer?” asked my father, letting his pipe out in his amaze.
Mary nodded.
“That comes o’ thi flighty ways,” commented my mother with severity. “If a lass dunnot keep hersen to hersen, but will ha’ a nod for this an’ a smile for that an’ a joke for t’ other, she may know what to expec’. There wor a differ between decent gells an’ hussies when aw wer’ young, but if there’s ony now it’s all i’ favour o’ th’ hussies.”
Mary flushed angrily.
“Nay, nay, Charlotte, yo’ dunnot mean that for yar Mary, aw know,” said my father. “Go on wi’ thi tale, lass. Thi aunt’s put out a bit, these days.”
“Well he did,” continued Mary, “and of course aw’d his answer ready for him.”
“Aw shud think so indeed. It was well for him aw didn’t catch ’im at it. What did ta say, Mary?”
“Nay, aunt, yo’ wouldn’t ha’ me cumber mi mind wi’ such trash. Any road aw sent ’im packin’. Then, about a three week sin’, his owd mother sent for me.”
“Did ’oo send a broom for thee to ride on, th’ owd witch,” put in the tireless tongue, more by way of expressing an opinion of Ben Walker’s mother than a question.
“And aw went,” said Mary.
“More fool yo’.”
“And ’oo said ’oo’d heard aw’d ta’en up wi’ Ben here an’ axed me if it wer’ true.”
“An’ of course tha’d thi answer to that too,” said my mother triumphantly.
“Well, yes,” admitted Mary.
“So that put a spoke i’ that wheel,” said my father, knocking his pipe head on the fire–grate bar.
“Not a bit on it,” quoth Mary. “On th’ contrary she seemed rayther glad to hear it. But ’oo said he’d noan ha’ to ha’ me.”
“Who, ya’r Ben?”
“Aye, yo’r Ben.”
“Who’s to stop him?”
“Mrs. Walker o’ th’ Brigg, by yo’r good leave, aunt. She said ’oo’d gie me a month to think on it, an’ if aw didn’t gi’e mi word to ha’ their Ben, she’d just speak a word to th’ Government ovver that Rawfolds job as ’ud send Ben here to keep George Mellor company.”
The knitting fell from my mother’s hand, the pipe from my father’s They stared at Mary and at me.
“So that’s what’s ailed yo’ this three week back. Herb–tea might well be wasted on yo’,” at length my mother managed to gasp.
“That wer’ just th’ complaint we were suffering fra, wern’t it, Ben?”
“An’ beyond any physic aw ever heard on,” I said. “But tha seems to ha’ fun a cure.”
“But you won’t have him,” said Faith eagerly. “Oh! the wretched plotter. Say you refused, Mary?”
“A varmint not fit to be touched wi’ a pair o’ tongs,” remarked my mother.
“But to save Ben here?” asked Mary, maliciously.
And my parents looked at each other. It was a dilemma’s horns.
“Don’t look worried, ma’am,” said Faith. “Mary’s only plaguing us. She has found a way out, it’s plain to see. She wouldn’t look as she does if she hadn’t.”
“Then till beseems her to be fleyin’ her elders out o’ their wits an’ mi heart goin’ pit–a–pat that fast at aw may be took any minnit,” said my mother.
“Awm sorry, aunt,” said Mary, quickly crossing the hearth and putting her arms round my mother’s neck and kissing her brow. “Aw shouldn’t ha’ done it if aw’d thowt; but awm so happy awm hardly misen. Theer, aw’ll tell mi tale.”
“Well, then, yo’ may be sure after aw heerd owd Mother Walker’s threat aw wer’ bothered aboon a bit. Aw wer’ noan for weddin’ her lad, even if he hadn’t turned informer, but what use ’ud Ben here be to me hangin’ i’ irons off York gibbet. Aw could na see a road aat, look choose which way aw would. Well yesterday aw heerd uncle here say my lord an’ lady Dartmouth wer’ at Woodsome.”
My father gave a corroboratory nod.
“So aw thowt it ovver all neet, an’ to make a long story short awn been to Woodsome this very day.”
“An’ seen my lord?” cried my father.
“Aye, an’ mi lady, too. When aw gate to th’ big door lookin’ on to th’ lawn—an’ yo’ should ha’ seen th’ deer down th’ big avenue made o’ trees like th’ pillars o’ a cathedral aisle—when aw gate to th’ door aw gav’ a knock at th’ big knocker, an’ it made such a clatter aw could ha’ fun it i’ my heart to run, but aw thowt aw’d come so far aw’d see it through. A felly oppened th’ door. A reg’lar nobob. ‘It’s mi lord hissen,’ aw thowt. He’d a powdered wig, an’ epaulettes, an’ a brown plush coat wi’ big buttons wi’ figurin’ on, an’ a scarlet weskit, an’ plush shorts an’ silk stockin’s an’ oh! such an air o’ haughty pride. He pulled hissen up when he seed me. ‘Yo’ sud ha’ gone to th’ tradesmen’s entrance,’ he says. ‘Aw want to see his lordship,’ aw says as loud as aw could, but aw could scarce hear my own voice, an’ aw dropped a courtesy, ‘an’ a reckon yo’ mun be him, tho’ aw didn’t reckon to see so big a man, for Mr. Scott told me ye’ wer’ nowt much to look at.’ And then aw heerd a loud laugh, an’ i’ th’ gloom o’ th’ big hall aw spied a littlish man very plain dressed. ‘Admit: the lady,’ he said. And aw wer’ shown into a room on th’ reight hand, an’ th’ little man came in an’ made me sit dahn, but not afore he’d helped me off wi’ mi shawl, which wer’ wet wi’ snow, an’ made that stuck up jackanapes tak’ it to be dried. ‘An ask her leddyship to spare me a minnit,’ sez he. Then there came in a young leddy, just such another as thee, Faith, an’ so pleasant i’ th’ face. An ’oo smiled at me, an’ wouldn’t hear a word till aw’d warmed misen by th’ fire, an’ ’oo made me drink a glass o’ wine.”
“Did yo’ tell her who’s lass tha wer’?” asked my father. “But he’d noan know me. Th’ owd lord ’ud ha’ known me. But this ’un’s nobbud been th’ earl a year or two, an awn nobbud seen him once or twice.”
“Well, anyway he didn’t say he didn’t,” said Mary diplomatically. “And then,” continued Mary, “aw up an’ tell’d them all about it, about Ben o’ Buck’s pesterin’ me an’ about Long Tom an’ about Ben’s arm an’ about thee, aunt, bein’ confined to thi bed an’ havin’ th’ doctor to thee an’ all time ailin’ nowt….”
“Aye, an’ what did they say to that?”
“Well, th’ little lord laughed like a good ’un, an’ said th’ doctor ’ud ha’ to be sent to th’ ’sizes for bein’ a summat after the fact, not a necessary, what wor it?—oh! an accessory. But aw seed he wer’ jokin! Then aw began to tell about Ben Walker’s mother, an’ her ladyship told th’ little Earl he’d better go out o’ th’ room, an’ when he’d gone aw just down o’ mi knees i’ front on her, an’ ’oo drew mi face to her an’ aw had a good cry, an’ ’oo drew mi face everything just as yo know it.”
“Well, an’ then?”
“Why she looked very grave and said it wer’ a serious business an’ a very delicate matter for his lordship to meddle in. She told me summat aw didn’t quite mak’ out about their party not bein’ in just now.”
“Of course not,” said my father. “Aw could ha’ told yo’ that.”
“But any way,’ says she, ‘my uncle’s in the ministry and good friends with th’ Secretary of State. So cheer up, Mary; th’ men may manage th’ State; but we know who manages th’ men, an’ my name’s not Fanny Legge if yo’r lover shan’t go free.’”
“Did she say Fanny?” said my mother.
“She did,” replied Mary, “just plain Fan an’ never a countess to it, and what’s more she gave me this locket wi’ her picture in it, an’ told me to wear it o’ mi weddin’ day, an’ wear it aw shall an’ will, an’ mebbe those ’at come after me.” And Mary drew from her bosom the portrait you, my children, know so well of that young countess who so untimely died.
“Aw think that settles it,” said my father, smiting his thigh.
“Of course it does,” said my mother. “An’ aw hope, William Bamforth, ’at after this yo’ll vote blue an’ side wi’ th’ quality. T’other lot’s good enuff for shoutin’, but gi’ me th’ owd fam’lies when it comes to th’ stick an’ lift.”
And this profound political aphorism may close a chapter too long drawn out.
CHAPTER XIII.
I NEVER in my life passed so gloomy a Christmas as that of 1812. We killed a goose as usual, and there was the usual seasoned pudding and plum pudding, and Faith and Mary made a bit of a show with the holly and the mistletoe. But it was no use. We couldn’t brighten up our hearts nor take our thoughts from the Special Commission which was to sit at York in the fore–end of January to try the Luds. Even our neighbours felt we could be in no mood for rejoicing, and neither the Church singers nor the Powle Moor lot came near us, and as for wishing each other a merry Christmas the farce would have been too ghastly.
It was arranged that my father, Mr. Webster and I should go to York for the trial, and at the last moment Faith pleaded for leave to accompany us. I wanted Mary to go too, but she was very decided in her refusal. She wasn’t going to leave her aunt alone these long wintry nights, she said, tho’ I don’t think that was the real reason, for was there not Martha? I wonder if women ever give the real reasons for their actions. Why should Faith make a point of going, I asked myself, and Mary demand to be left at home. On the first point Mary herself enlightened me, being more ready to speak of Faith’s actions than her own.
“It’s plain enough why she wants to show George a kindness now,” said Mary.
“Aye?”
“Can’t ta see her heart’s reproaching itself? She were more nor hauf i’ love wi’ George, an’ no doubt thowt she could never fancy another.”
“Well?”
“An’ if there’s one thing more nor another a woman sets store by, it’s her own constancy.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, and indeed. And now Faith feels herself slipping, an’ she’s going to try to make it up to George for a treachery he’ll never know of by sitting through the trial. It’s noan so much to please him as to satisfy hersen.”
Anyhow it was my father and Faith and Mr. Webster and myself that the Cornwallis took up at ten of the clock one morning in January at the sign of the Rose and Crown in Huddersfield. We might have joined it in Slaithwaite on its way through the village from Manchester, but we wanted to have as little talk and stir as possible. Mr. Blackburn’s clerk had got us decent lodgings near the Castle with a widow woman who made a living by letting her rooms to witnesses attending the Assizes, and whose whole talk was of the counsellors she had heard plead. She was pleased to express her satisfaction when she learned we had secured Mr. Brougham to defend George.
“Is he so clever a lawyer then?” asked Mr. Webster as we rested in the parlour after our long, cold, tedious journey, and warmed ourselves as well as we could before a fire on which it seemed to me the coals were put on with the sugar tongs.
“Well,” said Mrs. Cooke, for that was the garrulous old lady’s name, “Of course he is a clever lawyer, tho’ they do say not so far learned nor so deep as some we’ve known in York in my time, but it isn’t that will help you in a case like this.”
“I do not take you, madam,” observed Mr. Webster.
“You see Mr. Brougham has a great name in the city with the Whigs, and if yo’ can get a sprinkling of them gentry on the jury it will go a great way in the poor young man’s favour.”
“All we ask is an upright and an intelligent jury,” said Mr. Webster.
“That’s all very well for you, sir, that’s safe and sound by a good fire and a clean soft bed before you. But from what I’ve read, sir, that young friend of yours will do better with a jury that will lean a bit; and trust Mr. Brougham for making the most of his chances with the jury.”
“Will he be allowed to speak to them?” I asked.
“Dear me, no,” said the lady, proud to air her knowledge of the law. “And a mercy it is it is so, for if such a counsellor as Mr. Brougham could talk to the jury for a prisoner, half the rogues now hanged would be walking the county. But there’s ways an’ means sides talking, a shrug, a question to a witness, a meaning look at the gentlemen in the box, and above all a quarrel with my lord.”
“What! quarrel with the judge?” exclaimed my father. “Surely that would be fatal.”
“Not a bit of it,” explained our landlady. “It’s the safest card of all to play. You see the judge is sure to be against the prisoner.”
“Nay, my good lady, surely nay,” remonstrated Mr. Webster. “‘Ye shall do not unrighteousness in judgment: thou shalt not respect the person of the poor, nor honour the person of the mighty: but in righteousness shalt thou judge thy neighbour.”
“Ah! that’s in the Bible, I take it,” said Mrs. Cooke; “but the Bible’s one thing and York Assizes is another, and so you’ll find, unless I’m very much mistaken. The Government will take care to send judges that mean hanging, and that’s so well known that it sets the back of the jury up a bit, particler if a touch of politics can be dragged into the case. That’s Mr. Brougham’s chance, and if he can make the jury think the judge is pressing things too hard against your man, I won’t say but he may have a chance. But it isn’t much to cling to after all, poor lad.”
The night before the trial, which was fixed for Wednesday the sixth of January, Mr. Blackburn was to see George in the Castle cell. By much insistence he prevailed on the Governor to permit Mr. Webster to accompany him, a great favour, and one, we understood, little to the liking of the prison chaplain. When the little man returned to our mean lodgings, he was pale and downcast and sat for a long time silent, bending over the sullen fire.
“God preserve me from such a scene again,” at length he said. “To think that one whose face I have seen upturned to mine in my own chapel should now be prisoned in yonder noisome cell. Oh! my friends, ‘surely the ways of transgressor are hard.’”
“If it were not to distress yo’ too much we should like to hear all from the beginning,” said my father.
“Well, when we got to the gate of the gaol,” said Mr. Webster, “Mr. Blackburn rang the bell. A jailor opened it after such unlocking and unbarring as you never heard.”
‘To see a prisoner,’ said Mr. Blackburn.
‘An attorney, sir? Your name?’
‘Mr. Blackburn, of Huddersfield. For George Mellor and others to be tried to–morrow.’
‘And your friend?’
‘Mr. Webster, a good minister of the gospel.’
‘He cannot enter, sir, unless by special order of the governor.’
‘It is here.’
‘Then enter and follow me. Write your name and address in this book.’
“He was a big, burly man, and treated Mr. Blackburn with great respect; but he looked hard at me from under his bushy eyebrows, till I bethought me to slip a crown piece into his hand, when he became more civil. He had a bunch of great keys by his side, and they jingled as he walked. We followed him across a courtyard, where there was more unlocking of gates and doors, and at length we were in a stone–flagged corridor with whitewashed walls, and on either side of these the cells. There was a little spy–hole in the door of every cell, through which, I judged, the warders might watch the wretches chained within. Before one door the warder stopped.”
‘This is your man, sir,’ he said, and selecting a key turned the lock and threw open the door. ‘I’ll stand outside, sir.’
“Mr. Blackburn nodded and entered the cell, I at his heels, much daunted by the cold and the gloom. It was a little while ere my eyes got used to the darkness, but as we entered I heard the clank of irons, and was aware of some form in the gloom rising in the corner from under the grated window. It was George; but oh! how altered! he was gaunt and thin, and his eyes that I have known so bright and lit by the joy of life, were dull and fixed in sick despair. I forgot the crime of which he stands charged and saw only a brother, nay, a son, suffering in mortal agony, and all my heart bled for him.”
“Poor George! Poor Matty,” murmured my father, passing the back of his hand over his face, and Faith’s eyes were fixed with pained intentness on the preacher’s face, her lips pale and parted as she held her breath and waited on his every word.
“‘Mr. Webster!’ he cried, for he could see better than I, being used doubtless to the little light. ‘Mr. Webster, oh! this is good of you!’ and he seemed to take no heed of Mr. Blackburn, and as well as he could for the irons that cribbed his arms, he stretched out his hands to me, oh! so wildly and so lovingly, and I took both his hands in mine and must have done tho’ I had seen the deed with my own eyes. And George bowed his head, and tears fell upon our clasped hands that were not wholly his nor wholly mine, and I drew down his head and kissed him on the brow.”
“The good Lord bless yo’,” sobbed Faith.
“And Mr. Blackburn stood a little way off fumbling with his papers and taking snuff very rapidly and in great quantities.”
‘Have yo’ seen mi mother lately?’ asked George; ‘does she bear up? Is she here in York?’ “His first thoughts were of her, poor lad.”
“Yo’ munnot forget to tell her that, Faith,” said my father, and Faith nodded, and I know she did not forget, and it comforted my Aunt Matty in the after days.
“I told him only you and Ben were here,” continued Mr. Webster. “‘Not Mary?’ he asked, and I told him no. ‘Better not, happen better not,’ he said at last; but he seemed disappointed that Mary should not be here, I know not why.”
“Did he ask for me?” said Faith, very softly.
“Nay,” said Mr. Webster. “He did not ask for thee; but I told him yo’ wer’ here and would not be denied.”
“And what said he?”
‘Faith! Faith Booth? Ah! poor John’s sister. ’Oo’d over a tender heart, an’ I loved her brother next to Ben.’
“Yes, he loved my brother,” said Faith, “but not as John loved him.” And after that she was very silent; only once I heard her murmur to herself, “Yes, he loved mi brother.”
“Well then,” said Mr. Webster, “for a while Lawyer Blackburn talked with George in a low voice so’s the warder at the door might not hear what passed, and I tried to compose my thoughts, so that I might, if time and opportunity favoured, say some word that he might take to his heart to solace him withal. And when Mr. Blackburn began to tie up his papers and bid him bear himself like a man, on the morrow, and hope for the best, I asked George it he would pray with me. He did not refuse; but sat upon a little block that served for his seat, and I fell upon my knees and the lights streamed upon my face from between the bars. Mr. Blackburn turned his back and affected to busy himself with his bag, and the warder jingled his keys, impatient to be gone. And then I prayed the good God and Father to send peace and comfort to our dear brother, that. He might be pleased that this great sorrow should pass and this black cloud be lifted; but throwing all upon the mercy and compassion of the Heart that feels for all, for all, even for the outcast and the sinful. For the love of that Heart passeth the love of man and of woman, else woe and still woe, aye even for the chosen ones of Israel.”