"O grave! where is thy victory?
O death! where is thy sting?"
My mind was full of Job's story all that day. I somehow refused to believe that what he had related was mere imagination, and it was evident that he could not have invented the story of the inner voice, for this remained a mystery to him. The inner voice haunted me all the time, and, as I lay in bed that night, I asked myself again and again the question: Why must we wait for a future life to hear this inner voice?
They met at the smithy, waiting for "The Crooked Billet" to open for the evening. There was Joe Stackhouse the besom-maker, familiarly known as Besom-Joe, William Throup the postman, Tommy Thwaite the "Colonel," so called for his willingness to place his advice at the service of any of the Allied Commanders-in-Chief, and Owd Jerry the smith, who knew how to keep silent, but whose opinion, when given, fell with the weight of his hammer on the anvil. He refuted his opponents by asking them questions, after the manner of Socrates. The subject of conversation was the village school-mistress, who had recently been placed in charge of some thirty children, and was winning golden opinions on all sides.
"Shoo's a gooid 'un, is schooil-missus, for all shoo's nobbut fower foot eleven," began Stackhouse; "knows how to keep t' barns i' their places wi'out gettin' crabby or usin' ower mich stick."
"Aye, and shoo's gotten a vast o' book-larnin' intul her heead," said Throup. "I reckon shoo's a marrow for t' parson, ony day."
"Nay, shoo'll noan best t' parson," objected Stackhouse who, as "church-warner" for the year, looked upon himself as the defender of the faith, the clergy, and all their works. "Parson's written books abaat t' owd churches i' t' district, who's bin wedded in 'em, and who's liggin' i' t' vaults."
"Well," rejoined the Colonel, "and didn't Mary Crabtree, wheer shoo lodges, insense us that t' schooil-missus had gotten well-nigh a dozen books in her kist, and read 'em ivery eemin?"
"Aye, but shoo's noan written 'em same as t' parson has," retorted Stackhouse.
"I reckon it's just as hard to read a book thro' cover to cover as to write one," retorted the Colonel.
"An' shoo can write too," the postman joined in, "better nor t' parson. I've seen her letters, them shoo writes and them shoo gets sent her. An' there's a queer thing abaat some o' t' letters at fowks writes to her; they put B.A. at after her name."
"Happen them'll be her Christian names," suggested Stackhouse. "There's a mak o' fowks nowadays that gets more nor one name when they're kessened."
"Nay," replied Throup, "her name's Mary, and what fowks puts on t' envelope is Miss Mary Taylor, B.A."
"Thou's sure it's 'B.A.,' and not 'A.B.,'" said Stackhouse. "I've a nevvy on one o' them big ships, and they tell me he's registered 'A.B.,' meaning able-bodied, so as t' Admirals can tell he hasn't lossen a limb."
"Nay, it's 'B.A.,' and fowks wodn't call a lass like Mary Taylor able-bodied; shoo's no more strength in her nor a kitlin."
"I reckon it's nowt to do wi' her body, isn't 'B.A.,'" interposed the Colonel. "Shoo'll be one o' yon college lasses, an' they tell me they're all foorced to put 'B.A.' at after their names."
"What for?" asked the smith, who was always suspicious of information coming from the Colonel.
"Happen it'll be so as you can tell 'em thro' other fowks. It'll be same as a farmer tar-marks his yowes wi' t' letters o' his name."
"Doesta mean that they tar-mark lasses like sheep?" asked William Throup, his mouth agape with wonder.
"Nay, blether-heead," replied Stackhouse, "they'll be like t' specials, and have t' letters on one o' them armlets. But doesta reckon, Colonel, that B.A. stands for t' name o' t' chap that owns t' college?"
"Nay, they tell me that it stands for Bachelor of Arts, choose-what that means."
The smith had listened to the Colonel's explanation of the mysterious letters with growing scepticism. He had scarcely spoken, but an attentive observer could have divined his state of mind by the short, petulant blows he gave to the glowing horseshoe on the anvil. Now he stopped in his work, rested his arms on his hammer-shaft, and proceeded, after his fashion, to test the Colonel by questions.
"Doesta reckon, Colonel," he began, "that t' schooil-missus is a he-male or a she-male?"
"Her's a she-male, o' course. What maks thee axe that?"
The smith brushed the query aside as though it had been a cinder, and proceeded with his own cross-examination.
"An' doesta think that far-learnt fowks i' colleges can't tell a he-male thro' a she-male as well as thee?"
"O' course they can. By t' mass, Jerry, what arta drivin' at?"
"An' hasta niver bin i' church, Colonel," the smith continued, unperturbed, "when t' parson has put spurrins up? Why, 'twere nobbut a week last Sunday sin he axed if onybody knew just cause or 'pediment why Tom Pounder sudn't wed Anne Coates."
"I mind it, sure enough," interjected Stackhouse, "and fowks began to girn, for they knew there was ivery cause an' 'pediment why he sud wed her."
"Hod thy din! Besom-Joe, while I ve sattled wi' t' Colonel" said the smith, and he turned once more on his man. "What I want to know is if parson didn't say: 'I publish t' banns o' marriage between Tom Pounder, bachelor, and Anne Coates, spinster, both o' this parish.'"
"Aye, that's reight," said the Colonel, "an' I see what thou's drivin' at. Thou means Mary Taylor ought to be called spinster. Well, for sure, I niver thowt o' that."
"It's not likely thou would; thou's noan what I sud call a thinkin' man. Thy tongue is ower fast for thy mind to keep up wi' it."
"Then what doesta reckon they letters stand for?" asked Besom-Joe.
"There's nowt sae difficult wi' t' letters when you give your mind to 'em," the smith replied. "What I want to know is, if Mary Taylor came here of her own accord, or if her was putten into t' job by other fowks."
"I reckon shoo was appointed by t' Eddication Committee."
"Appointed, was shoo? I thowt as mich. Then mebbe 'B.A.' will stand for 'By appointment.'"
The smith's solution of the problem was received with silence, but the silence implied approval. The Colonel, it is true, smarting under a sense of defeat, would have liked to press the argument further; but just then the front door of "The Crooked Billet" was thrown open by the landlord, and the smithy was speedily emptied of its occupants.
"Sithee, lass, oppen t' windey a minute, there's a love."
"What do you want t' windey openin' for, mother? You'll give me my death o' cowd."
"I thowt I heerd t' soond o' t' reaper."
"Sound o' t' reaper! Nay, 'twere nobbut t' tram coomin' down t' road. What makes you think o' reapers? You don't live i' t' country any longer."
"Happen I were wrang, but they'll be cuttin' corn noan sae far away, I reckon."
"What have you got to do wi' corn, I'd like to know? If you wanted to bide i' t' country when father deed, you sud hae said so. I gave you your choice, sure enough. 'Coom an' live wi' me i' Hustler's Court,' I said, 'an' help me wi' t' ready-made work, or else you can find a place for yourself 'i Thirsk Workhouse.'"
"Aye, I've had my choice, Mary, but it's gey hard tewin' all t' day at button-holes, when September's set in and I think on t' corn-harvist."
There was a pause in the conversation, and Mary, to humour her mother, threw up the window and let in the roar of the trams, the far-off clang of the steel hammers at the forge, and the rancid smell of the fried-fish shop preparing for the evening's trade. The old woman listened attentively to catch the sound which she longed for more than anything else in the world, but the street noises drowned everything. She sank back in her chair and took up the garment she was at work on. But her mind was busy, and after a few minutes she turned again to her daughter.
"Thoo'll not be thinkin' o' havin' a day i' t' coontry this month, Mary?"
"Nay, I'm noan sich a fool as to want to go trapsin' about t' lanes an' t' ditches. I've my work to attend to, or we'll not get straight wi' t' rent."
"Aye, we're a bit behind wi' t' rent sin thoo com back frae thy week i' Blackpool."
"Now don't you be allus talkin' about my week i' Blackpool; I reckon I've a right to go there, same as t' other lasses that works at Cohen's."
"I wasn't complainin', Mary."
"Eh! but I know you were; and that's all t' thanks I get for sendin' you them picture postcards. You want me to bide a widdy all my life, and me nobbut thirty-five."
"Is there sae mony lads i' Blackpool, that's thinkin' o' gettin' wed?"
"By Gow! there is that. There's a tidy lot o' chaps i' them Blackpool boarding-houses, an' if a lass minds her business, she'll have hooked one afore Bank Holiday week's out."
Again there was silence in the workroom, and the needles worked busily. The daughter was moodily brooding over the matrimonial chances which she had missed, while the mother's thoughts were going back to her youth and married life, when she lived at the foot of the Hambledon Hills, in a cottage where corn-fields, scarlet with poppies in summer-time, reached to her garden gate. At last the old woman timidly re-opened the conversation.
"We couldn't tak a hafe-day off next week, I suppose, and gan wi' t' train soomwheer oot i' t' coontry, wheer I could see a two-three fields o' corn? Rheumatics is that bad I could hardlins walk far, but mebbe they'd let me sit on t' platform wheer I could watch t' lads huggin' t' sheaves or runnin' for t' mell."(1)
"Lor'! mother, fowks don't do daft things like that any longer; they've too mich sense nowadays."
"Aye, I know t' times has changed, but mebbe there'll be farms still wheer they keep to t' owd ways. Eh! it were grand to see t' farm-lads settin' off i' t' race for t' mell-sheaf. Thy gran'father has gotten t' mell mony a time. I've seen him, when I were a lile lass, bringin' it back in his airms, and all t' lads kept shoutin' oot:
"Sam Proud's gotten t' mell o' t' farmer's corn,
It's weel bun' an' better shorn;
—Shout 'Mell,' lads, 'Mell'!"
Mary had almost ceased to listen, but the mother went on with her story: "A canty mon were my father, and he hadn't his marra for thackin' 'twixt Thirsk an' Malton. An' then there was t' mell-supper i' t' gert lathe, wi' singin' an' coontry dances, an' guisers that had blacked their faces. And efter we'd had wer suppers, we got agate o' dancin' i' t' leet o' t' harvist-moon; and reet i 't' middle o' t' dancers was t' mell-doll."
"Mell-doll!" exclaimed Mary, roused to attention by the word. "Well, I'm fair capped! To think o' grown-up fowks laikin' wi' dolls. Eh! country lads an' lasses are downright gauvies, sure enough."
"Nay, 'twern't a proper doll, nowther. 'Twere t' mell-sheaf, t' last sheaf o' t' harvist, drissed up i' t' farmer's smock, wi' ribbins set all ower it. A bonnie seet was t' mell-doll, an' if I could nobbut set een on yan agean, I'd be happy for a twelmonth."
"You'll see no more mell-dolls, mother, so long as you bide wi' me. I'm not going to let t' lasses at Cohen's call me a country gauvie, same as they did when I first came to Leeds. But I'll tell you what I'll do. Woodhouse Feast'll be coomin' on soon, and I'll take you there, sure as my name's Mary Briggs. There'll be summat more for your brass nor mell-suppers, an' guisers an' dolls. There'll be swings and steam roundabouts, aye, an' steam-organs playin' all t' latest tunes thro' t' music-halls—a lot finer than your daft country songs. An' we'll noan have to wait for t' harvest-moon; there'll be naphtha flares ivery night lightin' up all t' Feast."
"Nay, lass, I reckon I'se too owd for Woodhouse Feast; I'll bide at yam. I sal be better when September's oot. It's t' corn-fever that's wrang wi' me."
"Corn-fever! What next, I'd like to know! You catch a new ailment ivery day. One would think we kept a nurse i' t' house to do nowt but look after you."
"A nuss would hardlins be able to cure my corn-fever, I's thinkin'. I've heerd tell about t' hay-fever that bettermy bodies gets when t' hay-harvest's on. It's a kind o' cowd that catches 'em i' t' throat. So I call my ailment corn-fever, for it cooms wi' t' corn-harvest, and eh, deary me! it catches me i' t' heart. But I'll say nae mair aboot it. Reach me ower yon breeches; I mun get on wi' my wark, and t' button-holes is bad for thy een, lass. Thoo'll be wantin' a bit o' brass for Woodhouse Feast, an' there's noan sae mich o' my Lloyd George money left i' t' stockin' sin thoo went to Blackpool. Nay, don't start fratchin', there's a love. I's not complainin'."
(1) The mell, or mell-sheaf, is the last sheaf of corn left in the harvest field.