Front matter (continued 3)

“Give us a leg up, Ben,” whispered Thorpe, and over the top of the door he went, dropping heavily, and with a curse, on the other side.

“Did ta think aw were a cricket ball?” we heard him say. “Throw us a hammer.”

Then there was a sharp blow or two, the rattle of a chain, the angry yapping of the yard dog. The door fell open on one lunge, and in we pushed pell mell. We could see a light spring out of the darkness in the chamber window, and we began to bray at the kitchen door. Someone had fetched the dog a crack with a stick, and it had limped whining and growling into its kennel.

“Open the door,” cried George.

A bedroom window was opened about half–an–inch, and a piping voice, all tremulous, faltered, “What mean you, good gentlemen? What is your will? For heaven’s sake go away quietly. The Ward are on their rounds. They may be here any minute. My missus is shouting for them out o’ th’ front window. Go home to bed, good masters, and I’ll never tell.”

“Go stop her mouth, and come down and let us in. Quick now, or it will be worse for you,” said George, sternly.

We waited a while, only giving a reminder by a hammer tap on the door panels and breaking a window or two out of sheer mischief. Then there was the fumbling at a chain, the bolt shot in its socket, and the kitchen door was opened. And there in the kitchen, where the embers of the fire were still glowing, stood little Mr. ———(I won’t tell his name, for he was a worthy man, only with words bigger nor his heart) in his shirt, his pipe shanks all bare, and his knees knocking together quite audibly. Well! it was a cold night. Say it was the cold. And his hand that held the metal candlestick shook so, the tallow guttered all down the candle side, making winding sheets. At the bottom of the steps leading upstairs, I caught a sight of a vinegar–faced woman in night–dress and a filled cap.

The remains of the supper were on the table, a very frugal supper, some cheese and haver bread. An empty pitcher was on the table. George Thorpe got another candlestick from the high mantlepiece and went down the cellar steps, and we heard him blowing up a spigot and coaxing a barrel, and the ale coming into the pitcher with a gurgle, like you may fancy a man would swallow if he were half–throttled. It was a lean shop, I warrant you.

There was an old oak armchair by the Dutch clock, and George drew it to the fire.

“Sit down, Mr. S———,” he said. “And you, Mrs. S———, go back to bed and keep warm and quiet. It’s no use shouting. Th’ soldiers are away over bi Crosland Moor, th’ constables are over Lindley way. You’ll only catch a cold and spoil your sweet voice. But mind you, no noise, or I’ll send a man to keep you company. And now, Mr. S our business is with you.”

Poor Mr. S———. I smile even yet as I write of him. He trembled so, the rails rattled in the chair, and kept looking this way and that, and jumping at every movement. And yet how he used to strut about the Cherry Tree yard, cursing the ostler, and cuffing the boys that pestered him for pence.

“You have some of the finishing frames in the shed there?” said George.

“Y–e–e–s, good Mr. Ludd, y–e–e–s, but only little ones.”

“How many?”

“One, or mebbe two.”

“How many more?”

“Well, mebbe three or four.”

“How many men have you sacked lately?”

“A two or three.”

“And how many more?”

“Well, mebbe a score.”

“And how are they living?”

“I dunnot know.”

“And their families?”

“My missus gi’es ’em summot to eit whenever we’n more nor we can eit oursen?”

“Haven’t yo’ a pig?”

“Ay, well when th’ pig’s fed of course.”

“Yo’re one o’ th’ Watch an’ Ward. Where’s your staff?”

“By th’ looking glass there, with th’ lash an’ comb; oh! dear, oh! dear.”

John Walker pocketed the constable’s staff. “Where’s your gun?”

“I’ th’ chamber.”

“Fetch it, No. 20.”

And Soldier Jack hopped up the stairs, and we heard a shrill shriek and a cry of “Murder! Thieves!” and then Jack limped down again, whilst Mrs. S——— stood at the stair–head and hurled threats and bad language at his back.

“Where’s th’ key o’ th’ mill door,” went on George, as cool as if he were eating his dinner.

“Oh! dear, oh! dear, you surely winnot harm th’ frame’s. They’n cost me a hundred and fifty pound apiece, an’ I owe to th’ bank for ’em yet.”

“The key, the key.”

Then from a drawer in the dresser he drew the big, heavy key.

“No. 22, 23, 25. Do your duty.”

And John Walker, Thorpe and Bill Smith stalked across the mill yard with a lantern. The dog sprung at his chain again, poor animal. There was the creaking of the lock. Then after a pause a voice from the dark sounded:

“Stand clear, Bill,” and bang, came the hammer, crash went wood and iron, and the costly frames were wrecked beyond repair. Poor Mr. S— groaned as if his heart were breaking, and his wife at the stair head gave a shriek every time the hammer fell.

“And now,” said George, producing a horse–pistol, “but one thing remains. Here is a Bible. You must swear never to make complaint of what has been said or done this night, lest worse befall you.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Ludd, I’ll swear. I’ll swear anything only go leave us. Oh! my poor frame’s! And if I don’t die of rheumatism after this night, it’ll be a miracle.”

“And to take back the men you have sacked?”

“Yes, yes.”

“And never more to put up machines to take the bread out of honest men’s mouths?”

“Never, never, so help me God. Oh! do go, good Mr. Ludd.”

And go we did; but not before George had very politely gone to the foot of the stairs and drunk out of the pitcher to Mrs. S———’s health, and said how sorry he was that business had compelled him to pay his respects to so worthy a lady so late at night. Then we hurried off, over the fields, into Gledholt Wood, where we took off our masks, and went by different ways to the Nag’s Head.

Now could you believe that the very next Market Day I saw Mr. S ——— at the market dinner. He was telling to a group of listeners how he had been roused in the night by the crash of machines, how he had jumped out of bed, seized his flint lock carbine, rushed down the steps into the mill yard, laid low one of the gang with the stock of his weapon, being anxious to avoid bloodshed, and the whole thirty or forty had fled before him carrying off their wounded, but not alas! till his machines had been broken.

It must have been some other night.

But Mr. S——— kept his promise. He put up no more frames, even when the troubled times were half forgotten and the Luddites no more a terror. Perhaps he had difficulties with the bank.

But that is ahead of my tale, for I have not done yet with the night we broke the poor man’s frames. Going down from Marsh to the foot of Paddock, Ben Walker must need fasten himself on to me, though with half an eye he might have seen, even in the dark, that I wanted none of his company. But he linked his arm in mine, and put on that fawning way of his that fair made my flesh creep.

“And how’s thi father, Ben, and yor good mother an’ all the friends at Holme?”

It was in my mind to tell him none the better for his asking, but remembered in time that civility costs nought, and so made him as civil an answer as I could fashion.

“And how’s Mary, sweet sonsy Mary?” he went on, taking no note of what I was saying about my father’s touch of asthma, which was plaguey bad at the back end of the year.

It was just sickening to have him mouthing her name as if he were turning a piece of good stuff on his tongue, so I answered him short enough.

“Yo cannot tell, Ben, how my heart warms to Mary and to you, Ben, for Mary’s sake, and to all that’s kin to her, even to the third and fourth generation,” he added, after a pause, to make it more solemn and convincing like.

“Aw’m sure we’re much obliged to you,” I said; “but yo’n a queer way o’ showing your liking.”

“Yo mean leaving her when Long Tom was so unmannerly. It isn’t like thee, Ben, to bear malice nor to cast up things in a friend’s face. Let byegones be byegones. Aw know aw’m not a warrior, Ben. Aw’st never set up to be a man o’ wrath. We’n all our failings, Ben, an’ feightin’s noan my vocation, that’s flat.”

“Well, say no more about it,” I said. “Let’s talk o’ summot else. It’s lucky for Mary she’s got somebody to stick up for her that’ll noan turn tail an’ leave her to do her own feightin’.”

“Meaning thissen, Ben; aw heard about th’ setting down tha gave Long Tom.”

“Nay, aw weren’t thinking o’ missen,” I said, “tho’ yo’ may count me in. But it’s no business o’ thine. Talk o’ summot else, aw say.”

“But it is a concern o’ mine, Ben. It touches me quick does ought ’at touches Mary. How would ta’ like me for a cousin–i’–law?”

“A what?” I said.

“A cousin–i’–law. Aw reckon that’s what aw should be if aw wed Mary.”

“Thee wed Mary!” I cried, half vexed but tickled withal “Thee! Why, Ben, lad, if aw know ought of a woman she wouldn’t look th’ side o’ th’ road tha’rt on. Besides she’s noan for thee, Ben.”

“Happen she’s bespoke nearer home?” he said.

“Aye, nearer thi own home,” I said, for George and Walker lived not so far off each other.

“What, George Mellor?” he cried.

“Aye, George Mellor,” I said, and strode on faster and would have said no more. And if I said more than my knowledge warranted me, I spoke no more than I deemed to be true.

“Nay, Ben, dunnot be angered wi’ me. It’s no shame to anyone to lose his heart to such a lass as Mary. Aw know tha’s set agen me, Ben. Aw know aw’m noan fit for her; an’ if it comes to that where will ta find th’ man that is?”

I never liked Ben Walker half so much in my life, or I’d better say I never disliked him half so little as just at that moment, for false as he was and mean, one glimmer of truth and nobleness he had about him, and that was his love for Mary. And yet it galled me to have him speak of Mary at all. But he would not have done.

“Aw could do well by her,” he said. “Better nor yon fine spark we call General. Why, man, his head’s full of nonsense, just pack full. All about the rights o’ man, and reform and striking down the oppressors of the poor. As if such as him can do owt! We’re all melling wi’ things too big for the likes o’ us, Ben, an’ fools as we all are, George is the biggest o’ th’ lot, for he hasn’t sense enough to know he is a fool.”

Now there was just enough in this to make it sting the keener. So I pulled up short and said:

“If that’s your opinion about George, go tell him so thissen. An’ if yo’ve ought more to say about our Mary go say it to hersen. Yo’ll get your answer straight.” And I spoke so rough any other man would have flared up; but Ben Walker could swallow more dirt when it suited his purpose nor any man I ever came across.

“Oh! it’s easy enough for thee to talk, Ben Bamforth,” he said. “Tha cares nowt about her. Aw thowt happen tha did. An’ yet aw might ha known different. Come to think on it, yo’d eyes t’other neet for nobbudy but Faith Booth. An’ yo’ll find her willing enough, an’ one man’s meat’s another man’s poison. A pawky ailing wench, but if yo’ fancy her it’s everything. Aw wish yo’ luck, Ben, aw do indeed.”

“Ha’ done with yo,” I cried in anger. “Faith Booth’s as much aboon me as our Mary is aboon you. And never speak again to me about such things as this. I want no secrets from you, and I’ll tell none to you. We’re in th’ same boat as far as this business we’re on to–night goes, but beyond that we’ve nought in common; and so, Ben Walker, without offence, give me as wide a berth as I’ll give thee.” And I fairly ran off and left him.

In the kitchen of the Nag’s Head, George Mellor and Soldier Jack and some score or more of those who had joined the brotherhood, mostly men of the neighbourhood, but some from Heckmondwike and Liversedge way, others from Outlane and the Nook, were already in warm debate. The fire was roaring in the grate, pipes had been lighted, pewters filled, and the buzz of conversation and bursts of laughter filled the low room. George was in great fettle that night. He was always best and brightest in action. Indeed he had much to put his head up. He was obeyed, without question, by many a hundred men; all bound together by a solemn oath, who had implicit trust in him. The military and the special constables were only our sport. They were never any serious hindrance, at first, to anything we took in hand. The mill owners were in fear for their machines, and would rather any night pay than fight. And for the great mass of the people, those who had to work for their living, they believed in General Ludd. In some way they could not fathom nor explain the Luddites were to bring back the good times, to mend trade, to stock the cupboard, to brighten the grate, to put warm clothes on the poor shivering little children. It is not much the poor ask, only warmth and food and shelter, and a little joy now and then. They are very ready to listen to anyone who will promise them this, and if they do not see exactly how it is all to come about, are they the only ones who mistake hope for belief? And George liked the people’s trust. When an old hag stopped him in the road and praised his bonny face and bid him be true to the poor, anyone could see the words were sweet to him, and he would empty his pocket into her skinny, eager hand. And he liked too the sense of powers. To command, to be obeyed, to be trusted, to be feared—by your enemies who does not like it? Find me the man who says he doesn’t and I’ll find you a liar.

Where George got his money from to treat as he did I don’t know. He nearly always had money with him, and when he hadn’t he had credit with the landlord. We never stinted for ale on the nights we were out on such jobs as that at Marsh, and this night was no exception. And his good humour was shared by all of us. Those who had been up to Marsh had to tell the tale to those who hadn’t, and there were roars of laughter as Soldier Jack showed the scratches left on his face by the sharp nails of Mrs. S———.

“We’re winning all along the line,” George cried. Th’ specials is fleyed on us. They take care to watch an’ ward just where they know we’re not. Th’ soldiers don’t like their job. It’s poor work for lads o’ mettle hunting starving croppers. Th’ people are with us. But we must strike a decisive blow that will once and for all show our purpose and our power. Every frame in the West Riding must be broken into matchwood; every master must learn that he has resolute and united men to reckon with. Let us once show our strength, and we will not rest till things are bettered for all of us. But we must strike a blow that will be felt the length and breadth of the land. It is baby work that we have been on to–night. We must go for the leaders of the masters, for those who hearten up such men as S———, of Marsh, the men who have both the brains and the pluck, curse ’em, not for the sheep who follow the bell–wether.

“Cartwright, of Rawfolds,” cried a Liversedge man.

“Horsfall, of Ottiwell’s,” said a Marsden cropper.

And then men laid aside their pipes and drained their pewters. And a man was set at the door to see no strangers entered, and we saw to the fastening of the shutters, and that no clink made a spy–hole into the room. And those who spoke hushed their voice, and those who listened strained an anxious ear. It was no child’s play now.

“Taylor’s have sent out a big order of finishing frames for Cartwright,” said one Marsden man.

“Aye, and Cartwright swears he’ll work them if not another mill owner in England dare,” said William Hall, of Parking Hole.

“I like his mettle,” said George. “That Cartwright is a game cock, and we must cut his comb or he’ll crow over th’ lot on us. If we can only settle such as him, we’st have no bother wi’ th’ others. Na, lads, my mind’s made up. Yo’ all know what this Cartwright is doing. Aw’ve nowt agen him except th’ machines. If we let him put up those frames he’s ordered, and work ’em, we might as well chuck up. One encourages t’ other, and if one succeed another will, nay must, follow suit.”

“There’s nowt to choose between him an’ Horsfall,” said the Marsden man. “Aw cannot tell what’s come over Horsfall. He allus used to be a decent master till this new craze came up. But naa’ he talks o’ nowt but machines, machines. An’ th’ way he raves on about th’ Luddites is enough to mak’ a worm turn. If he’s not lied on he said t’ other day at th’ market that he’d ha’ his own way i’ th’ mill if he had to ride up to his saddle girths i’ Luddite blood.”

“Well, well,” said George with an ugly gleam in his eye; “Horsfall can wait. What do you say, Ben?”

“Aye, Horsfall can wait,” I said, and would have said more if need were, for I shrunk from having part or parcel in any attack on Ottiwell’s.

“Well there’s an easy way to settle it,” said William Hall. “Let’s toss up.”

“Aye, that’s fair enough,” said several voices. “Heads for Horsfall, tails for Cartwright.” And so it was settled. I live again that moment of my life. Forty years roll away as though they had not been, and clear and vivid I see the group of eager men gathered round the hearth, with George erect and masterful in the centre.

“Who’ll call for Cartwright?” said George.

“That will I,” said Hall.

“Then here goes,” and George balanced a penny on his thumb and forefinger.

“Cry before it drops,” he said, and span the coin in the air.

“Tail,” said Hall, and every man held his breath as George tossed the coin and caught it. He had to stoop over the fire to see the face of the coin after he caught it.

“Tail it is,” he said, and thrust the penny into his fob.

“By jinks I’m fain,” said Hall. “Aw owe the b——— one, and now aw’ll straighten wi’ him. He’ll rue the day he sacked Bill Hall for drinking.”

And for me I too was fain. For Rawfolds seemed a long way off, but Ottiwell’s was close by home.

“We’n got our work set,” said George. “It mun be a reight do. Cartwright sleeps in his mill every night. He has soldiers there, too, in the mill with him. The gates and doors have been strengthened. There are other soldiers billeted in the village. Th’ mill bell will alarm the country. But we can do it, lads, if yo’ are the men I take yo’ for. No flinching and we’ll strike such a blow at Rawfolds as will make old England ring again. And now, lads, to business.”

It were quite beyond me to tell all the plans we made that night. We fixed Saturday the 11th of April for the job, and a man called Dickenson promised to let his mates on that side know our arrangements. We were to meet at the Dumb Steeple by the Three Nuns at eleven of the night. There were to be men from Liversedge, Heckmondwike, Gomersall, Birstall, Cleckheaton, and even from Leeds; and on our side we promised a full muster. Soldier Jack was to see that everyone was warned, and such arms as could be begged, borrowed or stolen were to be got together. The boys were keen enough for work, and nothing doubted of success. We had had it all our own way up to now, and who was Cartwright that he should check us?

It was in the small hours when we stole out into the raw morning air, taking our several ways homewards.

I had not far to go, for I was to sleep with George at the Brigg.

“I’m glad it fell on Cartwright,” I said to my cousin, as we doffed our things that night.

“Aw thought tha would be,” said George.

“It wer’ a weight off me when it fell tails,” I added.

“But it were a head,” said George with a quiet smile.

“A head!”

“Aye, a head. But I knew tha wanted tails, so I turned it i’ my palm when I stooped o’er th’ fire.”

And yet men talk about fate.

CHAPTER VII.

YOU may be sure such doings as those of which I have written were country’s talk. People talked about nothing else. Wherever you sent you heard of misery and want and of the men who were banded together to fight the masters. And the Luddites had the approval of the people. I mean the general run of the people. Not, of course, everybody. Mr. Chew, the church parson, was very bitter against them, and warned his congregation against them, and all those who loved darkness rather than light. But the working men, even those whose own handicraft was not threatened by the new frames, favoured the Luddites. I remember that in May of that year a poor woman at Berry Brow, that was thought to have given some information to Mr. Radcliffe, was nearly torn to pieces by her neighbours. Her skull was fractured by a stone. Perhaps because the Luddites felt secure in the general approval their secrets were ill kept.

I do not know how it came about, but at Holme I was soon made aware that I was well regarded. When I went to chapel at the Powle, people made way for me as though I were somebody, and the women folk, in particular, took care I should know I stood well with them. If my father and I stopped to swap the news of the day with our friends and neighbours, and the talk turned on the great questions of the time, men would look to me to know what I had to say, and my words would be quoted from house to house as they had never been quoted before.

Who blabbed? I don’t know. Not I, in very truth. ’Siah, I suspect, to Martha. For me, I hated most genuinely the secrecy and underhandedness of the thing. I hated to slink about in the dark, to drop behind a hedge when I heard the fall of a horse’s foot, the rattle of a scabbard, or the champing of a bit. I hated to put on a mask and a smock, and to steal about with my heart in my mouth, and I hated more than all to turn aside my face from the mute questioning of my mother’s eyes.

Once there was questioning that was not mute. It was a Sunday evening, about the time of the meeting at the Nag’s Head. We had been to chapel, and Mr. Webster was home with us to supper. John Booth and Faith were there. The nights were lengthening, and there was a warmer breath in the air, and the cuckoo had been heard on Wimberlee. After supper I had set myself to walk towards Huddersfield with John and Faith, and before we must start Faith had said she would like me to show her the roan calf, new come, whilst Martha made up a bottle of the beestings to carry home with her, so we went together into the shippon. The little straddling thing was in a corner by itself, warded off, and Faith bent over it and let the ruddy little thing suck and slobber over her hand, whilst the mother with patient wistful eyes looked over her shoulder and lowed lovingly. Then I must wipe Faith’s little hand with a wisp of hay, and I vow it was a monstrous pretty hand, white and thin, not like Mary’s, brown and firm and plump. And whilst I held her hand in my big palm, Faith looked up to my face in the obscure light of the mistal and said very softly:

“Ben, you know our John is soft and easy led, not big and strong as your are. And oh! if harm come to John it would kill my father and go nigh to break my heart. And now he has secrets from me. He is anxious and ill at ease. He is no longer frank and glad, and he tells me nothing. And Mrs. Wright, the saddler’s wife, where you know he is serving his time, tells me he is sore changed of late—stopping out to all hours, and strange men coming to their shop with letters and messages, and John whispering in corners with them as if he were plotting a murder. She says she cannot sleep o’ nights for thinking of it all. And oh! Ben, my heart tells me he is in danger, and what shall I do if harm befall him?”

“Nay, Faith, lass,” I said, stooping down to get a fresh wisp of hay, and maybe to hide my face from that gaze that seemed to read my thoughts too plain, “Nay, Faith, what harm should befall your John? You mustn’t set too much store by what Mrs. Wright says. What if John does stop out a bit late at nights? Saddlering’s a confining job, and most like John needs a long walk to straighten his limbs after being at th’ bench all day with his legs twisted all shapes like a Turk. An’ yo’re never sure, yo’ know, Faith, o’ young folk, even th’ quiet ’uns. Perhaps your John’s doing a bit o’ courting.”

“Ah! Ben, if I could think it were only that. For well I know if John were cour—; were doing what you say, you’d be like enough to know of it.”

Now how should that be I wondered, but said nothing, only too glad to think I had set her thoughts on a false scent.

“But it isn’t that, Ben. Speak low. No one must hear us. I know John has a warm heart, and one that feels for the poor. And he is always reading and talking and thinking of politics and the doings of the Parliament men, and sometimes the things he says take my breath away. And Mrs. Wright says—oh! Ben, how can I tell it you?—that she sadly fears our John has taken up with th’ Luddites an’ is going about the country with th’ constables on his track, an’ maybe th’ soldiers watching him, an’ some night he’ll never come back and my father’s grey hairs will be brought with sorrow to the grave.”

“Mrs. Wright’s a cackling old fool,” I said; but Faith went on.

“And, oh, Ben, she says that it’s all George Mellor’s doing. She says George will lead him to the gallows, and many a mother’s son beside. It’s awful to hear the things she says about George. I’m sure they aren’t true. I’m sure George would never do anything that wasn’t noble and good and true. I’ve always comforted myself with that. Whatever it is, I’ve said to myself, if George has ought to do with it, it must be right. If it’s right for George, it’s right for John. I told Mrs. Wright so, though I don’t like talking of these things, but she angered me so.”

“Well, and what did the old beldame say to that?”

“Oh, shocking things. Th’ best she could find to say for him was that he wer’ a conceited puppy that thowt he could set th’ world to rights by talking big. But she thinks the world o’ thee, Ben—a steady, proper, young man, she called yo’, wi’ his head screwed on right, and not stuck full o’ stuff an’ nonsense, like George. She said she’d warrant yo’d sense enough to mind your own business, and those that had more had no sense. So, Ben, I want yo’ to promise me to say a word to John. He’ll mind yo’ if he won’t me. He’s all th’ brother I have, Ben, and oh! my heart mistrusts me, there’s trouble coming, and I know not whence nor how.”

I had put the lanthorn on the bin and Faith had both her hands in mine, and her pale, sweet face was turned up to mine, and she looked at me with eyes that were wet with tears, and her low sweet voice trembled and caught in a sob. I never was in such a fix in my life, and I found no way out of it by cursing Mrs. Wright in my mind for a meddlesome old harridan, though as decent a woman as ever lived.

“And now, Ben,” pleaded Faith, “you see what trust we all have in you. Not but what I have trust in George, too, and I can’t think what has set Mrs. Wright against him so. But perhaps he has overmuch spirit and pride, and it’s no great fault in a man, is it? But you will speak to John, won’t you, Ben, and warn him not to break his father’s heart, and to mind what he does and says.”

And just then, the mistal door flung open and Mary came in, and I still had Faith’s hand in mine.

“Oh! I’m sure, I’m sorry if I intrude,” said Mary, “but I thought you’d come to show Faith th’ new calf.”

“And so I did.”

“It seems to me more like you were telling her her fortune,” said Mary in a very waspish way which she could put on very quick when she was not pleased. “But John’s waiting for yo’, and mi uncle says yo’re to excuse Ben setting yo’ home tonight, he has summot to say to him while Mr. Webster’s here. It’s a pity, for happen if he walked home wi’ yo’ by moonlight, he might ha’ seen to your fortin coming true.”

“For shame o’ thissen, Mary,” I said angrily. “Nay dunnot take on, Faith; it’s only Mary’s spiteful way. Nobody heeds her.” And I turned to go into the house.

“And you promise, Ben,” cried Faith, after me.

“Aye, I’ll mind me, Faith; I’ll mind me.”

“I declare, Faith,” I heard Mary say, “These may be town ways, colloguing wi’ strangers i’ th’ dark. But we’re none used to ’em at Holme. Yo’ might be a pair o’ Luddites, such carryings on.”

It was easy enough to see something more than common was troubling our folk. My father was sat in his chair by the fireside, but his pipe lay discarded on the table, and his ale was untasted in the pewter. My mother was rocking nervously in her chair, and she was creasing and smoothing her silk apron as she only did when she was what she called “worked up,” and little Mr. Webster first crossed his left leg over his right knee, and then his right leg over his left knee, and mopped his brow with his handkerchief as though it were the dog days. “The murther’s out,” I thought, for something told me what was coming.

“Sit you down, Ben,” said my father.

“And put th’ sneck on the door,” said my mother. “I declare what wi’ folk fra Huthersfelt an’ what wi’ folk fra Low Moor, this house is getting waur nor Lee Gap, an’ yo’ never know who’ll come next, nor when to call your house your own.”

Now this was unlike my mother, who was not one to welcome people to their face and back–bite them when they were gone, like I have known some do.

I put down the sneck and sat me down on the settle and waited.

“Mr. Webster’s been talking, to us, Ben,” said my father very gravely.

“And blind as a bat I’ve been not to see it misen,” snapped my mother.

“Talking to us about yo’, Ben,” father went on, “and very kind and friendly of him we take it, and it explains a many things I’ve wondered at more nor a little. Only last market day I met Mr. Horsfall i’ th’ Cloth Hall, and I said ‘Any more news o’ th’ Luddites, Mr. Horsfall,’ and he snapped out summot about it not being his way to carry coals to Newcastle. Aw wondered what he meant, but it’s plain enough now what he were driving at.”

Plain enough. But I must make a show of some sort, so I said:

“Perhaps yo’ll make it plainer, father.”

“Well, Mr. Webster, and I’m sure we thank you kindly and know it’s well and neighbourly meant, and only what we should have looked for from you, Mr. Webster,—Mr. Webster says folk are talking about you, Ben, and that our house, this very house I were born an’ bred in, is known an’ watched for a meeting place of th’ Luddites. Mr. Webster says he’s had a hint or two from more nor one that’s like to know ’at would be sorry to see a decent family that always held its head up an’ paid its way, brought to trouble and maybe disgrace by carryings on that’s agen the law an’ cannot be justified. But there, Mr. Webster, aw’m a poor talker, tell him yersen, an’ let him answer yo’ if he can.”

“I’m’ not at liberty to say who my informant was, Ben,” said Mr. Webster. “But briefly the matter is this. One of my deacons”...

My thoughts flew, I know not why, to Buck Walker, Ben’s father—“asked me privately this morning if I knew whether it was true, that you and George Mellor were strongly suspected of being of the party that broke into Mr. S———’s mill at Marsh. And others, too, have hinted at the same thing, and one of my brothers who labours in the Lord’s vineyard at Milnsbridge says that it is common talk in those parts that George Mellor and his cousin from Slaithwaite way are the head and front of the grave doings that now distract the country and add crime and violence to poverty and hunger.”

“Drat that George Mellor, that ever I should live to say so of my sister’s son. And him coming here so much of late and making him welcome to the best of everything, nothing too good for him, and couldn’t be more done by if he were my own son. As is nothing but right by your own sister’s son, and him wi’ a stepfather that would aggravate a saint. Who’d ha thowt it o’ George, leading yar Ben, that wouldn’t harm a flea an’ scarce pluck to say boo to a goose, into all maks o’ mullock, an’ dragging decent women out of their bed by th’ hair o’ th’ head, an’ goodness only knows what beside. But I’ll lock thee in this very night wi’ mi own hands, and out o’ this house tha doesn’t stir fra sunset to sunrise, or my name’s not Sarah Bamforth. An’ let George show his face here again if he dare. An’ so nicely as I had it all planned out too. Aw made no doubt he wer’ companying that pale faced lass o’ Parson Booth’s, an’ a rare catch for her aw thowt it would be to have a fine, handsome, well–set–up young man i’ th’ family that would bring some blood an’ bone into th’ breed, as it’s easy to see their father’s had all run to furin gibberish an’ book learning, so at he’d none to give his own childer, poor warmbly things.” Thus my mother.

“Well, Ben, has ta nowt to say for thissen?” said my father, not angrily, but with an unspoken reproach in his voice: and my conscience smote me sore.

“You see, Ben,” said Mr. Webster, perhaps noticing my silence and to give me time to gather my thoughts. “You see, Ben, a young man like you is scarcely his own master. If you had been ’Siah, now, it would have been different. A decent man is your servant, Brother Bamforth, and helps my infirmity mightily when he lights me home of a dark night, a decent man though with still a strong leaven of the old Adam and much given to the vanities of the flesh and idle conversation. But ’Siah is his own master though your man. His family is under his own hat. He has neither kith nor kin, that he knows of, and he stands, so to speak, on his own bottom. But you, Ben, are your father’s son, and what you may do, be it for good or be it for evil, must reflect on your father’s name and on this honoured house.”

Ah! there was the rub. It was the thought of that had given me many a sleepless night, and made black care walk daily by my side.

“Cannot ta speak, man?” my mother cried. “Are ta going to sit theer as gaumless as th’ town fool, wi niver a word to throw at a dog. Who yo’ breed on aw cannot tell, not o’ my side. It’s not his bringing up, Mr. Webster, it’s the company he’s fallen into lately.”

But what to say I could not think. All sorts of old proverbs came into my head—“a little word’s a bonny word,” “least said, soonest mended,” and so on. I loved my mother. I honoured my father. I revered Mr. Webster. But my secret was not my own; there was, too, that terrible oath. I wished for the thousandth time that I had had nought to do with the Luds: and there were the three faces turned to me, all question, and waiting for me to find speech to answer.

“Father,” I said at length, “Have you ever known me tell you a lie?”

“Never, Ben,” he said with hearty emphasis.

“Would you have me begin now?”

“Tha knows better.”

“Then ask me no questions, father, for the truth I may not tell, and lies I would not. That I am in great trouble you all can see. That I will seek to so bear my trouble that it shall touch only myself, you must trust me. God knows it grieves me to seem wanting in respect or confidence where respect and confidence should need no asking, but in this matter I must tread my own path, for I cannot turn back and yet I dread to go forward. Press me no more, for if you do, I must leave home and that now. I thank you, Mr. Webster, that you have spoken to my parents. This was bound to come, and I have feared it more than ought either Mr. Radcliffe or any on ’em can do. And now, my say’s said, an’ with your good leave, I’ll bid you a fair good night.”

And I lit my candle, and stooping over, kissed the cheek which my mother for the first time in my life did not offer to me, and went slowly and heavily to bed. Long after I had drawn the clothes over me, I heard the murmur of conversation below, and when the morrow came I had not long to wait before I knew the upshot of the anxious debate that had lasted long after the usual time for bed.

I had gone into the mistal, where I knew I should find ’Siah. My father it seemed had risen earlier than usual. ’Siah was grooming old Bess, sissing over her flanks with much vigour, and prodding her loins with the comb with many a “stand over, lass,” “whoa,” “will ta?” and much make–believe that the old mare was a mettlesome beast, full of fire and vice, whereas in sooth a quieter animal never was shod.

“Yo’re agate early this morning, ’Siah,” I said; “what’s up?”

“Nay that’s what caps me, Ben Summut’s up, certain sure. Thi father fot me out o’ bed awmost afore aw’d shut mi een. ‘Tha mum fettle Bess up an’ see to th’ gears’ he said, ‘we’st be off for Macclesfilt as soon as we can mak’ a load.’”

“To Macclesfilt? Why there’s no fair on this time o’th year, ’Si. Tha must ha’ been dreamin’.”

“It’s a dream at’s fetched th’ sweat on me, if it were a dream. Aw’m noan gi’en to dreams ’at fetch me out o’ bed i’ th’ middle o’ th’ neet. But dream or no dream we’re off in a day or two, choose how. Tha’ll be going too, Ben.”

“What do yo’ make on it, ’Si?”

“Why it’s plain as th’ nose on thi face. We’re none bahn to sell pieces, for there’s nobody got any brass to wear. An’ aw reckon thi father’s noan so weel off ’at he can afford to give ’em away. So if it isn’t for business it mun be for pleasure or happen for health. P’r’aps it’s for thy health, Ben. Tha looks delikit, tha great six feet o’ beef an’ bacon. A change o’ air will do thee good.”

“Tha knows well enough, ’Si, I cannot go away just now, not before next Saturday. Yo’ know what’s fixed for next Saturday.”

“Aw know weel enough, an’ more the reason for a change o’ air, say I.”

“What ’Si, turn traitor and leave our comrades in the lurch?”

“Hard words break no bones, Ben, an’ I, for one, am sick o’ this trolloping about hauf th’ neet through; often as not weet to th’ skin; an’ nawther beef nor beer, nor brass nor fun in it. Aw’d rayther list for a sodger gradely. It’s wearin’ me to skin an’ bone, an’ all for what aw’d like to know?”

“For th’ cause ’Si.”

“Damn th’ cause. Let th’ cause shift for itsen. Aw’m noan a cropper nor a weaver, nor owt but a plain teamer, an’ aw tell yo’ Ben, we’d both be a darn sight better out o’ this job nor in it.”

“But our oath, ’Si.”

“Promises an’ pie crusts wer’ made to be broken aw’n heerd yo’r mother say.”

“But our honour, ’Si.”

“Fine words butter no parsnips, aw’n heard Mary say. Besides honour’s for gentlefolk. It’s too fine a thing for a teamer. Stand ovver, tha brussen owd wastrel!”

“When do we start for Macclesfield?”

“Happen. Wednesday, happen Thursday. Not o’ Friday if aw can help, for luck. Any road as soon after next market day as we can load, bi what thi father says.”

“Well, ’Si, listen to me. I’ve promised George I would bear a hand i’ this Cartwright job, an’ I cannot go back o’ my word. Besides I’ve promised more nor George. I cannot tell you all, ’Si, but my word’s passed to stand by John Booth, an’ see him safe out o’ this muddle; an’ see him safe out of it I will if I can.”

“Petticoats again,” muttered ’Siah.

“After that, I promise yo, ’Si, I’ll be main glad to be clear of the whole business, and so I’ll tell my cousin George. If machinery’s to come we must find some better way of meeting it than with a sledge hammer.”

“Ah! that’s th’ sensiblest word tha ever spoke, Ben Bamforth.”

“But mark, ’Si, Bess must not be ready to start till after Saturday. Yo’ understand: a nail in her hoof or a looseness i’ th’ bowels, I leave it to thee, ’Si. But leave here till after Saturday I won’t, an’ neither will yo’, if yo’re th’ man I take thee for!”

“A wilful man mun have his way. Go to thi baggin’, Ben. Don’t let ’em see us talkin’ together. Aw understand thee, an’ tha’st have thi way; but after Saturday a team o’ horses shan’t drag me a foot after George Mellor, an’ there’s my davy on it.”

And ’Siah crossed two fingers and spat over them, and that I knew to be more binding on ’Si than any Bible oath. So I turned to go, much relieved and easier in my mind now I had shaped a clear course. But ’Siah had not quite done.

“Hauf a minnit, Ben. It had welly slipped mi mind. Has Mary said owt to thee about yon Ben Walker?”

“No, what about him? Ben o’ Buck’s yo’ mean?”

“Aye, t’ same felly, him at run away fra Long Tom.”

“Well, what on him?”

“He’s been after her agen.”

“Who? Tom?”

“No’, guise ang thee, Ben o’ Buck’s. Martha tell’d me. But aw reckon he’ll noan come agen in a hurry. ’Oo sent him away wi’ a flea in his yer ’oil, bi all accounts.”

“Aye?”

“Aw cannot tell what t’ ar’ thinkin, on, Ben. It’s no bizzness o’ mine, but there ’oo is, ripe an’ bloomin’ an’ ready to be plucked. ’As ta no een i’ thi yed, at tha leaves her for all th’ gallus birds i’ th’ country to pluck at when ’oo’s thine for th’ askin’?”

“Stuff an’ nonsense, ’Si. We winnot talk about it. But what about Walker?”

“Nay, aw dunnot know all th’ tale. Martha’s ready enough to talk about some things, particular about th’ iniquity o’ a pint o’ ale. But ’oo just gave me to understand ’at Walker’s popped to Mary, an’ Mary’s as cross as a bear wi’ a sore ear.”

“Tha doesn’t know what she said to him, ’Si? But theer aw’ve no right to ask, an’ tha’s noan to tell. Maids’ secrets are not for us to talk about.”

“Aw didn’t gather ’at ’oo said much. But Martha said ’oo heard a smack, an’ it didn’t sound like th’ smack o’ a kiss, an’ ’oo saw Ben goin’ down th’ broo very white i’ one cheek an’ very red o’ th’ other, an’ lookin as ugly as a cur that’s lost a bone. So tha can draw thi own conclusions, Ben, that is if thi, what d’ye call it, oh, thi honour, will let thee.”

And with this sarcasm, ’Siah dug his head into Bess’s ribs and began a vigorous scrubbing that set the old mare dancing and stamping, and put an effective end to further confidences.

That was a gloomy week at our house. Mary was as contrary as contrary could be, my mother was sad and tearful, my father glum and stern. He told me that if it was all the same to me he intended going to Macclesfield in a day or two, and bade me write to some of our customers there and by the way. But I knew that it was a needless journey, and taken only to get me out of harm’s way. I dared not say I would go after Saturday, for fear of starting enquiries as to my reasons for delay. So I merely said I should be ready when he was, and that seemed to cheer him a bit.

I dreaded meeting my cousin George, but I knew it had to be done. My mind was fully made up to tell him I could not continue by his side in this organized attack on machines I had been busy thinking the matter out. The objection to machinery was that, it displaced human labour. Well, I argued, a scythe is a machine, so is a pair of scissors. If I proposed to do away with the scythe at hay time and clip our three acre field with my mother’s scissors, everyone would think me a lunatic. The more I thought of that illustration the more I liked it, and I wondered how George would get over it. But, somehow, as I walked down, to the Brigg to have my talk with George, I got less and less comfort from my logic the nearer I drew to Huddersfield. George was at home and fortunately we were not interrupted. He was in a towering rage, and I could not have found a worse time for my errand.

“Yo’re just the man I wanted to see, Ben,” he said. “I feel I must talk to somebody and let th’ steam off a bit. But somebody’st smart for this. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth th’ old Book says, an’ a blow for a blow too, say I. Aye, by God, a blow for a blow, a hundred blows for one, insult for insult, outrage for outrage, and ruin for oppression. The proud insolence of the man! Am I a dog that I should bear this thing? Answer me that, Ben Bamforth.”

“Whatever’s up, George?” I asked. “Do sit thee down and talk quiet and sensible. An’ quit walking an’ tearing up an’ down like a tiger in a cage. One would think th’d lost thi wits, an’ I particler wanted a quiet talk.”

“Quiet, aye, yo’d be quiet if somebody cut thee across th’ face wi’ a whip. Listen here. Aw’d been up to Linfit, an’ were comin’ quiet as a lamb along th’ road back to th’ cropping shop. An’ just above th’ Warren House, by Radcliffe’s plantation, tha’ knows, wer’ a woman about thirty year old, crouched agen th’ wall. I could see a pair o’ men’s shooin sticking out fra underneath her skirt, and it’s my belief ’oo’d nowt on her but just that skirt an’ an old thin black shawl. Neither sock nor shift, an’ it’s none too warm o’ neets yet. She wer’ crying and moanin’ an’ rocking hersen to an’ fro’, swaying her body back’ards and for’ards, an ’oo’d a bundle o’ summat in her arms lying across her breast, an’ ’oo strained it to her and made her moan. Her face were pale as death, an’ her cheek bones seemed high an’ sharp, an’ th’ skin drawn tight as a drum across ’em. An’ her eyes were sunk in her yed, but black an’ wild an’ staring. An’ her lips were thin and bloodless, an’ there was a line of blood upon ’em as tho’ she bled, an’ her arms and hands were thin and skinny. Aw didn’t know her, but aw stopped to see what ailed her. She wouldn’t, talk for a bit; she’d do nowt but moan. An’ then ’oo told me she’d been down to Huddersfielt to see th’ Relieving Officer. Her husband wer’ a cropper. He’d been thrown out o’ work. His master’d put in two frames, an’ he had to leave. He’s down wi’ th’ rheumatic fever. They’d nowt to eat, an’ nowt to sup. ’Oo’d been sucklin’ th’ babby, an’ as time went on she’d no milk in her breasts for th’ little one. ’Oo’d fed it for days by soaking a rag i’ warm milk an’ water an’ lettin’ it suck at that. But th’ little thing had pined and pined, crying an’ wailin’ and, o’ a night, pressin’ its little mouth to her dry breasts an’ drawin’ nowt but wind. An’ then it had th’ convulsions, an’ she had to leave her man ravin’ i’ th’ fever an’ hug th’ brat to Huddersfield, an’ there they’d nowt for her, an’ ’oo must back agen wi’ nother bite nor sup between her lips an’ nowt the better for her tramp. She oppened her shawl, an’ as I’m a livin’ man, there wer’ th’ little ’un wi’ a head no bigger nor mi fist, stark dead at its mother’s breast; and its eyes starin’ an’ starin’ an’ its face all drawn wi’ pain. It made my heart stand still, an’ aw felt as if a strong man were clutchin’ at my throat.”

“Aw stood before her mute. Aw couldn’t speak. An’ just then I heard th’ sound o’ a horse’s trot, an’ I turned round an’ there wer’ Horsfall o’ Ottiwell’s coming up th’ road. He wer’ wipin’ his mouth wi’ th’ back o’ his hand, and’ aw judged he’d stopped for a glass at th’ Warrener. Aw don’t know what possessed me, but aw nipped up th’ child fra’ its’ mother’s arms an’ stepped right i’ th’ front o’ his horse it swerved, an’ he swayed in his saddle.”

‘Damn you, mind where yo’re walking,’ he said. ‘Stand aside and leave the road free, yo’ drunken tramp.’

“But aw stood stock still i’ th’ front o’ his mare, an’ aw held up th’ child aboon th’ horse’s head an’ I thrust it right to his face.”

‘Look at thi work, William Horsfall; look at thi work, an’ be glad,’ I cried. “Th’ horse reared a bit, an’ he leaned over its shoulder an’ peered, for it wer’ gettin’ dark. Aw thrust th’ poor mite close to his jowl, an’ aw heard him catch his breath an’ saw a great start in his e’en. An’ then he drew his mare on to its haunches, an’ lifted his stock high in th’ air, an’ before aw wer’ aware on him, down he brought it wi’ all his might an’ main reight across mi face. Tha’ may see th’ weal. But aw didn’t seem to feel it much.”

“‘Out o’ mi way, you villain,’ he cried, an’ he dug his spur into th’ mare an’ she sprang on wi’ a bound, an’ he wer off up th’ road, turning in his saddle an’ shouting:

‘Aw marked yo’ George Mellor; aw marked yo’, an’ know yo’ for what yo’ are. Yo’n none heard th’ last o’ this.’”

“But aw cared nought for what he said. I gave th’ wee body back to its mother an’ all th’ brass I had on me. And ’oo went her way and I came mine. But, as the Lord’s above me, that blow shall cost William Horsfall dear.”

I hated more than ever to do my errand now, but it had to be done. My neat little argument about machines went clean out of my head. I got George quieted down after a bit. It had done him good to let him tell his tale and storm on a bit. And then, when I thought he could talk sensibly, I said:

“Yo’ won’t like my errand, George, but I’ve settled to tell you, an’ I thought I must come straight to yo’ an’ tell yo’ what’s in my mind.”

“Well, what is it, lad, I’m easier now I’ve said my say.”

“Yo’ know what’s fixed for next Saturday?”

“I do, that, Ben, an’ all goes rare an’ well. Aw’ve had word that a big force fra Leeds will join us near Rawfolds, an’ some ’ll be there fra Bradford an’ Dewsbury. Th’ movement’s spreading, lad, it’s spreading an’ it’s growing, an’ th’ time’s at hand when General Lud will have an army that will sweep all before it.”

“I shall be there, George.”

“Why, of course tha’ will, Ben. You an’ ’Siah must lead the hammer men. Those doors o’ Cartwright’s will stand some braying, but yo’ an’ ’Siah can splinter his panels an’ burst his locks, aw’m thinking.”

“I shall be there, George, for my word’s passed. But after that night—yo’ must do without me.”

“Do without thee, Ben? Tha’rt none bahn to duff? Tha’ll noan turn tail, Ben? Why victory’s at hand, man. One blow and the game’s our own. Tha’rt joking, Ben.”

“Aw never were more i’ earnest, George. And it hurts me to tell thee. Yo’ know what store I set on yo’, George. We’ve been more like brothers nor cousins, an’ tha knows, tho’ aw’m not clever like thee an’ high mettled, aw’m neither coward nor traitor. Aw’ve tried to think as yo’ think, George, an’ to see as yo’ see. Aw know it’s all true tha says about th’ sufferings o’ th’ poor; an’ what’s to become o’ th’ working folk when more an’ more machines come up, aw cannot tell. But we’re on a wrong tack, George. Enoch’s none going to stop machinery. Th’ mesters are stubborn, an’ they’re English, too. We may break a thousand frames, an’ clear every machine out of every mill an’ shop in England, but better ones will take their place. We cannot go on for ever wi’ midnight raids an’ secret meetings. The law’s too strong for us, George, an’ we’re kicking against the pricks.”

“Then what would yo’ have us do, Ben? Are th’ working classes to sit down wi’ their hands i’ their pockets an’ watch their families die by inches? If yo’ don’t like my methods tell me better. Do yo’ think I like stealing about at night like a thief, or that I find any pleasure in smashing machines? If that were the be–all and end–all of our campaign, I’d have nowt to do wi’ it. But it’s only th’ beginning, Ben, only th’ beginning.”

“And the end?” I asked.

“We’ll strike higher an’ further. Before many weeks are over I’ll throw off all disguise. I’ll call on every man that has a heart in his breast to join me in a march to London. We’ll strike into the great North–road. We’ll ransack every farm house by the way for arms and provisions. We’ll take toll of every man in every town who has got rich by grinding down the poor. We’ll make our presence and our power known at every hail and castle in the Shires. We’ll strike terror into the hearts of every aristocrat who abuses his hereditary privileges to press down and rob the poor. We’ll march with swelling ranks and a purpose firmer by every step we take, till we stand, an army, at the very gates of Westminster, and there we will thunder forth our claims and wring from an abject Parliament the rights, without which we are driven slaves.”

“And have you counted the cost, George?”

“Aye, that I have. If we succeed, who can tell what we may not accomplish? These cruel lagging wars that keep corn beyond our reach, and are useful only to find riches and glory for the ruling families of the land, shall finish. The toiling masses of England shall clasp in friendship the hand of the uprisen people of France. We will drive from office and power those lords and landowners who for centuries have battened on the poor and used the great resources of this country, wrung from the helpless taxpayer, as their own privy purse. We will establish a Parliament in which the poor man’s voice will be heard. We will sound the death knell of privilege and inequality; we will herald the glorious reign of equality and righteousness. And if we fail, why then, Ben, we shall have died in a glorious cause, and George Mellor for one would rather shed his blood in such a cause than sit mute and consenting, a crushed and heartless unit of a people hugging its own chains. Dost like the picture, Ben?”

“I’m with yo’ George, in an open fight, tho’ I seem to feel a rope round my neck as I say it. But, for heaven’s sake, George, get into th’ open as soon as tha’ can. For aw’ve forgotten how to hold up mi head an’ look th’ market in th’ face even sin’ aw first put on a mask an’ dodged behind a hedge at the sound of a trooper’s horse. Tha’s cozened mi again, George. Aw came to get out o’ a conspiracy an’ tha’s nobbut pledged me to rebellion. I’m out o’ th’ frying pan into th’ fire, wi’ a vengeance. But at least I’st have mi own self respect, an’ that’s summot gained.”

“Spoken like thi own self, Ben, an’ now lets talk o’ Saturday neet, an’ no more looking back, an’ yo’ love me, lad.”

CHAPTER VIII.

IT WAS nigh ten o’clock of the Saturday night when I slipped on my clothes, went on tiptoe across the bedroom floor into the little room where ’Siah slept—how the rafters creaked!—and roused him from his deep sleep. ’Siah sat up with a yawn that would have awakened any but those who slept the heavy slumbers born of honest toil and pure air, rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, yawned again, thrust, a stockinged leg from under the blankets, muttered something that did not sound like a blessing, donned his trousers and his smock, and followed me, with a clumsy attempt at care, down the stairs. In the kitchen we shod our feet, ’Siah in clogs, over which he drew a pair of socks, myself with thick hob–nailed boots. The dog rose from the hearth, stretched himself with a yawn, arched his back, and then lay down again with his jaw upon his fore–paw and eyes watchful from under shaggy brows. My mother had not kept her threat to lock me in o’ nights, in fact I am not sure she could have done, had her will been ever so good. ’Siah opened the door, motioned the dog back to its place, and we turned out into the yard, doubled the house side, and strode off down the hill. We met not a soul nor spoke a word till we came to Kitchen Fold, and here, by the Black Bull, we came upon Soldier Jack. He gave us a quiet greeting, almost in a whisper. He handed an axe to ’Siah, and a huge sledge–hammer to myself. He showed us a pistol that he himself was to handle, and a small canvass bag of powder and ball. He fondled the weapon lovingly, and as we walked briskly along towards Huddersfield, kept on cocking it at the startled birds that sprung twittering from the hedges. Of Watch and Ward we saw no sign. There was half a moon in the sky, which was o’ercast by scudding clouds behind which she sailed, diving down as into troughs of ink, then showing a horn and riding triumphantly to the clear again, like a ship of fire in the billows of the sea. There was no rain, but the wind moaned, and save for its moan and the fall of our feet and the bark of a cur as we passed the scattered houses, and now and then a word from Jack, all was very still. We did not dally in the town, for the order was that each man should make his own way to the Dumb Steeple, a sign well known to all of us, hard by the Three Nuns, on the road side, near the old Convent of Kirklees. As we neared the spot we saw other figures moving furtively and quickly in the same direction. Some were dressed in smocks, and all had their faces part concealed, either by a mask or by a ’kerchief drawn across the lower face. One gaunt being strode on before us dressed in woman’s skirts; but a pair of men’s trousers, that showed at every step, and a manly stride were in ill keeping with the skirt. When we got near the Steeple I put on my mask and ’Siah and Jack theirs. From all sides, across fields, down bye–ways, from Roberttown, from Hightown, men, singly and in small groups, were gathering. Some were even coming out of the Three Nuns, where lights were showing through the lower windows. But all were curiously still. So still I gave a start when a slim form moved by my side, sprung from I know not where, and John Booth’s voice whispered:

“I knew you by your height, Ben, and the swing of your gait, and Soldier Jack is noan hard to tell by his limp. But here we are by th’ Steeple, and here should be our leader.”

We had not long to wait for George. He singled me out easily enough by my height, for I was a good three inches above any man there.

“Well in time, George. That’s right, and ’Siah too. Give Martha a buzz fra me, ’Si, when tha’ gets back to Holme. What! Soldier Jack! Ah! now we shall make a brave show, an’ those Leeds lads will know what it means to have a soldier to smarten us up.” And he was here and there and in and among and seemed to have just the right word for every one, and Soldier Jack began at once to busy himself in seeing how each one was armed. ’Siah slunk off towards the Three Nuns, muttering that if he had to die that night he should like to die with t’ taste o’ honest ale in his mouth.

“Come aside with me, Ben,” said John, when none was bye to note him. “We’ve a good half–hour to wait here before we start. There are not above a hundred of us here all told; and we counted on five times that number. The Leeds men will meet us, or should meet us, nigher Rawfolds. But Bradford and Dewsbury have sent a mere handful of those that should have come. George is putting a brave face on, but he’s sore vexed all the same.”

“We’ve enough for th’ job,” I said. “If a hundred men cannot force Rawfolds a thousand cannot. We’d do well to start and know our luck.”

“We must not start before I say my say, Ben. We shall see the ranks forming from here, and I may have no other chance.”

“Well, John lad, what is it. Tha’ looks as if tha’d seen a boggard.” The pale light from the moon had fallen full on his face as we stood against the wall of Kirklees Park, a two or three hundred yards away from where the moving mass bulked large about the Steeple.

“Don’t jest to–night, Ben. I cannot bear it. My heart is heavy with forebodings. I cannot, cannot shake them off, try as I will. This is my last venture, Ben.”

“Aye and mine by moonlight, John Daylight or nowt, say I.”

“It is my last, Ben. There will be sharp work at Rawfolds. The mill is well garrisoned, Cartwright is a bold, a resolute man. He will defend his machines at any hazard and at any cost. Still you need not despair. If you can but win your way in, you may overpower him and the men he has with him. But, Ben, have you thought of it? There will be bloodshed. There must be bloodshed. Cartwright will not ask quarter, nor will he give it. My father knows him well. If you break down gate and door, you will find him there, pistol in hand, and he will not scruple to shoot his assailant down.”

“Tha’rt none feart, are ta, John. Tha can slip off, if tha likes. Aw’ll ma’e some mak’ o’ a story to quieten George. Tha looks poorly enough for owt.”

“Quit yo’r talking, Ben. I would not turn back if I could. But, Ben, this night’s work will be my last. Something tells me my days are numbered I do not know I need greet for that. It’s a weary world, and I’st be well out on it.”

“Yo’re just talking daft,” I said, but I felt somehow that he was telling truth. I could not make light of what he said, though I tried.

“If I don’t go back to Huddersfield with you, Ben, you’ll find a paper at Mrs. Wight’s, telling yo’ what to do with my bits o’ things. There’s Hume’s History of England. Yo’ve always said yo’d like to read it. Mi Bible’s for Faith, and this ring for Mary, wi my love, an’ give George th’ silver buckles off my Sunday shoon. It’ll be for you to tell my father and Faith. No one else must do it. Promise me that.”

“Do ho’d thi talkin, John, an’ dall thee, dunnot look so solemn. I’st be angered wi’ thee in a bit.” I wanted to feel angry, to work myself into wrath, for I knew if this talk went on, I should soon be fit for nowt myself.

“Nay, Ben, bear with me. Faith will be a lone lass, when I am gone. She loves me, Ben, with more than a sister’s love. You see my mother died when I were born. I wish she were well wed, George. I should not fear leaving her if I knew she were plighted to a good man.”

“There’s yo’r father,” I said; “but what child’s talk we’re talking. Tha’ll noan fall, John; aw dunn’t believe in forebodings an’ such woman’s fancies. It’s thi liver, John. Let’s go back; George ’ll be missing us. Stick as close to me as tha can get, when we come to th’ mill, an’ aw’ll see nobody touches thee, if I can help it.”

“My father’s an old man,” pursued Booth, not heeding what I said. “An old man, wrapped in his books, and more helpless than Faith herself. Do you like Faith, Ben? I’ve fancied of late she turns to thee I know she trusts you and seems to lean on your strength. Women like power in a man, Ben, not wrecklings like me.”

“Yo’re noan a wreckling, lad. It’s th’ head folk measure men by, not legs an’ arms.”

“Ivy will cling to the oak, Ben, for all that, an’ Faith’s is a clinging nature. Yo’ll stand by her, if th’ worst comes to th’ worst. Promise me, Ben. On thi word as a man, Ben, pledge me thi promise, an’ I’ll go to this night’s work wi’ a lighter heart.”

A whistle sounded shrill and clear from by the Steeple. It was the signal to fall in. We turned to join our comrades. John held me by the hand, and his pale, thin face, with those large, soft, woman’s eyes of his, was turned up to me, all entreaty.

“It needs no promise, John; but if it ’ll lighten thee owt an’ help thee to play the man this night, there’s mi hand on it. An’ now put this nonsense, out o’ thi head. Stick close to me, all through. An’ when it’s ovver (end choose how it may) make straight for me or Soldier Jack, and we’ll win home together. Come, the men wait, an’ our work’s before us.”

George and Thorpe and Soldier Jack were forming the party into companies. There might be some two hundred of us, but I never counted them. Jack arranged us in the order deemed best. We were drawn up in a long line close by the Steeple. The men of the first company had pistols or muskets, firearms, of any sort. They were to march first. If soldiers were about I suppose Jack thought the men with firearms could drive them off if any of us could. But Lord bless you! Most of them couldn’t have hit a hay stack at twenty yards. A few of them that had done a bit of poaching might give a better account of themselves. But, anyhow, they might fley the red–coats, and that would serve our ends just as well as shooting them. Behind the shooters were drawn tip, two abreast, the hatchet men, and behind them were to march my own lads, about a score of us, big men all, either in height or breadth, and each of us slung a hammer over his shoulder. I was captain of the hammer–men, and on my shoulder I bore a mighty weapon that few could sling. Behind my company was more or less of a rabble; men unarmed or with bludgeons only. What good they were, or expected to be, it would puzzle me to say. They were only in the way; but they were Luds, and that was enough.

Soldier Jack went down the line. Ben Walker moved by his side, carrying a lanthorn. I had not seen him till then. He looked sick and wretched. His hand trembled as he held aloft the light. Jack called the roll by its rays as he moved down the line.

“No. 1.”

“Here.”

“No. 2.”

“Aw’m here.”

“No. 3.”

No answer.

“No. 4.”

“That’ll be me.”

And so on down the line, while those who had made answer pulled their caps over their faces or fixed their masks more securely.

“And now, lads,” cried George. “We’ll waste no time in talking. We’ve three good miles to Rawfolds, and the night shortens. Before day break our work must be done. Show yourselves men but this night, and yo’ bring the masters to their knees. Yo’ fight; for home and hearth and the right to live. If there is one among you whose heart fails him, let him step out and leave us. William Hall, do you bring up the rear. If any turn tail, mark him. If yo’ suspect treachery, shoot him. Sam Hartley, yo’ know the way over Hartshead, walk by my side, and we will lead the way.”

“And now, men, ready!”

“One, two, one, two, steady!” cried Soldier Jack, and we beat time as he had taught us in our drill, “one, two, left, right, left, right.”

“Forward!” cried George, and he placed himself at the head of the column, and we moved steadily on in the dark, glad of the motion, for our blood was chilled with standing, and I, for one, thought less when I was moving, and the less I thought the better I was suited. ’Siah was in my company, and he, too, had a hammer, and well he knew how to use it. I took care he should not be far off me at all times. John Booth was in the rear, for he could use neither axe nor hammer, and pistols he would have nought to do with. As we marched along over the Moor, tramp, tramp, tramp, our feet falling pretty regular, and Soldier Jack sort of beating time for us by shouting “Left, right, left, right.” There was a bit of breeze by this, and it was none too warm, but my spirits were rising spite of John’s gloomy words and little as I liked the job. Every now and then George ran past me on his way down the ranks, and I could see his eye kindled and lit up with fire, for he had lost or thrown away his mask. Near the White Hart Inn, we halted; for here, if anywhere, we should be joined by the Leeds men; but there was neither sight nor sound of them.

“Shall aw go meet ’em an’ hurry ’em up, General?” asked Ben Walker.

“Noa, tha winnot, tha’ll stay here,” said Soldier Jack, before George could reply.

I saw George was a bit huffed at Jack’s putting his oar in so sharp, and he turned on him to say something Jack mightn’t have liked, but thought better of it and checked himself.

“We cannot very well spare thee, Ben, we mun send some’dy whose legs are more use nor his arms.”

“Send John Booth,” I whispered.

“Why John Booth?”

“Nivver mind, George, I’ll tell thee at after; send him.”

“‘Well, if it’ll pleasure thee.”

But John Booth wouldn’t go. When George ordered him he flatly refused, and would only say that he had come out to fight, and not to run errands. John was a favourite with the men, who liked his pluck, and wondered often to each other such a fiery spirit was to be found in so frail a body. So they bore him out in his refusal, and a young lad from Huddersfield, who had been, better at home with his mother, as indeed we should all have been, was packed off over the Moor, to hurry up the laggards. I heard afterwards he met them a mile away; but when they heard the sound of musketry and our hoarse cries as we dashed at the barriers that kept us from our prey, they fair turned tail and slunk off to bed again. Anyway we saw nought of them.

“Do yo’ know where th’ soldiers are billeted?” I asked George.

“Ay, mostly at Haigh House in Hightown, yonder way,” he replied, pointing into the darkness.

“Hadn’t we better send a party to engage them and cut them off?” asked Jack.

“There’s more at Millbridge yonder,” said Thorpe. “They’re all around us. If yo’ try to stop one lot coming up, why not another?”

“There’s summot i’ that,” said Soldier Jack; “anyway we mustn’t stop shivering here. Yo’ mun keep ’em movin, General. There’s nowt men hate worse nor waiting i’ th’ dark. They get fleyed at their own shadders, an’ start at their own thowts. Push us forward, George, an’ let us get to close quarters, for every minute wasted now means a deserter.”

“Right yo’ are, Soldier. Aw’ve noticed more nor one slinking off; but aw thowt it best to say nowt,” said Thorpe.

“Then forward, men! Th’ Leeds lot will be here in time for th’ shouting. All the more glory will be ours. Now forward and no more lagging.”

We moved on again, turning sharply down a lane that led from the Moor towards the mill. We could see the buildings now, the mill itself, four stories high, with smaller buildings, the dyehouse, drying stove and such like, clustering near it. A brook ran rippling over rounded pebbles to the dam and from the goit to the great water–wheel. We could hear the water of the beck babbling when we started, but its murmur was lost in the thud of our feet as we closed on the mill. Not a light was to be seen. The moon shone at moments on the windows, but no ray came from within. But smoke came in a thin stream from the long chimney, and showed that the boiler fire was banked up ready for Monday’s work. Now we neared with quickened steps to the mill–yard, and out into the night came from within the fierce baying of the watch–dog. It hadn’t bayed two minutes when a single light shone out from the counting house, and we could see it move from window to window, and other lights glowed now from other portions of the mill. The watchers within had heard the faithful hound, and were doubtless speeding to their post’s and standing, to their arms.

“Rush for the gate, hatchets to the front!” shouted George.

A band of men with hatchets sprang forward, and began to ply their weapons at the gates.

“Musket men line up,” came the sharp command. “Give them a volley at the windows. Now, lads, spread yourselves. Cover the windows. Bullets and stones, mi lads, let ’em have it.”

I caught sight of Booth. I seized the arm as he was hurrying past me. “Stand by me, John; stand by me and ’Siah. Dunnot leave our side, as yo’ love yo’r sister.”

“My place is elsewhere, Ben.”

“Stand by me, aw tell yo. ’Siah, be with me. See! the outer door gives. They’re in, they’re in! Now ’Siah! follow me. Come, John.”

I sprang forward, ’Siah gave a shout like the bellowing of a mad bull. I rushed into the mill yard. The glass was falling from the frames with crash upon crash, sticks and stones were flying above our heads as we streamed forward. The volleys of musketry made their din, and now from loop holes and from windows came answering shots. We could see the streak of fire from the barrels and hear the sharp ping of the bullets as they whizzed about our heads. Our men roared and roared again and yelled with frenzied cries. There were men there who could do nought but roar and yell and curse. They had only sticks and hatchets, and till the doors were down sticks and hatchets were of no avail.

“Way for Enoch!” I cried. “’Siah it’s thee and me now.”

“Way for Enoch!” came a ringing cry from the roaring crowd, and the men fell aside as ’Siah and I bounded to the front. The door stood staunch and true. I rushed at it with a curse and a cry and smote as I never smote before. You could hear the din of my every stroke rolling away into the emptiness of the mill within, and from the great bolt heads that studded the panels the sparks flew fast and thick as I thundered at the door.

“Bang up, Ben!” cried the voices I knew so well. “Damn the door, will it never yield?”

’Siah was by my side. There was room only for us two, and above the roar of the mob, above the yells and curses and cries, above the thud of stones and the crash of falling lime and glass, above the clanging of the mill bell, above the din of gun and pistol, rang out the mighty sound of Enoch’s echoing thunder. With every blow that fell quivering shocks ran up my arm as the hammer dithered in my grasp, and still I pounded at the door, and still the stout timbers yielded not a jot. I wielded my maul fast and furious, but now with feebler blows, for my wind began to fail me; but ’Siah pounded on calm and stolid as if he stood in the village smithy.

“It’s no use, Ben,” I heard his hoarse voice in my ear. “It’s no use, aw’m feart, but we’ll keep braying. Howd thi strength, tha’ll want it.”

“Let’s try at th’ back,” shouted George. “To the back, Ben. There’s a way in at th’ back, they say.”

“To the back be it,” I heard a voice within; “We’ll be there to greet you.”

And that was near the last sound I heard. I fell back from the door that had stood so well our fury and looked up at the window front. I think I raised my hand to my head to wipe away the sweat that was blinding my eyes. Then I was aware of a sharp burning boring pain in the muscle of my upper arm, and Enoch fell with a clatter into the cobbles of the yard, and I turned sick and dizzy and faint. The crowd were rushing away from the mill front round to the back, and I tried to follow them. But my eyes had a film before them, and I reeled and swayed like a drunken man, and when I tried to lift my arm a hundred daggers seemed to dig deep into my shoulder, and my arm fell useless by my side.

“He’s hit! They’n hit th’ mester,” cried ’Siah. “Here, Soldier, tha’re wanted here. Bear up, Ben, tha’ mustn’t fall. Brace thi’ legs, man. By God he’s wounded.” And everything swam around me and I knew no more.

When I came to my senses, I was, for a time, conscious only of my agony. I was stretched on a pile of straw in a lofty room with bare walls of undressed stone and great bowks and rafters crossing the arched roof. A mere slit, high up in one wall, let in a stream of light, but the corner in which I lay was almost wholly dark. Someone was kneeling by my side and when I moaned in my pain an arm was passed under my head and a mug was pressed to my lips.

“That’s reight, Ben, tha’rt better now. Tak’ a swig at this; it’ll do thee good.”

It was ’Siah’s voice, and the brandy and water that he poured down my throat set me coughing and choking, and every cough gave me awful stabs of shooting pain.

“Where are we, ’Si?” I murmured as I sank back again all faint and sick.

“Hanged if aw know, lad. But we’re safe for a bit. It’s som’dy Soldier Jack knows. We’re noan far fra’ Fixby, that’s all aw can tell thee, an’ here we’st ha’ to tarry till we can move thee.”

“An’ th’ mill? Ha’ we ta’en th’ mill? Where are all the boys? What am I doing lying here? Oh! I mind me now. I was hit i’ my arm. Where’s George an’ Thorpe, and—oh! tell me all, ’Si.”

“Tak another sup o’ this an’ lig quiet. Tha’d best noan talk so mich. There’s a caa or two i’ th’ mistal theer, an’ if tha’ll be still I’ll see it I cannot squeeze a drop aat on ’em. There’s been a lass milking noan so long sin’; aw expect ’oo’s noan left ’em dry if ’oo’s like th’ rest on ’em. Naa thee be still, an dunnot go swounding off agen, if tha’ can help it, Ben. Tha’ fleys me. Aw thowt tha were done for. Lig thee still, aw’ll be wi’ thee in a jiffy.” And ’Siah lumbered off in the gloom, and I heard him straining a thin, and coy stream of milk into a can, whilst a cow’s hoof stamped as if in protest at this renewed demand upon her stores.

The warm rich milk revived me, but when I strove to rise to my feet my strength failed me and I fell back again.

“There’s nowt for it, Ben, but patience. Th’ farm man here’s known to Soldier Jack, an’ as good luck will have it, his mester’s away. So we’re right for th’ day, an’ as soon as neet comes we’re off.”

“Tell me what has happened—I shalln’t settle till tha’ does.”

“There’s nowt much to tell. After tha’ were hit aw caught thee i’ my arms just as tha were falling like a felled bullock. Gow! what a weight tha are, to be sure, Ben. Then aw dragged thee to one side. Tha’ were bleeding like a pig, but Soldier Jack were wi’ thee i’ no time. See yo’ where he cut away thi’ vest an’ shirt. Then he put his finger i’ th’ hole where th’ bullet is, an’ didn’t ta’ groan. But he could feel nowt, so he bun thi up wi’ th’ tail o’ thi shirt an’ a handkerchief. But theer tha’ lay like a log, and what to do wi’ thee wer’ th’ puzzle. Aw’ looked under a shed i’ th’ mill yard to see if ther’ wer’ owt we could hug thee on; but there wer’ nowt. T’others were runnin’ off i’ all directions. Some were crying out to ’em to run, some wer’ orderin’ ’em to stop. George wer’ like one off his yed. Aw see’d him jump on to th’ sill o’ th’ lower window an’ grasp a frame wi jagged glass all around an’ shake it an’ gnash his teeth at those in th’ mill. But someone dragged him dahn. An’ all th’ while that damned bell wer’ clanging like all that. Then som’dy cried out at th’ sojers wer’ comin’, an’ aw thowt missen aw heerd th’ gallopin’ o’ horses’ hoofs; but aw winnot be sure. Aw grabbed hold o’ Mellor an’ telled him tha wer’ hit.”

‘Cannot yo’ see to him?’ he said.

’Siah an’ me’ll see to Ben,’ said Soldier Jack, who wer’ knelt down bi thi side. ‘Thee see to thissen, George.’ So George just gave a look at thi an’ gay’ a groan an’ threw up his hands, an’ shook his fist as th’ guns kept popping fra’ th’ mill in a way ’at made me duck mi head every half second, an’ off he skeltered after t’ others.”

“And what of John Booth. I hope no harm’s come to th’ lad.”

“Oh! nivver thee mind about Booth. He’s noan o’ kin to thee at aw know on.”

“But did he get safe away, ’Si? Did he go with George?”

“Aw’m noan his keeper, am I? Hannot aw enuff to do wi’ thee o’ mi hands wi’out John Booth? Go to sleep wi’ thee, th’rt talking too much.”

“Yo’re hiding summot, ’Si. Na tell me, an’ then aw’ll be quiet.”

“Well, there’s nowt much to tell. Booth wer’ hit, that’s all aw know. Aw seed him liggin’ on th’ ground, an’ he’ wer’ bleeding i’ th’ leg. But Soldier ’ll see to him.”

“Soldier?”

“Aye, he said’ tha wouldn’t be easy if tha thowt John wer’ left, so after we’d tugged an’ tewed an’ hustled thee here, an’ sich a huggin’ an’ a tewin’ an’ a hustlin’ aw nivver had i’ mi life afore, what wi’ thee keep on swounding every fifty yards o’ so, Jack first o’ all went back an’ gate some brandy. Aw dunnot know wheer he sammed it up, but Jack knows his way about, an’ no mistake. We should ha’ been fair done but for Jack. Then he said he’d hark back an’ see what could be done for Booth; but he shouldn’t come back here till neet, an’ then we’d see what could be done about movin’ thee. An’ we wer to ca’er here till he come back. Naa, that’s all aw know, except aw wish aw wer’ a caa.”

I was feeling very drowsy now and just remember murmuring:

“A caa; what for, ’Si?”

“So’s aw could chew th’ cud o’ mi last meat, for aw’m awmost famished, an’ aw cannot mak’ a meal o’ milk like a caulf.”

And then I must have dozed off, for I heard no more for a long time.

The weary day dragged its lingering length. I slept by fits and starts. ’Siah, worn out, slumbered heavily. A swallow darted through the slit high up in the wall, skimmed round the rafters, intent upon nest building in the thatch—a rat ran across my feet. I could hear the crowing of a cock and the clucking of hens in the yard outside, and the song of a lark soaring in the heavens made me long for light and freedom. After what seemed an eternity of time the kine were driven in from the pastures for milking. I heard a voice coaxing them in:

“Coop—coop—coop.” Then there were two voices, a man’s and a woman’s, and some talk I strained my ears to catch. “Luds,” “sojers,” “dead,” and “poor lad”—this from the woman; but I could not piece the fragments to make sense. Then I judged the man was foddering his beasts, and I knew the hour of my deliverance was at hand. The gloom deepened, and all was still save for ’Siah’s heavy breathing. Then I heard the sound of wheels, the door was opened cautiously, and a limp fell upon the flags.

“Are ta theer, ’Siah?”

And ’Siah creeped upon his knees to the limit of the hay bowk.

“Ger up an’ ma’ as little noise as tha can.”

“Can ta walk, Ben?”

’Siah held me by the left shoulder, and leaning heavily on him I gained the door. Outside was our good old Bess. I could have wept to see her: such a flood of sweet home memories swept over me. The bottom of the cart was covered with hay and in one corner of it was our new roan calf. Soldier Jack and ’Siah between them lifted me into the cart,—and I sank exhausted by the effort and the pain, down by the dumb wondering brute that slobbered upon my face and gave a slimy lick at my lips.

“Tha mun drive, ’Siah. Go slow, by Deanhead. Aw’ll walk on i’ front, and if aw start whistlin’ tha’ll know som’dy’s comin’. The sojers are scourin’ th’ country. Th’ Luds are hidin’ for their lives. There’s small hell to play ovver this neet’s work. Tha munnot hurry, an’ keep out o’ th’ ruts an’ jolt him as little as tha can.”

“What’s th’ cauf doin’ here?” muttered ’Siah.

“Tha dunderhead. We’ mun cover Ben up wi’ t’ straw. Leave him his nose aat an’ nowt else; then if we meet a search party they’ll happen think tha’rt fetchin’ a cauf wom. Tha’ mun act as gaumless as tha’ can, an’ na’ drive on an’ ma’ as if aw’d nowt to do wi’ thee.”

“Come up, Bess, woa, steady!” and we lumbered off past the top of Lindley, keeping well on the crest of the hill, whence we could see the light of Longwood and Golcar in the valley, and so, bearing towards the left, made for Lower Holme. We passed a party of mounted soldiers about half–way on our journey and, fortunately, at the very moment of our encounter the calf staggered straddling to its feet, putting its hoof upon my right hand and sending shooting torments up my arm. It rocked and swayed in the cart and moo’d feebly at the soldiers as they drew rein.

“Have you seen any suspicious characters on the road, my good man, higher up the hill?” asked their leader.

“Nay, nowt out o’ th’ common,” said ’Siah, “a tramp or two, an’ a chap ’at looked as if he’d been feightin’.”

“Ah! where was that?”

“T’other side o’ Lindley; he wor makin’ fra Grimscar.”

“Forward, men!”

“Good luck,” said ’Siah. “Ger on, Bess.” And my heart began to beat again.

How my mother met us at the door, how my father stood aloof and would not speak one word, how ’Siah undressed me and put me into my own bed, what need to tell; nor yet set forth in detail how it came about that as I sank down into the cool, clean sheets, and laid my head upon the grateful feather pillow, stuffed with feathers plucked by Mary’s own fingers, I heard the kitchen door open and a quick step ascend the stairs.

“Now Mrs. Bamforth, well Mary, where is he? let’s have a look at him. Off with you now, all but ’Siah. ’Siah, you cut–throat rebel, shut the door and hold the candle for me.”

It was Dr. Dean from Slaithwaite, hearty, hale and cheery, who had ushered me into the world and given me powders and pills in the little ailments of childhood. He took command of the whole house as by divine right. Even my mother recognised his prerogative and resigned her supremacy, and Mary was his willing and adoring slave. Before you could say “Jack Robinson” he had slit my sleeve with his scissors, lifted the rude bandages, now sodden and stiff with blood, and was handling my arm deftly and tenderly as a woman.