Front matter (continued 6)

“Aw’ve tramped fra Manchester, an’ awn had newt to eit sin break o’ day, an’ aw beg yo’ for the love of God to gi’ me a crust an’ th’ price o’ a bed or let me lie me dahn i’ th’ mistal.”

And as he spoke and his face struck stronger at me, it all came back.

“It’s Ben o’ Buck’s,” I cried.

“It’s Ben o’ Buck’s,” he said in a low voice, and hung down his head and said no more. I was for banging the door in his face, the hot blood surging to my face and anger and scorn in my heart.

But Mary took the loaf and a slice of cheese from the table where our supper lay, and a coin from the window sill where the milk money was, and gave it to him, but turned her eyes from him as she gave it. And I knew that Mary had taken the better part, and there was no longer anger in my heart and I closed the door upon the figure that slouched away into the cold dark night.

Yes: Mary and I were wed, and for the life of me I cannot remember that I ever asked Mary to be my wife. I always tell her she did all the love–making. Did she not put her arms about my neck, and did she not tell Long Tom she meant to wed me. To be sure it was a Leap Year, and that accounts for it.

I overheard Mary telling Martha that our wedding day was fixed. It was to be in October—on the sixteenth—to be exact.

“Then that settles it,” said Martha.

“Settles what?” asked Mary.

“Th’ day for t’ spurrins,” replied our maid; “’Siah’s been puttin’ it off, an’ puttin’ it off, tho’ awn egged him on never so; but nah, aw’ll ha’ no more dallyin’. Aw’d fixed i’ mi mind to be wed on th’ same day as yo’ and Ben, if aw couldn’t afore, an’ not another day longer will aw wait. If ’Siah winnot put ’em up aw’ll do it misen, an’ that aw’ll let him know.”

“But perhaps ’Siah doesn’t want to get wed,” suggested Mary.

“What’s that to say to it?” asked Martha. “If he doesn’t know who’ll mak’ a good wife, aw know who’ll mak’ a good husband. An’ ’Siah’s just that soft, aw sud be feart o’ any other ’ooman puttin’ on ’im, an’ that ’ud just fret me to skin an’ bone, to see onybody else puttin’ on ’im an’ me no right to stan’ up for him.”

“But a woman cannot put th’ spurrins up,” objected Mary.

“Then aw’st ma’ ’Si.”

“But how if he’s loath?”

“Aw’st bray him.”

“What! ’Siah?”

“Aye, Mary, an’ if yo’ll tak’ my advice, an’ yo’ may need it now yo’re goin’ to be wed yersen, never let on to be fleyed o’ yo’r man. First time aw gay’ ’Si’ a bat, mi heart come into mi mouth an’ mi knees knocked one agen t’other, yo’d a thowt aw wer’ playin’ a tune on th’ bones under mi petticoat; but, Lor’ bless yo’, he just oppened his mouth an’ gaped at me an’ scratted his yed—‘Well awm dalled,’ says he, ‘if this doesn’t beat th’ longest day!’—an’ so aw fot ’im another clout wi’ mi neive, an’ bar tellin’ me to be careful aw didn’t hurt misen, an’ to hit wheer it wer’ soft, if a soft place aw could find, ’Siah said nowt; but it’s done him gooid. He’s more fleyed o’ me nor ony two i’ th’ Colne Valley,” concluded Martha with legitimate pride.

And Soldier Jack and Faith made a match of it. We were all married on the same day, in the same church, by the same parson. It was Mr. Coates, the vicar at the Parish Church at Huddersfield, tied us, for neither at the Slaithwaite Church nor at the Powle could that then be done. And a gradely wedding we had, as is only right when three couples, all friends, and all of a family after a fashion o’ speaking, get wed on the same day.

Faith and Mary were just enough to send a man off his head, as they stood in their veils, and even Martha looked comely, for love put its halo about her head. Mr. Coates couldn’t keep his eyes off Mary and Faith, for I reckon he didn’t see two such pictures every day, and when we went into the vestry to sign th’ register:

“The Rose,” says he, handing the quill pen for Mary to sign her name. “And the lily,” he added, with a smile and a courtly bow, like the gentleman he was, to Faith.

“Nay, sir,” said Mary, with a happy laugh, “Nay, sir, the lilies come fra Golcar.”

And now, my children, my story is told. You know more about the Luddites, perhaps, than when you began to read it. You know how vain was their attempt to stop the introduction of machinery. And no doubt machinery has been a great boon. Why, I myself, as you know, run my own mill by it.

But don’t tell me the Luds were a bad lot—misguided, short–sighted, ignorant, if you like, but rogues, and idle, dissolute n’er–do–weels——No! and still no!

[THE END.]