Front matter (continued 5)

“Now, Mary, tell me, like a sensible lass, what it all means.”

Mary did not speak to me. I saw she was considering so I did not hurry her. I was getting used to the ways of women. There’s nought like loving and courting for teaching a man th’ way to handle ’em, tho’ they’re kittle cattle to shoe at the’ best o’ times.

“There’s summat aw hannot told thee, Ben. Happen aw should ha’ done.”

“Aw think aw can guess it.”

“Tha nivver can.”

“Is it about Ben Walker?”

Mary nodded.

“Martha towd me.”

“Oh!”

There was a look passed over Mary’s face which I took to mean that Martha would have a piece of Mary’s mind first chance that offered.

“Well?” I said.

“Well, of course, I’d ha’ nowt to do wi’ him.”

“Aw should think not,” I said, moving a little closer to her.

“And at first he thowt aw’d promised George.”

“That comes fra not knowin’ thi own mind.” Mary drew further off.

“I told him so misen,” I said.

Mary sprang up as if she’d been shot.

“Yo’ did?”

“Aw did.”

“Then yo’ve a deal to answer for, Ben Bamforth. His mother says that’s what made him peach on George.”

“The devil!” I said, and there was silence, and we sat thinking our own thoughts.

“It wer’ happen my fault,” said Mary at last, sitting down again. “Anyway it’s no use quarrelling about it.”

“Nor crying over spilt milk,” I said.

“But that’s not th’ worst on it by a long chalk,” said Mary.

“Well, let’s hear it?”

“She’s a horrid woman, that Mrs. Walker. Just like an owd witch, an’ such wicked, wicked eyes, a peerin’ at yo’ an’ a peerin’ at yo’, an’ wantin’ to stroke yo’r hair like as if yo’ wer’ a cat. But aw’ll begin at th’ beginnin’.”

“That’s th’ best way,” I said, and my arm now was where it should be, and Mary reckoned not to know. I’d looked up th’ road an’ down th’ road an’ nobody was coming.

“When aw got in, ’oo dusted a chair wi her apron, an’ not afore it wanted it. Th’ house wer’ like a pig–stye. But I sat down, an’ ’oo stood afore me an’ looked me up an’ down same as if ’oo wer’ vallyin’ me. ‘Aw hope yo’ll know me again next time yo’ see me, an’ that won’t be soon if I’ve my way’ aw thowt, but said nowt.

‘An’ so yo’r Mary o’ Mally’s?’ ’oo said at last.

‘At yo’r service,’ aw said.

‘Yo’re not much to look at,’ ’oo said.

‘Thank yo’ kindly,’ aw answered as polite as never were.

‘But yar Ben’s a reight to ha’ his own way now he’s a gentleman.’

‘A what?’ aw cried.

‘A gentleman. A real gentleman at can ha’ th’ pick o’ th’ country side. He’s nowt to do but howd up his finger naa. It’ll be whistle an’ aw’ll come to yo’, mi lad.’

‘He’s altered strangely,’ aw said.

‘Aye, two thousand p’un’ does mak’ a differ,’ says th’ owd hag.

“And then aw remembered about th’ notice in th’ paper.

‘It’ll do him no good,’ aw says. ‘It’s blood money. There’ll be a curse on it.’

‘It’s good gold, lass!’ ’oo says. ‘Good gold, leastways it will be when th’ ’sizes is ovver. An then yar Ben’s off to ‘Meriky, an’ nowt ’ll suit him but yo’ mun go wi’ him.’

‘Then he’ll noan be suited,’ aw says.

‘Hoity–toity, mi fine wench,’ ’oo cries. ‘Don’t thee be too sure o’ that. Yo’r happen thinkin’ o’ ta’in up wi’ Ben Bamforth. Leastways that’s what yar Ben heerd just afore he wer’ off to Chester. That’s what aw’ve sent for yo’ for.’

‘What’s it to him, who aw wed?’ I asked, but aw wer’ all of a tremble.

‘It’s this. It’ll be yar Ben or nobody sin he’s set on it. ‘See her yoursen, mother,’ he said, an’ these were awmost his last words afore he set off wi’ Justice Radcliffe, two gentlemen together. ‘See her yo’rsen, an’ tell her that th’ same tongue ’at’s teed a rope round George Mellor’s neck can tee’ one round Ben Bamforth’s, an’ will too, unless she speaks the word that’ll stop my mouth.’ Now, what’s ta say, mi fine lass?’

“And what could I say, Ben,” sobbed Mary, hiding her face on my shoulder. “Aw saw she meant it. She gay’ me a month to think on it, an’ if aw don’t say yes ’oo swears Ben Walker ’ll give thee up to th’ law, an’ it’s a hangin’ job, sure an’ certain.”

“What did yo’ say, Mary?”

“At first I towd her aw wouldn’t wed their Ben if there weren’t another man i’ all England. Aw’d rayther wed a toad, aw said, an’ aw meant it. But oh, Ben, tha’rt i’ their power, an’ aw’m noan worth hangin’ for. And what would yo’ have me do, Ben? Aw mun tell her in a month.”

“There’s one thing tha shalln’t do,” I cried. “Aw’d rayther hang a million times ovver nor tha should ha’ a thing like him. Let her do her worst. Not if it would save me from ten thousand times ten thousand base deaths shall Ben Walker call thee wife. That aw’m fixed on. What say’st ta, Mary?”

“Eh, awm fair moithered, Ben. Aw know this, if wed him I must aw’ll mak’ a hole i’ th’ cut th’ same neet,” and Mary sobbed again.

And I declare that I was happier whilst I soothed her and whispered words of bye and pressed kisses on her cheek and lips than ever before. For never till then had I realized to the full all the sweet privileges of our love.

CHAPTER XII.

I HAD got my affairs into, a pretty tangle, and for the life of me I could not see my way out of the mess. I lived in daily terror of arrest. I was not even supported by what appeals so strongly to a young man’s vanity—popular good–will. When a man gets older he comes to esteem the applause of the world at its proper worth, largely indifferent to it and content if happily he can be assured of the good–will of his own conscience. But even the poor solace of the public voice was just now denied the poor Luds. The murder of Mr. Horsfall had revolted the general mind. So I found myself quaking at every step that approached the door when I kept the house, and met with looks averted or openly hostile when I took my walks abroad, which was not oftener than needs must be. Then there was that diabolic threat of Ben o’ Buck’s, which I had no reason to hope he would not make good. I could not essay to save my own skin by counselling Mary to have Ben Walker. Even had I not loved her myself I could scarce have brought her to that. Add to this the reflection that, innocently and honestly enough, I had probably been the means of drawing upon George Mellor’s head the spiteful hatred of the traitor by giving him to believe that it was a made up thing between Mary and George. I tell you I could neither eat nor sleep these days for thinking of all these matters. And Mary looked worn and ill. The rose’s began to fade from her cheeks, she had scarce a word to throw at a dog, and as the days grew to weeks her gloom deepened and misery showed more plain upon her face.

I took counsel of ’Siah. I was in such straits that I could have found it in my heart to seek wisdom from the town fool. ’Siah had a short cut out of the whole perplexity.

“Yo’ mun get untwisted, Ben,” said ’Si.

“What’s untwisted?” I asked.

“I cannot tell wher’ yo’r wits are these days,” said ’Siah impatiently. “Theer tha sits by th’ fireside, counting th’ co’wks’ an’ glowerin’ into th’ ass–hoil, as if that ’ud do thi ony good. Tha shud stir about, mon, an’ hear whats a foot. There’s more i’spiration, as th’ parson calls it, to be fun’ at th’ Black Bull i’ hauf an hour nor i’ a week o’ sulkin’ at whom bi thissen.”

“Aw’ve no faith i’ th’ counsel ’at’s to be found at th’ bottom o’ an’ ale–pot, ’Si.”

“Who want’s thee to ha? Th’art as bad as Martha for preachin’ these days. Ther’ll be no livin’ for sermons soon. There’s summat beside drinkin’ goin’ off in a public.”

“Well, lets hear it?” I said passively, for I had not much faith in what ’Siah might have picked up in his haunts.

“Aw tell thee tha should get untwisted.”

“Well?”

“Well and well an’ well. Can ta say nowt but well? Doesn’t ta know what aw mean, or mun I tell thee straight out?”

“Aw’ve no’ more notion nor th’ babe unborn,” I said.

“Yo’ know Mr. Scott o’ Woodsome?”

“Of course aw do. Didn’t aw sit next to him at th’ audit, last year?”

“Well yo’ know he’s a magistrate, an’ main good to th’ poor folk, everyone says he is. He’s everyone’s good word, an’ that’s summat out o’ th’ common for a justice.”

“And how can Mr. Scott help us in our troubles? I fear they’re a bit aboon his power.”

“Why, he can untwist thee, mon.”

“Untwist?”

“Aye! untwist! There’s Doad o’ Jamie’s an’ Lijah o’ Mo’s an’ a seet more on ’em ‘s gate untwisted, an’ it costs nowt, an’s just as easy as sinnin’, an’ a heap more comfortin’ by what they say.”

“And what in the name o’ wonder is it?” I asked, thinking ’Siah might have penetrated deeper into the mysteries of the law than I, and having much respect for him, as one who had more than once slipped through the constable’s hands and left him clinkin’.

“Yo’ know th’ oath we took at th’ Buck,” replied ’Siah, lowering his voice and looking cautiously round.

I nodded.

“Well, Mr. Scott’s untwisting th’ oath off th’ Luds for miles around. Yo’n nowt to do but go to Woodsome an’ say yo’r soary an’ let on to tell all yo’ know, an’ that needn’t be more nor yo’ can see wi’ both e’en shut, an’ he untwists yo’. It’s same as th’ Catholics, tha knows.”

“Why that’s king’s evidence,” I cried.

“Yo’ may call it what yo’ like, but it’s cheap an’ easy, an’ ’ll do nobody any harm.”

“What give evidence again mi own cousin? I’d be as bad as Ben Walker.”

“Nowt o’ th’ sort. They’n getten witnesses enew baht thee, an’ Mr. Scott ‘s a friend o’ thi father’s, an’ ’ll let thee dahn soft for auld acquaintance sake. It isn’t as if tha wer’ th’ first to split, nor as if owt tha can other say or do ’ud pull George out o’ th’ boil or thrust him further in.”

“I’ll ha none of it, ’Si,” I cried. “And what’s more yo’ an’ me quarrel if yo’ do owt o’ th’ sort thissen. Why man, aw sud nivver sleep another wink nor howd up mi head agen if aw lowered misen to that, an’ whativver tha does, ’Si, keep thissen cleaner nor Ben Walker. Aw’d never speak to thee agen, no more would any on us’. Has ta’ spoke to Martha on it?”

“Well awm not free to say but what aw han.”

“And what does Martha say?”

“Well if aw mun speak th’ truth she says th’ same as thee. All fools in a lump, say I, but gang thi own gate, an’ dunnot fear aw’st cross thi will. But its hard liggin’ for all that.”

So I got no comfort from ’Siah.

Then, as if we hadn’t troubles enough of our own, my Aunt Wood, George’s mother, came from the Brigg to see my father about George’s case. It must not be thought we had not worried about him. We had, and more than a little. Whenever I pictured to myself my cousin and more than friend, eating his heart out in a prison cell, I was near beside myself with grief. As for the end of it all, I dared not think of it. I had parted from George in anger; but I made no account of that. I was safe in Mary’s love, and those who win can afford to be generous. And if these Luddite troubles had blown over, George might have come round, and tho’ our relations might never have been what they had been, still we could have patched up a work–a–day friendship that would have served. But now George was in prison, charged with the most awful of all crimes, and tho’ my gorge rose at the deed, I sorrowed for the man.

It was sad to see the change in my Aunt Wood. She was never a strong woman, least–wise in my knowledge of her; but now she was piteous to look at. She was crushed by the burthen of sorrow and shame. Sorrow’s bad enough: but add shame to it, and it’s more than human soul can bear. My mother fair wept over her.

“Eh, lass,” she said, when she had taken my aunt’s shawl and poke bonnet and got her seated by the fire, whilst Mary busied about boiling the kettle and making some tea. “Eh! lass, that ever we should live to see this day.”

My aunt drooped her head. She did not greet nor moan. I think the fountain of her tears was dry.

“My heart’s sore for yo’, Matty, and glad I am yo’ve come to me i’ yo’r trouble.”

“I had to come, Charlotte, for if yo’r William cannot help me, I dunnot know wheer to turn.”

“Aw’ll do owt aw can. Yo’ know that, Matty. Aw set a deal o’ store on George. We all did. Aw cannot think what possessed him. More aw think on it, more awm capped, for George wer’ noan o’ th’ sort to . . . . It’s fair beyond me. What does Wood say?”

“It’s that’s brought me here, William. It’s a cruel thing to say; but in his heart o’ hearts aw think mi husband’s fair glad they’n fetched our George. He never took to th’ lad, nor George to him. But yo’d ha’ thowt at naa, when aw want all th’ comfort aw can get, mi own husband ’ud be th’ first to help.”

And Aunt Wood’s lips trembled and she pressed her thin hand to her throat to keep down the sobs that choked her.

“Dunnot tak’ on, Matty,” said my father. “We’st stand to yo’, wet or fine.”

“Aw shud think so i’deed,” cried my mother; “my own sister. If yo’ can’t look to yo’r own in th’ time o’ need, what’s relations for aw shud like to know. Onybody ’ll stan’ yo’r friend when yo’r i’ no need o’ frien’s. It’s trouble tries folk. Nah, thee drink this cup o’ tea, Matty, an’ nivver heed drawin’ to th’ table. Sit wher’ tha art an’ keep thi feet on th’ fender. An’, see yo’, there’s a drop o’ rum i’ thi tea, tho’ aw dunnot hold wi’ it as a reg’lar thing, for wilful waste ma’es woful want, but it’ll warm thee an’ hearten thi up. Tha’ looks as if tha hadn’t a drop o’ blood i’ thi body, poor thing.”

“Hast ta any notion o’ what tha’d like doin’ for George?” asked my father.

“Nay, it’ll be a law job, that’s all aw know. But see, awm noan come a beggin’. Aw dunnot know what William ’ud say, if he knew; but yo’ll noan tell.”

And my aunt lifted her dress and from under the skirt drew a linen bag, which she placed upon the table.

“Count that.” she said.

My father turned over the greasy, dirty notes, pound notes of the Huddersfield Commercial Bank, Ingham’s, wetting his forefinger and counting aloud, very grave, as he always was whenever he counted money. He used to say it gave him a turn, when he went to the Bank, to see the flippant way the young men handled the money across the counter—”But they don’t know its valley, or they’d noan finger it so free,” he would say.

“A hundred pounds, neither more nor less,” he said, after the third counting and blowing of each note to see two hadn’t stuck together. “Wherever did ta get it, Matty?”

“Aw saved it out o’ th’ housekeepin’ brass ’at Wood gives me. Aw’d meant it for George’ on th’ day he should be wed—but nah!”

“It’ll come in useful ony road,” said my father. “Am aw to keep it for thee?”

“Aye, it’s for th’ law.”

“Has ta any fancy?”

“Nay, tha knows best.”

“What does ta say to ’Torney Blackburn? He’s allus done my bit.”

“Aw dunnot know. Aw reckon there’s not much to choose among ’em he mun be th’ best brass can buy.”

“Well there’s young Allison; aw don’t know but what he’d be more cut out for a job like this. But they say he’s for th’ Crown. Him an’ Justice Radcliffe ha’ been here, there an’ everywheer huntin’ up evidence agen th’ ’sizes.”

“Aye, trust th’ quality for havin’ th’ best o’ everything,” spoke my mother.

“Well, if tha thinks ’Torney Blackburn can be trusted, tha can set him on. But awm feart them lawyers is all in a string. Yo’ never know who yo’ can trust these days.”

“Well yo’ see,” said my father, “we’n got to trust ’em an’ pray for th’ best. Aw supposes there’s summot i’ th’ nature o’ th’ law ’at makes it difficult for th’ best on ’em to be ony better nor he sud be; an’ happen if they warn’t a bit crooked theirsen, they’d noan be fit to straighten other folk’s twists. But ‘speak of a man as yo’ find him,’ say I, an’ aw’ve allus fun ’Torney Blackburn as straight as they make ’em. But aw wish we could ha’ had Mr. Allison all th’ same.”

“Why?” asked my aunt.

“Well, somehow he’st th’ name o’ bein’ thicker wi’ Owd Harry; an’ that goes a long way i’ law.”

And so it was settled that the defence of George should be entrusted to Mr. Blackburn, of the New Street.

I went with my father the very next day to see Mr. Blackburn. I did not like being seen about, but there seemed nothing for it but to brazen it out and take my luck. I had never been to a lawyer’s office before, and felt as if I were going to have a tooth pulled; but my father opened the door of the outer office as bold as brass. There was a little old wizened man with a face like yellow crinkled sheepskin, and a suit that had once been black, maybe, but now was rusty brown and white at the seams.

“Is he in?” said my father.

“Sit down, Mr. Bamforth, sit down. Come to the fire. Your son, sir? Pleased to know you, sir. A chip of the old block, Mr. Bamforth, a chip of the old block.”

And my father actually looked pleased, tho’ if I were a chip of the old block there was a deal more chip than block.

Mr. Blackburn was in, and presently we were ushered into an inner room. It would have turned my mother sick to see the dust that lay about, and the frosted windows that gave on to the New Street looked as if they hadn’t been washed for a century.

Mr. Blackburn shook us both by the hand in a jerky way, and offered my father a pinch of snuff from a big silver box. My father took a pinch with the result that he never ceased sneezing till we were out into the street and he had hurried to the Boot and Shoe and drunk a pint of ale to wash the tickling out of his throat.

“And now, Mr. Bamforth, what can I do for you?” asked Mr. Blackburn, pushing his spectacles on to his brow and laying a large brown silk handkerchief, snuff coloured, over his knee.

“It’s about George Mellor, yo know,” said my father.

Mr. Blackburn did not look as if he did know.

“Him ’at’s ta’en for Horsfall’s job, yo’ know,” explained my father.

“Well, what of him?”

“He’s my nevvy, yo’ know.”

“Yo’r nevvy? Phew! this is an ugly business, an ugly business.”

“Awm feart so.”

“Well?”

“Aw want yo’ to defend him at th’ ’sizes.”

“Why my good man, what defence is possible? Allison tells me the case is as clear as crystal. Not a loop hole in it.”

My father’s face fell. Then he pulled out the bag of notes.

“There’s a hundred pound here, Mr. Blackburn. George shalln’t stand up i’ Court wi’out one soul to take his side. Guilty or not guilty, whatever th’ law can do for him shall be done. It’ll happen soothe him at the last, if th’ worst comes to th’ worst, to know at some hearts felt for him, an’ that what brass could do to get him off, wer’ done.”

“It’s a noble sentiment, Mr. Bamforth, and does you credit I’m sure. Well, well, no man’s guilty in this country, thank God, till he’s proved guilty. But I can’t make bricks without straw, you know. What’s the defence?”

“Nay, that’s for you to find out,” said my father, more cheerfully. “That’s’ what th’ hundred pound is for.”

“But we don’t make evidence, my dear sir. There can be only one defence—an alibi. The man was shot, that’s plain. It wasn’t an accident, that’s clear. Who ever did it, did it of malice prepense. There can only be an alibi. This young man now”—turning to me—“the prisoner was your cousin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And doubtless you were on good terms?”

“The best.”

“And equally without doubt you saw a deal of each other?”

“We did.”

“He visited you and you him?”

“That’s so.”

“And you remember the night of the—what day was it?”

“Tuesday the 28th of April last.”

“And you remember that day?”

“Only too well.”

“Now perhaps—I only say, perhaps, mark you—your cousin George spent the evening of that day in your company? A respectable young man like you—your word would go a long way.”

But I shook my head. No, I could not swear I was with George that fateful day.

“Well, well, perhaps someone else can. I must see the prisoner, and when I’ve heard what he has to say, I shall be better able to judge what is best to be done. Another pinch, Mr. Bamforth? No? a bad habit, a bad habit, don’t you begin it, young sir, but clears the brain. Good day—Jones, give Mr. Bamforth a receipt for £100. “Rex versus Mellor.” Good day—we’ll do our best, and a case is never lost till it’s won.”

“Did’ yo’ notice th’ books, Ben?” asked my father, as we crossed the street to the Boot and Shoe. “Wonderful isn’t it? Aw dunnot wonder a man wants some snuff or summat to life th’ weight o’ all them books off his brain. Aw wonder how he crams it all in, for his yed’s noan so much bigger nor other folk. Wonderful.”

When we got home that night we had to tell in detail all that we had said to Mr. Blackburn and all that Mr. Blackburn had said to us. Soldier Jack and Mr. Webster were of our council.

“It’s a tickle business is an alibi,” Jack commented. “Them lawyers turn a chap inside out. Aw once tried to get a felly out o’ a bit o’ a mess afore th’ justices at Bristol. He wer’ one o’ th’ line an’ had used his belt in a street broil. I went to swear him off.”

“I hope, Soldier, not to perjure yourself,” said Mr. Webster earnestly.

“Well not to say perjure,” said Jack. “They say if yo’ kiss yo’r thumb i’sted of th’ Book, it’s noan perjury. But aw did better nor that, aw’d a ready reckoner i’ th’ palm o’ my hand, an’ aw kissed that. So aw reckon aw wer’ clear ony road.”

Mr. Webster sighed and shook his head.

“But it wer’ o’ no use. Ther’ wer’ a little chap at wer’ persecutin’, an’ he looked that innercent yo’d ha’ thowt ony sort o’ a tale ’ud go dahn wi’ him. But aw nivver wer’ so mista’en i’ a chap i’ my life. He began to cross–question me mild as milk. He wanted to know what aw’d had for mi breakfast an’ wheer aw took my ale an’ a hundred thousand things, an’ raked out th’ whole history o’ mi life awmost fra mi pap bottle up’ards, an’ he twisted mi answers so, an’ th’ magistrates began to look at me as if aw wer th’ worst specimen o’ a criminal they’d ivver seen; an’ he back’ards an’ for’ards, lopin’ like a flea fra this spot to that spot o’ mi tale, till aw didn’t know whether aw wer’ stood o’ mi head or mi heels. An’ he looked at mi wi’ an eye like a gimlet, an’ for th’ life o’ me aw couldn’t tak’ mi e’en fra his, tho’ aw’d ha’ given owt to do it. An’ then aw saw aw’d contradicted misen, not exactly a lie, but a bit o’ a slip, an’ aw saw he’d twigged it, an’ aw saw he saw aw saw he’d twigged it; an’ ther’ come a quiet smile o’ his lips, an’ he looked at me as much as to say ‘what a clever fool yo’ are,’ an’ he played wi’ me like a cat lakin’ wi’ a mouse, an’ aw broke out into a sweat an’ aw’d ha’ swapped places wi’ th’ prisoner an’ given summat to boot. Phew! it mak’s me warm yet to think on it! It’s risky wark is a haliby, aw tell yo’, an chance it.”

“I suppose the Crown will rely mainly on the evidence of Ben Walker?” asked Mr. Webster.

My father nodded assent.

“But I think I have read that a man cannot be hanged on the unsupported testimony of an informer. If they have only Walker’s evidence to go on, or indeed that of any other participator in the deed, the case may break down.”

“It’s no go,” said Jack. “There’s others beside Ben o’ Buck’s ha’ leaked. As soon as it wer’ known he’d split there wer’ a reg’lar scramble to turn informer. Everyone wer’ anxious to be i’ th’ swim. There’s Joe Sowden.”

“O’ th’ Yews?” I asked.

Jack nodded. “Th’ same felly.”

“Why what could he say?”

“Th’ story is that th’ day after th’ job wer’ done, George went into th’ croppin’ shop, an’ him an’ Thorpe towd Sowden all about it.”

“What, that they had shot Mr. Horsfall?” exclaimed my father, in a voice of horror.

“Nowt else. An’ they made Sowden tak’ a oath to keep th’ secret an’ sweer all th’ others to keep th’ secret. Everyone i’ th’ shop wer’ sworn. There weren’t a soul i’ all John Wood’s that weren’t sworn. And folk say George held a pistol at Sowden’s head while he read th’ oath off a bit o’ papper an’ made ’em all kiss th’ book.”

We stared at each other blankly.

“But is this known to the Crown?” asked Mr. Webster at length.

“Sowden’s takin’ his tea at this minnit i’ Chester Castle, livin’ o’ th’ fat o’ th’ land, a guest o’ th’ king, feastin’ like a fightin’ cock, an’ yo’ll nivver set eyes on him agen till yo see him i’ th’ witness–box at York ’sizes,” said Jack. “An’ there’s more to tell. They say George borrowed a Russian pistol fra William Hall.”

“Well, I’ll vouch for Hall, ony road, for all awm worth,” I burst out. “He’ll noan turn traitor. He wer’ allus th’ keenest o’ th’ lot on us.”

“Tha’d lose thi brass,” said Jack quietly. “Hall’s sat just nah opposite Sowden, like as not drinkin’ success to honesty. He lent his pistol to George the very day Horsfall wer’ shot, an’ seed him load it with ball an’ slugs.”

“Why Hall lodged at Wood’s an’ slept wi’ George, i’ th’ same room if not i’ th’ same bed,” I murmured.

“Skin for shin, yea all that a man hath will he give for his fife,’ so says the Book.” Thus Mr. Webster.

“And after Horsfall wer’ shot, choose who shot him,” Jack went on. “George Mellor an’ Thorpe went to Joe Mellor’s at Dungeon Wood an’ hid two pistols, an’ one on ’em, they do say, is th’ self–same pistol ’at Hall lent to George afore th’ job wer’ done.”

I do not know whether any of us till then, clung to a hope that George might be cleared of any share in the murder. For my own part I had known from the first minute I set eyes on George when he came to me at Holme the day after the deed, known without a word spoken, that he was guilty. All the same the law’s the law, and it was none of my business to tell what I thought. Thinking’s not evidence, and if there was a loop–hole for him anywhere I’d widen it for him rather than stop it.

“All the evidence points one way,” said Mr. Webster despondently.

“Oh, no! it doesn’t, beggin’ yo’r pardon for contradictin’ yo’,” said Jack. “There’s plenty think George ’ll scrape through.”

“As how?” I asked.

“Why on th’ halibey. Mr. Blackburn ’ll have summat to go on. Yo’ know John Womersley, th’ watch maker’ i’ Cloth Hall Street?”

“Aye, aye.”

“Well he says he wer’ talkin’ wi’ George just after six bi th’ clock opposite th’ Cloth Hall, an’ had a glass wi’ him at th’ White Hart.”

“Well?”

“Why it wer’ just on six when Mr. Horsfall wer’ shot on Crosland Moor, an’ if George were i’ th’ White Hart at hauf past six, it stan’s to reason he couldn’t be shootin’ folk on th’ moor at six.”

“Womersley’s a decent man, and his word will have weight,” said my father with relief in his tone. “Perhaps we’ve been misjudgin’ the lad after all.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Soldier. “An’ like enough others ’ll turn up ’at can give similar evidence. But it’s a tickle job is a halibey, best o’ times.”

And so our council ended, Jack engaging to search high and low for any scrap of testimony that might help the prisoners.

The month within which Mary must give her answer to Walker’s mother stole on. I scarce could trust myself to look on Mary so sad and wan was she. But one morning towards the middle of December after she had sided the breakfast things she donned her Sunday clothes, a thing rarely done on week–days in our house, except for visits of more than common ceremony, or for weddings and parties.

“I’m going to Huddersfe’lt and mebbe a step beyond,” she told my mother.

“To see thi Aunt Matty?”

“I’st happen see her.”

My heart quaked.

“Yo’r never goin’ to Walker’s?” I asked when I could speak to her alone.

“Trust me for that,” she said. “I’d rather walk a good few miles another way.”

“Then where’st ta goin’?” I persisted, “an’ winnot yo’ tak’ Faith? Th’ walk ’ll happen do her good if she wraps well up.”

“Faith mun see to th’ mixin’ o’ th’ Kersmas cake. Awn towd her how to mix th’ dough, an’ aw’ll hope ’oo’ll mak’ a better job on it nor ’oo did o’ th’ parkin o’ Bunfire Day; but it’s never too late to larn, an’ awm thinkin’ it won’t be long afore she’ll need to know summat more nor to play on th’ spinnet an’ to sing hymns an’ love ditties. They’ll boil no man’s kettle.”

But of her errand to Huddersfield I could get no inkling, and off she set in the forenoon through the snow with warm hood over her head and thick Paisley shawl and mittens, and pattens to her feet, as sweet a picture as ever went down that hill before or since.

It was night, eight o’clock, when she came home, and many a time I’d gone into the lane and strained my eyes across the valley to watch the road from Kitchen Fold. The snow was falling thick, and when Mary entered her shawl was covered with the flakes and little feathery sprays were on the curls that twined and twisted from beneath the hood. Her cheeks that had grown so pale were a rosy flush with the keen frosty air, her eyes were bright and glad and there was the first smile upon her lips had played there for many a doleful day. She shook her shawl at the house door, whilst Vixen yapped and gambolled about her and Faith made haste to remove her pattens and knock the clogged snow from the irons while Mary smoothed her hair before the little glass by the window.

“An’ how’s thi Aunt Matty?” asked my mother; “an dun yo’ want owt to eit? Yo’ll be ready for yo’r porridge aw sud judge. Is ’oo bearin’ up pretty well, an’ did ta see John Wood, an’ is he lookin’ as ill favored as ivver?”

“Let th’ lass get her breath,” pleaded my father.

“Has ta met a fairy?” went on my mother. “For a month an’ more tha’s been mopin’ an’ turnin’ thi nose up at good victuals an’ comin’ dalin o’ a mornin’ lookin’ as if thi bed wer’ made o’ nettles i’stead o’ honest feathers, as well aw know ’at plucked ’em, an’ nivver a word nor a look for anyb’dy, an’ wouldn’t see th’ doctor nor tak’ th’ herb–tea aw brewed thee, an’ me thinkin’ all th’ time it wer’ a tiff atween thee an’ Ben, an’ him lookin’ waur nor a whipped cur, which it’s to be hoped yo’ll both learn more sense when yo’r well wed, for it’ll be as th’ man said ‘Bear an’ forbear’ then or yo’ll ha’ a sorry time on it; an’ now yo’ set off wi’out a wi’ yo’r leave or by yo’r leave an’ come back fra goodness knows where lookin’ as if yo’d been proved next o’ kin to a fortin’, which it’s enough to make anyone think it wor all make believe, tho’ me that anxious as aw sud be fit to shake yo’ if so aw thowt.”

My mother paused to get breath.

“I’ve summat to make me look cheerful,” said Mary. “Yo’ little know wheer I’n been this afternoon, an’ who I’ve talked to and had a cup o’ tea into th’ bargain. Aw don’t feel it’s real yet. Nip me, Faith, to let me know if I’m dreamin!”

“It’s a dream we should like to share in,” said Faith in her quiet way, taking my mother’s hard, thin hand, much worn by work, and soothing it caressingly, a way she had that always ended by bringing a reposeful look upon that eager nervous face and made my mother declare Faith was as good as hops in your pillow for restfulness.

“Well aw suppose I’st ha’ to begin at th’ beginnin’,” said Mary, settling herself for a long talk and smiling into the fire. My father filled another pipe, and my mother let her ball of wool roll upon the floor so as to have a long reach of work before her.

“Yo’ maybe hannot guessed at Ben Walker wanted me to wed him.”

“What Ben o’ Buck’s o’ th’ Brigg? Him as turned informer?” asked my father, letting his pipe out in his amaze.

Mary nodded.

“That comes o’ thi flighty ways,” commented my mother with severity. “If a lass dunnot keep hersen to hersen, but will ha’ a nod for this an’ a smile for that an’ a joke for t’ other, she may know what to expec’. There wor a differ between decent gells an’ hussies when aw wer’ young, but if there’s ony now it’s all i’ favour o’ th’ hussies.”

Mary flushed angrily.

“Nay, nay, Charlotte, yo’ dunnot mean that for yar Mary, aw know,” said my father. “Go on wi’ thi tale, lass. Thi aunt’s put out a bit, these days.”

“Well he did,” continued Mary, “and of course aw’d his answer ready for him.”

“Aw shud think so indeed. It was well for him aw didn’t catch ’im at it. What did ta say, Mary?”

“Nay, aunt, yo’ wouldn’t ha’ me cumber mi mind wi’ such trash. Any road aw sent ’im packin’. Then, about a three week sin’, his owd mother sent for me.”

“Did ’oo send a broom for thee to ride on, th’ owd witch,” put in the tireless tongue, more by way of expressing an opinion of Ben Walker’s mother than a question.

“And aw went,” said Mary.

“More fool yo’.”

“And ’oo said ’oo’d heard aw’d ta’en up wi’ Ben here an’ axed me if it wer’ true.”

“An’ of course tha’d thi answer to that too,” said my mother triumphantly.

“Well, yes,” admitted Mary.

“So that put a spoke i’ that wheel,” said my father, knocking his pipe head on the fire–grate bar.

“Not a bit on it,” quoth Mary. “On th’ contrary she seemed rayther glad to hear it. But ’oo said he’d noan ha’ to ha’ me.”

“Who, ya’r Ben?”

“Aye, yo’r Ben.”

“Who’s to stop him?”

“Mrs. Walker o’ th’ Brigg, by yo’r good leave, aunt. She said ’oo’d gie me a month to think on it, an’ if aw didn’t gi’e mi word to ha’ their Ben, she’d just speak a word to th’ Government ovver that Rawfolds job as ’ud send Ben here to keep George Mellor company.”

The knitting fell from my mother’s hand, the pipe from my father’s They stared at Mary and at me.

“So that’s what’s ailed yo’ this three week back. Herb–tea might well be wasted on yo’,” at length my mother managed to gasp.

“That wer’ just th’ complaint we were suffering fra, wern’t it, Ben?”

“An’ beyond any physic aw ever heard on,” I said. “But tha seems to ha’ fun a cure.”

“But you won’t have him,” said Faith eagerly. “Oh! the wretched plotter. Say you refused, Mary?”

“A varmint not fit to be touched wi’ a pair o’ tongs,” remarked my mother.

“But to save Ben here?” asked Mary, maliciously.

And my parents looked at each other. It was a dilemma’s horns.

“Don’t look worried, ma’am,” said Faith. “Mary’s only plaguing us. She has found a way out, it’s plain to see. She wouldn’t look as she does if she hadn’t.”

“Then till beseems her to be fleyin’ her elders out o’ their wits an’ mi heart goin’ pit–a–pat that fast at aw may be took any minnit,” said my mother.

“Awm sorry, aunt,” said Mary, quickly crossing the hearth and putting her arms round my mother’s neck and kissing her brow. “Aw shouldn’t ha’ done it if aw’d thowt; but awm so happy awm hardly misen. Theer, aw’ll tell mi tale.”

“Well, then, yo’ may be sure after aw heerd owd Mother Walker’s threat aw wer’ bothered aboon a bit. Aw wer’ noan for weddin’ her lad, even if he hadn’t turned informer, but what use ’ud Ben here be to me hangin’ i’ irons off York gibbet. Aw could na see a road aat, look choose which way aw would. Well yesterday aw heerd uncle here say my lord an’ lady Dartmouth wer’ at Woodsome.”

My father gave a corroboratory nod.

“So aw thowt it ovver all neet, an’ to make a long story short awn been to Woodsome this very day.”

“An’ seen my lord?” cried my father.

“Aye, an’ mi lady, too. When aw gate to th’ big door lookin’ on to th’ lawn—an’ yo’ should ha’ seen th’ deer down th’ big avenue made o’ trees like th’ pillars o’ a cathedral aisle—when aw gate to th’ door aw gav’ a knock at th’ big knocker, an’ it made such a clatter aw could ha’ fun it i’ my heart to run, but aw thowt aw’d come so far aw’d see it through. A felly oppened th’ door. A reg’lar nobob. ‘It’s mi lord hissen,’ aw thowt. He’d a powdered wig, an’ epaulettes, an’ a brown plush coat wi’ big buttons wi’ figurin’ on, an’ a scarlet weskit, an’ plush shorts an’ silk stockin’s an’ oh! such an air o’ haughty pride. He pulled hissen up when he seed me. ‘Yo’ sud ha’ gone to th’ tradesmen’s entrance,’ he says. ‘Aw want to see his lordship,’ aw says as loud as aw could, but aw could scarce hear my own voice, an’ aw dropped a courtesy, ‘an’ a reckon yo’ mun be him, tho’ aw didn’t reckon to see so big a man, for Mr. Scott told me ye’ wer’ nowt much to look at.’ And then aw heerd a loud laugh, an’ i’ th’ gloom o’ th’ big hall aw spied a littlish man very plain dressed. ‘Admit: the lady,’ he said. And aw wer’ shown into a room on th’ reight hand, an’ th’ little man came in an’ made me sit dahn, but not afore he’d helped me off wi’ mi shawl, which wer’ wet wi’ snow, an’ made that stuck up jackanapes tak’ it to be dried. ‘An ask her leddyship to spare me a minnit,’ sez he. Then there came in a young leddy, just such another as thee, Faith, an’ so pleasant i’ th’ face. An ’oo smiled at me, an’ wouldn’t hear a word till aw’d warmed misen by th’ fire, an’ ’oo made me drink a glass o’ wine.”

“Did yo’ tell her who’s lass tha wer’?” asked my father. “But he’d noan know me. Th’ owd lord ’ud ha’ known me. But this ’un’s nobbud been th’ earl a year or two, an awn nobbud seen him once or twice.”

“Well, anyway he didn’t say he didn’t,” said Mary diplomatically. “And then,” continued Mary, “aw up an’ tell’d them all about it, about Ben o’ Buck’s pesterin’ me an’ about Long Tom an’ about Ben’s arm an’ about thee, aunt, bein’ confined to thi bed an’ havin’ th’ doctor to thee an’ all time ailin’ nowt….”

“Aye, an’ what did they say to that?”

“Well, th’ little lord laughed like a good ’un, an’ said th’ doctor ’ud ha’ to be sent to th’ ’sizes for bein’ a summat after the fact, not a necessary, what wor it?—oh! an accessory. But aw seed he wer’ jokin! Then aw began to tell about Ben Walker’s mother, an’ her ladyship told th’ little Earl he’d better go out o’ th’ room, an’ when he’d gone aw just down o’ mi knees i’ front on her, an’ ’oo drew mi face to her an’ aw had a good cry, an’ ’oo drew mi face everything just as yo know it.”

“Well, an’ then?”

“Why she looked very grave and said it wer’ a serious business an’ a very delicate matter for his lordship to meddle in. She told me summat aw didn’t quite mak’ out about their party not bein’ in just now.”

“Of course not,” said my father. “Aw could ha’ told yo’ that.”

“But any way,’ says she, ‘my uncle’s in the ministry and good friends with th’ Secretary of State. So cheer up, Mary; th’ men may manage th’ State; but we know who manages th’ men, an’ my name’s not Fanny Legge if yo’r lover shan’t go free.’”

“Did she say Fanny?” said my mother.

“She did,” replied Mary, “just plain Fan an’ never a countess to it, and what’s more she gave me this locket wi’ her picture in it, an’ told me to wear it o’ mi weddin’ day, an’ wear it aw shall an’ will, an’ mebbe those ’at come after me.” And Mary drew from her bosom the portrait you, my children, know so well of that young countess who so untimely died.

“Aw think that settles it,” said my father, smiting his thigh.

“Of course it does,” said my mother. “An’ aw hope, William Bamforth, ’at after this yo’ll vote blue an’ side wi’ th’ quality. T’other lot’s good enuff for shoutin’, but gi’ me th’ owd fam’lies when it comes to th’ stick an’ lift.”

And this profound political aphorism may close a chapter too long drawn out.

CHAPTER XIII.

I NEVER in my life passed so gloomy a Christmas as that of 1812. We killed a goose as usual, and there was the usual seasoned pudding and plum pudding, and Faith and Mary made a bit of a show with the holly and the mistletoe. But it was no use. We couldn’t brighten up our hearts nor take our thoughts from the Special Commission which was to sit at York in the fore–end of January to try the Luds. Even our neighbours felt we could be in no mood for rejoicing, and neither the Church singers nor the Powle Moor lot came near us, and as for wishing each other a merry Christmas the farce would have been too ghastly.

It was arranged that my father, Mr. Webster and I should go to York for the trial, and at the last moment Faith pleaded for leave to accompany us. I wanted Mary to go too, but she was very decided in her refusal. She wasn’t going to leave her aunt alone these long wintry nights, she said, tho’ I don’t think that was the real reason, for was there not Martha? I wonder if women ever give the real reasons for their actions. Why should Faith make a point of going, I asked myself, and Mary demand to be left at home. On the first point Mary herself enlightened me, being more ready to speak of Faith’s actions than her own.

“It’s plain enough why she wants to show George a kindness now,” said Mary.

“Aye?”

“Can’t ta see her heart’s reproaching itself? She were more nor hauf i’ love wi’ George, an’ no doubt thowt she could never fancy another.”

“Well?”

“An’ if there’s one thing more nor another a woman sets store by, it’s her own constancy.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, and indeed. And now Faith feels herself slipping, an’ she’s going to try to make it up to George for a treachery he’ll never know of by sitting through the trial. It’s noan so much to please him as to satisfy hersen.”

Anyhow it was my father and Faith and Mr. Webster and myself that the Cornwallis took up at ten of the clock one morning in January at the sign of the Rose and Crown in Huddersfield. We might have joined it in Slaithwaite on its way through the village from Manchester, but we wanted to have as little talk and stir as possible. Mr. Blackburn’s clerk had got us decent lodgings near the Castle with a widow woman who made a living by letting her rooms to witnesses attending the Assizes, and whose whole talk was of the counsellors she had heard plead. She was pleased to express her satisfaction when she learned we had secured Mr. Brougham to defend George.

“Is he so clever a lawyer then?” asked Mr. Webster as we rested in the parlour after our long, cold, tedious journey, and warmed ourselves as well as we could before a fire on which it seemed to me the coals were put on with the sugar tongs.

“Well,” said Mrs. Cooke, for that was the garrulous old lady’s name, “Of course he is a clever lawyer, tho’ they do say not so far learned nor so deep as some we’ve known in York in my time, but it isn’t that will help you in a case like this.”

“I do not take you, madam,” observed Mr. Webster.

“You see Mr. Brougham has a great name in the city with the Whigs, and if yo’ can get a sprinkling of them gentry on the jury it will go a great way in the poor young man’s favour.”

“All we ask is an upright and an intelligent jury,” said Mr. Webster.

“That’s all very well for you, sir, that’s safe and sound by a good fire and a clean soft bed before you. But from what I’ve read, sir, that young friend of yours will do better with a jury that will lean a bit; and trust Mr. Brougham for making the most of his chances with the jury.”

“Will he be allowed to speak to them?” I asked.

“Dear me, no,” said the lady, proud to air her knowledge of the law. “And a mercy it is it is so, for if such a counsellor as Mr. Brougham could talk to the jury for a prisoner, half the rogues now hanged would be walking the county. But there’s ways an’ means sides talking, a shrug, a question to a witness, a meaning look at the gentlemen in the box, and above all a quarrel with my lord.”

“What! quarrel with the judge?” exclaimed my father. “Surely that would be fatal.”

“Not a bit of it,” explained our landlady. “It’s the safest card of all to play. You see the judge is sure to be against the prisoner.”

“Nay, my good lady, surely nay,” remonstrated Mr. Webster. “‘Ye shall do not unrighteousness in judgment: thou shalt not respect the person of the poor, nor honour the person of the mighty: but in righteousness shalt thou judge thy neighbour.”

“Ah! that’s in the Bible, I take it,” said Mrs. Cooke; “but the Bible’s one thing and York Assizes is another, and so you’ll find, unless I’m very much mistaken. The Government will take care to send judges that mean hanging, and that’s so well known that it sets the back of the jury up a bit, particler if a touch of politics can be dragged into the case. That’s Mr. Brougham’s chance, and if he can make the jury think the judge is pressing things too hard against your man, I won’t say but he may have a chance. But it isn’t much to cling to after all, poor lad.”

The night before the trial, which was fixed for Wednesday the sixth of January, Mr. Blackburn was to see George in the Castle cell. By much insistence he prevailed on the Governor to permit Mr. Webster to accompany him, a great favour, and one, we understood, little to the liking of the prison chaplain. When the little man returned to our mean lodgings, he was pale and downcast and sat for a long time silent, bending over the sullen fire.

“God preserve me from such a scene again,” at length he said. “To think that one whose face I have seen upturned to mine in my own chapel should now be prisoned in yonder noisome cell. Oh! my friends, ‘surely the ways of transgressor are hard.’”

“If it were not to distress yo’ too much we should like to hear all from the beginning,” said my father.

“Well, when we got to the gate of the gaol,” said Mr. Webster, “Mr. Blackburn rang the bell. A jailor opened it after such unlocking and unbarring as you never heard.”

‘To see a prisoner,’ said Mr. Blackburn.

‘An attorney, sir? Your name?’

‘Mr. Blackburn, of Huddersfield. For George Mellor and others to be tried to–morrow.’

‘And your friend?’

‘Mr. Webster, a good minister of the gospel.’

‘He cannot enter, sir, unless by special order of the governor.’

‘It is here.’

‘Then enter and follow me. Write your name and address in this book.’

“He was a big, burly man, and treated Mr. Blackburn with great respect; but he looked hard at me from under his bushy eyebrows, till I bethought me to slip a crown piece into his hand, when he became more civil. He had a bunch of great keys by his side, and they jingled as he walked. We followed him across a courtyard, where there was more unlocking of gates and doors, and at length we were in a stone–flagged corridor with whitewashed walls, and on either side of these the cells. There was a little spy–hole in the door of every cell, through which, I judged, the warders might watch the wretches chained within. Before one door the warder stopped.”

‘This is your man, sir,’ he said, and selecting a key turned the lock and threw open the door. ‘I’ll stand outside, sir.’

“Mr. Blackburn nodded and entered the cell, I at his heels, much daunted by the cold and the gloom. It was a little while ere my eyes got used to the darkness, but as we entered I heard the clank of irons, and was aware of some form in the gloom rising in the corner from under the grated window. It was George; but oh! how altered! he was gaunt and thin, and his eyes that I have known so bright and lit by the joy of life, were dull and fixed in sick despair. I forgot the crime of which he stands charged and saw only a brother, nay, a son, suffering in mortal agony, and all my heart bled for him.”

“Poor George! Poor Matty,” murmured my father, passing the back of his hand over his face, and Faith’s eyes were fixed with pained intentness on the preacher’s face, her lips pale and parted as she held her breath and waited on his every word.

“‘Mr. Webster!’ he cried, for he could see better than I, being used doubtless to the little light. ‘Mr. Webster, oh! this is good of you!’ and he seemed to take no heed of Mr. Blackburn, and as well as he could for the irons that cribbed his arms, he stretched out his hands to me, oh! so wildly and so lovingly, and I took both his hands in mine and must have done tho’ I had seen the deed with my own eyes. And George bowed his head, and tears fell upon our clasped hands that were not wholly his nor wholly mine, and I drew down his head and kissed him on the brow.”

“The good Lord bless yo’,” sobbed Faith.

“And Mr. Blackburn stood a little way off fumbling with his papers and taking snuff very rapidly and in great quantities.”

‘Have yo’ seen mi mother lately?’ asked George; ‘does she bear up? Is she here in York?’ “His first thoughts were of her, poor lad.”

“Yo’ munnot forget to tell her that, Faith,” said my father, and Faith nodded, and I know she did not forget, and it comforted my Aunt Matty in the after days.

“I told him only you and Ben were here,” continued Mr. Webster. “‘Not Mary?’ he asked, and I told him no. ‘Better not, happen better not,’ he said at last; but he seemed disappointed that Mary should not be here, I know not why.”

“Did he ask for me?” said Faith, very softly.

“Nay,” said Mr. Webster. “He did not ask for thee; but I told him yo’ wer’ here and would not be denied.”

“And what said he?”

‘Faith! Faith Booth? Ah! poor John’s sister. ’Oo’d over a tender heart, an’ I loved her brother next to Ben.’

“Yes, he loved my brother,” said Faith, “but not as John loved him.” And after that she was very silent; only once I heard her murmur to herself, “Yes, he loved mi brother.”

“Well then,” said Mr. Webster, “for a while Lawyer Blackburn talked with George in a low voice so’s the warder at the door might not hear what passed, and I tried to compose my thoughts, so that I might, if time and opportunity favoured, say some word that he might take to his heart to solace him withal. And when Mr. Blackburn began to tie up his papers and bid him bear himself like a man, on the morrow, and hope for the best, I asked George it he would pray with me. He did not refuse; but sat upon a little block that served for his seat, and I fell upon my knees and the lights streamed upon my face from between the bars. Mr. Blackburn turned his back and affected to busy himself with his bag, and the warder jingled his keys, impatient to be gone. And then I prayed the good God and Father to send peace and comfort to our dear brother, that. He might be pleased that this great sorrow should pass and this black cloud be lifted; but throwing all upon the mercy and compassion of the Heart that feels for all, for all, even for the outcast and the sinful. For the love of that Heart passeth the love of man and of woman, else woe and still woe, aye even for the chosen ones of Israel.”

And Mr. Webster’s voice broke into a sob, and he bowed his head upon his breast and would say no more, and more we did not seek to know.

In the evening I strolled into the city, walking round that great Cathedral of the North, and marvelled at the piety that had raised so splendid a temple to the glory of God. Then my steps turned towards the Castle, and I gazed from afar at the gloomy keep, and wondered behind which of the barred windows so high and narrow, lay my helpless cousin, tossing, I doubted not, upon a sleepless pallet, his mind wracked with thoughts of the morrow and his pillow, perchance, haunted by the image of him whose blood, I could not but think, was upon his rash and impious hand. I wandered by the narrow streets that approach the Castle, streets abandoned to squalor and to vice, my feet turned ever toward that monster dungeon, drawn by I know not what silent fascination. But as I walked as in a dream, I was brought to a stand by a gruff voice:

“Halt or I fire!”

And peering into the dark, scarce lightened by the oil–lamps that swayed in the streets, I saw that a company of soldiers was drawn across the street, and a sergeant in command held his musket at my breast.

“Have you business at the Castle and a pass?” he asked, and on my answering him nay he bid me begone. I turned sadly away, and when by chance I tried another street that led Castle–wards my fate was the same. So I turned my back upon the gloomy fortress and wended my way back to our lodgings. The city was filled with troops, and every avenue to the Castle strongly guarded; for a rescue was feared. Had they known the Luds as well as I they might have spared their pains.

The morning of the trial came, dark and threatening, with snow that wrapped the city as in a winding sheet, which befitted well a day so pregnant with all ill. We were at the Castle gates betimes, and yet the entrance to the Court was besieged with those like ourselves furnished with a permit to view the trial. My inches stood me in good stead, and by dint of good play with my elbows, I made way through the crowd for those that companied me. It seemed to me that all the ways that led to the Court were held by troops, and men stood to their arms on the very steps and to the great doors of the Hall of Justice. Faith hung trembling upon my arm, but craned her neck nevertheless to see the gallant show when the judges drew up, clad in crimson robes, with the sheriff and his chaplain by their sides, the heralds blaring their trumpets and the soldiers grounding their arms to make the pavement ring.

We made our way into the little Court and gazed upon the arms of England fixed high above the judgment seat, and when we saw the wigged gentlemen below the Bench rise to their feet we rose too, and when they bowed we bowed too, but the judges, tho’ they bent their heads to the gentlemen of the long robe, took scant enough notice of our reverences, which methinks was neither in keeping with the civility that man owes to man nor yet in accord with our constitution: for if the judges draw their dignity from the Crown, whence, I ask, does the Crown derive its title and its lustre? But alas! the people of this country, even yet, are little conscious of their own strength and of what is due to the commons even from their princes and governors.

“Which is Mr. Brougham?” I asked my father, who I knew had heard him speak at a great meeting of the Whig voters.

“Him that Mr. Blackburn’s speaking to,” answered my father, and I followed his eyes to the attorney’s well and saw a little man, sallow and clean shaven, with a long lean face, something like a monkey’s with its skin turned, to parchment.

“What him?” I whispered in amaze.

“Aye, that’s him sure enough.”

“What! the great Brougham, our Brougham?”

“Yes, yes,” said my father testily. “He’s not much to look at; but yo’ should hear him talk.”

But soon there was a hush in Court. The prisoners were being brought into the dock, and the Cryer was calling his quaint “Oyez.”

George Mellor, William Thorpe and William Smith stood there, heavily ironed and guarded by armed warders, confronting the judges and the jury, arraigned for that they did feloniously, wilfully, and of their malice aforethought kill and murder William Horsfall, against the peace of our lord the king, his crown and dignity. The jurors were sworn, the challenges allowed, the indictment read by the Clerk of Arraigns, and the prisoners given in charge to the jury, the clerk gabbling the words as I have heard a curate in a hurry read the lessons in Church. “How say you, George Mellor—guilty or not guilty,” and George with a voice that did not falter and a look upon judges and the jury that did not flinch, cried “Not Guilty.” I had eyes and ears only for him, neither then nor to the end. Thorpe and Smith might not have been there, for me. I kept my eyes fixed on him throughout, nor missed one single movement of his nervous fingers that clutched the rails of the dock, nor one glance of his eye. Nay, even now, right through the years, I can see the curl of his lips when Benjamin Walker with craven look and uncertain step, his eyes shifting, his voice whining, stumbled into the witness–box. All through, I had eyes, I say, only for George. When Mr. Park, the counsel for the Crown, addressed the jury, I scarce listened; I watched only George’s face, and judged rather what was said by the play of his pale features than by ought I gathered from the long speech to the jury. And right through that weary trial, that lasted from nine o’clock of the morning till near the same hour of the night, never was there a moment that George bore himself save as those who loved him would have him. He almost looked at times as tho’ he did not hear what passed around him, his eyes being fixed, not upon the judge but beyond him, with a far away gaze as tho’ scenes were acting in a theatre none but he could see, and which concerned him more than what passed around. Once when his eyes ranged the faces that thronged the Court, and he saw our little group, a look of recognition passed upon his face, and he smiled faintly, with quivering lips; but presently turned away his head and glanced our way no more. Only when Ben Walker stood in the box did he rouse himself to the full, and he looked the slinking wretch straight in the face with curling lip: and Walker blanched and tottered and half raised his hand as tho’ to ward off a blow. My God! rather would I raise my naked face to meet ten thousand blows from an iron hand than meet such a look as George cast upon that perjured miscreant. A low hiss went through the Court, a sibilation of hatred and contempt; and even the counsellor that examined the man did not conceal his loathing. We looked for Mr. Brougham to cross–examine Walker, but that was done by Mr. Hullock, whether that Mr. Hullock was the senior counsel and took this part as of right, or that, as some had it afterwards, Mr. Brougham knew from the first that the case was hopeless and did not care to be prominent, where defeat was certain. Tho’ this surely must be of malice. But it mattered not: the end was certain even before Mr. Justice le Blanc summed up, and in a few words, not without their truth even we felt, brushed away the flimsy edifice of an alibi that had cost Soldier Jack so much scheming and ferreting out of witnesses. “Even supposing the witnesses to come under no improper bias or influence in what they are saying, they are speaking,” commented the judge, “of a transaction which not only took place a long time ago, but was not imputed to the prisoners at the bar till a considerable time after it had taken place, and nothing happened immediately after the transaction to lead persons who have spoken as to the prisoners’ movements at the time of the murder, particularly to watch, so as to be accurate in the hour or time on that particular evening, when they saw these persons at a particular place, and we know how apt persons are to be mistaken, even when care is taken, in point of time.”

That was all we got from judge or counsel for our money, my Aunt Matty’s hundred pounds, and many a good guinea to that which my father paid Mr. Blackburn, and I question whether it was worth the brass. But I would not have had George undefended for all that, even if it were all to do over again; for to have him spoken for was the only way now left us to show our care for him.

I never saw sentence of death passed but that once, and it will do me my life–time. “That you, the three prisoners at the bar, be taken from hence to the place from whence you came, and from thence, on Friday next, to the place of execution; that you be there severally hanged by the neck until you are dead; and your bodies afterwards delivered to the surgeons to be dissected and anatomized, according to the directions of the statute. And may God have mercy on your souls.”

“Amen!” said many a hushed and awe struck voice, and I heard a moan and a hasty cry from Mr. Webster. A piercing shriek rent the stillness, and Faith fell fainting into my arms.

But one day intervened between the trial of Mellor, Thorpe and Smith and their execution. Mr. Webster was allowed to see the three condemned men the night before the Friday on which they were to make their piteous end. He shrank from that last interview in the cells with the sensitiveness of a woman; but he had a great soul in a little body and nerved himself to the painful ordeal. He told us something of what passed. Thorpe was stolid as ever, and simply asked to be let alone, and not pestered with questions. George declared that he would rather be in the situation he was then placed, dreadful as it was, than have, to answer for the crime of his accuser; and that he would not change situations with him, even for his liberty and two thousand pounds.

“Well said,” cried my father, when Mr. Webster, with many a sigh, brought his tale to an end: “well said, there spoke our George. There spoke the lad we used to be proud on, and he’s in the right on it, and so folk will say for all time to come.”

“I urged him to forgive his enemies and to leave this sinful world in charity with all mankind.”

“An’ what said he to that?”

“He said he’d nought to forgive to anybody but Ben Walker.”

“Well, and him?”

“I urged him to forgive even Walker. ‘Vengeance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord.’”

“Well, did he?”

“Nay, I found him obdurate on this point, though I pressed him hard. He reiterated that before he forgave Walker he’d like to give him something to forgive too. I could not but tell him he was entering the presence of his Maker in a most unchristian frame of mind.”

“Are yo’ clear, Mr. Webster,” asked my father, “that religion calls on George to forgive Ben Walker?”

“There can be no question of it,” was the answer. “Do we not pray ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us?’”

My father shook his head pensively. “It may be Scripture, parson, but it isn’t Yorkshire. Hast ta never heard that a Yorkshireman can carry a stone in his pocket for seven years, then turn it and after another seven years let throw and hit his mark?”

“It is an evil, an unforgiving, an unchristian frame of mind,” quoth the parson.

“That’s as may be,” replied my father, doggedly. “But what’s born in the bone will out in the flesh. For my part I’st uphowd George, an’ if he’d said he forgave that spawn o’ the devil I should ha’ thowt he met be a saint, but he wer’ a liar an’ a hypocrite for all that. It’s agen natur, Mr. Webster, it’s agen natur.”

Mr. Webster hastened to change the subject. “George sent a message for yo’, Ben. He knows how it is between you and Mary and he wishes you all happiness, and asks you to forget and forgive the hasty words he spoke when last you parted. He said you would know what he meant.”

“God bless him, sir, I had forgiven them long ago.”

“And if it will not go too hard against the grain he wants you to be at the execution and to stand where his eye can fall upon you. He says he should like his last thoughts to be of Holme and the dear ones there. He seems strangely wrapped up in the old spot even to the exclusion of his own mother.”

“Aye,” said my father. “George never got over Matty marryin’ again. If ’oo’d never wed that John Wood but made a home for her own flesh an’ blood this met never ha’ happened. But what is to be will be, an’ that’s good Scripture anyway.”

“Foreseen and foreordained even from the beginning,” assented Mr. Webster.

Now this request of George was to me of all things most painful. It was common enough in those days for people to witness public executions; and public executions were common enough in all conscience. But I had ever a horror of such ghastly exhibitions. Nay I liked not even the cock–fighting and bull–baiting that were as much our ordinary pastimes in my youth as cricket has come to be the sport of my grand–children. People called me Miss Nancy and mawkish and molly–coddle; but none the less, neither for such sports, if sports they must be called, nor for prize fighting, had I any stomach. But if it could give any help to George to know one was in that vast crowd whose heart bled for him and whose prayers went heavenwards with his soul, I could not but do his will.

And so it befell that Mr. Webster and myself were in the crowd of many thousands that stood before the scaffold. Two troops of cavalry were drawn up in front of the drop. We might be a hundred yards away, and when George, heavily ironed, was led to the verge of the platform to make his last dying speech and confession, there was a great silence on the multitude. Even a party of the gentry, as I suppose they called themselves, that had secured the upper window of a house looking on to the scaffold, and that were drinking and jesting and exchanging coarse ribaldry with the light o’ loves in the mob, ceased their unseemly revelries and lent ear to what might be said. But George spoke little. His eye fell on me and on Mr. Webster, whom I lifted from his feet so that George might know that the little parson at Powle was faithful to the last, and hoping that even at the eleventh hour repentance might touch the stubborn and rebellious heart. And who knows but it did, for the last words on earth that George spoke were said with his eyes fixed on Mr. Webster’s face, and they were spoken belike to him alone of that great and swaying crowd: “Some of my enemies may be here. If there be, I freely forgive them,” and then, after a pause and with an emphasis which we alone perchance of all that concourse understood, “I forgive all the world and hope all the world will forgive me.”

“The Lord above be praised!” exclaimed Mr. Webster, as these words fell on his ears, and as the cap was fixed and the noose adjusted, he raised his voice in the well–known hymn, and strange tho’ it may seem, yet none the less is it true, thousands of voices took up the words:

“Behold the Saviour of mankind

Nailed to the shameful tree!

How vast the love that Him inclined

To bleed and die for me!

Hark how He groans! while nature shakes,

And earth’s strong pillars bend:

The temple’s veil in sunder breaks;

The solid marbles bend.

‘Tis done! the precious ransom’s paid—

‘Receive my soul,’ He cries;

See where He bows His sacred head!

He bows His head, and dies!

But soon He’ll break death’s envious chain,

And in full glory shine:

o Lamb of God! was ever pain,

Was ever love like Thine!”

There was a haze before my sight. I did not see the bolt withdrawn; only as through a mist see the quivering, swaying form. A long drawn sigh, that ended in a sob like one deep breath from a thousand hearts, proclaimed the end, and Mr. Webster and I made our way from that tragic scene.

CHAPTER XIV.

AFTER this, life for many months was very grey at Holme. We did not talk much about the grim days we had passed through. They were pleasant neither to talk of nor think on. My father’s mind was chiefly exercised about the portentous length of Mr. Blackburn’s bill of costs, and upon some of the items he delivered himself at large:

“‘Attending you,’” he quoted, “‘when you instructed me to see John Quarmby and James Eagland with a view to procuring their proofs for this defence, 6s. 8d.’”

“Think o’ that now,” he would say, “actually charging me for calling to tell him what to do, to put him up to his work, so to speak. My certy, lawyers may well ma’ their brass quick! Aw’ve a good mind to ha’ it taxed.”

“What’s that?” asked my mother.

“Why, there’s a chap i’ London ’at’s put on by th’ Lord Chancellor to go through ‘torneys’ bills an’ see they ha’ not charged too much.”

“He’ll be a lawyer hissen, ’aw reckon?” queried my mother.

“Aye, aye,” said my father, ‘set a thief to catch a thief,’ tha knows.”

“Tha’d best pay up, aw doubt na, awn heard folk tell o’ fallin’ out wi’ the devil an’ goin’ below for justice, an’ this taxin’ ’ll be after th’ same fashion. Th’ first loss is th’ least loss, an’ ‘what can’t be cured mun be endured.’ If folk will ha’ law they mun pay for their whistle, an’ you’ve had yo’r run for yo’r money.”

“Aw could ha’ thoiled it better if they’d let Mr. Brougham speik to th’ jury. Here’s twenty guineas to him, to say nowt o’ two guineas for his clerk, that did nowt ’at aw can hear tell but draw th’ brass for his mester, an’ him never allowed to oppen his mouth to th’ jury!!”

“But he’s had th’ brass ha’ not be?” asked the partner of my father’s joys and sorrows.

“Aye, he’s had it safe enough.”

“Well, by all accounts,” concluded my mother, “it’s ill gettin’ butter out o’ a dog’s throat.” And the bill was paid: the only discount my father got being a pinch of snuff from Mr. Blackburn’s silver box.

Faith was not with us now, nor did she return till hay–time. She had gone home to her father at the vicarage at Low Moor, but not without a promise to return in the summer. And about that time too, Soldier Jack became slack in his attendance at Powle Moor, tho’ abating nothing in his respect for Mr. Webster. He had been away for the week–end, having said nothing of his intentions, but it turned out he had been to Low Moor to see Faith and her father, and after this Jack began to go, in a rather shame–faced way at first, to Church. I asked him what was the reason of this right–about face.

“Well, yo’ see, Ben,” he explained, “th’ service at th’ Church is more reg’lar like an’ more constitutional.”

“As how?”

“‘Well, yo’ see, I’m a soldier, an’ aw believe i’ discipline.”

“Yo’ broke it often enough, bi all accounts,” I ventured to remind him.

“Na, Ben, no back reckonin’! Yo’ mun consider that aw wer’ young then an’ lawless. Aw’n sown mi wild oats nah, an’ settled down an’ aw begin to see that law an’ order’s a very guid thing, an’ authority mun be respected.”

“Well, cannot yo’ respect it as much at th’ Powle as at th’ Church?”

“Now, aw cannot; an’ yo cannot, nother. Yo’ see yo’re dissenters at th’ Powle, an’ heresy an’ schism an’ rebellion against constituted authority are i’ th’ air, so to speak, on Powle Moor. Yo’re all Republicans at’ heart up yonder, an’ aw’ll tell yo’, another thing, if there’d been no dissenters there they’d ha’ been no Luds, an’ George Mellor ’d noan ha’ danced out th’ world on nowt.”

“But Faith Booth were Church an’ yet she went to th’ Powle while she wer’ wi’ us, an’ had a class there into th’ bargain.”

“Faith’s a woman,” said Soldier, “an’ women ha’ no sense o’ principle. She wer’ your guest, an’ wouldn’t pain yo’ by going elsewheer. That’s what yo’ call nat’ral politeness, an’ we should be none the worse i’ Sloughit for a little more on it. But what we’re talkin’ on now is a matter o’ th’ head not a matter o’ th’ heart, an’ i’ matters o’ th’ head a woman’s nowt to go by. Yo’ shud hear her father, th’ owd vicar at Low Moor!”

“Oh! he’s yo’r text, is he?”

“He put it i’ this way. Th’ Church o’ Christ is an army—the Church militant, he called it. Th’ king, God bless him, is th’ head o’ th’ Church, jus’ same as he’s th’ head o’ th’ army. Th’ Archbishops is commanders–in–chief, th’ Bishops is generals, the Rectors an’ Vicars is colonels an’ captains, an’ Curates is th’ lieutenants.”

“And what of corporals and sergeants?” I asked.

“Th’ vicar’s warden, to be sure,” said Jack promptly, “an’ just yo’ see if aw dunnot live to be vicar’s warden afore aw dee o’ old age: an’ if yo’ want to speer further into it, th’ Collect an’ th’ Liturgy is th’ Orders o’ th’ day an’ the surplice an’ hood’s nobbud a uniform. So theer!”

And Jack looked at me triumphantly.

“An’ wheer do th’ Dissenters come in then?” I asked.

“Well aw reckon you’re like these volunteers ’at come up when folk wer’ fleyed o’ Boney comin’. An’ its th’ same way i’ religion. Folk turn Methodies when they’re in a scare about their souls; but for reg’lar defence i’ ordinary times, th’ Church, as by law established, is enough to ward off th’ enemy o’ mankind.”

“And what does Faith say to all this?” I asked.

“Faith’s a very sensible lass, an’ wi’ a very proper notion o’ discipline,” replied Jack. “I tried her t’other day wi’ th’ text ‘wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the Church.’”

“Well?” I asked.

“An’ Faith upholds every word of it, an’ thinks ’at a woman ’at has a husband ’oo can respect an’ look up to, ’ll ma’ no bones about obeyin’ him in all things lawful.”

“Well, well,” I said, “I’ve no doubt some strapping young fellow will come along some day, and Faith will have a chance o’ squaring preaching wi’ precept.”

“Aw don’t know so much about a strapping young felly,” said Jack, curtly. “Yo’ young chaps think a wench has no eyes for owt but inches an’ spirits. Faith’s noan o’ that breed. ’Oo thinks a husband owt to be older nor th’ wife, so’s ’oo can lean on him an’ look to him for guidance.”

“Aye,” I said, “Faith’s just turned twenty. Th’ man owt to be five–an–twenty.”

“Five–an–forty, if a minnit,” cried Jack.

And I laughed in his face.

“What, Jack! caught at last! And what about the decent elderly widow ‘wi’ summat i’ th’ Bank ’at mi mother’s lookin’ for’?”

“Ben, quit thi jokin’; it’s no jokin’ matter, isn’t this. Aw tell yo’, Ben, if aw can win Faith Booth for mi wife, aw’st go dahn o’ mi knees an’ thank God wi’ all mi heart for th’ best gift even God can give—a pure an’ good woman. Th’ owd Book well says—‘A crown unto her husband.’ An’ aw’m not wi’out my hope, Ben. But aw’m fleyed on her, man; aw’m fleyed on her.”

“What! a soldier fleyed on a woman, Jack?”

“Aye, Ben, aw’m fleyed on her! Sometime’s when ’oo’s sat quiet by th’ hearth, there’s a look comes on to her face, that aw shouldn’t be surprised any minnit if th’ ceiling oppened up, an’ ’oo just floated away to Heaven. An’ yo’ nivver see her in a temper, like other women, th’ best on ’em; an’ yo nivver hear a cross word fra her, nor hear her gigglin’ an’ laughin’ like other lasses—peas in a drum, th’ cracklin’ o’ thorns under a pot, that’s what they mind me on. She’s just too good to live, is Faith, an’ aw’m not worthy ‘to touch the hem of her garment,’ an’ that’s a fact.”

And Jack made off with an agitated limp; but from such like talk and a hint or two that Mary let fall, my mother ceased her quest for the prudent elderly widow, tho’ not without giving a very uncompromising opinion that there was no fool like an old fool.

“Tho’,” she added, “if it wer’ to be a young ’un, it couldn’t ha’ been a better nor Faith, an’ that aw will say; but as for wives being obedient to their husbands”—for I had taken, occasion to enlighten her as to Jack’s views on the blessed estate—“it’s well known St. Paul, good man, was a bachelor, an’ bachelors’ wives is same as owd maids’ childer, like nowt in heaven above, nor the earth beneath—nor in the water under the earth,” she added, to complete the text.

It was about this time that Mary had an unexpected visitor. It would be in July, as near as I can remember. I was piking in the barn, and there being a good yield that year, it needed all my height and a long pike to reach to the top of the hay bowk when it neared the roof. Mary and Faith were raking in the field, and Martha had been with the last bottle of home–brewed for the hay–makers.

We had always three or four Irishmen that came regularly year after year to earn their rent at the English harvesting. One of them, Micky, taught me to count up to twenty in Irish, so that I may claim to know a little of foreign languages, and if they are all like Irish, I pity the man that has to learn more of them. I had gone to the barn door, looking placidly across the field where Bob stood in the traces yoked to the hurdle on which we dragged the sweet new hay to the mistal; the sun was westering, and the grateful breezes fanned me with cool and gentle touch. The girls in the field had thrown off the large straw hats they wore in the noon heat, their tresses had escaped their coils, and they moved but slowly with the rakes, following the wake of the hurdle, for we had had a long and hard day, and all were fain our work was nigh done, and the hay, thank God, well won. My mother had gone into the house, for she had long ceased to take any part in the hay–making, and I made no question she was getting ready the baggin’. I saw her come to the house door, and heard her shout:

“Mary! Ben! come hither; aw want yo;” and she waved her arms to motion us in.

“Throw yo’r rakes dahn, an’ come naa,” came another cry, and there was that in my mother’s voice which told us this was no ordinary summons to a meal.

Mary and I made for the house hot–foot. My mother met us at the door.

“There’s Ben Walker i’ th’ parlour an’ his mother,” she said; “an they’ve come to talk to thee, Mary—aw thowt Ben had better come as weel.”

“Aw winnot see ’em,” said Mary.

“That’s right,” I said. “Tell ’em to tak’ their hook, mother. They’re none wanted here.”

“Tell ’em thissen, Ben. It’s more o’ yo’r business nor mine, an’ more or Mary’s nor yo’rs. Both on yo’ see ’em’s my advice, an’ if yo’ think they’ll eit yo’, I’ll stand by to see fair play.”

“Aw’m none fit to be seen. Wait till aw tidy misen up a bit,” said Mary, fastening her dress at the neck and prisoning some stray tresses of her hair.

“Yo’re good enough for the likes o’ them,” said my mother, “an’ aw’m none goin’ to have ’em sittin’ on th’ best furniture i’ th’ house longer nor aw can help. They’ll noan do it ony good. Let’s in, an’ ha’ it ovver, an’ dunnot pick yo’r words, either, wi’ that lot: aw shannot, yo’ may depend.”

You never did see in your life such a beau as Ben Walker that day. His mother was fine dressed, with a big gold brooch and a gold chain round her neck and reaching like a rope down to her waist, and all the colours of the rainbow in the silks she wore. But Ben! you should have seen him! It was a sight for sore eyes. They called his father “Buck,” but him I never saw in the days of his glory. But if he could out–buck Ben he was a Buck indeed. Why, his vest was a flower garden in miniature, and if he’d dipped his head in the treacle pot it couldn’t have been stickier. Somebody must have crammed him that the tailor makes the man: but Lord! a tailor from heaven, if there are such there, couldn’t have made a man of Ben Walker. Neither could ale nor strong waters. He had evidently been trying for a bit back to import courage from Holland, for his face was patchy and mezzled and his eye was filmy and his body jerky. We had heard that he was making the money fly down at th’ Brigg, tho’ it was not easy to get anyone to drink with him. However, here he was, and it was not difficult to guess his errand.

My mother eyed the pair of them with a look of fine disdain and offered them neither a hand nor a chair.

“Well, what’s your business here,” she said, “onybody ’at knew owt ’ud know this is none a time for visitin’, th’ hay out an’ th’ glass goin’ down wi’ a run, ’at awst be’ capped if it doesn’t knock th’ bottom out, one o’ these days.”

“Aye, the weather’s very tryin’ indeed for th’ poor farmers,” said Mrs. Walker, “an’ for them ’at has to depend for their livins on a few pounds worth o’ hay. But yo’ see gentlefolk needn’t bother their yeds abaat sich things. Wet or fine doesn’t matter so much to them. When it’s too wet for walkin’ they can ride.”

“Aye,” put in my mother, “we all know weel enough where a beggar rides to, if yo’ put him on horse–back. But what’s yo’r business, aw say?”

“Can’t yo’ speik, Ben?” said Mrs. Walker, “what’s ta stand theer for, like a moonstruck cauf?”

“Aw wud like to speak wi’ Mary here,” said Ben.

“Well, it’s a free country,” said Mary, “an’ there’s no law agen speakin’.”

“By thissen, aw mean.”

“Well, tha cannot, that’s all. If tha’s owt to say to me, tha mun say it afore Ben Bamforth.”

“Ben Bamforth, indeed!” said Mrs. Walker. “Mind yo’r manners, lass, or it’ll be worse for yo’, an’ speik more respectful when yo’ speik to yo’r betters. Does ta know tha’rt speikin’ to two thousand pund?”

“Aw sud say t’ same if aw wer’ speikin’ to th’ king’s mint, if Ben Walker wer’ one o’ th’ stamps,” retorted Mary hotly.

“Yo’ll alter yo’r tune afore th’ week’s out, my lass,” put in Mrs. Walker. “In a word, will ta ha’ our Ben here? What he’s so set on thee for ‘mazes me. But he is set on thee, an’ yo’ sud be thankful he’ll cast a look yo’r way when it’s wi’ th’ quality he sud be speikin’ at this very minnit, i’stead o’ draggin’ his mother up this rutty owd hill to a tumbledown ram–shackle owd sheep–pen not fit for a lady to put her foot inside on. Will ta ha’ him, an’ be a lady in silk an’ satins, an’ a servant o’ yo’r own, an’ a gig to drive abaat in, an’ th’ fat o’ th’ land to live’ on?”

“Noa, aw winnot, aw winnot, aw winnot, so there’s yo’r answer, an’ if he comes near me or after me agen, there’s one’ll fetch as many colours on his back as th’ weaver’s put in his weskit.”

“Then awst dahn to Milnsbrig this very neet,” said Ben Walker, “an’ tell owd Radcliffe all aw know abaat Rawfolds, an’ that long–legged tally o’ yo’rn shall go th’ same gait as Mellor an’ Thorpe.”

And now I had a lucky inspiration—like a flash came into my head what Mr. Radcliffe had said to me: ‘Thank your stars, Justice Radcliffe does not listen to every idle story that comes to his ears.’ So I drew a bow at a venture:

“Go to Mr. Radcliffe and welcome,” I said. “Tha’s been before, an’ told him all tha knows, an’ more nor yo’ could prove, an’ yo’ know nowt came on it. Dost think he’ll tak more heed o’ a second telling?”

Ben Walker and his mother exchanged glances and their faces fell, so I gathered courage and pushed my advantage.

“Go! aw tell yo’. Aw’ve known ’at yo’ tell’d him long sin’ all yo’ knew about me, an’ he put it aside. Aw’ve noan yo’ to thank ’at aw’m here to tell yo’ on it.”

“Who telled yo’?” gasped Ben, off his guard. “Mr. Radcliffe hissen,” I cried, with the ring of triumph in my voice, “an’ he towd me, too, if ever I fun out who’d peached, aw’d his permission to break every bone in his body, an’, by God, if yo’r not off this hillside before aw count twenty, aw’ll take him at his word,” and I strode with uplifted arm towards the craven that shrank away. He needed no second telling, and his mother followed him crest–fallen: and never but once again did Ben Walker, to my knowledge, set foot on the threshold he had trod so often as a tolerated if not a welcome guest.

“Whatever did ta mean, Ben?” said my mother to me, when she had watched the pair part way down the hill, to make sure, she said, they pocketed nought: “Whatever did ta mean?”

“Never yo’ mind, mother,” I replied. “There’s no good i’ talking overmuch about such things. Anyway, it’s been enough for yon’ lot an’ that should be good enough for you.”

“Aw do believe he made it,” said my mother to Mary, in a tone of admiration. And from that day she conceived a higher respect for my intellect than years of honest truth had been able to inspire.

Only once again, I say, did Ben Walker, to my knowledge, sot foot on our doorstep. He tarried in Huddersfield for some months and his money flowed like water. Then he disappeared, and it was said he had gone to America with a woman who was no better than she should be. Truth was, the Brigg was getting too hot to hold him. The men who had been in the Luddite business began to pluck up heart as the time went on and no more arrests were made. And one fine night the man who kept the toll–gate at the Brigg heard loud cries for mercy, and rushing out was just in time to see the heels of a dozen men and to drag a drowning wretch out of the cut. It was Ben Walker, and he was all but done for. Then, I say, he vanished, and for years I heard no word of him. Then one wintry night—November I think it was—Mary and I were sat in the house by the fireside, she in the rocking chair my mother had loved of old and knitting as I had seen her that was gone knitting so often that the thread seemed a very part of my own life’s warp; and I was sat smoking my evening pipe in the chair he that was gone had made to us more sacred than any monument in church or chapel, and the old clock was ticking steadily on to the bed–hour as sturdily as it had ticked for more years than I can tell. Only there was not to be heard through the rafters the heavy snoring of ’Siah as it had been heard in my father’s days. ’Siah was snoring, I doubt not, but in a bed and a house of his own, and the not too gentle breathing of Martha swelled the harmony of his own.

There came a knock at the door that gave us both a start. We had heard no footstep, and Vixen, a waspish daughter of the Vixen of other days, had not given tongue.

Who could it be?

“Does Mister Bamforth live here?” queried a voice that stirred a memory of I knew not what, but something painful, and my mind, without my willing it, was off on the scent.

“He does. Dos’t want him?” I said, barring the entrance but holding the door half open, whilst Mary had risen to her feet and held the light above her head, to see the better.