1 files changed, 8368 insertions, 0 deletions

diff --git a/54030-0.txt b/54030-0.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..4c9fe54
--- /dev/null
+++ b/54030-0.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,8368 @@
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54030 ***
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+Ben o' Bill's, THE LUDDITE: A Yorkshire Tale, by D. F. E. Sykes, LL.B.
+
+
+Ben o' Bill's,
+
+the Luddite:
+
+A Yorkshire Tale.
+
+By
+
+D. F. E. Sykes, LL.B.
+
+And
+
+Geo. Henry Walker
+
+LONDON.
+
+Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent, & Co. Ltd.
+
+HUDDERSFIELD.
+
+The Advertiser Press, Ltd
+
+About the author.
+
+D F E Sykes was a gifted scholar, solicitor, local politician, and
+newspaper proprietor. He listed his own patrimony as 'Fred o' Ned's o'
+Ben o' Billy's o' the Knowle' a reference to Holme village above
+Slaithwaite in the Colne Valley where many of the events in the novel
+take place. As the grandson of a clothier, his association with the
+woollen trade would be a valuable source of material for his novels, but
+also the cause of his downfall when, in 1883, he became involved in a
+bitter dispute between the weavers and the mill owners.
+
+When he was declared bankrupt in 1885 and no longer able to practise as
+a solicitor he left the area and travelled abroad to Ireland and Canada.
+On his return to England he struggled with alcoholism and was prosecuted
+by the NSPCC for child neglect. Eventually he was drawn back to
+Huddersfield and became an active member of the Temperance Movement. He
+took to researching local history and writing, at first in a local
+newspaper, then books such as 'The History of Huddersfield and its
+Vicinity'. He also wrote four novels. It was not until the 1911 Census,
+after some 20 years as a writer, that he finally states his profession
+as 'author'.
+
+In later life he lived with his wife, the daughter of a Lincolnshire
+vicar, at Ainsley House, Marsden. He died of a heart attack following an
+operation at Huddersfield Royal Infirmary on 5th June 1920 and was
+buried in the graveyard of St Bartholomew's in Marsden.
+
+Introduction.
+
+Although the book was initially credited to D. F. E. Sykes and G. H.
+Walker, G. H. Walker's name is missing from the third edition, and it is
+essentially Sykes' work.
+
+First published in 1898, it is a novel which deserves wider recognition,
+as it deals with surprisingly contemporary issues, but it is as a social
+history of the period that it stands out. Sykes' use of the local
+dialect, the entertaining asides that he includes and his skill at
+sketching characters and their lives, at a period of such turmoil in the
+Colne Valley, add to its value.
+
+It is interesting that, as a historian, Sykes chose to embellish the
+facts, that were available to him at the time, with fiction, and his
+purpose must have been literary. Historians rightly take issue in this
+matter, but he is clear on his sympathy for their cause and the
+background and reasoning behind these events, though he draws back on
+the murder of Horsfall. The Luddites were not mindless machine breakers
+but desperate men, in poverty and despair, fighting for a voice to be
+heard against uncaring mill owners and a corrupt government.
+
+This is undoubtedly Sykes' best novel, a sound history of the Luddites
+and a good read.
+
+PREFACE
+
+AT the York Special Commission in 1812, sixty-six persons were tried for
+various offences in connection with the Luddite rising against the
+introduction of machinery. Of these sixty six seventeen were executed,
+one reprieved, six transported for seven years, seven were acquitted,
+seventeen were discharged on bail, fifteen by proclamation, and one
+stood over but was not called on.
+
+The story, Ben o' Bill's, is mostly true, and the authors have not felt
+called upon to vary in any material respects the story as it was gleaned
+in part from the lips and in part from the papers of the narrator.
+
+It is proper to say that the Ben Walker of the narrative was of kin to
+neither of the writers.
+
+The thanks of the authors are tendered to Dr. Edwin Dean, of
+Slaithwaite, and to the Justices of the West Riding for permission to
+reproduce the portraits of Dr. Dean and of Sir Joseph Radcliffe.
+
+DEDICATED
+
+(Without Permission)
+
+TO
+
+MARY LOUISA SYKES,
+
+THE FRIEND OF BOTH,
+
+AND
+
+WIFE OF ONE OF
+
+THE AUTHORS
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+IT HURTS me sore that folk in these days should so little understand the
+doings of us Luddites. To hear young people talk, the Luddites were
+miscreants that well, deserved the hanging they got--a set of idle,
+dissolute knaves and cut-throats the country was well rid of. Nay,
+worse, many young lads with a college learning seem to know next to
+nothing about them, and talk as though all great deeds were done in
+far-of parts, and as though of heroes and martyrs England has none to
+show. I am little apt at writing, and my hand is stiff and cramped with
+years. But my memory is good still, and I can remember better the things
+of fifty years ago than those of yesterday. So, before hand and mind
+fail me altogether, I will set on record all I call mind of those
+memorable days that closed so black after that bloody York Assize. And
+if to any reader I should seem garrulous or egotistical, be it
+remembered in excuse that I can only tell the tale as I now recall it,
+and that I write of things I saw and things I knew, and of doings I took
+part in. I risked my own neck, and had the good fortune to escape with
+my life, and with honour, too, which not all who escaped whole and safe
+could say. When I was a boy, in the last days of the past century, our
+folk lived at Lower Holme, above Slaithwaite, in the old homestead in
+which my father's father and his father before him had lived. We were
+tenants of my Lord Dartmouth. The house is still there, and when I close
+my eyes of an evening, before the fire and my pipe goes out as I sit
+thinking, I can see the old place yet, as I knew it in my boyhood's
+days. My father, William Bamforth--Bill o' Ben's--was a manufacturer,
+a small manufacturer we should say now; but no one thought of calling
+him a small manufacturer in those days. He was as big as most men
+thereabouts. He bought his wool of the stapler at Huddersfield--old Abe
+Hirst;--it was scoured and dyed in the vats in the farmyard; my mother
+and my cousin Mary, and Martha, the servant lass, that cleaned the house
+and milked the cows, and kept my mother's mind on the rack and her
+tongue on the clack from morning till night, helped with the spinning.
+The warping and the weaving we did at home in the long upper chamber. We
+had four looms at home, and, moreover, we put our work out to the
+neighbours. It was a busy house you may be sure, what with the milking
+and the churning, and the calves, and the pigs, and the poultry, and the
+people coming for milk, and the men coming for their warps, and the
+constant work at the old hand-looms in the long, low chamber above, with
+its windows stretched right across the front to catch the precious
+light. What stir, too, there used to be when father and I set off for
+the fairs at Nottingham and Macclesfield and Newcastle, for all those
+markets did Bill o' Ben's attend regular as the almanac itself. There
+was the loading, overnight, of the great covered waggon with the pieces
+of good linsey, and here and there a piece of broadcloth for the clergy
+and the better classes, and the grooming and shoeing of "Old Bess," the
+stout grey mare. Then the start at early dawn, with the first lark in
+summer, in the starlight of the winter mornings. Oh! it was grand in the
+summer across the moors, when the roads were plain to see, and only the
+crusted ruts to jolt our bones; but in the dark mornings of November,
+when the wind howled about the waggon's arch, and the rain beat like
+pellets about the tarpaulin, and the waggon wheels sunk deep in slush,
+and in the set winter-time, when the roads were lost in snow, it was
+cruel work for man and beast. It was gamesome, too, at the slimmer
+statutes at Nottingham and Macclesfield, when I had nothing to do but
+stand at the stall in the market-place and cut the suit-lengths for the
+customers, or carry their parcels to their inns. And grand it was to see
+the men servants and the buxom country lasses at the hiring, making
+their half-yearly holiday, and spending their money right cheerfully. My
+father had an old connection, and scarce ever had to return with pieces
+unsold. Then, when the fair was over, and he sat in the parlour of the
+Angel at Nottingham, or the Swan at Macclesfield, smoking his long,
+"churchwarden" and drinking gin and water, I would off into the town to
+see the booths, and the actors, and the giants, and the fat women, and
+the dwarfs and two-headed monsters, and many other curiosities that may
+not now be seen. I used to sit for hours in the winter nights at home
+telling Mary of the bearded woman, and the hen with five legs, and the
+learned pig, but of the country lasses, whose cheeks were so rosy and
+lips so ripe, she cared not to hear.
+
+The times were bad for most people, but at home we did not feel the
+pinch very much. We had the cows and the poultry and the pigs, and
+though oatmeal was terribly dear, twenty shillings the hoop, I never
+knew what it was to miss the oatmeal porridge and the abundant milk for
+breakfast and bacon and potatoes for dinner. On Sundays we nearly always
+had beef or mutton and Yorkshire pudding, and my mother's home-brewed
+was famous throughout all the country side. Mr. Wilson, the parson of
+the church, always called when he came to Holme, though my father had
+grieved him sore by taking a pew at Powle Moor Chapel, and sitting under
+that godly man, Abraham Webster; and Mr. Wilson always declared to my
+mother's own face that her home-brewed was better drinking than any to
+be got even at the Black Bull Inn, at Kitchen Fold, which boasted the
+best "tap" outside Huddersfield itself. Sometimes on Sundays, too, my
+mother had a guests' tea-drinking, and then we had buttered tea-cakes
+and eggs, and salad, and tea, and out were brought the silver cream jug
+and silver sugar tongs and spoons and the little fluted china cups and
+saucers, with little, pink primroses on them, that belonged to my great
+aunt, Betty Garside. The women-folk drank tea, but not so much, I think,
+that they liked it, for they had not the chance of getting used to it,
+but because the quality drank it, and it served to establish their rank
+and dignity. My father would never touch it, and I can't say I was ever
+partial to it myself. So you see we were not so badly-off at home. My
+father's custom lay mainly in the country market towns, and the high
+price of corn caused by the ceaseless wars kept squire and farmer in
+rich content, and they paid for their cloth like men. It was the
+manufacturers who had made and relied on a foreign market for their
+goods, who cursed Napoleon, and cursed, too, our own Government, that
+was ever at daggers drawn with him. Why could we not let the French rule
+their country their own way they said. What was it to us whether king or
+Directory or Emperor ruled in France? My father was a Whig, and swore by
+Mr. Fox; yet I think at first he was not sorry to see our corn so high,
+prices so good, and money so plentiful among the farmers. But in time
+the war told on all of us, our ships could not sail the seas, the mills
+and warehouses groaned with piled-up merchandise, and the pieces fetched
+so little, it was scarce worth while to cart our goods from town to
+town. Then every manufacturer in the West Riding called for peace, and,
+in time, peace at any price.
+
+I think it was at Nottingham, in the back-end of 1811, I first saw any
+signs of a stir because of the new machinery. A man was shot at
+Bullwell, near that town, when trying to get at some new
+stocking-frames, I saw his body brought into the town on a stretcher by
+two constables I can see his eyes and open mouth, with the yellow teeth,
+and the tongue thrust out between them, and blood trickling down the
+sides of his chin and his hands, the fingers of one wide outspread, the
+other gripping tight some grass and sand he had clutched, and his right
+knee drawn up so rigid they could not stretch the body, and he was
+buried in a chest. They laid him on a table in the tap-room of the first
+inn they came to, and I saw him through the window. When we rode home to
+Slaithwaite, I remember my father was very silent, and would not talk
+about the new machinery, but I was soon to hear enough of it.
+
+I remember, as tho' it were yesterday, one winter's night about that
+time, my father was sat by the fire-side, smoking his pipe and taking a
+thoughtful pull at times at the yellow pewter pot from which he drank
+his ale; my mother in her rocking-chair knitting a pair of long, grey
+stockings for myself. I was reading by the candle-light a copy of Mr.
+Thomas Paine's "Rights of Man," which I had bought at Nottingham, and
+which, despite the groanings of Mr. Webster, our pastor at Powle Moor, I
+found a very sound and proper book, as, indeed, I still maintain it to
+be; and Mary was looking at the prints in Mr. Miller's Scripture
+History, with lives of the most celebrated Apostles, and wondering for
+the hundredth time how it came about that the frontispiece exhibits
+Father Adam with a full beard, whilst the very next print depicts him,
+after the fall, with a chin as smooth as an egg: for there is no mention
+of razors in the Garden of Eden. Martha was down in the village at a
+prayer-meeting; and Siah, the teamer, had had his porridge and his pint
+and had gone to bed. We could hear him, through the rafters, snoring in
+the room above. It must have been a Tuesday, for father had been to
+Huddersfield to market, and had come home, as he always did on
+market-days, more talkative than his wont.
+
+"Aw rode as far as th' Warrener, wi' Horsfall, o' Ottiwell," I heard my
+father say. "He could talk o' nowt but th' new machines 'at he's bahn to
+put i' Ottiwells. He's bahn, to ha' all his wark done under his own
+roof, he says. He's sick o' croppers an' their ways. An', he says, too,
+'at it 'll noan be long afore there 'll be a new kind o' loom 'at 'll
+run ommost by itsen, an' pieces 'll come dahn to next to nowt. He says
+time's noan so far off when th' old hand-loom weavers 'll go dahn their
+own slot."
+
+"How long did you stop at th' Warrener?" asked my mother, who had her
+own way of putting a point.
+
+"Tha' means it wor th' ale were talking; but tha's mista'en. He meant it
+every word. An' he said, 'at them 'at lagged behind mun go to th' wall,
+an' he, for one, meant movin' wi' th' times. Him an' Enoch Taylor's
+mighty thick, an' Taylor's putting th' new machinery into Bradley Mills,
+and Vickerman's. All th' market's talkin' on it. Aw called at th' Pack
+Horse----".
+
+"I warrant yo' did," observed my mother.
+
+"At th' Pack Horse," proceeded my father, superior to innuendo, "an'
+Horsfall wor there, an' he said 'at th' era o' manual labour wor over,
+an' th' triumph o' mechanic art had come. These were his very words. Aw
+thowt aw'd remember them to tell, yo'."
+
+"An' little aw thank yo' for yo'r trouble, William Bamforth," observed
+my mother, "for that nor any other o' your fine tales from th' Pack
+Horse. Little it seems yo', or Horsfall either, dandering about th' Pack
+Horse after th' market's done, an' me toiling my blood to water to make
+both ends tie. Th' triumph o' mechanic art, indeed! Triumph o'
+fiddlesticks. Th' hand-loom's done well enough for thee, an' for thi
+father afore thee, an' where would you put yo' new machines if yo' got
+'em, I'd like to know."
+
+"Ther's that bit o' money lying idle at Ingham's, an' we could build on
+th' Intack, an' ther's a fine run o' water, as Horsfall says it's a sin
+an' a shame to see running to waste, an' ther's that fortune of your
+Aunt Betty's, at's out at mortgage wi' Lawyer Blackburn."
+
+"Aye, an' there it 'll stop for me," cried my mother, "let well alone,
+says I. Wasn't tha tellin' me only th' other neet' o' that poor man at
+Nottingham, 'at our Ben couldn't sleep o' neets for seein' him starin'
+'at him? Dost tha want bringing home on a shutter, an' me lonely enough
+as it is, what wi' thee an' Ben settin' off nearly every week, an' when
+yo'r back stopping at th' Pack Horse every Tuesday till it's a wonder a
+decent man an' a deacon isn't ashamed to be seen coming up th' broo.
+I'll ha' na building wi' my brass. There's enough to follow as it is,
+an' that girl, Martha, that soft as she thinks every man as says 'It's a
+fine day,' means puttin' t' spurrins in, and na, nowt 'll do but havin'
+th' masons and th' joiners all ovver th' place, an' them so fond o'
+drink too. Aw'm moithered to death as it is, an' 'll ha' none on't, so
+tha' may put that maggot aat o' thi yed, William Bamforth."
+
+"But Mr. Chew says"....
+
+Now Mr. Chew was our new vicar, Mr. Wilson being not long dead.
+
+"Oh, Mr. Chew. It 'ad seem him better if he washed th' powder out o' his
+own yed i'stead o' puttin' stuff an' nonsense into other folks!"
+
+"If yo mun talk your own business ovver wi' all th' countryside why
+can't you go to Mr. Webster, as is well known to ha' more o' th' root o'
+th' matter in him than all th' clergy, an him a weaver hissen, too."
+
+"Why, and so I will," exclaimed my father, rising to wind up the clock,
+a solemn act that, in our house, served, except on Sundays, instead of
+family prayers, and sent us all to bed.
+
+The very next Lord's Day my father and mother, Mary, and myself, with
+Martha and 'Siah, must go to Powle Moor in the afternoon to hear a
+discourse by Mr. Webster, my father and I walking side by side, a thing
+which I liked not so much as to walk with Mary. But it chanced that on
+this very Sabbath my father explained to me what I had often pondered
+upon, why we should trudge a good two miles across the moor by a rude
+footpath to the Baptist Meeting House, when the Church lay on a broad
+and good road almost at our feet, and we had there a large pew, our own
+freehold, which had been used aforetime by my grandfather and my
+great-grandfather. Whatever the reason was it had not been apprehended
+by our old collie, for such is the sway of long habit, that every Sunday
+when the cracked bell chimed for morning service at the church, it would
+rise from the hearth, yawn, and stretch itself, look about it as though
+enquiringly and reproachfully, and then sedately descending the hill,
+would enter the church, walk decorously to the old pew, now generally
+empty, and stretch itself by the door, in the aisle. Nor, I confess, was
+I much wiser than the old dog, for my father's explanation of our
+desertion of the church of our fathers. "You see, Ben," he said to me,
+when pressed on the point, speaking slowly, for he breathed with some
+difficulty in our way up the hill,--"you see, blood is thicker than
+water."
+
+Now this is a truth there is no gainsaying.
+
+"And I shall allus hold," continued my father, "I shall allus hold 'at
+Parson Wilson had no reight to stir th' magistrates up to refuse th'
+license to th' 'Silent Woman' because some o' th' Baptists 'at belonged
+to th' Nook Chapel used to go theer o' wet neets to sing an' pray an'
+expound for mutual edification, an' if one or two on 'em did happen tak'
+too mich ale at times, it's well known talkin's dry wark. Then about
+them hens o' your mother's half-cousin, Sammy Sutcliffe, Sam-o'-Sall's.
+Tha' knows it were agin all natur' for Parson Wilson to gi' it in as he
+did, an' it were but nateral we should side wi' our own kin."
+
+Now it was about these hens I wished to learn, for it was because of
+them that it has ever been said that schism was hatched in
+Slaithwaite--that th' dissenters layed away like Hannah Garside's hens,
+and had laid away ever since.
+
+"Yo' see it wor this way," explained my father, "Hannah were allus a
+very fractious woman, more particular as, do what she would, could never
+get wed, an' such drop o' th'milk o' human kindness as God had ge'en her
+to start wi' seemed to ha' soured on her. Her an' Sam-o'-Sall's lived
+neighbour, an' it were like enough 'at her hens strayed into Sammy's
+fowd, and into th' shippon too. Hens is like other folk, they'll go'
+wheer they're best off, an' if Hannah threw th' fowls nowt but bacon
+swards yo' needn't blame 'em if they went wheer they could get out o'
+th' reach o' her tongue an' a grain of meal an' corn as weel. Onyway she
+pulled Sammy up afore Parson Wilson for th' eggs, an' Parson Wilson gave
+it agen yor' mother's cousin. An' what I say is," said my father,
+pausing to' get his breath, and striking his stick into the ground by
+way of emphasis, "What I say is, there's no swearin' to eggs. Moreovver
+Hannah gloried ovver th' decision to that extent it wer' more nor flesh
+an' blood could bear, an' when she cam' an' set i' church, reight i' th'
+front o' yor' aunt, wi' a Easter egg fastened i' her bonnet, Sammy saw
+no way for peace but to join th' Baptists. An', as I said afore, blood's
+thicker nor water, an' yor' mother an' me havin' prayed on it, and yor'
+aunt sayin' beside 'at no money o' hers, an' it's well known she's tidy
+well off, should ever go to th' Erastian idolators, our duty seemed
+clear both to yo'r mother an' misen. Not but what aw liked th' owd
+Parson well enough, tho' he wer' a Tory, an me a Whig."
+
+We were by this time in the road that strikes across the top of the hill
+towards Salendine Nook, and by the side of which the Powle Moor Chapel
+was built, with the house and outbuildings for the minister. We could
+see the men quitting the burial ground and the little public-house
+hard by, and, all in their Sunday clothes, folk were coming from every
+part for the afternoon service, not hurrying, and with no air of
+business, but solemnly and seriously, talking little, and with thoughts,
+like their faces, set Zion-wards. When we exchanged greetings, as we did
+with most, it was in grave tones, for it was not counted decent in my
+young days to be over cheerful on the Sabbath Day. And tho' as I have
+said, we at home had not felt the pinch of the hard times more than we
+could bear, there were few there so well off. Most that went to th'
+Powle were hand-loom weavers, with here an' there a little shop-keeper,
+and tho' meal was neither so bad nor so dear as it had been in Barley
+time, nor work so scarce as it became later, yet most knew the pressure
+of want, and the shadow of worse things still to come seemed to brood
+over us all.
+
+It was a sight to see Powle Chapel at an afternoon service. Every pew
+was filled, and every eye was fixed on Parson Webster as he gave out the
+hymns line by line, verse by verse, for few of us could read, tho' most
+made a point of having a hymn book. Up in the loft was the music, the
+double bass, the viol, and the clarionet. Between Jim Wood--Jim o'
+Slack--who played the double bass, and his colleagues of the viol and
+clarionet contention had raged from the very foundation of the church at
+Powle. Jim o' Slack maintained that in every true view of harmony wedded
+to divinity, the notes of the double bass stood for the wrath of
+Jehovah, and were designed to inspire awe and inward quaking. The feeble
+and futile utterances of the viol and the clarionet, he conceded, might
+represent the tender qualities of mercy and compassion, and, as such,
+might be worthy of some consideration among the Methodies, whose
+spiritual food was as milk for babies, but in High Calvinism, Jim
+maintained, nought but the bulky instrument his soul loved could convey
+adequate conception of the majesty of God and the terrors of hell. It
+was grand to hear the singing. We all sang for our lives, and we all had
+a notion of singing in tune. Then the praying! oh! it was fine to hear
+little Parson Webster. How he rejoiced over the elect! How he lamented
+over the unregenerate! It was very comforting to hear, for we were the
+elect, the Erastians of the Church and the Arminians of the chapel in
+the valley we well understood to be those in outer darkness. With what a
+solid satisfaction, too, did the elders settle down to the discourse of
+an hour and forty minutes by the hour glass, which was the least we
+expected from Mr. Webster. I remember still his text of that very day,
+"Behold I was shapen in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me."
+Who could deny, he asked, the utter and natural depravity of man? Why
+only he who by the very denial stood confessed of the sins of arrogancy
+and self-sufficiency. Was not the natural man, since the Fall, prone to
+murder, lust, evil imaginings, covetousness, hardness of heart, vain
+glory, malice, and all unworthiness, all being, by nature, the children
+of wrath, and only that small handful of the dust of Zion, of all that
+great valley, called forth and justified before the foundation of the
+world that we should be holy and without blame before Him in love. How
+awful, too, was the lot of those that went down quick into hell, whose
+steps took hold on the eternal fire whose flames were never quenched.
+But we were not of these, tho' on this we must not plume ourselves, for
+salvation was not of him that willeth nor of him that runneth, but of
+God that sheweth mercy, for the potter had power over the clay, of the
+same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour. I
+was very glad for my part to have been made a vessel unto honour, and of
+this there could be no reasonable doubt, for when my father, moved
+thereto by my mother, after the split about Hannah Garside's eggs,
+finally asked for admission to the community of the Powle and was
+dipped, cousin Mary and I were required to state on which side we
+elected to stand. Mr. Webster, in a long and earnest discourse in the
+parlour at home, and with much praying, set before us, as he said, life
+and good, death and evil, blessing and cursing. I waited to hear what
+Mary had to say, being for my part little troubled in my mind at that
+time about religion and not rightly understanding on what points of
+doctrine Mr. Chew differed from Mr. Webster, and liking the chapel the
+better because the singing was heartier, and the Church the rather
+because the sermons were shorter, and it seemed to me your soul might be
+saved there with less pother. Now Mary, I know not why, said she should
+go with her aunt, and was commended for a good girl by Mr. Webster, and
+I, not wishful on the Sunday to turn down the broo' to Church whilst
+Mary toiled up the hill to the Powle, announced my resolve to walk in my
+father's steps. So Mr. Webster, much pleased, praised my filial
+obedience, and he being well content to take this as a sign of grace and
+effectual calling, I e'en took his word for it and joined the Baptists.
+
+I say I remember well the text of that afternoon, and by this reason.
+My father and mother and Mary were set in the one pew whilst 'Siah and
+Martha and myself were set behind them. Now as I looked upon Mary that
+afternoon it came into my mind very strongly that it was strange so fair
+and dainty a specimen of the potter's craft should be shapen in
+iniquity, and I was marvelling greatly to myself that out of the same
+lump of clay two vessels so unlike as Cousin Mary, and Martha, our
+serving wench, should be fashioned by the potter's hands. For Martha was
+broad shouldered and squat, and had coarse towzelled hair, very red, and
+her mouth was large and her lips thick, and her arms were rough of skin
+and red, and she waddled in her walk, and her breathing was heavy, and
+her eye dull, and her voice was not tuneful, tho' she would sing in the
+hymns, albeit my mother frowned at her and would have had her hold her
+peace, for my mother did not think it quite proper for the serving man
+and maid to sing with their betters: but as my father said "If you go to
+chapel, you must do as chapel does."
+
+But Mary, oh! my children, you will never know what my cousin Mary was
+like in those days, with her brown eyes, so warm and soft, and her brown
+hair all wavy, and with little love ringlets about the neck and her
+little hands not white but creamy brown, and her rosebud mouth, and her
+voice so musical, and her smile so sweet. And so, I say, thinking,
+perhaps, too much of these things, and wondering, too, at the marvellous
+skill of the potter, and opining, belike, that there must be a
+difference in the clay, but quite certain that Mary was not fashioned in
+iniquity, and the day being hot and the air very heavy, and two suet
+dumplings I had eaten for dinner sitting heavy on me, I fell into a sort
+of doze as Mr. Webster reached his twelfthly. Now, Mary, seeing this,
+and being ever full of mischief, having looked to see that my father was
+intent on the discourse, and that my mother's eyes were closed--in
+thought--did lean over the pew and put into my mouth a lump of
+good-stuff and, I chancing at the moment to throw back my head, the
+sweet rolled into my gullet and had gone nigh to choke me. I had much
+ado to stifle my coughing, and all the congregation did look hard at me,
+save only Mary herself, who listened with sweet gravity as Mr. Webster
+proceeded with his twelfthly.
+
+I walked home that evening with 'Siah, for Mary dallied behind with
+Martha, and father and mother had gone on before with Mr. Webster, who
+was to take his supper at our house, as was now his almost weekly custom
+of a Sunday. 'Siah was a silent man, and was a good servant, loving his
+beasts and careful for them, but over fond of ale, and much to be feared
+when overtaken with drink, and noted that he had fought a great fight at
+the Feast with one arm tied behind his back.
+
+"Aw believe awn getten it, Ben," said 'Siah, as we went across the
+fields in the wintry gloom, homewards.
+
+"What's ta getten, 'Si?" I asked.
+
+"Th' conviction," said 'Siah.
+
+"Conviction, what conviction?"
+
+"Why, th' conviction o' sin to be sure. How many convictions does ta'
+think there are?" said 'Siah, in a pet.
+
+"Why, 'Siah, th' last conviction tha' had were afore Justice Ratcliffe
+at th' Brigg, and more by token if my father hadn't sent me wi' th'
+fine, in th' stocks tha'd ha sat for six mortal hours by Huddersfield
+Church clock."
+
+"That were a different sort o' conviction all together, Ben, that were
+for feightin', and this aw mean naa is th' conviction o' sin."
+
+"Well, fighting's a sin," I said.
+
+"Aw dooan't know as it is--not if it be for feightin' such a thing as
+th' ostler at th' Pack Horse for sayin' Martha's bow-legged, when aw
+know better, but aw do believe at aw gat my conviction o' sin much i'
+t' same way."
+
+"How does ta' mean, 'Siah," I asked, for I saw our teamer was in deadly
+earnest.
+
+"Why, bi wrastlin', to be sure. So th' missis munnot tell me agean
+there's no gooid i' wrastlin'. It were after aw came back fra th'
+village last neet. Aw leets o' Martha an 'oo gav' me a bit o' her tongue
+for makkin' a swill tub o' mysen an' for lettin' a little chap like th'
+ostler at th' Pack Horse ha' th' law on me, an' so aw went into th'
+shippon an' set by mi' sen for happen two hours i' th' hay at aw'd
+pulled for th' beasts. An' aw said to mi' sen 'at it were no use tryin'
+to be good for aw were clear born to be damned. Aw could ha' ta'en that
+hop o' mi thumb at th' Pack Horse awmost atween mi finger an' thumb an'
+pinched him i' two if it hadn't been at aw were mazed i' drink. An' so
+th' text com' into mi head at aw wer reight served for mi fuddlin' an'
+'auv made up mi mind to just pay him aat next time aw goa to market, an'
+then awst turn religious an' happen gi' up drinking, except at th' Feast
+an' Christmas time, an' mebbe when aw get treated an' at a chersenin' or
+a weddin' or a wake, an' mebbe occasional o' a Saterday, not to lose th'
+taste an' feel on it, an' i' th' way o' dooty as yo' may say."
+
+This was the longest speech I ever heard 'Siah deliver. I thought his
+resolution a good one, only advising him when he brought the matter off
+with the man at the Pack Horse to be sure to make his opponent touch a
+button so as to have law on his side, and if possible to have witnesses
+that could be relied on to speak the truth, I mean, so as to make it a
+case of what lawyer Blackburn called provocation.
+
+It was after supper that the momentous consultation about the machines
+began. Full justice had been done to that evening meal. There had been
+cold beef and a chine, oatcakes that had been dried on the creel over
+the big fireplace before which a bullock might have been roasted whole,
+cheese and apple pie, and, to drink, a quart or more of my mother's
+famous home brewed. Mr. Webster, by grace of his office, was privileged
+to drink his ale out of the large two-handled silver flagon, a hundred
+years old at the least, that no common lips had ever touched. I do not
+think the supper was the worse for that we took it in the house instead
+of the parlour. There was the sanded floor to our feet and the smoked
+rafters above, and in the sill of the long diamond paned windows were
+red earth pots of geranium and musk and fuschia, that made the room
+smell sweet as a nosegay. The spinning wheels were away in the corner, a
+list hearthrug made by my mother's own hands stretched before the grate,
+a cushion whose covering worked by the same tireless fingers imaged the
+meeting of Jacob and Rebecca at the well, adorned the long oak settle
+under the window. The walls, washed yellow, were relieved by the framed
+funeral cards of departed relatives; the calf bound family Bible
+containing entries of births, marriages and deaths for many generations
+back, my own birth being at that time last entry of all, tho' there have
+been added a goodly list since then, reposed on the chest; a celery
+glass, highly cut, on the one side and a decanter on the other. A
+beautiful enamelled tray, with hand-painted roses, was reared behind,
+and best pictures of all, my father always vowed, and richest ornaments
+of any room, a prime flitch of bacon and two sturdy hams hung on the
+hooks near the door, so as to catch the air to keep them sweet. I have
+been in many a fine room since then, notably when I went to Woodsome
+Hall to see my Lord Dartmouth and give the tenants' greeting to his
+bonnie bride; but for real home feeling and snug comfort never have I
+seen ought to compare with the old house at Holme when it was tidied up
+for Sunday.
+
+Supper was over. Mr. Webster was sat in my father's arm chair, his
+little legs, with their worsted stockings, hardly reaching the ground,
+and I make no doubt he would have been more comfortable on the settle,
+which was lower; but it was a point of civility with my father to
+surrender the master's chair to an honoured guest. A long churchwarden
+sent its reek up the broad chimney, and a little glass of weak gin and
+water stood by the parson's right hand convenient on the table. Not that
+Mr. Webster took much of either ale or strong waters; but this was
+Sunday, and it is well known that when a minister has preached two
+sermons, with many a long prayer thrown in, to say nothing of hymns,
+sing he never so badly, his throat must needs be dry. My father sat
+opposite Mr. Webster on the other side of the hearth, my mother, in her
+low rocking chair with the iron rockers, swaying gently to and fro, and
+fingering her handkerchief for lack of her knitting needles, which must
+not be used on Sundays. The case reserved, as a lawyer might say, had
+been put by my father with much aiding and commentary from the mother,
+who justified her interruption, under a look of remonstrance from both
+pastor and lord, by saying that a woman could jump over a wall while a
+man was going round and round seeking for the gate.
+
+"It is no small matter, friend Bamforth," at length said Mr. Webster,
+"and one that I doubt not you have taken to the Lord in prayer. Well
+pleased too am I that you have seen fit to take counsel with me in this
+weighty business. For it is laid upon me to feed the sheep of our
+Master's fold, and tho' you would not look to me for the bread that
+perisheth, but rather I to you, for it is written that the labourer is
+worthy of his hire, and ye may not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the
+corn, yet perchance in doubtful and perplexing times a pastor's counsel
+may be the more needful nourishment. Now I would have you take heed
+against the besetting sin of this latter-day and corrupt generation,
+which I take to be that very making haste to be rich against which the
+Book doth expressly warn us. You speak of building a mill for these new
+methods. Hast thou not thought within thyself, like the man in the
+parable, saying 'What shall I do, because I have no room where to bestow
+my fruits? This will I do: I will pull down my barns, and build greater;
+and there will I bestow all my fruits and my goods.' And mark what to
+that man God said: 'Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of
+thee: then whose shall those things be, which thou hast provided? So is
+he that layeth up treasure for himself, and is not rich toward God.' And
+now I ask you, brother Bamforth, can you be rich toward God, if you
+build up your fortune on the ruin of your fellow men. You say one o'
+these new finishing frames will do the work of four, may be of six men.
+Aye, also is there talk of looms that shall need neither skill nor care.
+It may be true, I know not. But oh! it will be a sore day for this
+hillside, and all the country round when that day shall be. What is to
+become of those who now keep a decent roof over their heads, and tho'
+times be bad can still give bit and sup to wife and bairns. You may make
+new machines but you cannot make new men to order. And see to it that it
+be not now with thee as in the days of Pharaoh of old, when Aaron's rod
+swallowed up the rods of the wise men and the sorcerers, and thy rod too
+be swallowed up. If that came to pass of which I have read and heard,
+there will be no room in this valley for men of but moderate means. Yo'
+may build a mill, but bigger men will build bigger mills, and the bigger
+mills will swallow up the less, and thou and thy son, and even Mary
+yonder may be fain, thou in thy old age and they in their prime, to take
+wage at another's hand, and to do a hireling's task in another's mill."
+
+"If I do may I be--"
+
+"William," said my mother, before my father could conclude, and we could
+only guess what awful doom my father was about to invoke upon himself.
+But enough had been said. Whether the mind of our household's head were
+the more moved by the picture of his friends and neighbours reduced to
+want, or by the picture of himself and his working for others, who had
+always puts out work ourselves, I know not; but from that day forth
+there was no more thought for many a long day of any change in the ways
+we had used of old, and, for the new machines, my mother died in the
+belief that the curse of Scripture was upon them.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+IT WAS not often my father missed the Audit Dinner at the Dartmouth
+Arms, but for some reason I do not remember, he could not go to the
+November Audit of 1811. So I went in his place, as was but my due,
+seeing that in the course of time and nature the homestead would be
+mine, and I tenant to my lord in my father's stead. So to the dinner I
+went in great state and no little fluster, having donned my Sunday
+clothes, and showing as fine a leg (though I say it that should not) as
+ever passed Slaithwaite Church. I went by the churchyard corner where
+old Mr. Meeke rested in his grave, and I did not fail to doff my beaver,
+for was I not taught all I ever knew at the Free School, founded by Mr.
+Meeke, and I was, too, ever a lover of the Church, though we had joined
+the Hard-bedders. There had been a wedding that day, and I should have
+been there, but none were invited save only family friends, owing to
+times being so bad. Jack o' Jamie's had wed Sue Lumb, and I knew Jack o'
+Jamie's and Sue both, as indeed I knew every mother's son and lass in
+Slaithwaite; and my mother could tell their pedigree for generations
+back. Opposite the door of the Dartmouth Arms I came across a crowd
+different from ordinary, for in the midst was Jack donned in his Sunday
+best, and a great white rosette at his breast, and there was Sue with a
+white veil over her head and clinging to Jack's arm and crying and
+coaxing, and Jack fuming and swearing and waving his arms and shaking
+his fist at his own father. Sure a rare sight for a wedding day, and I
+stayed to hear what might be the meaning of it all. I knew Jack for a
+decent, hard working lad that kept his father, a drunken neer-do-weel,
+from the rates. Old Jamie had a hang-dog look to be sure, as he kept
+away from his son's reach and cowered behind his new daughter-in-law.
+
+"It's too bad," Jack was crying, "It's too bad; yo' all know 'at awn
+kept mi father awmost even sin' aw could addle a meg, an' him doing nowt
+but tidy th' house up an' go a rattin' with th' dog an' happen bring a
+rabbit home betimes--an' aw never grudged him owt, for he's mi own
+father, an' mi mother 'at's dead an' gone left him to me. But, its too
+bad aw say--gise 'ang, it ud make a worm turn--here its mi wedding
+day, an' aw thowt we'd have a bite an' sup by ordinar. So aw off to Ned
+o' Bill's an' bowt three p'und o' good wheat flour, tho' it's well
+known, what price it's at, an' ill aw could spare th' brass. But a felly
+doesn't get wed every day. We calc'lated it ud mak ten cakes, an' that
+ud be one round apiece an' two to put bye for Sunday. Mi father baked
+'em hissen three days sin', for we thowt we munnot eit 'em till they
+were stale, new uns crumble so--an' aw bowt a piece of th' skirt o'
+beef at lay me in five good shillin'--so when aw set off to take Sue
+here to th' chuch aw left mi father to watch th' beef afore t' fire, an'
+we borrowed some plates an' knives an' forks an' three chairs, for aw
+thowt we'd all have a feast at 'ud make th' weddin' party remember mi
+weddin' day as long as they lived. An' after th' knot wer' teed an' we
+were walkin' th' village so all could see what a lass awd gotten, we
+just looked in at th' house door to see if th' meat were nearly
+done--an would yo' believe it, th' owd glutton 'ud supped welly a
+gallon o' th' weddin' ale an' were wipin' his chops wi t' back o' his
+coat sleeve, 'at weren't his own, but borrowed o' mi uncle Ben; an'
+ther' were nobbut four cakes left an' a good p'und cut off th' joint an'
+th' pan as bare o' gravy as if it had been new scoured. Oh! tha' brussen
+guts; if tha' weren't mi own father!" And here Jack shook his fist over
+Jamie's head, and Sue tried to turn aside his wrath and to play the
+peace-maker, as a good woman ever will.
+
+"For shame o' thissen," said one; "It 'ud sarve thi reight to put thee
+i' th' stocks," said another; "Let's stang him," a woman cried. "Many a
+decent body's been cucked for less," said Moll o' Stuarts, who knew what
+the cucking stool meant full well. And all felt that Jamie Thewlis had
+done as scurvy a trick as ever he had done in a scurvy life. Even those
+that drank with him, the loafers and vagabonds of the village, got to
+the outskirts of the crowd, and left him alone to his defence.
+
+"Yo' see it were this way," said Thewlis, when he could get a hearing.
+"Th' table' wor set all ready for th' weddin' party. Aw'd laid a clean
+cloth on th' table. There were a plate an' a knife an' fork for every
+one that were comin'. Th' house were tidied up an' as clean yo' could
+had etten yor dinner off th' floor. Then Jack started off to fetch
+Susan. Th' cakes were on th' table, one bi each plate. Aw put th' joint
+on th' jack afore th' fire just as he'd told me bi th' clock. Then aw
+set me dahn to watch it. It wor a grand joint. Aw could ha' fair hugged
+it when aw took it up, so plump an' red and firm, wi' streaks o' fat
+runnin' in an' among th' lean like rivers o' cream in a bank o'
+strawberries. Th' fire were just reight, banked down an' hot, an' aw
+ca-ered me dahn first o' one side o' th' hearth an' then on t' other,
+an' began to watch th' hands o' t' clock an' wish it wor dinner time.
+Dinner time it were bi reights, but we'd put th' dinner back so's Jim
+an' his frien's could walk through th' village. Then th' skin o' th'
+joint began to crack, an' th' fat to fizzle an' ooze 'aat an spit. Aw
+looked at th' clock. Aw'll swear th' han's hedn't moved for
+half-an-hour, an' yet it were tickin' reg'lar--aw nivver felt hauf as
+hungry i' mi life afore. Aw'd had no breakfas', for awd said to mi sen
+it 'ud nivver do to shame yar Jack's weddin' dinner bi not doin' reight
+bi it. Then all at once th' jack gay' a click an' summut splurted aat,
+an' all at once there wer' a smell at fair made mi belly leap inside me.
+But aw'd promised yar Jack at aw'd do fair--so aw went to th'
+cellar-head to see if ther' wer' happen a crust or owt to stay mi
+innards, but ther' wer' nowt. Then ther' wer' another click, an' another
+spurt, an' th' room wer' fair full o' th' smell. It awmost turned me
+dizzy. Aw looked at th' clock agen, an' guise 'ang me, if th' hand had
+stirred aboon an inch, an' dinner seemed as far off as ivver. Then aw
+thowt awd fetch th' ale. So aw got th' jug an' a milkin' can an' started
+off to th' Globe. Aw tried hard to strap a gill, but th' owd skin-flint
+wouldn't trust me. Aw'd awmost talked her into it when t' thowt cam'
+into mi head at happen one o' th' naybors 'at hedn't bin axed to th'
+weddin' might be after th' joint; an' aw span home as fast as aw could
+for fear o' spillin'. Then when aw oppened th' door ther' war' a fair
+blast o' th' smell o' gravy right i' mi face. It just took mi breath
+away, an' aw had to tak' a pull at th' jug to steady misen. That
+heartened me up a bit, an' aw just took one o' th' cakes, mi own at wer'
+to be an' set i' my own place at th' table, so it were no robbery,--an
+aw put it i' th' pan under th' meat; an', by gow, it wer' a sop an'
+gradely. Aw think aw mun ha' put too much salt on it, for aw felt as dry
+as a lime-kiln. Then aw had another swig at th' jug, an' looked aat for
+th' weddin', but aw could see no' signs on 'em. Then aw bethowt me at
+th' fiddler were' nobbut a little un, an' could mak' hauf a cake do, so
+aw made hauf a sop. Then th' gravy began to run red an' brown into th'
+pan, an' ow knew th' meat wer' near enuff--an' still ther' wer' no
+signs o' anybody. Howsomever, aw thought my share shouldn't be spoiled
+for any tomfoolery such as walkin' th' village wi' a lass o' my arm, as
+if yo' couldn't do that ony time. So aw just cut a slice aat an' put it
+on a shive an et it o' mi knee, an' had a swallow out o' th' piggin' to
+make it equal wi' th' jug. Then aw thowt aw meight as well be hanged for
+a sheep as a lamb, an' aw ate mi fill. Tha' ma' poise me, Jack, if tha'
+likes, but tha'll noan poise th' meat out o' me, that's one comfort.
+It's th' first time for six months 'at mi back an' mi belly ha' not
+shakken hands, an' aw'll ta' thi poisin', an' thank yo' for it."
+
+But long before Jamie had done his story he was out of danger of a
+hiding. There was not one there that did not feel hungry with the very
+story, and the party trudged homewards with a laugh and a cheer to make
+out as best they could on what was left--Jamie, forgiven and
+impenitent, not last in the joking throng.
+
+The partition of the upper story of the Dartmouth Arms had been removed,
+and thereby room was made for the poorer tenantry who came this year in
+great numbers, many there being who came to plead the hard times and
+escape their remit, but joined in the rude scramble for the thick slices
+of meat and bread and the brimming pewters that were their yearly gift
+from the lord. But in the long room, on the top floor, was more decent
+seeming and good manners; for the tenants of the larger holdings at that
+time paid to the host of the inn each man eighteenpence that there might
+be a well-spread board. Mr. Joseph Scott, who lived at Woodsome (none of
+my lord's family being then in residence), did sit at the head of the
+table, and gave us the health of the king, which we drank with a good
+will, for there was none that did not grieve for the old man so sore
+stricken in his latter days. Then did Mr. Scott call upon us to toast
+His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, and many did drink the health
+with a hip, hip, hurrah but for my part, though I hate to waste good
+liquor, I poured my ale into the spitoon, for stories not a few had come
+to our ears of the wild doings of the Prince and of his cruel treatment
+of his consort. Mr. Fox, to be sure, and other leaders of the Whigs in
+Parliament, did excuse the wildness of the Prince, and some did even
+bear a railing tongue against the hapless princess; but for me, who am
+perhaps too little learned to judge of princes and courts, I deemed such
+naughtiness should not be in high places more than in men of less
+degree, and my loyalty went into the sawdust. But I took a double
+draughty to the health of my lord and his lady.
+
+There was no lack of subjects for our tongues to wag upon when the ale
+had loosed them, and a well-lined waist set the oil of gladness on our
+faces. There was, for one, the never failing theme of Lord Wellington's
+doings among the Dons. But a few days previous, General Marmont had
+raised the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo, and our spirits had been greatly
+stirred by the discovery of one of his dispatches, in which he boasted
+that he would have pursued the British forces to the lines of Lisbon "if
+the moment designed for the catastrophe of England had arrived." That
+put our English up, and was as good as a score of recruiting sergeants
+to our army. Catastrophe, we knew well, might come to us as it has done
+to other nations; but never, we vowed, should or could it come through a
+frog-eating Frenchman. We gladly turned from that topic to news nearer
+home. There was the great fight at Thissleton Gap, for instance, which
+showed what British grit and muscle and pluck could do; and we were all
+ready to wager all we had that if you searched France from north to
+south you could find no champion like Crib, who had near been the death
+of Molineux in a fight near Grantham, breaking his jaw, and leaving him
+senseless on the field. There had not been a bed to be had for love or
+money for twenty miles round Thissleton Gap the night before the fight,
+said the "Leeds Mercury," and all the nobility and gentry of the county
+had been there; and after his great victory Crib, carrying away a purse
+of £400, had driven to London in a carriage and four, the postillions
+decked with blue ribands and streamers, and the whole populace in every
+town and hamlet by the way turning out to cheer the wearer of the belt.
+Then, too, there was much talk of the progress making with the cutting
+of the new canal that was to tie the eastern and the western seas; and
+we had not yet done marvelling at the boring of the waterway under
+Stanedge. Then, again, we must gossip to one another anent that strange
+portent of the skies, the wondrous comet, that still made our early
+morns so beautiful and yet so fraught with dread. The wise men said its
+tail was over twenty million miles long, as it streamed away from
+Charles's Wain across the distant sky, and Mr. Mellor, the schoolmaster,
+did try to show me how the calculation had been made; whilst Mr. Varley,
+of the corn mill, who had a merry wit, did say that coals would soon be
+cheaper, for the Welsh were counting on the comet coming so near, they
+might toast their cheese by it. Mr. Mellor was somewhat ruffled that his
+serious discourse should be turned to levity, and said that as perchance
+Mr. Varley could not be expected to understand the deep subtleties of
+astronomy, he would try him on a subject nearer his heart.
+
+"I will, to-morrow," said Mr. Mellor, "bring to your house twenty golden
+guineas, and in return you shall give me your written bond to give me
+therefor, one grain of good wheat, two grains and no more on the day
+following, four on the next, and so on each day thereafter for six
+months by the calendar, every day doubling the number of the day
+before."
+
+"Done, and done to it," cried Mr. Varley, and all the company exclaimed
+that so rare a bargain the miller never made in his life before and for
+an hour after that I saw Mr. Varley was doing sums in his head, and
+chuckling feebly to himself but in time he ceased to laugh, and his brow
+wrinkled and his eye was anxious, and he was seen to add figures
+secretly in his bulky pocket-book, and ever as he worked he grew sadder;
+till at length he cried that not all the corn that grew that year in
+Yorkshire could pay his wager, and he was fain to fill our measures
+round with best ale to be quit of his bargain. And all that went away
+sober that night told their wives how the schoolmaster had bested the
+miller, and were the more resolved their lads should mind their books
+and be good at figuring. And I was very glad that my old master had come
+off with so great credit, for Mr. Varley, by reason of being the lord's
+agent, was something prone to give himself an air.
+
+But Mr. Webster was not too pleased that Mr. Varley should have jested
+of the comet. It had exercised him sore in the searching of the
+Scriptures, and oftentimes had he pointed to its presence in the
+heavens, and many a restless night had he given to my mother.
+
+Mr. Webster would have it that the comet did foretell the coming of the
+Son of Man in a cloud with power and great glory, and the good man
+rejoiced thereat, seeing nought to cause us grief, but rather joy, that
+there were "great earthquakes in divers places, and famines and
+pestilences, and fearful sights and great signs from heaven." And he
+would exultingly call us to witness the fulfilment of prophesy for that
+there were signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars, and upon
+the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves
+roaring; men's hearts failing them for fear and for looking after those
+things which were coming on earth. But my mother lived to laugh at her
+fears, and even to wear a dress that became the fashion, of which the
+body was of pale red silk, a star of gold thread standing for the
+comet's head, and a fan shaped tail of silver spangles spreading out in
+likeness of the comet's tail.
+
+It was my great honour after the dinner, and whilst the company sat over
+their cups, to be invited to the head of the table by Mr. Joseph Scott,
+of Woodsome, who was then lately become a magistrate, a handsome man of
+some forty years. He asked most kindly after the health of my father and
+mother, and bade the tapster who waited on the upper end of the table
+charge me a bumper of the wine of Oporto, which did fill my heart with a
+great warmth. Then when I would have returned to my seat by the
+schoolmaster he bade me remain, and I listened with all my ears to the
+talk of my betters. I noticed that Mr. Scott spoke mostly with Mr.
+William Horsfall, of Marsden. I knew Mr. Horsfall well by sight, having
+seen him often on the road as he went to or returned from market, a man
+in his prime, with a keen, resolute look; not easily turned from his
+purpose, I warrant you. Impatient of opposition, I judged him even then,
+brusque, and a little petulant, but not unkindly of heart as I had
+heard, for those that worked for him had ever a good name for him--but
+a masterful man.
+
+The talk between these two was much of the coolness there then was
+between America and England. Mr. Horsfall was very bitter about this.
+"It is all the fault of those accursed Orders in Council," he said.
+"Before our benighted Government issued the Orders in Council, America
+took twelve million pounds worth of our manufactures--now not one
+penny-worth. Withdraw the Orders and you conciliate America; you bind
+her to us by the closest tie of all, the tie of self-interest. So long
+as these Orders remain in force it is futile to talk of negotiations. It
+is beating the air. We are alienating our own flesh and blood, we are
+running grave risk of having another enemy on our hands, and that of our
+own household, our cousins if not our brothers. Here are we pulling our
+own nose to spite Napoleon's face. It is suicidal, it is
+criminal!"--and I know not how many other hard names Mr. Horsfall
+hurled at the poor Government whilst Mr. Scott, with the ink scarce dry
+on his commission, fidgetted in his seat and was, I thought, hard put to
+it to defend the Government. At last when Mr. Horsfall grew more
+vehement in his denunciation of ministers, Mr. Scott bade him remember
+that it was the Whigs who in January, 1807, issued the first
+counterblast to Napoleon's Berlin Decree; and then did these two
+Englishmen, the one a Whig and the other a Tory, get so warm about
+Whiggery and Toryism that I had much to do to get to the truth of the
+matter. In a lull of the storm I did so far presume upon the great
+condescension that Mr. Scott had shewn to me, for my father's sake, as
+to ask him what these same Orders in Council might be, and how they bore
+upon us humble folk in Slaithwaite, for save that every one did speak of
+them as the cause of much of our bad trade and sore distress, I knew
+little for certain about them. "You must know then," explained Mr.
+Scott, "that in 1806 Napoleon issued from Berlin a proclamation,
+addressed to all the world, declaring the island of Great Britain in a
+state of blockade, all British subjects, wherever found, prisoners of
+war, and all British goods, wherever taken, lawful prize, and excluding
+from all the ports of France every vessel which had touched at any
+British port, no matter to what nation such vessel might belong."----
+
+"But surely, sir," I said timidly, for I knew little of such great
+matters, "surely, that was to declare war on all the countries of the
+world."
+
+"'Rem acu tetigisti'--thou hast touched the point with a pin," cried
+Mr. Mellor, who had drawn near, whereat I blushed mightily, for I knew a
+little of the Latin, thank to much persistence of my good dominie, and
+by this time all the company had ceased their jesting and coffing and
+idle gossip, and all ears were cocked to hear what Mr. Scott and our
+neighbour Horsfall were so hot about.
+
+"Then did the Whig Government," continued Mr. Scott, triumphantly,
+"issue an Order in Council, declaring that England was authorized by the
+Berlin Decree to blockade the whole seaboard of France; to prohibit all
+vessels which had touched at a French port from entering our harbours,
+and making their cargoes fair prize. It was that Order which estranged
+America, and has made it so that all our foreign trade has been cut off
+as with a knife."
+
+"Nay but," said Mr. Horsfall, "you should not forget to say that Mr.
+Percival, your Tory minister, has not only continued the Order but
+extended it; that the Whigs have admitted the error of their policy,
+that petition after petition has gone from the manufacturers of
+Yorkshire, praying for a Repeal of the Order's, and that Mr. Brougham is
+never weary striving for that good end. But we know how it is--the war
+may ruin us manufacturers, but it pays the landowner. It keeps up the
+price of corn and stock, it finds pay and promotion for the young bloods
+of the aristocracy, it distracts the minds of the people at home from
+domestic reforms, it keeps up the hideous system of privilege, by which
+peer and prelate batten on the spoils of a people oppressed to the
+limits of endurance, and it is mighty convenient to keep Napoleon as a
+bogy man to frighten the people withal when they cry for reform." And
+then did these two good men at it again hammer and tongs, and others
+joined in, and the ale and the wine talked louder than sense and
+knowledge, and you could make neither head nor tail of all the talk. But
+presently they simmered down, and Mr. Horsfall was drinking to the
+health of Mrs. Scott, whom he vowed he knew when she was the beauty of
+Storthes Hall, as if nothing had come between them to raise a dust, and
+all the more that, as good chance would have it, they hit on a subject
+on which they had little variance.
+
+"I hear," said Mr. Scott, "that you are trying these new finishing
+frames of the Taylor's, at Ottiwell's."
+
+"I am that," said Mr. Horsfall, "and well content I am with them. They
+finish the cloth better far than the best croppers ever did or could,
+and one machine can do the work of four men."
+
+"Then you will need less men," said Mr. Scott, "and this is no time to
+be sacking men--I remember what happened twenty years ago when
+Grimshaw, of Manchester, arranged with Dr. Cartwright, the new Bishop
+Blaize as they called him, to set up four hundred looms at Manchester to
+be run by a steam engine. Grimshaw received hundreds of threatening
+letters, he was fired at more than once, his wife nearly fell into a
+decline from constant fear, and just when the mill was built, for four
+hundred looms, and part of the machines were in, mill and looms and all
+were swallowed up in a fire, and who made the fire you may well guess.
+It ruined Grimshaw, and now he goes about saying he wishes Bishop Blaize
+had been in blazes 'fore ever he had tempted him with his fine stories.
+But you Whigs will never be content with the wisdom of our forefathers.
+You must have something new fangled, either in mill or state"--and so
+they off again into politics; and having promised my mother to be home
+by milking time, and fearful if I stayed longer the fumes of the tobacco
+and the wine would be too much for an unseasoned head, I took my leave
+of Mr. Scott and won my way into the open air.
+
+By the stepping-stones that crossed the river, who should I see but
+Soldier Jack and a merry party that had been out with the harriers. They
+had come trooping down Kitchen Fold from over Crosland Moor way, and
+were in high feather, shouting and singing, while the hounds bayed in
+chorus. Soldier Jack was no man's lad, a bye-blow. He had been left on
+the Workhouse steps tied in a bundle, and nought to show who was his
+father or who his mother. Then when he was a lad of ten years old the
+Overseer had 'prenticed him out to a shoemaker in Huddersfield, but he
+had been a sore trial to his master--disappearing and appearing when he
+liked, and neither fair words nor the strap, of which his master was not
+sparing if Jack spoke truth, availing to make him follow the old adage
+and stick to the last. Then one fine day the recruiting sergeant, in all
+his bravery, had put up at the Rose and Crown, and called on all gallant
+lads to take the king's shilling and fight for glory and their country.
+"That's the colour for me to dye," thought Jack, and braving the law,
+which would have laid him by the heels for breaking his writings, he
+'listed in a foot regiment, and was off for the wars with a heart as
+light as the heels he showed his master. Then many a year passed. Jack
+was unseen and forgotten in the haunts of his youth, when lo! he
+appeared, from God knows where, straight as a picking rod, brown as a
+berry, minus the left arm, and with a limp of his right leg; but
+otherwise sound as a bell and tight as a drum. He had some money, in the
+coinage of all the countries of Europe well nigh; and, as I heard tell,
+right royally did Jack live while his money lasted. He had no fixed
+quarters in the early days of his return from the wars, but of recent
+years he had dwelt much among the Burn Platters, an uncanny race of
+outlaws that some said were Frenchmen and some said were gypsies, that
+lived at Burn Platts on the moors on the edge of Slaithwaite, and of
+whose savagery and evil ways many stories were told. But Soldier Jack
+ever kept himself spruce and trim, and was a welcome visitor at every
+house on all that country side. How he lived none did know for gospel.
+At times in his cups he talked mysteriously of golden crosses and rare
+stones that he had lighted on in the sack of holy houses in Spain; but
+this, I think, was mere embroidery of his adventures. Lord! what a life
+had been Soldier Jack's--what sieges he had seen, what pitched battles
+he had fought in, what prisoners he had taken, what forlorn hopes he had
+led, what distressed damsels he had rescued, how many haughty hidalgos
+he had slain with his own hand! Even Lord Wellington himself had been
+under obligation to him, and he had all but seized with his own hands
+the awful person of Napoleon himself. How he lived I say I know not.
+Belike he had some small pension from the king. At haymaking time, too,
+he turned a good cock and an honest penny, despite his one arm. He never
+missed a market or a fair, could be trusted above the common to carry a
+message, and was something of a farrier. But set job he had none, and
+yet never wanted. To be sure he had free quarters in nigh every hostelry
+all the country round, and if truth were told could hang up his hat when
+he would, for good and all, at the Black Bull; for widow Walker, who
+kept that house, was known to be widowing, and a fair and buxom dame
+withal.
+
+Now on this night of the Rent Audit Soldier Jack was pleased to leave
+the hunters and walk homewards with me, though his comrades were
+clamorous for him to join them in another bout at the ale. Though times
+were never so bad, it went hard with the weavers if they could not leave
+their shuttles and follow the hounds; and somehow they had ever
+wherewith to guzzle at the inn. But Jack was maybe wearied with the
+trail, and we took our way past the church and up the hill towards Holm.
+For some short distance Jack walked with never a word, though I wanted
+news of the hunt, where they had killed, and whose hound showed the
+truer scent. Then without prelude Jack began.
+
+"Ben, I want a word with thee. You and me has ever been friends, and
+your mother, God bless her, ever the soft word and the open hand. And
+yo'r father, a good man, though over hard on the slips o' youth"--now
+Jack was forty if a week--"But there are things brewing it is right yo'
+should know on; for them tha's 'kin to yo' are like to be tangled in
+em."
+
+"Whatever do yo' mean, Jack?" I asked, trying to speer at him in the
+gloom, for I thought maybe the ale had got into his head.
+
+"There's a deal o' sufferin' about these parts, Ben. More nor yo' think
+on. Yo' happen think 'at because th' lads about are after th' hounds an'
+have a bit to spend on drink 'at they're better off nor they are. But
+yo' see I'm more about nor yo' an' more intimate like. Folk is sellin'
+their bits o' stuff quiet like. Mony a decent woman 'at wouldn't have it
+known has sent me wi' 'owd keepsakes an' heirlooms like to th'
+silversmith i' Huddersfelt an' Owdham. They put a brave face on it an'
+talk little, but aw know there's scores o' fam'lies i' this valley and
+on these hill sides, 'at's welly clammin'! It isn't them as goes 'afore
+the overseers 'at's the worst off. There's scores an' scores livin' on
+the town 'at go reg'lar every week for th' town 'lowance. They'n got th'
+length o' th' ovverseer's foot, an' its not for the like o' me to blame
+'em."
+
+"Crows shouldn't pike crows' 'een, eh Jack?" I put in.
+
+"Th' ovverseer's fair game," continued Jack, unmoved. "But he's a fool
+for all his stuck up ways. Aw tell yo' 'at there's hundreds awmost
+sucking their finger ends, like bears do their paws, 'at winnot go on to
+th' parish. An' mark yo', th' poor ha' borne wi' slack work an'
+mullocked on as best they could, as long as they thought th' wars and
+bad harvests were to blame. An' they've bided in hope, for harvests
+winnot all be bad, an' we'st beat the little Corporal yet. But now th'
+mesters are for makin' bad worse wi' this new machinery. They're crying
+'Every man for hissen an' devil take the hindmost.' They're bringing
+wood and iron to do the work of willing hands and arms, an', by gow, the
+lads about won't see their craft ruined, an' them an' theirs pined to
+death, wi'out a blow struck. Aw tell yo', Ben, there's mischief brewin',
+or my name's not Soldier Jack; an' if yo' want to know more, yo' mun ask
+yon mettlesome cousin o' yours, Judd Mellor, o' th' Brigg."--
+
+"What! George Mellor?" I cried; "why, what has he to do with it?" For
+such an ending to the soldier's tale I never thought nor dreamed of.
+
+"I've said my say, Ben, and yo'll get no more out o' me. It's no use
+pumpin' at a dry well tha' knows. So aw'll say good neet, an' my duty to
+thi father an' mother." And resisting my entreaty that he would go
+onwards to our house and take pot luck at supper, Jack wheeled off into
+the dark, and I heard his stride, firm and martial still, despite the
+gamey leg, as he made across a footpath to the left, and his voice
+humming a stave of Lillibulero.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+IT WAS the Christmas Eve of 1811, a night beautiful, bright and clear.
+The moon was high in the heavens, and a myriad stars gemmed the sky.
+Flakes of snow fell gently, like the lighting of grasshoppers, but not
+so thick as to cloud the air. It was cold, but not bitterly cold. The
+snow crunched cheerfully under your feet, the hedges were rather frosted
+than cumbered; but the wild waste of hill all around and above
+Slaithwaite was white with a coverlet smoothed as with careful hands.
+The little homesteads on the hillsides stood out stark and black on the
+pale setting, their slender lights of lamp or candle declaring that many
+this night waked, who every other night in the year went to bed with the
+sun. We sat in the house, kitchen you would call it now--all our
+household save only 'Siah, who, we made no doubt, was faithful to his
+yearly custom of honouring Christmas by getting more ale than was good
+for him. Only a candle burned on the table, but the fire was piled high,
+and cast a lurid light about the room, the yule log saved from last
+year's fire blazing bravely. My father was fidgeting and looking at the
+clock. He would have rather been in bed. We had had our supper, but a
+great currant loaf and a round of cheese was on the table, and the
+biggest pitcher of all our ware was ready for Martha to fill from the
+barrel in the cellar, when the right moment should come. Mother and Mary
+had speculated, and wondered and then wondered again as to whether the
+Church singers would this year sing a verse or two by our door. My
+mother argued they would not, as a mark of reprobation for our joining
+the Baptists. Mary, who knew that the hearts of the young men of a
+choir, church or chapel, are not in the keeping of vicar or minister,
+had her own reasons for maintaining a contrary view. My father stoutly
+declared he did not care a brass farthing one way or another. Meat and
+drink and five good shillings were waiting them, he said, and if they
+were fools enough to turn up their noses at good victuals and good
+brass, that was their look out, not his. All the same we all knew he
+would have felt it keenly that our house should be passed over for the
+first time within the memory of any of us. Then came the further
+problem--which set would be likely to reach us first, the church, who
+must sing first at the Vicarage and Dr. Dean's, and at Sammy Sykes's,
+who was churchwarden; or the waits from Powle Moor, who had further to
+come and a rougher way. Anyhow we hoped devoutly the two parties would
+not arrive together. We could hear, in the still night, the sound of
+music in the air, sad and wistful, floating among the hills. However we
+should soon be out of doubt, for midnight was hard upon us.
+
+The old clock warned the hour with a staggering click, and its clear
+metallic voice had rung out but six of the twelve hours, when we heard a
+footfall on the carpet of snow in the yard. There was no murmur of
+voices, none of the hawking and tuning and chuntering of a band of lads
+and lasses, but right out upon the still air, firm, strong and deep
+baritone, as from a singer well set up and fearless, music of itself,
+and with instrument neither of string nor reed to back it, came the
+grand old words and tune, like which no other words and tune do ever
+stir my heart--
+
+  "Christians awake! Salute the happy morn,
+   Whereon the Saviour of Mankind was born.
+   Rise to adore the mystery of love
+   Which hosts of angels chanted from above;
+   With them the joyful tidings first begun
+   Of God Incarnate and the Virgin's Son."
+
+And then again--
+
+  "Of God Incarnate and the Virgin's Son."
+
+Who could it be? Some lone wanderer surely that had stolen a march on
+church and chapel alike.
+
+"It's happen 'Siah," hazarded Martha. No 'Siah had a voice like a frog.
+
+"It's th' sexton," said my father.
+
+Now the sexton was sixty years old, with a piping treble, and the voice
+of our midnight visitor was rounded, full and mellow.
+
+I looked to Mary for a hazard, for no thought of who it could be came
+to my mind, and I was not best pleased that anyone should outstrip the
+choirs. And as I looked the voice without took up another strain.
+
+  "Then to the watchful shepherds it was told
+   Who heard the Angelic herald's voice 'Behold.'"
+
+And Mary's face was a sight to see. She had dropped her knitting on
+her lap, and her hands were crossed over the work, and her face was as
+though the morning sun shone on it, and a soft smile was on her parted
+lips, a look half-glad, half sorry, was in her eyes and her bosom
+seemed to flutter.
+
+"It's George," she said, very softly, "George Mellor, fra' th' Brigg."
+
+And then came a thundering knock at the door, and my father rose to open
+it right heartily, and in came my cousin, George Mellor, with a great
+red muffler round his neck, and his coat all flaked with snow, and his
+short brown beard and moustache wet with half-melted flakes; now
+stamping his feet and now kicking them against the door-post, and
+bringing with him a gust of cold air and a sprinkling of tiny feathery
+sprays that whisked in at his back.
+
+"A merry Christmas to you, Uncle William, and a happy New Year." "And to
+you, aunt, with my mother's love." This with a hearty smacking kiss.
+"And to you, Mary, and here's a Christmas Box for you," and I thought
+George would have kissed Mary too, but she was away to the other side of
+the table.
+
+And so all round, with a noble smack at Martha's lips, Martha being
+nothing loth, and giving kiss for kiss with a good will that set us all
+laughing. "A right proper lad is George Mellor, and knows how to win a
+lass," I heard Martha tell 'Siah afterwards, when she was rating him by
+way of curing his aching head.
+
+And a right proper man George Mellor was. Six feet by the stick, and
+with shoulders well back, and strong, firm, warm hands that gripped you
+to make you tingle. His eyes were brown and full of fire, and dark
+auburn hair curled close upon a rounded head. He had a temper, if you
+like, but he never bore malice, and I never knew him do or say a mean
+thing, and if he was at times unjust he was quick to make amends. He was
+a prime favourite of my mother. Her own sister was George Mellor's
+mother. His father was dead, and my Aunt Mellor, to my mother's surprise
+and indignation, had married John Wood, of Longroyd Bridge, a cloth
+finisher, in middle life, somewhat younger than my aunt, and a man it
+was hard to like. Whatever could have possessed my aunt capped us all.
+She had a bit of money of her own, and could have pulled along in a
+middling way without a second marriage. But my father said, "You mun
+wait till yo're a widow yoursen, if yo want to know what makes a widdow
+get wed again." Anyhow Aunt Matty had a hard time of it, for John Wood
+was a hard man, cold-blooded and spiteful. He soon found out that he
+could hurt his wife through George, and he always seemed to rub George
+the wrong way. The lad ran away once, and none of us knew what became of
+him till long afterwards, not even his own mother, who nigh fretted
+herself into her grave over him. But he turned up again as suddenly as
+he had vanished, taller, stouter, firmer set, quieter. John Wood thought
+his spirit was broken, made him so quiet. But he found out his mistake
+when he began to slur at him.
+
+"See here, John Wood," George had said, for he would never call him
+father, "I have come back home for my mother's sake, because it was made
+clear to me my place was by her side. I will work for you, and do my
+duty by you, and I will pay you fair for my board and ask no favour of
+you as man or lodger. But you must speak me fair, and treat my mother
+kindly, or you'll rue the day you ever crossed George Mellor." He had a
+quiet way with him when he was most roused, a sort of cold heat, had
+George; though over what you would have thought concerned him least, he
+would flare up and flush, and his eye would blaze and out his words
+would come like a pent-up torrent. I never feared George when he was in
+a temper, but it was dangerous to cross him when his cheek and lips
+paled and his words came soft and slow.
+
+"Aw walked up th' cut side," he explained. "It seemed an age since aw
+saw yo' all; an' our house's none too cheerful just now. Trade's fearful
+bad, an' John Wood's as sore as a boil--an' I bowt this sprig o'
+mistletoe of a hawker for yo' to hang on th' bowk, an' who' should let
+you Christmas in if not your own nevvy, Aunt Bamforth."
+
+"Sakes alive, aw nivvir thowt on it," cried my mother all of a sudden.
+"Ben, whip outside this minnit--doesn't ta see George's hair is awmost
+red an' it's black for luck--whatever could'st ta be thinking' on,
+George?" And so nothing must do but I must step outside and enter with
+due Christmas greetings, to cross the luck, and the waits from Powle
+Moor arriving at the very nick of time, we all went in together; and
+Mary and George and myself were soon busy enough handing round the
+cheese and cake and ale.
+
+George and I slept together that night, and next morning, we all, save
+my mother and Martha, who must stop at home to cook the dinner, went to
+church, for we wouldn't for anything have missed hearing the Christmas
+hymn; and near all Slaithwaite was there, Methodie and Baptists and all;
+and even folk that went nowhere, Owenwites they called them, made a
+point of going to church that one morning of the year. They said it was
+to give them an appetite for the beef and plum pudding; but I think it
+was more by way of keeping up a sort of nodding acquaintance with what
+they felt they might have to fall back on after all, for you may ever
+notice that the parson treads very close on the heels of the doctor.
+
+Now after dinner my father must needs have a glass of hot spirits and
+water, and presently was fast asleep in his chair, and I would have been
+glad to have done likewise, for I was not used to sitting up half the
+night, and had dozed off more than once in church, only to be roused
+with a start by a nudge from Mary. But George was all for a walk over
+Stanedge to stretch his legs and get a mouthful of home-fed air after
+the foul smells of the town. I thought Mary pouted a bit, and asked her
+to go with us, but she said two were company and three were none, and
+George maybe was too fine to walk out with a country lass. I expected
+George to disclaim any such slanderous thoughts, but he only laughed and
+said something about the wind being too nipping for the roses on Mary's
+cheeks. So off we two set towards Marsden at a good swinging pace. When
+we had dropped down into the village, and were thinking of calling at
+the Red Lion to get a glass of ale and a snack, whom should we come on
+but Mr. Horsfall, of Marsden.
+
+"What, Ben, lad!" he said to me heartily and shaking my hand most
+warmly--"A right good Christmas to you, and my compliments to my good
+friends at Holme." A pleasant man was Mr. Horsfall when he liked, but
+one you must not lightly sour or cross. He had an iron hand, folk said,
+but he kept it gloved.
+
+"And who's your friend, Ben?"
+
+I made George known to him, and Mr. Horsfall could tell him of knowing
+his mother, my aunt, when she was a blithe young girl courting with my
+uncle Mellor that was dead. But what surprised me was that George,
+generally so cheery and ready to meet civility more than half-way,
+seemed to freeze up and would scarce give his hand in greeting to Mr.
+Horsfall.
+
+"It'll be cold on the top, Ben," said Mr. Horsfall. "Come along to
+Ottiwells and taste our spiced ale. My wife will be glad to have a crack
+with yau, and it'll be cozier by th' fireside nor ovver th' top I'll
+warrant you."
+
+My own good will went with this invitation, for I got enough and to
+spare of Stanedge in my business rounds; but George hung back strangely,
+and Mr. Horsfall, not used to have his advances coldly met, ceased to
+press us, and with awkward apologies on my part, and a curt nod from
+George, we went our several ways.
+
+"I wonder you can speak civil to a man like yond," said George, when we
+had our faces straight set to climb the hill.
+
+"Name o' wonder, why, George?" I asked, thinking nothing but that some
+private quarrel must have sprung up, of which I knew nothing, but ready
+enough to side with George, for in my young days families stood by each
+other, right or wrong.
+
+"Don't you know that Horsfall is foremost of all in pressing on the use
+of the new machines? Don't you know that he has put them into Ottiwells?
+Don't you know he is sacking the old hands and will have none but young
+'uns that will and can learn, for it isn't all that will that can, how
+to work the new frames? Don't you know that there's many a family in
+Marsden now, this very merry Christmas that we're wishing each other
+like prating parrots, that has scarce a fire in the grate or a scrap of
+meat on the table, or warm clothing to the back, just because of
+Horsfall and such as he? Don't you know that in Huddersfleld Market
+Horsfall has sworn hanging isn't good enough for the Nottingham lads? If
+you don't know, you live with your eyes shut, Ben, and your ears waxed,
+for aw'll never believe 'at your heart's shut, lad. And then you ask me
+why I couldn't take him hearty by the hand."
+
+"But what does it matter to thee, George?" I asked, wondering at his
+warmth and hardly keeping pace with him as he strode on in his
+excitement.
+
+"It matters nowt to me in a sense, Ben, and yet it matters all to me. I
+suppose th' upshot would be that John Wood might as well shut up shop,
+and little I'd care for that. John Wood's cake's baked, and if it
+warn't, there's enough for my mother 'bout his brass. But it's not o'
+Wood nor myself I'm thinking, Ben, and I don't take it too kindly you
+should look at it that way. I tell you, Ben, there's hundreds o' men and
+women and wee helpless bairns that's just clemming to death. Yo, don't
+see as much of it up i' Slowit nor on th' hill sides, though it's war
+there nor yo happen think. And now th' mesters are for doing th' work o'
+men an' women too wi' cunning contrivances that will make arms and legs
+o' no use, and water and steam in time will do the work that Natur'
+intended to be done by good honest muscle."
+
+"Aw think yo' exaggerate, George," I said. "A little saving o' manual
+labour here an' there's one thing, th' displacement o' human agency
+altogether's what yo' prophesy."
+
+"Aw've no patience wi' thee, Ben. Tha' cannot see farther nor thi own
+nose end. Aw tell yo unless the toilers of England rise and strike for
+their rights, there'll soon be neither rights nor toilers. Aw've looked
+into this thing further nor you, an' aw can see th' signs o' th' times.
+Th' tendency's all one way. There'll soon be no room for poor men in
+this country. Its part of a system aw tell yo'. There's a conspiracy on
+foot to improve and improve till th' working man that has nowt but his
+hands and his craft to feed him and his childer, will be improved off
+th' face o' creation. Aw've been reading aw tell you, an' aw've been
+listening an' aw've been seeing, an' aw've been thinking; an' what aw've
+read an' what aw've seen has burned into my soul. The natural rights of
+man are not thowt of in this country, th' unnatural rights o' property
+ha' swallowed 'em up. It's all property, property."
+
+"Nay, George, yo're riding yo'r high horse again," I said; but I
+couldn't help admiring him, for he spoke well, and his face was all lit
+up with the glow of intellect and passion.
+
+"It's God's truth aw'm speaking, Ben, and pity o't it 'tis true, as th'
+player says. What is it keeps folk so poor? Bad trade. What is it keeps
+trade so bad? Th' wars. Allus wars. For twenty years it's been war and
+war to it. What are we fighting for, I ask you?"
+
+"To keep Boney out o' England," I said very promptly.
+
+"Nowt o' th' sort, Ben--that's a bogey to frighten babbie's wi'--Boney
+axed nowt better nor to be friends wi' England. Th' French ha' more
+sense nor us. They saw all th' good things o' this life were grasped by
+th' nobles an' th' priests. They saw it were better to be born a beast
+of the field than a man child. They saw that the people made wealth by
+their toil; and the seigneurs, that's lords, and the church enjoyed the
+wealth they made, only leaving them bare enough to keep body and soul
+together. Aye, they're careful enough not to kill the goose that lays
+the golden eggs. That is, sometimes. Time's they over do it. But a
+trodden worm will turn, an' they turned in France. They sent their proud
+lords and ladies packing.
+
+"To the guillotine," I interposed.
+
+"Packing, I say, and the fat parsons, faithless shepherds of an
+abandoned flock, packing with them. Then the people begin to put things
+to rights."
+
+"And a pretty mess they made of it," I put in. "But all the kings and,
+emperors in Europe, an' all th' landlords an' all that had got rich by
+robbery, an' all th' bishops and clergy, little an' big, hangers on o'
+th' aristocrats to a man, took alarm. They thowt their turn would come
+next, an' they raised the cry of England in danger. It wasn't the people
+of England that wer' fleyed. Not they. They knew well enough nowt could
+make them waur off nor they were. Th' war were a put up job of th' king
+and th' nobles and th' squires. And who profited by it? The noble and
+the squire an' the sleek parson with his tithes. What has made corn as
+far beyond the poor man's reach as though a grain of wheat were a ruby
+or a pearl? The wars, always the wars. And the people, the thousands
+upon thousands of men and women who have no part nor parcel in this war,
+save to send their children to die on a gory bed, what voice or what
+part have they in all this? The part and the part of sheep driven to the
+slaughter"--
+
+"But what has Horsfall to do with all this?" I asked, very naturally I
+think.
+
+"He has this to do with it, Ben. Ever since th' bad times began,
+Englishmen ha' been told to stand together shoulder to shoulder agen a
+common enemy. Th' poor ha' borne their sufferings wi'out much murmuring
+as long as they saw th' rich suffer wi' themselves. Patriotism isn't a
+rich man's monopoly. Poor folk love th' owd country, though aw wonder
+sometimes what they love it for. But now what do we see? These new
+machines offer th' masters th' chance o' supplying their customers at a
+less cost to theirsen than they ha' done up to now. Aw'll give yo' an
+illustration of what aw mean. A lace frame such as they're putting up i'
+Nottingham costs £120. They say it'll save the work of four. Th' master
+saves in a year more than th' cost o' th' machine. He saves it, but who
+loses it? Why th' wage earners to be sure. And that's what they call
+standing shoulder to shoulder. Aw call it deserting your comrade and
+leaving him to shift for his-sen. Th' 'Leeds Mercury' only last week
+said there were twenty thousand stocking-makers out of employment in
+Nottingham, and yo' may judge for yersen what that means."
+
+"But what can yo' do, George? Yo' cannot fight agen th' law o' th' land.
+Th' masters ha' th' law at their backs--yo'll nobbut get yersen into
+trouble. It's waur nor kickin' agen th' pricks. Yo' surely wi'not ha'
+ought to do wi' machine breaking. That'll nobbut land thee i' towzer,
+an' happen waur nor towzer."
+
+"It isn't towzer 'll stop me, Ben. Aw'm groping i' th' dark just now.
+Frame breaking and rick burning seems but spiteful work, but it is
+action, and action of some sort seems called for. If we submit like dumb
+cattle, our rulers say we are content and have no grievances; if we
+assemble in great numbers and proclaim our wrongs they hang us for
+sedition. What can we do, where shall we turn? Aw cannot see daylight
+which ever way aw turn."
+
+"Cannot yo' let things bide, George? Happen things 'll shape theirsen.
+It's little such as us can do to mend things. If tha' were Lord
+Dartmouth na', tha' might do some good. But aw can see nowt but trouble
+for thee i' me'lling i' this wark, and what hurts thee tha' knows well
+will hurt me, George."
+
+"Aw know that, Ben. And aw've more reason nor ever o' late for keeping
+out o' trouble. Is there ought between thee and Mary, Ben?"
+
+"What, our Mary?" I asked, bewildered, somewhat by so sudden a change of
+subject, and not seeing the working of George's mind.
+
+"Aye, your Mary," said George.
+
+"What does ta' want to know for, George?" I asked; and I tried to ask as
+though I cared little for the answer, and yet I knew, all of a flash
+like, what the answer would be, and that somehow, and why I could scarce
+even myself say to myself, the answer would make me wince.
+
+"Because, George, if ever aw wed, your Mary will be the lass."
+
+"Yo'll happen ask her first," I said, nettled.
+
+"P'raps tha's axed her already?"
+
+"Tha' knows very well aw hannot, Ben. It only came into my head last
+neet when 'oo were singing 'Wild Shepherds.' 'Oo's a sweet voice, an'
+th' way she looks when 'oo sings makes yo' think a bit o' heaven's
+opened up, an' th' light inside is shinin' right down on her
+face--hasn't ta' noticed it, Ben?"
+
+"Mary's ower young for courtin'," I said.
+
+"But tha' hasn't told me, Ben, is there owt between yo' and her? But
+there cannot be. Tha'd ha' told me if there wor. Besides she's too near
+o' kin to thee an' browt up i' th' same house too. She'll be more sister
+like to thee, Ben, aw reckon. But is there owt?"
+
+"Nay there's nowt, George. She's thine to win an' to wear for me. But
+'oo's ovver young for courtin', George. An' if yo'r for our Mary, tha'
+mun put all thowts out o' thi yed but stickin' to work an' makin' her a
+good home. And that reminds me. It 'ad welly slipt mi mind. Soldier Jack
+was hinting summat t'other day. Tha' are'nt keeping owt back fra' me,
+are ta, George?"
+
+"Can aw trust thee, Ben?"
+
+"Tha' knows that best thissen, George." We had reached the very crest of
+Stanedge, and were looking down upon the Diggle side and over towards
+Pots an' Pans an' where the road leads to St. Chad's and winds round
+towards what is now called Bills o' Jack's. We came to a stand by common
+impulse. George stood right anent me.
+
+"Can aw trust thee, Ben," he asked again, and looked at me as though he
+would search my very heart.
+
+"Tha' knows best thissen," I replied once more; for I should have
+thought to lower myself by protesting to him who had been my dearest,
+almost my only friend, since we were boys together.
+
+"With my life, Ben," he said very solemnly, and took my hand.
+
+And then George told me something of what was afoot in Huddersfield.
+Steps were to be taken, he said, to dissuade the manufacturers from
+ousting manual labour in any of the various processes of the making and
+finishing of cloth, by the use of machinery. For this purpose the men
+were to bind themselves by solemn oath neither to work the new machines
+nor to work in any shop or mill into which they might be introduced. No
+violence of any sort was to be employed either against man or machine,
+at least not if the masters proved amenable to reason; and of that
+George thought there could be little question. "They cannot stand
+against us, if we are united," said George; "our weakness lies in action
+unconcerted and without method. If we set our faces resolutely against
+the use of these new fangled substitutes for human labour, we can at
+least compel the masters to wait till times are better and trade mends.
+It may be that when the wars are over and the market calls for a larger
+and a quicker output, machinery may be gradually introduced without
+hardship to those who have grown old in the old methods and who cannot
+use themselves to new ways. Meantime we shall have learned the secret
+and the value of combination and we may turn our organization to the
+protection and the improvement of the worker and to the wresting of
+those rights that are now withheld."
+
+Now to this I could see no mariner of objection, and partly from
+curiosity, partly because my blood had been fired by George's words, but
+much more because it was George who urged it, I promised to attend a
+meeting of some of George's friends who were' like-minded with himself;
+and promised too, though not so readily, to keep my own counsel about
+what he had talked on.
+
+The early evening of winter was falling, and we turned homewards. We did
+not speak much. My cousin was deep in thoughts of his own, and I, too,
+had enough to ponder on. I did not half like my new departure. I was not
+much of a politician, and had always thought my part in public affairs
+would be to ride to York once in a while and vote for the Whigs as my
+father had done before me. As for setting the world straight, I had no
+ambition that way. In time I had no doubt I should be either a deacon at
+the Powle or a churchwarden at the church, and probably constable of the
+manor if I thrived. To make fair goods, to sell them at a fair price, to
+live in peace with my neighbours, and in time to marry, such was the sum
+of my ambition.
+
+And that sent my mind in a bound to Mary. The house would look strange
+and lonesome without Mary. I should miss her saucy greeting of a
+morning; I should miss her gentle bantering, the sunshine of her sweet
+face and the music of her voice. The more I tried to think of the old
+place without Mary, the less I liked the picture. And when I tried to
+console myself with thinking that there were as good fish in the sea as
+ever came out of it, I failed dismally.
+
+When we reached home keen set for tea, there was the table laid all
+ready, and a scolding too for being late. But I turned away my mother's
+wrath by giving her Mr. Horsfall's greetings, and set her talking of him
+and his wife and all the family tree. For mother had a rare gift that
+way, knowing the relationship by blood and marriage of every family for
+miles around, and able, in a way you must hear to believe, to count up
+cousinships and half-cousins, and uncles and great uncles, till your
+brain turned round. Except my lord's family and the folk at the
+vicarage, who had come from the south, I think she made us akin to all
+the folk in Slaithwaite, Linthwaite and Lingards. As was natural, George
+took but little interest in this intimate pedigree, and about eight
+o'clock announced his resolve to take the road to the Brigg. He was
+greatly pressed to stay to supper, but would not, much to my mother's
+concern, who had a firm persuasion, that town bred lads never got enough
+to eat, and cherished a suspicion that George, though as hale and hearty
+a youth as ever went on two legs, and one as little likely as any to be
+put on, was starved as to his body and broken as to his spirit by his
+step-father.
+
+It befell that night, whether by chance or that my mother schemed it so,
+that she and I sat up by the fireside after all the others had gone to
+bed. My mother had her eternal knitting, and I tried to settle my mind
+to a book; but could not, for thinking of matters not on the printed
+page. I gave up the effort after a while, and set my mind resolutely to
+think on my promise to join the plot against the masters; but all to no
+good, for do what I would, my thoughts strayed to what George had said
+of Mary, and I liked it less and less. It gave me a turn when my mother
+said--
+
+"Mary grows a fine lass and noan ill-favoured, think'st ta, Ben? Not 'at
+aw set much store on good looks, for beauty's but skin deep, as is weel
+known. But Mary's one 'at 'll wear well, an' keep her looks to th'
+last," continued my mother, without waiting for the opinion she had
+asked from me. "Aw was just such another misen when yo'r father begun a
+courting me."
+
+Now I opened my eyes at this, for it had never occurred to me to think
+of my mother as a beauty.
+
+"Not but what there's points in Mary 'at could be mended," went on my
+mother serenely. "She's a notion o' keepin' things straight an' tidy,
+but 'oo's a bit too finickin' in her ways an' too mindful o' her hair
+an' careful o' her hands, an' happen too fond o' colour in her ribbons;
+but 'oo'l mend o' that when th' children come. An' she's mebbe too free
+o' her tongue."
+
+Oh, mother! mother!
+
+"But that comes o' your father encouragin' her an' laughin' at her
+answerin' back, when it would seem her better to hearken to what I have
+to say an' be thankful 'oo has a aunt to tak' pains wi' her."
+
+"Aw dunnot doubt 'oo is," I cried.
+
+"An' Mary's noan 'bout brass, an' though awst allus hold 'at it's better
+to ha' a fortin' in a wife nor wi' a wife, there's summat i' what th'
+owd Quaker said, 'at it wer' just as easy to fall i' love where brass
+was as where it wasn't. Ever sin' my sister died, an' Mary wer' left o'
+mi hands, her fortin' has been out at interest, an' we'n charged her
+nowt for her keep."
+
+"Aw should think not, indeed," I cried, indignant at the very thought.
+
+"There's them 'at would," said my mother tartly.
+
+"We're not o' that breed, aw hope," I said. "Anyways we ha' not, so tha
+needn't fluster thissen, though aw'll tell thee, Ben, it's better to be
+a bit too keen about brass nor a lump too careless. So Mary 'll ha' more
+nor her smock to her back, wed who she will, an' a handy lass in a
+house, an' th' best of trainin, as all the country side will tell yo'.
+An' for my part, when th' parents is agreeable, an' plenty o' room i'
+th' house, an' there's th' spare bedroom, an' we could fit th' lumber
+hoil up for th' childer, an' when yo've made up yo'r mind, it's no good
+wastin' time; an' Easter'll soon be here, an' aw shouldn't like a
+weddin' 'atween Easter an' Whissunday. Tha'd better see what Mary says,
+an' aw'll speak to yo'r father afore th' week's out."
+
+"But, mother," I cried, "Mary's nivver given me a thowt that way. Aw'm
+sure she just thinks o' me as a brother. Aw shud only fley her an'
+happen mak' it uneasy for her to live here, if aw said owt and she
+didn't like th' thowts on it."
+
+"Who said she had given thee a thowt that way? Aw sud think she knows
+what becomes her better nor to be lettin' her mind things till th' man
+speaks. But Mary's a good lass, an' I'll go bail 'oll wed to please them
+as brought her up."
+
+"Did yo, mother?" I asked with malice, for my father and mother had been
+married at Almondbury out of our parish, taking French leave of her
+folk. And as my mother rallied her thoughts for a reply, I made my
+escape to bed.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+IN February of 1812, it was borne in upon our minds that something more
+than distress and disaffection were in our midst. These we were used to,
+and they had come to seem matters of course. It was painful to go to the
+Huddersfield Market these days. The old brick rotunda was opened as
+usual, and as usual the stalls were piled with cloth. The manufacturers
+stood by their wares, or gathered in anxious groupes in the alleys
+between the stalls. But buyers were rare, and prices ruinous.
+Shop-keepers in the New-street stood on their steps looking for a
+customer as eagerly as a becalmed captain for a cap of wind. Round the
+old market cross the famished workmen stood sullen and scowling. They
+had not much to say. They were too far gone even for anger. Their faces
+were now pinched and haggard. If a man had thrown a loaf among them they
+would have fought for it. It was said that at that time families had not
+twopence a head to live on each day. At the market dinners at the Cherry
+Tree and the Pack Horse the manufacturers dined together as usual but it
+was doleful work. We sat down to our meat as to funeral cakes.
+
+Bad trade long drawn out had tired the staunchest of us, and there was
+not one ray of hope to brighten the outlook. War still dragged on, now a
+victory, now a defeat. But we had ceased to look for an issue from our
+troubles from the success of our arms. The contest seemed interminable,
+and meanwhile banks were breaking, credit was destroyed, old firms were
+failing; and men who had struggled on bravely, making goods to stock
+rather than close their mills and sack their old hands, saw no choice
+but to give up and own themselves beaten. Wheat was eight shillings a
+stone, and so bad at that, that it could not be baked; the poor rate was
+at twelve shillings in the pound, and worst of all, the poor were
+cursing their masters in their hearts and thinking their sufferings lay
+at their master's doors.
+
+Now I cannot for my part think such a time was fitting for bringing in
+machinery. I know full well that water power and steam power and
+improved machinery have been of untold good to the poor; but those who
+were to reap the first profit should to my thinking have bided their
+time. But Mr. Cartwright, of Rawfold, Mr. Horsfall, of Ottiwells and
+some others, seemed callous to the sufferings round them. Perhaps it was
+they looked so intently at the distant object, that they could not see
+the things at their feet. They were both men impatient of obstacles;
+they resented interference; they pooh-poohed those who counselled delay.
+
+In that month of February we had the first news of any violence in our
+neighbourhood. Late of a Saturday night a number of men with faces
+blacked and their dress disguised, some wearing women's gowns and others
+strange hood gear, broke into the dressing shop of Mr. Joseph Hirst, of
+Marsh, destroyed the dressing frames, the shears and other furniture of
+a gig-mill. The same evil fate befell Mr. James Balderson, of Crosland
+Moor, and Mr. William Hinchcliffe, of Leymoor. Then came the soldiers,
+the Scots Greys and the Second Dragoon Guards. They were billeted in the
+various hostelries of the town at free quarters, and it was not long
+before there was much scandal at their carrying on a drinking, swearing
+lot of men, a terror to decent girls, reeling on the streets in broad
+day with the loose women of the town, singing lewd songs, with no
+respect even to the gravest and most dignified magistrates in the town,
+paying heed only to their own officers, and that only when on guard or
+patrol. They were a bye-word and a reproach in the town, and of no sort
+of use at all.
+
+Then, too, did the Head Constable of Huddersfield call upon all men over
+seventeen, and under fifty, paying rates to the poor, to enrol
+themselves as special constables, and among them was none other than
+John Wood, who looked mighty big with his constable's staff, and talked
+large to my aunt and George and to me, when I called at the Brigg about
+the valiant deeds he would do if ever Luddite fell into his hands. For
+by this time the name "Luddite" had crept into the district, how I know
+not. And at his step-father's big talk George Mellor smiled grimly.
+
+I say I called at Mr. Wood's house at Longroyd Bridge. I had meant to
+have a talk with George about the smashing of the machines of which, and
+of nothing but which, the market talk had been. I was not easy in my
+mind about the matter. I thought, after my promises to George, it was
+but my due to know if he had any share in these doings. But I was let.
+My aunt had her ailments to talk of, and burdened me with messages to my
+mother. Then Mr. Wood was there whilst we took a dish of tea, and all
+his talk was of the dressing the Luds would get. I asked him if he
+intended to try the new machines in his own shop, to which, for my
+aunt's sake, we sent our own goods to be finished. But I gathered that
+my astute uncle deemed it safe to see how the cat jumped before
+committing himself. He was ever one for letting others do the fighting,
+and then coming softly in and reaping the spoils. So with one thing and
+another I got no talk with my cousin, and started off by my lone to walk
+to Slaithwaite over Crosland Moor. And near the Brigg itself I came on
+Soldier Jack, with a poke slung over his shoulder.
+
+"Bide your time, Ben, and I'll be with you," he cried. "Good company
+makes short miles. I've a little errand o' my own to see to on Paddock
+Brow. Will ta come as far as th' Nag's Head and drink a glass and tarry
+there for me, or will ta company me to th' Brow? I'st noan be long, for
+it's not exactly a wedding I'm bahn to."
+
+"Oh, I'll go with you," I said, willingly enough, for Jack was always
+well met.
+
+"It's Tom Sykes I'm bahn to see. Yo' dunnot know him belike, a decent
+body but shiftless, and a ailing wife and a long family. There's a sight
+o' truth in what young Booth was reading to us th' other neet from a
+great writer, a Mr. Malthus, 'at a man who is born into a world already
+possessed, or if society does not want his labour, has no claim or right
+to the smallest portion of food; and, in fact, has no business to be
+where he is. At nature's mighty feast there is no cover for him. That's
+what you call pheelosophy. I'm bahn to comfort Tom Sykes wi' a bit o'
+pheelosophy."
+
+"And is that philosophy you'n got i' your poke, Jack?" I asked "It seems
+weighty matter."
+
+"Noa, this is a few crumbs o' arrant nonsense, fra' th' kitchen o' th'
+Cherry Tree. Th' cook there's a reight good sort, an' some day or other,
+aw don't say but I might--you know. But it's ill puttin' all yo'r eggs
+i' one basket. An' gi'ein' a shillin' to th' parson to tie you is a
+tighter job nor takin' th' king's shillin'. Yo' can't hop out o' th'
+holy estate as aw did aat o' th' army--on a gamey leg. But here we are
+at Tom's."
+
+It was a low stone thatched house on the Lower Brow, and overlooked the
+river. Jack lifted the latch, and we walked into the living-room. It was
+bare of all furniture, save a round deal-topped table, three-legged, a
+low rocking chair by an empty fire-grate, a cradle and another,
+cane-bottomed chair, on which sat a man in his shirt sleeves, hushing a
+wailing child. The man was shock-headed. He had not been shaved for a
+week or more. His cheek bones stood out above shrunken cheeks. His eyes
+burned with an unnatural fire, and he had a hollow, hacking cough. He
+was trying to quiet the child, clumsily but patiently putting sips of a
+bluish fluid, milk and water, to its lips, with a crooked broken spoon.
+Another child, about seven years old, I judged, with neither clogs nor
+socks, all her covering a smock and a short frock scarce to her knees,
+was stretched on its face in a corner of the chimney, over a litter of
+sacks. And under the sacks lay--a something. We could see the straight
+outlines of a figure--I felt what it was, and my heart stood still. But
+Jack's eyes were not so young as mine.
+
+"Where's yo'r missus, Tom?" he asked, swinging his bundle on to the
+ricketty table. "Th' cook at th' Cherry Tree has sent her a summat. See
+here's th' makin's o' a rare brew o' tea, screwed up i' this papper. Aw
+carried it i' my weskit pocket, for fear o' accidents. An' there's
+broken bread an' moat an'--but what's ta starin' at? Where is 'oo aw
+say?"
+
+"'Oo's there, Jack--in th' corner there, under Milly. Yo' needn't fear
+to wakken her--'oo sleeps very sound. Gi' my compliments to Fat Ann at
+th' Cherry Tree an' tell her th' missus is much obliged. But 'oo isn't
+very hungry just now. Th' parson says 'oo's gone where there's nother
+hunger nor sorrow. But aw reckon if there is such a shop, there'll be no
+room there for my owd woman. Th' rich folk 'll ha' spokken for them
+parts, th' poor 'll be crowded out, same as they are here. An' yo', Ben
+Bamforth, an' yo' come to look on your handiwork? Yo' may lift th'
+cuvverin' for yersen. Novver mind Milly 'oo'll greet hersen to sleep
+agen, when yo're gone. Tak' a good look, man--it's nobbut a dead woman,
+improved off th' face o' th' earth--clemmed to death bi improvements.
+Nay dunna flinch, man, 'oo'll nother flyte thee nor bite thee." But I
+could not look, and I went silently out into the rutty, dirty lane and
+the murk night so cold and raw. For I had no words of comfort for the
+man--I could not speak in that silent presence--so I slipped away,
+only minding to pass a coin or two into the hands of Soldier
+Jack--"Light a fire and fetch a woman," I whispered, and Jack nodded
+and made no effort to have me stay.
+
+I was in a distracted state of mind, drawn now this way and now that,
+as I made my way to Slaithwaite. My promise to George lay heavy on me,
+and I loved the lad. The scene of which I had been just now the witness
+filled me with an intense sorrow for the suffering I knew to be rife
+around us. But I shrunk from violence of any kind and from conflict with
+the law, of which I had a wholesome dread. I confess here, once and for
+all, I am not made of the stuff of which captains, heroes and martyrs
+are made--I asked nothing better of the world than to go my own way
+quietly and doucely, earning by honest toil sufficient for my daily
+needs, sustained by the affection of those I loved and safe in the
+esteem and goodwill of my little world. I was not therefore best pleased
+when Mary met me at the door and handed me a note which had been brought
+by an unknown messenger, who had been charged, he said, to give it into
+her own hands, and to impress upon her that she herself should convey it
+safely to me. It was addressed to me, and though I had had few letters
+from George Mellor I knew his handwriting, and I judged, too, that Mary
+knew it, and had all a woman's curiousness to know what the letter might
+say. It was brief enough, anyhow:
+
+"Meet me on Thursday night at nine o'clock at the Inn at
+Buckstones. --George."
+
+The inn at Buckstones stands, or then stood, almost alone on the road
+from Outlane to Manchester. All around were desolate reaches of
+moorland, with here and there patches won by hard toil from the waste
+and enclosed by dry walling whose solidity bespoke the rich abundance of
+good stone and the little worth of human labour. There were no
+neighbours to make custom for the inn. The coach never stopped there. An
+occasional wayfarer, or holiday makers from the town, at times would
+call there, but mine host of the Buck would have fared badly but for his
+pigs and poultry. It was a little inn, remote, unaccustomed, unobserved,
+and only those would chose it as a meeting place whose business was one
+that shunned the open day and the eye of man. I put the letter carefully
+in my breast pocket, putting aside Mary's questioning words and ignoring
+Mary's questioning looks as best I could. And at this, after a while,
+Mary choose to take offence, tossing her head, and surmising that folk
+who had letters they could not show to their own cousins were up to no
+good.
+
+I was at the Buck punctual to my time. The night was pitch dark. There
+was neither moon nor stars to light one along the road, and the road was
+bad enough in broad noon. A feeble light shone from the low window of
+the inn. The outer door was shut, and did not yield to my push when I
+lifted the sneck. It was opened from within by George Mellor.
+
+"Yo're to time, Ben," he said in a low voice as he grasped my hand. "I
+knew tha' wouldn't fail us."
+
+"Who's us?" I asked.
+
+"Tha'll know soon enough. They're waitin' for us i' th' room
+upstairs--but come into th' snug an' have a glass o' ale. Tha looks
+breathed and flustered, an' as if tha'd seen a boggart on th' road.
+There's a chap inside aw want thee to know--he's a rare 'un. He's a
+better scholard nor other thee nor me, Ben, and aw'se warrant tha'll
+like him, when tha knows him."
+
+"Who is it, George?"
+
+"They call him Booth, John Booth, th' parson's son at Lowmoor."
+
+"Is he one on yo'?" I asked.
+
+"As close as th' heft to th' blade," replied George. And I breathed more
+freely, for John Booth I had seen many a time at Mr. Wright's, the
+saddler's, in Huddersfield; and I, though I had had no speech with him,
+had heard much of his great learning and sweet temper. He was not one to
+harm a fly. His father was, I knew, the Vicar at Lowmoor Church, and a
+master cropper to boot. Surely the son of a parson and of a finisher was
+engaged in no enterprise that need daunt my father's son.
+
+He was sat in the snug, a pot of ale before him, scarce tasted; a youth
+not more than twenty-one or two years old, with pale face, long lank
+dark hair that fell on either side a high and narrow brow. His eye was
+dark and melancholy, his lip's somewhat thin. His face was bare of
+beard, of an oval shape, and womanish. He had a low, soft voice, and
+spoke more town like than I was used to. But he had a sweet smile and a
+winning, caressing way that partly irritated me because I thought it out
+of place in a man. But it was very hard to stand against all the same.
+
+"I am glad to see you, Mr. Bamforth," he said, placing a hand that,
+despite his trade, was small and white, in my own big, brawny fist. He
+looked very slim by the side of me as we stood hand in hand, for I am
+six feet and more and big built, and thanks be to God hard as nails and
+little bent even yet. But it is mind, my children, not matter, that
+rules the world. See how he tickled me at the very start,--"Mr.
+Bamforth"--there was a whole page of delicate flattery in the very
+words and way of breathing on it. It meant I was a man. It meant I was
+of some place and power in his reckoning of me. I felt myself flush, and
+I grew bigger to myself. Why, I do not think anyone had ever called me
+"Mr. Bamforth" before. Even 'Siah, our teamer, called me "Ben." The
+Vicar at the Church called me "Ben," and ruffled me not a little by the
+patronizing way he had. Mr. Webster, at the Powle, called me "Ben;" but
+that I did not mind, for he said it as though he loved me.
+
+"I am glad to see you. Any friend of George Mellor's is welcome, but
+your father's son is thrice welcome. George, do you go in and prepare
+our friends to receive a new member. Set all things in order, and I will
+talk meanwhile with your cousin."
+
+"And so, Mr. Bamforth," he continued.
+
+"Nay, call me Bamforth, or plain Ben," I said. "Well, Ben be it
+then--And so, Ben, you, too, are willing to strike a blow for the poor
+and oppressed."
+
+"I don't know about striking blows," I said. "To tell the truth I am
+here because I said I would be here; but what I am here for I do not
+know, except that I am here to learn why I am here. It's true enough my
+heart is heavy for the poor; but what I can do, and saving your presence
+what you can do, or George, or such as us, passes my wit."
+
+"We can try, at least, the force of union," he made answer. "We can try
+what the force of numbers will do. We can entreat; we can threaten"--
+
+"But what is a bark without a bite?" I asked. "And how can you bite
+without setting your own teeth on edge?"
+
+"Ah! there's the rub," he said. "But we won't jump before we get to the
+stile. One step at a time and await developments, say I. But come, we
+will join our friends. It will be a comfort to me to have one cool head
+in our number. We have no lack of madcaps." The long low chamber which
+we now entered was in darkness, save for the light of two small
+lanthorns, placed on a long narrow table that ran down the centre of the
+room. Forms ran round three sides of the room. At the head of the table
+was an arm chair of ancient oak. In the centre of the table, flanked on
+either side by lanthorns, which turned their lights each to the other,
+was a human skull. In the chair sat one whom I felt rather than saw to
+be my cousin George. By his right hand was a Bible; on his left, one who
+acted as secretary and kept a roll of members, a precious document I
+would afterwards have given all I was worth to lay my hands on. The
+forms around the wall were close packed by masked men, in working dress,
+who rose as Booth led me into the room and placed me at the foot of the
+table confronting the president. All rose as we slowly made our way to
+that place, Booth holding me by the hand. I was in a cold sweat, and
+wished myself a thousand miles away. Booth left me standing there
+peering straight at him I knew to be my cousin.
+
+"No. 20, I call upon you to explain to this candidate the principles of
+our order."
+
+"We are banded together," said a voice from the line of figures on my
+right, a voice I knew at once to be Booth's; for no other man I ever
+knew, scarce any woman, had a voice so gentle, so plaintive. "We are
+banded together to assert the rights of labour, to resist the
+encroachments and the cruelty of capital. We seek to succour the needy
+and to solace the sorrowing. We aim to educate the toilers to a sense of
+their just rights, to amend the political, the social, and the economic
+condition of those whose only wealth is their labour, whose only
+birth-right is to toil. Our methods are persuasion, argument, united
+representation of our claims, and if need be, the removal of those
+mechanic rivals of human effort by which callous and heartless employers
+are bent on supplanting the labour of our hands. But this only in the
+last resort, all other means exhausted, our righteous claims flouted,
+our fair demands denied."
+
+"Benjamin Bamforth," came my cousin's voice across the gloom.
+
+"You have heard the statement of our aims. Are you willing to ally
+yourself with us and to aid us in our cause? If so, answer 'I am.'"
+
+"I am."
+
+"We are witnesses of your solemn obligation. Who vouches for Benjamin
+Bamforth?"
+
+"That do I," said Booth.
+
+"That, too, do I," said another voice that sounded familiar to my ears.
+
+"Place before him the Book. Place your hands, Brother Bamforth, upon the
+Bible and fix your eyes upon these emblems of mortality. As they are, so
+be you, if you falter, or if you fail. Repeat after me the words of our
+oath."
+
+Then, phrase by phrase, in a silence only broken by the voices of us
+twain and the heavy breathing of that grim group, I repeated after the
+playfellow of my boyhood and my manhood's friend the solemn words: "I,
+Benjamin Bamforth, of my own voluntary will, do declare and solemnly
+swear that I never will reveal to any person or persons under the canopy
+of heaven the names of the persons who comprise this secret committee
+their proceedings, meetings, places of abode, dress, features,
+complexion, or anything else that might lead to a discovery of the same,
+either by word, deed or sign, under the penalty of being sent out of the
+world by the first brother who shall meet me, and my name and character
+blotted out of existence, and never to be remembered but with contempt
+and abhorrence. And I further do swear, to use my best endeavours to
+punish by death any traitor or traitors, should any rise up among us,
+wherever I may find him or them, and though he should fry to the verge
+of nature I will pursue him with unceasing vengeance, so help me God and
+bless me, to keep this my oath inviolate."
+
+"Kiss the Book."
+
+I kissed the Bible.
+
+"Show more light."
+
+In each quarter of the room a light shone forth, its rays till now
+obscured.
+
+"Brethren, unmask, and let our brother know his brethren."
+
+I looked around me blinking in the sudden glare. There were many I knew
+not. More than one I knew. The voice that had haunted was the voice of
+Soldier Jack, who looked, I thought, somewhat foolish as my eye fell on
+him. There was William Thorpe, a cropper at Fisher's, of the Brigg, and
+Ben Walker and William Smith, who worked at my uncle Wood's. Thorpe, I
+knew, was a mate of my cousin George, and I was not much surprised to
+see him. Smith I knew only by sight, having seen him when I had taken
+work to be finished at the Brigg. Walker I knew somewhat better. His
+father was ever styled Buck Walker, having been somewhat of a gallant in
+his younger days, and even now fancying himself not a little. Ben o'
+Buck's was a young man of about my own age, dark and sallow, with deep
+set eyes and a sly fawning way. He had gone out of his way to be civil
+to me, and more than once in the summer-time had walked of a Sunday from
+Powle Chapel, where his father was a deacon, across the fields home with
+us. He was attentive in a quiet way to Mary to whom he spoke, I
+understood, chiefly about his sins, which troubled him greatly. Martha
+said it was his stomach that was wrong. She knew it by his pasty face
+and by his hands, cold and damp, like a fish tail. Martha was a lass of
+some prejudices. My father was rather partial to Ben, a quiet harmless
+lad, he judged, that would run steady and show no nonsense. I did not
+greatly care for him myself, but I wondered rather to see him where he
+was, not having given him credit for so much spunk. But most I
+marvelled, at Soldier Jack, yet did I gather courage from his presence,
+for I leaned on his stout heart and his worldly knowledge, gleaned in
+many strange scenes and lands.
+
+But George was speaking to me again.
+
+"There are signs in our Order, Brother Bamforth, and I will now
+communicate them to you. The first, the right hand passed behind the
+neck, thus, signifies 'Are you a Lud?' The party challenged should reply
+by placing two forefingers on his chin, thus. We have also a password
+which will admit you to our meetings, and to those of others in our
+movement. It is 'Work, Win.' You will now take your seat among the
+brethren and the business of the meeting will be resumed. 'Any
+reports?'"
+
+"Enoch Taylors taken on six more men," said a Marsden man. "They're
+making frames as fast as they can. Orders are rolling in. Horsfall's
+putting them into Ottiwells as quick as they're made. Th' owd hands are
+told they're no use, an' young 'uns is being browt fra' no one knows
+where, to work th' shearing frames. Aw'n seen some cloth 'ats been
+finished on a frame, an' it welly broke my heart. Aw'n been a cropper,
+lad and man, for thirty year, an' aw nivver turned aht owt like it. It
+were as smooth as a babby's cheek. An' th' frame can do th' work of four
+men awn heerd th' mester tell. It's ruination, stark ruination, an' me
+wi' five childer an' yar Emma lying in."
+
+"That's noan hauf o' th' tale--Horsfall's fair wild wi' joy. He says
+he'll feight Napoleon wi' a finishin' frame. He cries shame on th'
+Nottingham police. He says th' magistrates there owt to be drummed off
+th' bench. He says they're a pigeon-livered lot, an' if he'd been there,
+he'd a ridden up to th' saddle girths i' th' blood o' th' Luds before
+he'd ha' been baulked o' his way."
+
+"Shame on him, shame on him!" broke out fierce voices.
+
+"Reports come from Liversedge that Cartwright, of Rawfolds, has ordered
+a set of machines from Taylor. William Hall, have yo' owt to say?"
+
+A man about thirty, dirty and slovenly, with a blotched face and
+slouching look, who it turned out lived at Hightown and had been
+dismissed from Mr. Jackson's there and had been taken on at Wood's, then
+rose. He had a great deal to say. He spoke of Mr. Cartwright: more of a
+foreigner nor an Englishmen, he called him. A quiet man with a cutting
+tongue. Had ne'er a civil word for a man an' down on him in a jiffy if
+he looked at a pot o' beer. Drank nowt himself, which Hall looked on as
+a bad sign and unEnglish. Was sacking th' owd hands and stocking
+Rawfolds with machines and Parson Roberson was worse nor him. I had a
+sight of that same fighting parson not many months after, and Bill Hall
+was not far off the mark.
+
+"Has any brother owt more to say anent Horsfall or Cartwright?" asked
+Mellor.
+
+"I move they're warned," cried one.
+
+"I'll second it," said another.
+
+"Give it 'em hot," cried a third. "Tell 'em plain we mean business. I'm
+sick o' letter writin'. They laugh at our letters." "Let them laugh,"
+said George; "they'll laugh at wrong side o' their mouths afore we'n
+done wi' them. And now, lads, enough o' business. Th' landlord 'll be
+thinking we're poor customers. Let's have some ale and drive dull care
+away. A song, boys; who'll sing us a song?"
+
+"That will I, George, but I mun drink first. My belly's beginnin' to
+think ahn cut mi throat."
+
+A brother had left the room, and now appeared with an immense jug of
+ale, and tots were handed round. Cutty pipes were produced and coarse
+tobacco. Who paid the shot I do not know. But I have heard tell that
+some masters who were threatened paid quit money, and others even gave
+money that their neighbours' mills might be visited. But this I know not
+of a certainty, and only set it down as a thing that was said. This I
+know, there was no lack of ale among the lads, and money, too, came from
+somewhere.
+
+"Now for your song, Soldier," said George, and the men settled
+themselves for a spree and a fuddle. The croppers were ever a free lot
+given to roystering and cock fighting and bull baiting and other
+vanities.
+
+And thus sang Soldier Jack, and all that knew the song joined lustily in
+the chorus, for that wild moor there was no fear of intruders, and our
+host had not love enough for the justices to set them on good customers.
+
+  "Come cropper lads of high renown,
+   Who love to drink good ale that's brown,
+   And strike each haughty tyrant down,
+    With hatchet, pike, and gun!
+      Oh, the cropper lads for me,
+      The gallant lads for me,
+      Who with lusty stroke,
+      The shear frames broke,
+      The cropper lads for me!
+   What though the specials still advance,
+   And soldiers rightly round us prance,
+   The cropper lads still lead the dance,
+    With hatchet, pike, and gun!
+      Oh, the cropper lads for me,
+      The gallant lads for me,
+      Tho with lusty stroke
+      The shear frames broke,
+      The cropper lads for me!
+   And night by night when all is still
+   And the moon is hid behind the hill,
+   We forward march to do our will
+    With hatchet, pike, and gun!
+      Oh, the cropper lads for me,
+      The gallant lads for me,
+      Who with lusty stroke
+      The shear frames broke,
+      The cropper lads for me!
+   Great Enoch still shall lead the van.
+   Stop him who dare! Stop him who can!
+   Press forward every gallant man
+    With hatchet, pike, and gun!
+      Oh, the cropper lads for me,
+      The gallant lads for me,
+      Who with lusty stroke
+      The shear frames broke,
+      The cropper lads for me!"
+
+The song was chorused with gusto by most there, and it was plain enough
+to see that the meeting had more hopes from great Enoch, as the Luds
+called the hammer used in machine smashing, after Enoch Taylor of
+Marsden, than they had from either persuasion or threats. That something
+more than words was in their minds was evident enough later on when we
+all turned out into a field at the back of the Buck. There was a watery
+moon in the sky that gave a ghostly sort of light. By this light Soldier
+Jack drew up the twenty or thirty men who left their cups and followed
+him into the fold. And there did Jack put us through our drill. One or
+two had muskets, a few had pikes. They had been fetched out of the
+mistal, where by day they lay concealed on the hay bowk. It was rare to
+see Jack at his drilling. We were formed in line fronting him, and Jack
+did gravely walk down the line, commenting on our appearance, and trying
+to bring us to some fashion of military time.
+
+And this was the style of drill.
+
+"Hold thi head up, man; thi breast's noan th' place for thi chin." This
+to No. 1.
+
+"Dal thi, No. 2, will ta' square thi shoulders back or will ta' not?
+Hast ta' getten th' bellywark 'at tha' draws thissen in like that?"
+
+"Turn th' toes 'aat, No. 3. I said heels together not toes, tha'
+gaumless idiot."
+
+"Na' then, tenshun! Eyes front. Shoulder arms, right wheel.
+Mar------ch!" And away walked Jack with his head up and an old sabre
+over his shoulder, disguising his limp as best he could, at the head of
+his little column, as proud, I verily believe, as though he captained a
+company. It seemed to me poor fooling, then and always, but it gave such
+huge satisfaction to Soldier Jack, I never had the heart to tell him so,
+nor to shirk my drill.
+
+"A poor shiftless lot," he complained to me as we walked near midnight
+across Cupwith Common, the three rough miles that lay between the Buck
+and Lower Holm. "A peer shiftless lot, but what could you expect from a
+lot of croppers?"
+
+"What do you think to make of them, Jack?" I asked.
+
+"Why, nowt," he answered. "Just nowt; but then yo' see they mun do
+something. It's all very well to go to th' Buck an' drink ale an' sing
+songs. I'll back th' croppers at drinkin' ale an' singing songs against
+th' best regiment the Duke has in Spain. But if all this meeting an'
+masking an' speechifyin' is to do any good and lead to owt, there must
+be action, sooner or later. And in that day it will be well for th' Luds
+if there is even one voice which they have learned to obey. Do you think
+it's the great generals that win battles?"
+
+"Why, of course, it is?" I answered.
+
+"That's just where yo're out," said Jack.
+
+"It's th' sergeants and th' corporals. Yo' see in a feight yo' cannot
+see much further nor yo'r nose end. All yo'n got to do for th' most part
+is to keep your eye an' yo'r ear on th' sergeant that's drilled yo' sin'
+yon learned the goose step, an' do as he tells you. As long as he keeps
+his head an yo' hear his voice, calm an' cheerful, just as if yo' were
+in the barrack yard or on parade, yo'r all reight an' yo do as you're
+told, like Tommy Tun, whoever he wer."
+
+"I never heard on him, Jack. Whose lad was he?"
+
+"Aw don't rightly know, but aw reckon he were famous for keepin' in
+step. Howsomever, mark my words, George Mellor's a good lad, wi' fire
+enough for hauf a dozen. That lad o' Parson Booth's, 'at 'ud be better
+employed if he wer' at home helpin' his mother to rock th' craddle, is a
+rare 'un to talk. Thorpe's a good 'un if it comes to fisticuffs, but
+it'll be Soldier Jack they'll all look to when th' bullets is whizzing
+ovver their heads, an' what little wit they have is scattered an gone."
+
+"But, surely, Jack, there'll be no whizzing of bullets?"
+
+"Oh! won't there? Aye that an' waur. Do yo' know Horsfall, o'
+Ottiwell's, has got th' soldiers billetted in th' town, th' King's Bays.
+Aw've drunk wi' sum o' them, an' had a crack about old times. Oh! curses
+on this gamey heel o' mine that keeps me limping o'er Cupwith Common
+when I might be stepping out behind the colours to the merry music of
+fife an' drum. Yo'll never know, lad, the savage joy of battle. It is
+the wine o' life. When yo've once tasted it, even love an' liquor are
+flat beside it. But what can't be cured mun be endured. Well aw say,
+aw'n talked wi' a sergeant at th' Red Lion i' Marsden. They're
+patrolling th' district ivvery night. If we go to Ottiwell's, there'll
+be a warm welcome for us."
+
+"But why are yo' in it, Jack, that's what caps me?" I said. "Yo're
+nawther a cropper nor th' son of a cropper."
+
+"No. What o' thissen Ben?"
+
+"Well, yo see, I promised George. I cannot run off mi word. An' George
+sees further, perhaps, nor I do. Then young Booth says its opposition or
+submission. Opposition may mean imprisonment or worse, but submission
+can only mean pining to death."
+
+"Then yo'r in for George?" Jack asked.
+
+"Well if you like to put it so, Soldier, yo'll none be so far off th'
+mark."
+
+"Well then say aw'm in it for yo' an' for sport, an' cause an' its i' mi
+natur. But most, Ben Bamforth, it's for yo' an' another lad or two,
+'at'll need a true friend an' a shrewd head an' a tricky tongue before
+this work's through. And so, good neet, an' wipe th' muck off thi boots,
+else that saucy Mary o' yours 'll be axing more questions nor yo'll care
+to answer."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+THE last day of March of that year of 1812 was a big day for me. I came
+of age. It would little seem me to say what mariner of man I was in the
+flush and vigour of my early manhood, but I was such a one as simple
+habits and plain fare and mountain air make of most. I was tall above
+the common, though even then not come to my full stature. And I was
+strong with a strength that frightened me. Folk marvelled at my height,
+for my father was but a small man, though wiry, and my mother matched my
+father. I had in those days ever to be careful of my head when I visited
+at folks' houses, for the doorways were low and there were joists in
+unexpected places, and many a rude knock did my poll sustain before I
+learned caution by hard dints. Many youths do overgrow their strength,
+but that did not I, and though I had not 'Siah's skill in wrestling, nor
+knew the tricks of the fall, 'Siah could not throw me, and once I got
+him in my arms, though he was thick set and solid, I could strain him in
+my hug till his very bones could crack. But my inches, three Score and
+fourteen, were much mocked by the lads about, who would make a spy-glass
+of their hands, and fixing an earnest gaze upon the crown of my head,
+would ask with mock concern if it were warm up there.
+
+Now on this, my birthday, nought would satisfy my mother but that we
+should have a tea-drinking. I was in no great mood for such doings, but
+my mother must ever have her way. She said it was no, ordinary birthday.
+A man became a man but once in a life-time, and moreover, and this
+settled the matter with her, in no decent family was such an event
+allowed to pass unmarked. Times were bad she granted, but it was not as
+though we were bound to live from hand to mouth. So I bid my friends. Of
+course, George must come, and a handsomer, brighter lad never set foot
+in Lower Holme than George looked that night, all fun and laughter, with
+a jest for everyone. And he brought with him Ben Walker, whom I made
+welcome, as I should have made welcome the Evil One himself had George
+brought him. And I liked Walker as little. From the very first I
+misdoubted that man. I disliked his toad's hand, his shifty eye, his low
+speech. There was something sly in his very tread, and his laugh had no
+heartiness in it. Then he was so cursedly civil to everybody. He praised
+my mother's cakes: never were such cakes, and though, God knows he was
+welcome enough to eat his fill, he did not praise them without fair
+trial. He praised the tea, he praised the pig-cheek, he set little Mr.
+Webster all of a glow by telling him how edified he was by his last
+discourse at Powle Moor, but he had like to have come to grief with
+Soldier Jack by belittling the great Duke. Then he fell to praising
+Mary, and here he had like to have spoiled all, for as he spoke of her
+good looks he let his eye dwell upon her features with a look so gross
+that Mary coloured red with wrath, and my mother told him sharply Mary
+was not a slave for sale in the market, and we needed no inventory of
+her charms. So he at Mr. Webster again on religion, and as Buck Walker,
+his father, had turned pious in his latter days, and was now a leader at
+the Powle, the good man and Ben hit it rarely together. But his eye, I
+noted, ever wandered to Mary, and it liked me not.
+
+I had asked, too, John Booth and his sister Faith, a demure young maid
+as ever made a courtesy. She was just all that Mary was not, and yet she
+pleased, which, when you think of it, should set us marvelling at the
+great goodness of God that hath so fashioned our maids that even their
+very extremes are admirable. For Mary was rosy and plump, with auburn
+curling hair, that would never be kept by net or string, but would
+escape and wanton over her face and neck, and had a laughing eye of
+blue, with rosy lips, and a saucy tongue. A very ray of warm sunshine
+was Mary.
+
+But Faith was dark as a sloe as to hair and eye, with a skin of delicate
+white, and slender as a lily's stalk, and gentle of speech and somewhat
+shy of manner, yet with no awkwardness withal. My heart, did warm to her
+from the first, and I think too she favoured me from the very day her
+brother made us acquaint at his master's shop in Huddersfield. Perhaps
+because I was so big and strong, whilst her brother, though wonderful
+far learned in books, and with as big a soul as was ever put in man's
+body, was only a short remove from a woman in those things which women
+love in man. And strange as it is that two maids so unlike should both
+be so sweet to live with and to think upon, is it not stranger still
+that two men so unlike as Soldier Jack and myself should be at one about
+Faith's sweetness and loveableness.
+
+Jack, if we might credit his own word in the matter, had a wide
+experience in the lists of love, but chiefly, I fear, among the hussies
+that followed the camp and the warm and yielding beauties of sunny
+Spain. Yet did this tried veteran surrender the garrison of his heart
+without parley and without terms to the gentle assault of this pure and
+modest lass, but with no thought of other love than a father's or a
+brother's, for Jack was well into the forties, and had had his fill of
+the burnings of a warmer flame.
+
+Now after our tea-drinking was done, my father and Mr. Webster settled
+down by the fireside to smoke their pipes and talk of town's affairs and
+the ever pressing sufferings of the poor. Mr. Webster's talk was heavy
+hearing. He knew every family on that hill-side, and scarce one was free
+from griping want. The parson's voice would falter and tears come to his
+eyes as he told his tale, and I could see my father shift uneasily in
+his chair and his hand wander to his pocket, and my mother would break
+in with "Hear to him, now!" "The likes o' that," "God save us," and so
+on. And presently she went into the outer kitchen where leavings of our
+feast were spread, and when Mr. Webster went home that night Josiah
+trudged by his side with a hamper of good things. Not, be sure, for Mr.
+Webster himself, for of his own needs, though these were rather
+suspected than known for sure, the good man spoke not at all; and I will
+go bail he proved a trusty steward of the comforts borne on 'Siah's
+broad shoulders.
+
+For us younger ones there was no lack of sport, Postman's Knock and
+Forfeits and other games in which there is overmuch kissing to my
+present thinking though I did not think so then. And if, whenever the
+rules of the game did give me occasion, I chose Faith rather than Mary,
+had I not reason in that Faith was the greater stranger to our house,
+and I was ever taught to be civil to our guests. And I was no little
+nettled by the carryings on of Mary and George. In my heart I cried
+shame on Mary, and said to myself it was unseemly that a maiden of a
+respectable family should so set herself at any man. It was "George"
+here and "George" there, and "Cousin Mellor" and "Cousin Mary," though
+what kinship of blood there was between them was so slight it was a
+manifest pretence and cloak to make so much of it. I do hate a forward
+girl, and it was not like our Mary to make herself so sheap. Why, but
+the week before, being moved thereto on seeing her more tantalizingly
+pretty than common, I had made to give her a cousinly salute, and she
+had smacked me smartly on the cheek and started away in a rare pet. But
+I took care this night she should see I could play the swain as well as
+any George among them, and Faith seemed nothing loth. Not that she was
+over-bold. When I would kiss her she would turn her cheek to me with a
+pretty readiness, and seemed in no wise to mind it; but when George
+could spare a thought for any but Mary, and choose Faith, the colour
+would crimson her cheeks and brow, and she would turn her face away, and
+then, lo! all her flush would fade and leave her pale and trembling.
+
+But we were perhaps getting over old for such games not yet old enough
+for the whist to which our elders had betaken themselves. So Mary, after
+no little urging thereto, did seat herself at the spinnet, which was a
+new joy in our house and had been the occasion of some bitterness to our
+friends. And touching the keys softly thus she sang very roguishly:--
+
+  "Love was once a little boy,
+      Heigh ho! heigh ho!
+   Then with him 'twas sweet to toy
+      Heigh ho! heigh ho!
+   He was then so innocent,
+   Not as now on mischief bent;
+   Free he came; and harmless went,
+      Heigh ho! heigh ho!
+   Love is now a little man,
+      Heigh ho! heigh ho!
+   And a very saucy one,
+      Heigh ho! heigh ho!
+   He walks so gay and looks so smart,
+   As if he owned each maiden's heart
+   I wish he felt his own keen dart,
+      Heigh ho! heigh ho'!
+   Love, they say, is growing old,
+      Heigh ho! heigh ho!
+   Half his life's already told,
+      Heigh ho! heigh ho!
+   When, he's dead and buried too.
+   What shall we poor maidens do?
+   I'm sure I cannot tell--can you?
+      Heigh ho! heigh ho!"
+
+Whereat my father and Soldier Jack shouted lustily "Heigh ho'! heigh
+ho!" and my mother shook her head but with a smile, and Mr. Webster must
+confess it was a pretty air and taking one, and trusted the singing
+thereof was not a holding of the candle to the Evil One. But Mary made a
+mouth at him and said, 'twould be time enough to be sad when she was too
+old to be merry.
+
+Now after the singing of this catch it so befell that my mother had some
+occasion to desire from the village some small matter for the supper
+table, and Martha being intent upon getting ready the supper she bid
+Mary privily slip away and fetch the things she needed. This did Ben
+Walker overhear, though it was no business of his, and when Mary,
+watching her chance, had gone softly out of the one door, Ben, making
+some excuse, did steal away by the other, a thing we thought nothing of,
+deeming it but natural that a young man should seek to company a maid,
+and I not uneasy on Mary's account, the night being fine and clear, and
+decent women being not molested in our parts, where strangers came
+little, and all were as friends and neighbours.
+
+Now she had been gone some three parts of an hour, when I heard the
+front door open hurriedly and then slam to. My mother rose quickly and
+went into the parlour. It was in darkness, for we seldom used it save
+for company, and for our company of this night it was not large enough.
+But despite the gloom I knew it was Mary. My mother drew her into the
+house and placed her in her own rocking-chair. All had risen to their
+feet. Mary's hat was hanging by its strings down her back. Her decent
+neckerchief that covered her neck and bosom had been torn aside, and
+some of the fastenings of her dress undone. She was panting hard for
+breath, and for a time could form no word.
+
+"Where's Ben Walker?" I said, and then Mary found her voice.
+
+"Aye," she cried, "where is he? Oh! the coward, the coward!" and then
+she sobbed and cried again "Oh! the coward, the coward." And just then
+the sneck was lifted and Ben Walker walked in.
+
+He stood in the door way; but I banged the door behind him; and Soldier
+Jack took him by the arm and drew him into the room, whilst Faith
+soothed Mary and straightened her dress.
+
+"And now, Ben Walker, give an account o' thissen," said George, standing
+before the shrinking man, with clenched fist and a flashing eye.
+
+And Walker shamed and faltered. His eye wandered from one face to
+another, and found no comfort anywhere.
+
+"It's noan o' my doing, George. Tha' needn't look so fierce. Awn laid no
+hand on her, han aw Mary? Speak th' truth, choose what tha' does, it
+goes th' furthest."
+
+"Oh! you coward, you pitiful coward!" was all that Mary could say; but
+she was calmer now.
+
+"It wer' this way," continued Walker reluctantly. "We'd done th'
+shopping at Ned o' Bill's, an' had passed th' church an' got well into
+th' lane comin' back. Aw wer' carryin' th' basket."
+
+"Where is th' basket?" cried my mother.
+
+"By gow, I reckon aw mun ha' dropped it. Aw nivver gav' it a thowt', an'
+aw nivver missed it till nah. As aw wer' saying', aw wer' huggin' th'
+basket wi' one arm, an' aw'd axed Mary to hold on to th' other."
+
+"As if aw'd link wi' sich as thee," said Mary, bridling again.
+
+"An all at onst, about half-way up th' broo' a felly lope ovver th'
+wall. He wer' a big un, aw tell yo', an' ther' wer' more behind, aw
+heard 'em eggin' 'im on. If he'd been by hissen aw'd ha stood up to him
+if he'd been as big as a steeple. He said nowt to me, but he gate hold
+o' Mary an 'oo started to scream an' struggle, an' aw heerd him say he'd
+have a kiss if he died for it. Aw wer' for parting on 'em, but he gav'
+me such a look, an' aw thowt aw heerd others comin, so aw just made off
+across th' fields. Tha' knows, George, duty afore everything, an' if th'
+soldiers is about they're happen comin' here an' tha' knows best whether
+tha' wants to see 'em."
+
+"A soldier was it," I cried. "What mak' o' man wor he?"
+
+"Aw tell thee bigger nor thissen, wi' a black poll an' a eye like a
+dagger blade for keen, an' ther' were a scar across his face."
+
+"It were one o' them chaps 'at's stayin' at John Race's at th' Red Lion
+i' Marsden," said Mary. "He stopped me once afore a week back, when aw
+wer' walkin' out that way on. But he spoke me civil then, an' aw thowt
+nowt on it. But he's been drinkin' to-neet an' used me rough an' fleyed
+me. But aw reckon he'll keep his distance another time. It'll be a
+lesson to him."
+
+"How does ta mean, Mary?" said my mother. "Aw got one o' his fingers
+between my teeth an' aw bit him, an' bit him, an' bit him, an' he had
+hard to do to throw me off. Then he called me a vicious little devil,
+an' aw tucked up my skirts an' ran for it. Aw wer' more fleyed nor hurt.
+But thee! Ben Walker, thee!" and she turned from him, with a look of
+such contempt and scorn that Ben hung his head with a hang-dog look and
+mumbling something about outstaying his welcome and making his way
+shorter, he slunk off, no one staying him.
+
+And thus was my birthday party dashed. We could settle down to nought
+after that. Mary was feverish, and laughed over much. My father talked
+of going down on the morrow to Milnsbridge and laying complaint to
+Justice Radcliffe. Little Mr. Webster said something, in a very
+half-hearted way, about praying for those that despitefully use us, and
+my mother flighted Mary, most unjustly I thought, for having ever spoken
+to the man at all, and so encouraged him. Soldier Jack said little, but
+I know he resented the outrage, for it is one thing for soldiers to make
+light with other folks' women-kind and another guess sort of thing to
+have your own friends fall into their clutches. But George was warmest
+of all. He made us a grand speech agen the army and officers and men,
+which Soldier Jack swallowed with an ill grace. Hetty listened to him
+with all her ears, and you could see she liked to hear him rave on. And
+Mary, too, when first he began, harkened keen enough, but soon she
+turned away impatiently and busied herself with setting the supper, and
+I thought she had looked for something from George which did not come.
+
+For me, I am slow of speech, stupid, Mary ever said. But I thought to
+myself: "A long, tall man, as big as a steeple, with a black poll, and a
+scar on his cheek," and long after George and John Booth and pretty prim
+Faith had started for Huddersfield, and Soldier Jack and Mr. Webster had
+gone Powle way, I lay awake in bed thinking of a thing. The next morning
+I was up betimes. My father was away after the forenoon drinking, to try
+to sell a piece or two, a thing that every week became more difficult.
+There was no work to be done after the cattle had been foddered. We had
+almost given up work at our trade. We bad as many pieces in stock as we
+had room for it had gone hard with us to stop the output of country
+work, but what would you with the best mind in the world, you cannot go
+on forever making to stock. So our looms were still and time hung heavy
+on our bands. In the shippon I had had a word with 'Siah and when,
+dressed in my Sunday best, I struck off towards Marsden. I found him
+waiting for me on the road. "Yo' mun keep' yo're head, Ben," he said,
+"Watch his een. Face him square an' watch his een. He's a big 'un wi' a
+long reach. He'll likely come: at thee like a mad bull. Keep out on his
+way when he rushes. Let him tire hissen. Keep thi' wind. Dunnot let him
+blow thee, let him blow hissen. He'll be in bad fettle, wi' no stay in
+him. Th' way these sogers ha' been living lately, he'll ha' more water
+nor wind in him, an' more ale nor water. Then, when he shows signals o'
+distress, work slowly in, and when tha' gets a fair chance, hug him,
+break his ribs, squeeze th' guts out on him. Glory hallelujah, he'll
+gasp like a cod!" Then would 'Siah, after looking carefully round to see
+we were not observed, stop in his walk and feel my arms and legs as if I
+were a horse he wished to buy; then at it again with more advice. Once,
+with a wistful air, he surmised it might be better to fight by proxy, to
+let him pick a quarrel with Long Tom, as he said they called the soldier
+who had misused our Mary so. But he did not try long on that tack and
+had to content himself with hoping that some day or night, one of the
+red coats would try his game on with Martha and then--Glory Hallelujah!
+I smiled and 'Siah read my thoughts but he only said: "Oh! them sort's
+noan particular. An' there's points about Martha, mind you, there's
+points about Martha."
+
+At the Red Lion we found John Race, the little, round, red faced
+landlord in no very good humour. It was early in the day for drinking,
+to my taste, but 'Siah having a nice sense of honour in these matters,
+declared we must have some thing for the good of the house and offered,
+if I could not stomach a pint myself, to drink my share. So I called for
+a quart for 'Siah. Race handled my money very lovingly and then spit
+over it for luck.
+
+"It's little of the ready comes my way now, Ben," he said.
+
+"What! and a houseful of soldiers, John?"
+
+"Oh! dun-not speak on it, Ben," he cried. "It's a ruined man I shall be
+if this goes on another month. It's 'John' here and 'landlord' there
+from morning till night or till next morning rather. And paying for
+their drink is just the last thing they think of. Th' kitchen door is
+white wi' chalk, and, well I know it's no use keeping the scores. It's
+just force of habit.
+
+"But surely, John, you need not serve them unless they pay."
+
+"It's easy talking, Ben. Th' law's one thing, but a house full o'
+soldiers is another. And aw cannot be everywhere an' my dowter an' th'
+servant, an' for owt aw know th' missus hersen are all just in a league
+to ruin me. Their heads are all turned wi' th' soldiers an' such
+carryin's on in a decent man's house wer nivver seen before or since."
+
+"But what about the officer in command?"
+
+"What, him! Complaining to him is just like falling out with the devil
+an' going to hell for justice. Sometimes he laughs at me, sometimes he
+swears at me, sometimes he sneers at me, and to cap all, when I turn, as
+a trodden worm will turn at times, he just tells me to go clean the
+pewters, and send mi dowter to amuse him. An' th' warst on it is 'oo's
+willin' enough to go. What will be th' end of it all, is fair beyond me.
+But nine months 'll tell a tale i' Marsden, or my name's not John Race."
+
+John would have run on for ever, but I was anxious to get my own
+business done so I bade him show me up to the Captain's room. The
+landlord's own private sitting room and an adjoining bedroom had been
+appropriated by the officer, and I followed John up the narrow,
+creaking, stairs. At a door on the landing he knocked, and a thin voice
+within called on us to enter and be damned to us.
+
+The room was small and low and packed with furniture of all styles and
+ages, more like a dealer's shop than an ordinary room. Folk said that
+many a quaint and costly ornament had found its way to John Race's in
+settlement of ale shots and gone to deck the room which was his wife's
+delight. But Captain Northman or his friends had treated it with scant
+reverence. On a table in the centre were a pack or two of cards and a
+couple of candles, that had guttered in the socket. A decanter half full
+of brandy stood by their side, whilst another, empty, and the fragments
+of a glass, lay on the floor. Boots, spurs, gloves, swords canes, were
+strewn about on the chairs, and the scent of stale tobacco reek and
+fumes of strong waters filled the room. A table, with an untasted
+breakfast set upon it, was drawn to the window, and by it, in a
+cushioned chair, sat a young man of some five and twenty years, dressed
+in his small clothes and a gaudy dressing-gown, yawning wofully and
+raising with unsteady hand a morning draught to his tremulous lips. He
+had evidently had a night of it and his temper was none the better for
+it. I raised my hand respectfully to my forehead as I had seen soldiers
+do, but he only stretched out his legs and stared me rudely in the face.
+
+"Well, fellow," he said at length, "what's your pleasure of me that you
+must break in on my breakfast?"
+
+"My name, sir, is Benjamin Bamforth."
+
+"Ben o' Bill's o' Holme," said the landlord.
+
+"Well, why the devil can't he stop at home?" said my lord. "Come, sir,
+your business."
+
+"Captain Northman," I said civilly, and speaking my finest, nothing
+daunted by his captaincy, but nettled by his slack manners, for even Mr.
+Chew, the vicar, treated me with civility as my father's son; "Captain
+Northman, you have in your Company, a soldier known as Long Tom, his
+proper name I know not, nor his rank."
+
+"Corporal Tom, well, what of him?"
+
+"Sir, I complain that last night he did wantonly and without enticement
+or other warrant insult my own cousin Mary, as she was returning home
+late in the evening."
+
+"Well, sir?"
+
+"And I lay this complaint that he may be punished as he deserves."
+
+"And is that all?"
+
+"And enough too, it seems to me, Captain Northman."
+
+"Good God! was ever the like heard!" exclaimed the Captain. "Here I am
+half pulled out of my bed in the small hours by a giant boor, my head
+all splitting with this vile liquor not fit for hog wash, and all
+because Long Tom chooses to kiss a pretty girl, who ten to one was
+nothing loth."
+
+"Captain Northman," I said, very quietly, "I may be a boor, but I am one
+of the boors that pay your wages. Neither is it the part of a gentleman
+to meet a request for redress by an added insult. But I see I mistook my
+man and now I shall take my own course." So I turned on my heels and
+strode down the steps.
+
+"Long Tom's in the kitchen," whispered 'Siah, and to the kitchen I
+strode.
+
+Here were about a dozen men in shirt sleeves, lounging and lolling
+about, some smoking, some pipe-claying their belts and polishing their
+arms, others drinking and at cards even thus early. It was not difficult
+to pick out my man. He was stood with legs outstretched before the fire.
+I made straight to him, and by the look he gave I knew he guessed my
+errand. I strode straight to him and without a word I smote him with the
+back of my hand across the face. The angry blood rushed to his cheeks,
+and he clenched his fist. The other soldiers jumped to their feet. "Fair
+play" cried 'Siah. "Man to man and fair play."
+
+"A fight, a fight."
+
+"A ring, a ring."
+
+"Into the yard with you my bully boys" said one who seemed to have
+authority, and into the yard we went, the whole company behind us, in
+great good humour at anything that promised sport.
+
+"Two cans to one on Long Tom," I heard. "I lay even on the bumpkin,"
+said another, and I was grateful even for that bit of backing.
+
+"Keep thi' temper an' bide your chance," whispered 'Siah, anxious to the
+last.
+
+And then we faced each other, Long Tom and I. He was stripped to the
+shirt and I stripped too. He was as big a man as I with more flesh and
+more skill. But all the loose living had told on him and he soon began
+to blow. He hammered at me lustily and I took it smiling. If he brayed
+my face to a pulp I meant to get one in at him. My chance came at last.
+I put all my force and all my weight into one blow full at his mouth. He
+guarded and made as tho' to counter. But his guard went back on himself,
+and my fist went plumb on his month. He went down like a felled ox and
+rolled on the ground kicking his heels and spitting out blood and his
+teeth. Then 'Siah raised a great shout and even some of the soldiers
+seemed not sorry to see the mighty fallen. And 'Siah led me off, feeling
+dazed and weak as a woman, and with a strong bent to blubber like a
+baby, now it was all over, for I am not used to fighting, and would any
+day rather give a point or two than fratch.
+
+John Race, in a quiet way, was as rejoiced as 'Siah, but dare not show
+it too openly, for fear of angering the soldiers, of whom he was in
+great dread. But as I put my head under the pump and swilled my face he
+brought me a stiff runner of brandy and would take no pay. And presently
+others of the company came a round me and pressed me to drink, and the
+little captain, who had watched us from the window, came down and urged
+me to take the King's shilling. "Faith," said he, "there's blood in you,
+man. I thought they put sizing in your veins, but it's blood after all."
+"Aye, my little tom tit," said 'Siah who had no reverence for dignities.
+"It's blood 'at wouldn't stand mastering by sich as thee. Tha' need'nt
+fluster thissen. Aw'm noan bahn to hurt thee. But if tha' can get any o'
+these felly's to back thee, aw'll be glad to feight the two on you.
+Will'nt one on yo' oblige me? Noa? Weel nivver mind, cap'n, aw'll happen
+come across thee in a year or twi when th'art full grown, an' if thi'
+mother 'll let thee, tha' may happen ha' a bang at me. Come, Ben, let's
+go back to yar wark. This is nobbut babby lakin!" And so, 'Siah bore me
+off, with colours flying.
+
+On our homeward way we had much scheming as to how I should account for
+my face, which began to puff and show divers colours. 'Siah was for
+telling the story as it was, but I had no mind that Mary's name should
+be mixed up in it. So we kept abroad the whole day and to my mother's
+great grief and my father's anger we presented ourselves late at night;
+'Siah really, and myself feigning to be drunk. And Mary was so disgusted
+that she would scarce look at me, saying the sight of my face set her
+against her food. But towards the week end, Martha musts have got the
+secret from 'Siah and passed it on, for one night when I sat brooding by
+the fire, with no light but the glow of the embers, a light form stole
+softly behind my chair, and a pair of warm arms went round my neck and a
+tearful voice sobbed.
+
+"O! Ben, yo' mun forgive me. But aw'll never forgive missen."
+
+What is the magic of a woman's kiss and how comes it that under some
+conditions the touch of her lips will stir you not at all, and under
+others will kindle in your heart a flame that lasts your life-time. Till
+that moment I vow I had had no love for my cousin Mary, save such as a
+brother may have for his sister, between which and a lover's love is, I
+take it, the difference between the light of the moon, and the light of
+the sun. I had sometimes kissed her and she had submitted as not
+minding. But of late she had eluded me when I had sought to salute her,
+which skittishness I had put down to what was going on between her and
+George. And now, unsought, she had put her arms about my neck and drawn
+back my head to the warm cushion of her breast and pressed a kiss upon
+my brow. And lo! love, glorious love, full grown and lusty, leaped into
+the ocean of my being and ruled it thenceforth for even. And yet when I
+sprung to my feet and held out my arms and would have taken Mary to my
+heart, she sprung away and bade me keep my distance, and when I made to
+take what she would not grant, she grew angered, so that my heart fell
+and I was sick with doubts and sadness. And here, tho' little given to
+preaching, I would deliver my homily anent all shams and make-believes.
+Here was Mary setting my thoughts once more on a wrong tack so that I
+had no choice but return to what I had taken for granted, that it was a
+made up thing between her and George Mellor. And but for that belief
+many things that happened might not have befallen. Then, too, after my
+fight with Long Tom, my father gave me a talking to on my loose and
+raffish ways, and yet the very next market day, I heard of his boasting
+to all and sundry of my deeds, and the rumour thereof grew so much
+beyond the simple truth that I should not have some day been surprised
+to hear that I had routed a whole regiment. My mother, too, scolded me
+not a little and wept over my bruised skin, but among the women folk of
+our parish she bragged so much of my strength and my courage that I had
+like to become a laughing stock among the men. Even little Mr. Webster,
+who spoke to me at nigh an hour's length on the sinfulness of brawling
+and on the Christian duty of turning, the other cheek to the smiter, did
+ever after that honour me by asking the support of my arm when he
+returned late home, saying no one would molest him while I was by. Only
+Martha, among them all, was honest, for she made no secret of her
+delight in me, loading me with praises so that 'Siah began to look at me
+with an evil eye, and she insisted on giving me each day to breakfast a
+double portion of porridge and piling up blankets on my bed till I was
+like to be smothered.
+
+But Mary spoke of my doings not at all, whilst Faith, when she heard of
+the fray, prattled prettily a whole afternoon, and said so many sweet
+things to me that Mary became waspish and told her I was set up enough
+by nature without folk going out of their way to spoil me by soft
+sawder. Then Faith must unsay half she had said and finished by opining
+that, after all, the proper course would have been to horse-whip Captain
+Northman before his own Company.
+
+And this, she thought, was what George would have done.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+It must not be supposed, because I have turned aside to tell of my own
+poor affairs, that the Luddites were idle all this while. Indeed it is
+very difficult for me to give any notion of the state of this part of
+the country at that time. Trade was as bad as bad could be. Nobody
+seemed to have any money to spend on clothes. It took most folk all
+their time to line the inside, and the outside had to make shift as best
+it could. It was cruel to see the homes of those who had no back set and
+depended on their daily toil for their daily bread. And yet some
+manufacturers persisted in putting in machines that could have but one
+effect, to turn adrift many of those who still had work. And with it all
+arose in the minds not only of the croppers but of all the working
+people for miles around a feeling of injustice, of oppression, a
+rankling sense of wrong. And the poor felt for the poor. They got it
+into their heads that the rich cared nought about them, that their only
+thought was to look after themselves, to fill their own pockets, and the
+working folk might rot in their rags for ought they cared. And added to
+this was a chafing sense of their own helplessness. They felt like
+prisoned birds dashing against the bars of a cage. You see they had no
+say in anything at all. They were Englishmen only in name their lives,
+even when times were fairly good, were none of the brightest. It was
+mostly work and bed and not too much bed. Hard work and scant fare and
+little pleasure. They had love and friendship, for these come by nature,
+but they had little else to bring a ray or two of sunshine into their
+lives. When people in those days met together to set forth their
+grievances they were persecuted for sedition; when they didn't meet and
+were quiet and law-abiding our betters said we had no grievances. Nay,
+if there was no violence both of speech and action the wise-acres in
+London said and thought all things were for the best in the best of all
+possible worlds. You couldn't talk sense into them, you just had to
+poise it into them. So what would you?
+
+Anyway, before the Luddites had been banded together many weeks it was
+well understood that we existed for bigger things than to break shears
+and cropping frames. Booth was always dinning this into me when I hinted
+at the wastefulness of smashing costly frames and other such like
+mischief. "We must arouse the conscience of our rulers," he said. "They
+cannot, or will not, see how desperate is our plight. Besides, nine
+tenths of them have a personal interest in war, in prolonging shutting
+our ports. Their sense of right will not move them: we must frighten
+them." Then he would smile in his sweet, sad way and say something in
+the French which he explained to mean that folk cannot have pancakes
+without breaking eggs, and after that I never lifted a hammer to smash a
+frame but my mind went to Shrove Tuesday and I had a vision of Mary with
+sleeves rolled up and face flushed by the heat of the fire, her dress
+tucked between her knees, tossing pancakes up the big chimney, and
+catching them sissing as they fell with the browned side up into the
+spurting fat.
+
+Not that I did much machine breaking myself. There is a canny
+thriftiness in my nature that made me dislike such wantonness. Besides
+George Mellor was really the soul of the whole affair: and where George
+was there was no peace. He seemed like one possessed. From the Shears
+Inn at Hightown to the Nag's Head at Paddock, from the Nag's Head to the
+Buck, night after night, swearing in men, arranging midnight visits,
+dropping into this shop, loitering by that, counselling one man, winning
+another, he seemed to be everywhere at once, to know every man's wants
+and every man's grievance. What master to leave alone, what to fley. How
+he did it all and when he slept is a mystery to me. And he never lost
+heart never wavered from his purpose and there never was a moment when
+we didn't, all trust him and all love him--save only one.
+
+I say I didn't handle Enoch much myself. We called the big sledge hammer
+that we battered the frames with, Enoch, after Mr. Taylor of Marsden.
+George saw I did not like the work, and the distance of my home from
+Longroyd Bridge made a good excuse for me. But 'Siah gloried in the work
+and when I saw him of a morning dull-eyed and weary and his clogs dirty
+with fresh clay I guessed what he had been at, and so in time did Martha
+too. But I could not always shirk my share of this midnight work,
+little, as it was to my liking. 'Siah had brought an earnest, message to
+me from George. "Yo' mun go, Ben. Th' lads are talking," 'Siah had said.
+
+And so, after milking time one night in the first week in April I told
+my mother I must go down to th' Brigg, and she must not be uneasy if I
+did not come home that night, as I should probably stay at my aunt's;
+and my mother must needs send by me a basket of eggs and a cream cheese
+for her sister, and a rubbing bottle for her rheumatism with full
+directions for its use. I saw a look pass between Martha and Mary when I
+said I was going to th' Brigg, and Mary said:
+
+"Mind yo' don't bring a black eye home wi' thee, i' th' mornin', Ben.
+But if th' art so set up wi' thissen for feightin', do it by daylight.
+It's ill wark that winnot bear th' sun's face," and then I knew Martha
+had been talking. But I reckoned not to understand her, and off I set
+with as poor a heart for my job as if I were going to be hanged.
+
+Up by Kitchen Fold I came up with 'Siah and Soldier Jack. It was a
+darkish night, wet, drizzling and cold. We made off over by Crosland
+Moor, and never a soul did we meet till we were falling into Milnsbridge
+where Justice Radcliffe's house was. Then we passed a patrol of horse.
+They challenged us, and each of us had to tell a different lie. But they
+had no ground for stopping us, and they went their way over the moor,
+their horses pacing slowly and the riders peering on either side into
+the darkness of the night. I never knew those horse soldiers one bit of
+use all the time, and with their loose ways they did much harm. Those
+that had a tale which could pass muster would walk past them bold as
+brass. Those that couldn't face them just avoided them, which was easy
+enough whether by day or night, for stone fences are good for men to
+hide behind, and at the best it is a hard country for men on cavalry
+horses.
+
+At the Nag's Head, at Paddock, we found George Mellor, William Smith,
+Thorpe, Ben o' Buck's, his brother John, Tom Brooke, Bill Hall, and two
+or three others who worked at Wood's. We had a glass apiece, and we
+needed it, or thought we did, which comes to the same thing in the end.
+These new-fangled teetotal fads hadn't come in then, and when folk
+didn't drink it was because they couldn't get it. Anyhow a glass of hot
+rum and water, on a perishing night, warms the cockles of your heart,
+and for my part I should have been well content to stretch my legs
+before the big kitchen fire at the Nag's Head and caress my stomach with
+another glass. But George was impatient for us to be off. So we up
+Paddock, by Jim-lane to the bottom of Marsh. There is a two-storied
+stone house there looking over to Gledholt, with a mill at the back of
+it. I knew the owner by sight well enough, a little spindle-shanked man,
+with a squeaky voice. I had seen him many's the time at the Cherry Tree.
+Fond of his glass he was, and a great braggart when warmed with liquor.
+He was a foremost man in the Watch and Ward, and I had heard him boast
+oft enough of what he would do if the Luddites ever came his way. So I
+sniggered a bit to myself when we came on to the road in front of the
+house. The windows were all dark in front. We went up the house side to
+the mill yard. Here was a door barring the way into the yard.
+
+"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.
+
+"H'm, bullet in biceps, hoemorrhage of the artery, acute inflammation,
+temperature equatorial, fever, ravings, pandemonium generally!" All the
+while probing for the bullet as if he were picking a periwinkle.
+
+"Mrs. Bamforth," presently he said, "how do you feel?"
+
+"Aw'm well enough i' body, doctor, but nowt to boast of i' mind."
+
+"I don't think you are very well, Mrs. Bamforth. I detect in you
+symptoms, my dear lady, that give me grave alarm."
+
+"Why, good gracious, doctor, whatever do yo' mean? Why my appetite's
+good . . . ."
+
+"That aggravates the complaint."
+
+"Aw sleep well, leastwise aw did till a neet or two sin, when aw started
+dreamin' o' washing clothes, an' aw knew it were a sign o' a burial i'
+th' family. 'William Bamforth,' aw said to th' mester, 'William
+Bamforth, as sure as yo're a living man there'll be a death i' th'
+family afore yo'r a month older, but little did aw think o' yar Ben
+bein' laid low. Aw put it down to my sister Matty. He did nowt but
+laugh, but he'll happen believe me now. It's a judgment on him for
+scoffing.'"
+
+"Mrs. Bamforth, you must take to your bed at once; and you must not stir
+out of it till I give you leave. You must send Martha to the surgery at
+once and I'll make up a bottle, and three times a day you must take it."
+
+"But I ail nowt, doctor."
+
+"You may pour it down the sink."
+
+Was the doctor off his head? But no, he went on:
+
+"You must impress it on Martha, I'll tell her myself, that you are
+dangerously ill and every day I'll drive up myself to see you. You must
+tell Martha to mind she says nothing about it in the village, and then I
+suppose it'll be all over the Country in no time. And if anybody asks
+where Ben is, he's gone on his rounds. Now do you understand?"
+
+I did anyway, and I pressed his hand gratefully.
+
+"It may be a fortnight before Ben's fit to be moved, and then, mark you,
+he must be moved, and for my credit's sake, if for no other reason, not
+a soul out of this house must know Ben's within a hundred miles of
+this."
+
+"God bless you, doctor. Aw've been wondering and wondering ever sin'
+'Si' brought him home, whatever we should say to th' neighbours. An'
+yo've found a way all in a minnit. See what it is to be eddicated. Aw'll
+be i' bed afore yo're out o' th' house. An' mind yo' insense it into our
+William, for he's that stupid he'll spoil it all. An', for sure, aw
+don't feel very well; it's my heart, doctor."
+
+And I think my mother came as near winking as ever she did since she
+made lovers' signals across the pews, when my father was courting her.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+MY Father and Siah left home that very day with the waggon. It was given
+out in the little village that I was gone too, and it was soon town's
+talk that Mrs. Bamforth was sick and that Dr. Dean was visiting her
+twice a day. 'Siah came up to see me in bed before he started.
+
+"Th' mester's awful put out," he told me. "Aw heard thi mother askin'
+him if he weren't bahn to come up an' say good-bye to thee, Ben. But he
+said nowt. Tha's put his back up gradely this time, lad, an' I expect
+aw'st have a roughish time on it missen. But hard words an' foul looks
+break no bones, an' aw'd rather be i' Macclesfield wi' Awd Harry
+hissen,' just nah, nor at wom among th' Luds. No more sojerin' for me,
+Ben. My yed's fair stunned wi' th' din. An' ne'er thee mind about thi
+father. He'll come rahnd, an' then he'll ma' it up to thee as if he'd
+been i' fault hissen. By gow, tha has getten a arm, to be sure. It looks
+like three pund o' lites, and they'd best keep th' cat out o' th' room
+when th'ar asleep, or 'oo'l be at thee, sure as God made little apples."
+
+And soon afterwards I heard the cart lumbering out of the yard to the
+usual accompaniment of the dog's excited barking and 'Siah's apostrophes
+to Old Bess.
+
+Then my mother and Mary took possession of me, and I am persuaded that
+never did my mother enjoy herself so thoroughly as during the three
+weeks or more that I kept my bed. Her own room adjourned the one in
+which I lay, and as she was supposed to be herself bedridden she had all
+the advantage of being at close quarters. She would come to my bedside a
+hundred times a day in her linsey petticoat and a red flannel jacket
+with big bone buttone that gave her quite a martial air, and at every
+knock at the house door she would skip back to her own room, tumble into
+bed, draw the clothes over her, and set to groaning as tho' in mortal
+agony. Then, when retreating footsteps assured her the coast was clear,
+she would steal back with a shame-faced look and busy herself about the
+room. How many times a day she dusted the furniture of my room and
+arranged and rearranged the odds and ends on the little dressing table,
+I cannot hazard a guess at. She spent hours each day listening at the
+top of the staircase to what was going on below, for she was tortured by
+the conviction that things were going to rack and ruin in her absence
+and that Martha and Mary were in a conspiracy to do all things they
+ought not to do and leave undone the things they ought to do. Nothing
+would persuade her that any cleaning was being done in the parlour, and
+she knew that when she was able to get about again she would be able to
+write her name in dust on the looking-glass and the chiffonier, that is
+if she should haply be able to get into the room at all, of which she
+was somewhat sceptical. When Mary brought my chicken broth and rice
+pudding, my prescribed diet, on which by the bye I soon began to lose
+flesh at an alarming rate, my mother would meet her at the stair head
+and herself bring it to the bedside, very jealous, as was easy enough to
+see, that he could not cook it herself. Such tasting of broth and
+puddings sure never was before nor since, nor such fault-finding. Some
+days the rice hadn't been soaked long enough, other days too long. Some
+days the broth was too strong, others too weak, or the salt was in
+excess, or the pepper, or a pinch of this or that would have improved
+the flavour. Poor Mary, did it ever set you thinking, I wonder, what an
+ideal mother-in-law your aunt would make?
+
+Then, when the ball had been extracted from my arm and my shoulder began
+to look less like a lump of liver, it became clear to my mother that I
+was in need of spiritual comfort. The big Family Bible was brought from
+the parlour and placed on a little table by my bedside. I was perfectly
+capable of reading it for myself, but that would not have suited my
+nurse. She read with difficulty and had many a stubborn tussle with the
+hard words. At first I helped her with them but soon perceived she took
+a delight in the struggle and so left her to grapple with them. As she
+opined my illness would be a long one and she did not mean to be
+gravelled for lack of matter, she began at the first chapter of the Book
+of Genesis and advanced by slow stages to the tenth, when she floundered
+in a genealogical bog from which she brought forth, I fear, only one
+piece of abiding information, to wit, that the eldest son of Eber bore
+the same name as the crippled son of the village postmaster--Peg-leg.
+
+Dr. Dean was her great comfort during this enforced confinement. Twice
+daily did that cheery visitor drive up to Holme, and from the long stay
+that his champing, stamping mare made by our door, the neighbours drew
+gloomy auguries as to my mother's desperate state. If they could have
+seen him sat in an easy chair, profaning the chaste sanctity of the
+bedroom with tobacco smoke, and relishing our best Hollands while he
+detailed the village gossip to my mother's delighted ears, they would
+have had less concern for the good soul's health. My mother declared the
+doctor's visits were worth a guinea apiece.
+
+"Mrs. Garside's been enquiring after yo' Mrs. Bamforth." Now this was
+that Hannah Garside who had pulled up my mother's half-cousin, Sam o'
+Sall's, because of the eggs.
+
+"She met save her breath to cool her porridge," was my mother's
+ungrateful comment.
+
+"She says she freely forgives yo', ma'm."
+
+"The imperence on her. Ah! wait till I get better, an' I'll gi'e her
+forgive me!"
+
+"She promises to pray for you, Mrs. Bamforth."
+
+"To pray for me! Hannah Garside, pray for me! Oh! this must be stopped,
+doctor. It's too bad 'at she's none content wi' makin' th' village
+unbearable an' nah mun' be bringing me into bad odour wi' th' saints
+above."
+
+"She sends her compliments, ma'am, and says if I prescribe custards she
+won't venture to send any batter as it's well known your family knows a
+way o' never being short o' eggs."
+
+"Oh! trust her for taking a mean advantage o' me, an' me laid o' mi back
+an' not able to stick up for missen. Take her a cruet o' water, doctor,
+an' say I'd be glad if she'd look into it an' turn it to vinegar. But
+yo'r taking nothing, doctor. Fill your glass, now do, and have another
+pipe. Never mind th' smoke. It's good for moths." And thus did Doctor
+Dean pass the time in those professional visits the portentous length of
+which gave so much anxiety to our friends.
+
+It was Soldier Jack who told me the news of poor John Booth's sad end.
+Soldier had been chary of coming at first for fear of arousing the
+suspicions of our neighbours, but he was very useful in spreading the
+news of my mother's illness. He had her one day on the brink of death,
+another day rallying. One day it was current through the village that my
+mother had sent for Lawyer Blackburn, and the undertaker went about with
+a visibly expectant face. When Mr. Webster called, all hope was
+abandoned. When he went away without being admitted to the sick chamber,
+tho' my mother had to bite her tongue to prevent herself calling out to
+him from the stairhead, our kinsfolk of all degrees began to look up
+their mourning, and the stone-cutter at Powle Moor got ready a selection
+of appropriate head-lines.
+
+At length Jack could keep away no longer and came one afternoon into my
+room, walking softly in on tip-toe of one foot and a limp of the other,
+as tho' I were dead or sleeping. Poor Jack, he looked sadly worn and
+harassed of these days and had lost all his swagger and even his
+cheerfulness.
+
+"Yes, it's too true, Ben. Poor John Booth's dead as a nit. Shot through
+th' leg, an' no stamina to bear it. He died th' same neet.
+
+"Tell me about it Soldier? Poor lad, poor lad."
+
+"He died at Tommy Sheard's at th' Star i' Roberdta'n. He wer' a good
+plucked 'un, an' his father a parson too. His mother mun ha' been a none
+such, aw reckon."
+
+"Who was with him Jack? Was he in much pain? Did he say owt? Tell me all
+about it."
+
+"Well, as far as aw can gather, after we carried yo' off t'others didn't
+stay long behind. Th' game wor up."
+
+"How did we come to leave Booth? We ought not to have left Booth. I
+promised I'd see to him, and a pretty way I've kept my word."
+
+"Dunnot yo' fash yersen, Ben. Yo'd your work set wi' Enoch. John brought
+it on hissen. He wer' all ovver th' shop', egging th' men on. Aw told
+him to keep i' covver, but he seemed fair to run agen th' bullets as if
+he wanted killing. Well he gate what he wanted. Still if we hadn't had
+our hands full wi yo', we might ha' carried him off. But he's dead, so
+we should nobbud ha' had our wark for nowt, an' a mort o' trouble to
+account for th' corpse. Yo' mebbe hannot thowt o' that. What should we
+ha' done wi' a dead body wi' a leg smashed to mush, on our hands?"
+
+Aye, what, I thought.
+
+"Well, theer John lay among broken glass, an' stones, an' sticks, an'
+plaster, in front o' th' mill, an' Sam Hartley shot through th' lung an'
+vomiting quarts o' blood, not far off him. After a bit owd Hammond
+Roberson, th' feightin' parson, come gallopin' up wi' a lot o' soldiers,
+an' Cartwright oppens th' mill door, an' him an' his men comes out, an'
+they do say Cartwright took on rarely when he see'd th' mess we'd made
+o' th' mill front. Poor John were beggin' some o' th' folk 'at had run
+up to fetch him a drop o' water. Aw know what it's like when yo'r
+wounded. Yo' feel as if yo'd got a little hell o' yo'r own inside yo'.
+But Cartwright wer' noan for lettin' him have a drop, not even to wet
+his lips, till he'd gi'en th' names o' those 'at wer' th' leaders. But
+John tak' no notice nor Hartley nawther, but nobbut begged for water.
+Old Roberson, dam him, wor as bad as Cartwright. It wer' confession
+first, an' water after. But a chap called Billy Clough ran an' put a
+stone under John's yed, an' then fot him a drink. If awther th' parson
+or Cartwright had stopped him, aw'm told th' folk round 'ud ha' mobbed
+'em. Aw can forgi'e Cartwright, for it's none calc'lated to put a chap
+into th' best o' tempers to ha' his mill made such a mullock on; but,
+curse Roberson, an' all such like, say I, an' him a parson, too!"
+
+"But what of John, Soldier?"
+
+"Well at last when he'd say nowt, water or no water, they put him on a
+gate an' carried him an' Hartley to th' Star. A doctor wer' noan long i'
+turnin' up, for them chaps smell blood like vultures. He said ther' wer'
+nowt for it but to hampotate th' leg, an' that wer' just more nor John
+could stand, an' he cheat both th' parson an' th' gallows, an' deed like
+a man an' a Briton at he wor.
+
+"How cheat th' parson, Jack?"
+
+"Well owd Roberson wouldn't let him die i' peace, but wer all th' time
+naggin' him to confess. Then when Booth knew his end were near, he
+called old Roberson to stand ovver him, an' th' owd sinner's face lit up
+wi' glee, an' he stepped up to John as brisk as a bee."
+
+"You see, gentlemen, the power of the Church! And now, my good man."
+
+"Can yo' keep a secret, sir?" said John, in a whisper; but all were so
+still yo' could have heard a pin drop. Even Sammy Hartley, who wer'
+deein' fast, stopped moanin', they say; tho' that mun be either accident
+or fancy."
+
+"Can yo' keep a secret, sir?" whispered John.
+
+"I can, I can," said th' parson.
+
+"An' so can I," said John, "wi' a smile, an he put his head back an'
+never spak' no more; an', oh! Ben, when aw talk on it aw'm fit to
+blubber like a child. He wer' a rare un, wer' John."
+
+Mary was there and my mother, and Mary's face was buried in the
+counterpane and I heard her sob, and a tear trickled down my mother's
+cheek, and I turned my face to the wall and mourned for my friend.
+
+"We got his body," went on Jack after a long pause. "Mr. Wright, th'
+saddler, saw to that. It wer' brought to his house, an' th' funeral wer'
+fra' theer. He wer' buried i' Huddersfield Churchyard, an' all th' town
+wer' theer. George Mellor and Thorpe walked after th' hearse, an' all
+th' folk, hundreds on 'em, 'at could lay the'r hands on a bit, wore
+white crape around their arm. It wer' a gran' funeral."
+
+"And Faith?" said Mary.
+
+"'Oo leaned o' Mrs. Wright, 'at wer' like a mother to her. Th' owd
+father weren't theer. But Faith looked just all brokken to pieces, poor
+wench."
+
+"I'll go to her, straight away," cried Mary.
+
+"Aye, do, Mary," said my mother, "and bring her up to Holme wi' yo'. She
+wants some kitchen physic as well as other folk."
+
+"Yo' forget yo'r ill i' bed, aunt," said Mary, "and Ben's away to
+Macclesfield."
+
+"Well, if aw amn't, aw soon shall be, if this mak' o' wark goes on. Oh!
+George, tha's a deal to answer for, an' it's much if tha doesn't break
+thi mother's heart afore tha's done, an' then there 'll be an end o'
+poor Matty, too."
+
+I fret a deal over John Booth's awful death and felt in a manner that it
+lay at my door. Faith's sad face haunted my fevered dreams, and I
+reproached myself not a little that I had not taken more care of the
+lad. And yet, looking back, I do not see that I could have done other
+than I did. I spoke with Mary on the matter.
+
+"It's a bad job for Faith losing her brother like this, Mary. I doubt
+she'll take it sore to heart. Her whole life seemed centred and wrapped
+up in John. They might have been twins. I blame misen shocking that aw
+left him to shift for hissen."
+
+"I don't see how yo'r to blame, Ben. From all I can make out, yo'd
+enough to do to look out for yersen; and it's only natural that 'Siah
+an' Soldier, anyway 'Siah, our own man, should look to yo' first an'
+foremost, choose how others fared."
+
+"But I promised Faith that I'd have an eye to him."
+
+"Well you did your best, and th' best can do no more. It's no use thee
+working thissen into a fever, an' tossin' about as if tha wer' on a hot
+backstone, an' kickin' th' clo'es off thee as fast as aw can put them
+on, over summat at's done an' can't be undone."
+
+"Yo'r only a Job's comforter, Mary. Aw should have thought tha'd more
+feeling in thee."
+
+"Feeling! aw've feeling enough. But it's time to talk a bit o' sense.
+There's been mischief enough an' to spare o' late about feeling. It's
+feeling baht sense 'at brought yo' into this mess, an' yo'r noan aht o'
+th' wood yet. Happen tha'll live to envy John Booth, an' wish tha'd been
+left for dead at Rawfolds i'stead o' 'scaping to find a worse fate. I
+declare aw never hear a step come to th' door but my heart goes into mi
+mouth an mi knees shake so aw can hardly stand. There's feeling for yo',
+if yo' like. Mr. Chew says it's a hanging job for them 'at's caught."
+
+I flushed at this you may be sure, tho' Mary only put into words the
+thought that had tortured my waking hours and made my dreams hideous.
+That was a subject not to be dwelt on. So I made haste to revert to
+Faith.
+
+"Aw hannot told yo' yet, Mary, that I made a promise to John, too."
+
+"Yo seem to ha' been precious free wi thi promises."
+
+"Nay, Mary, what's come ovver thee? Its noan like thee to turn agen them
+'at's i' trouble. It wer' at Kirklees, just before we started for
+Rawfolds."
+
+And I told Mary of what had passed between John Booth and me.
+
+"Well, what is it all leading to?" she asked.
+
+"A've been turning things ovver i' mi mind, Mary, as aw've laid o' mi
+back. Yo' see, Faith's nobbut a poor weak thing, an' fra all aw can hear
+her father's awmost as bad. Don't yo' think we ought to do summat to
+help her?"
+
+"With all my heart--as how?"
+
+"Nay, that's wheer aw'm fast. Cannot yo' suggest summat?"
+
+"Yo' might happen ask her if she wants a home--Martha 'll mebbe be so
+accommodatin' as to mak' room for her i' th' house. Martha could get
+another job fast enough, an' then yo'll have Faith under yo'r own e'en,
+an' it'll be little trouble to look after her then."
+
+"The thing's preposterous, Mary. The idea of Faith scouring and, milking
+and such like."
+
+"Yo' might perhaps offer her work at the spinning."
+
+"Why, Faith's been brought' up a lady," I cried.
+
+"It's no more nor yo'r mother an' me does every day of our lives. But to
+be sure I'm not a lady. But, perhaps, yo'd like to make Faith a present
+or allow her a pension. I'm glad to see things are mending wi' yo', Ben.
+Aw allus thowt yo' had nought but what yo' addled, an' that's like to be
+little enough for many a month to come. But, perhaps, tha's come in for
+a fortin', an' been keepin' it secret for fear o' killin' us wi' joy.
+Tell us on it, Ben. Aw'll try to bear it, if it isn't too dazzling."
+
+"Do quit thi teasing, Mary, an' talk some sense. It's no jesting matter
+for poor Faith."
+
+"And that's true enough, cousin, and I'm a wicked girl to run on so. But
+yo' aggravate me so wi' thi wild schemes an' foolish talk."
+
+"How foolish!"
+
+"Why, how can ta help Faith? It were reight enough for poor John to
+speak to yo'. I expect his heart wer' full, an' it eased him to speak to
+thee. But now what can yo' do? Tha has nowt, an' half nought's nought
+all th' world over."
+
+"I could be a brother to her, Mary."
+
+"Oh! a brother! I should ha' thowt yo'd had enough o' brotherhoods to
+sicken thi for life. Aw've no patience wi' thee. There's Faith living at
+Low Moor wi' her father, an' needed there, aw've little doubt, an' wi'
+her hands full enough, an' now yo' mun strike up a brotherhood wi' her.
+Aw suppose we'st ha' yo', as soon as yo'r up, settin' off every week end
+to Low Moor to play the brother. Yo'll ha' to take yo'r sister out for
+long walks aw suppose, an' to buy her rings an' keepsakes an' all that.
+Yo'll find it cheaper to buy her a plain 'un to begin wi'."
+
+"Well, and why not?" I said, getting nettled, for Mary had told me some
+home truths that had been none too pleasant in the hearing and
+digestion.
+
+"And why not?" I repeated. "Faith's a sweet lass, and a good one an'
+true. She's over pale an' thin mebbe, for everyone's fancy."
+
+"Oh! beauty's in the eye of the beholder," put in Mary, tossing her
+head.
+
+"But she'd cure o' that, wi' plenty o' good milk an' fresh air such as
+we han at Holme. An' aw think she leans a bit to me. Don't yo' think so
+yoursen, Mary.
+
+"Dunnot ask me. My head doesn't run on such trash. What's ta talking to
+me for? Aw'm noan Faith. Yo'd soon have an answer, an' one 'at 'ud tak'
+th' conceit out on thee if owt could. Ask hersen."
+
+"Well! I happen will," I said. "Aw've a good mind."
+
+"It's a pity to spoil a good mind then. I'd waste no time about it,
+chance some'dy snaps her up. An' while th' art abaht it, yo might ask
+her to come an' nurse thee, so's 'oo'll know what's afore her."
+
+And Mary bounced out of the room in a tantrum.
+
+The frame of mind in which she left me was certainly not one that Dr.
+Dean could have desired for a feverish patient. It. was clear to me that
+my own position was anything but an enviable one. Large rewards had been
+offered, I knew, for such information as would lead to the conviction of
+those concerned in the attack on Rawfolds, and machine breaking had been
+made a capital offence. My own participation in that affair was known to
+scores, and suspected by hundreds more. An incident that befel shortly
+afterwards aggravated my alarm. My father was still away. A letter had
+come from him, written in an obviously bad temper, complaining of the
+awful state of trade and driving my mother to distraction by telling of
+the trial and punishment of the Nottingham Luddites. However, I had so
+far proceeded to convalescence as to leave my bed, and I was looking
+forwards to being out and about in a few days, and I was turning over in
+my mind the feasibility of leaving home for a few months till things
+blew over a bit. I did not feel safe at home and that's the fact, and I
+was on tenterhooks to put a hundred miles and more between me and
+Justice Radcliffe, who was scouring the district for Luds.
+
+I was meditating on these matters and wondering why George Mellor never
+came near me even to ask after my recovery, when I heard the dog give
+tongue in the yard and the sound of horses' hoofs. I managed to support
+myself to the stairhead. I heard a clatter at the door, which was opened
+by Martha.
+
+"Does William Bamforth live here?" asked a voice, and there was the
+pawing of a horse's hoof, the jingling of a bit-chain, the sound of one
+swinging himself heavily to the ground, and the clinking of spurs.
+
+"Does ta' mean Bill o' Ben's?" queried Martha.
+
+"I mean William Bamforth."
+
+"Well yo'see, there's a seet o' Bamforths i' Holme, an' four on 'em's
+Bills. It'll be Bill o' Luke's yo'r wantin', or happen Bill o' Nan's
+Back Side."
+
+"I mean William Bamforth, who has a son called Ben."
+
+"Well, he's noan at wom. He's i' Macclesfield. But aw munnot stop
+talkin' here. Aw'm churnin', an' th' butter's just on th' turn. Aw'll
+tell him a felly come to see him."
+
+"Not so fast, my good woman."
+
+"I'll trouble yo' to keep a civil tongue in yo'r head. My name's Martha.
+Don't 'Good woman' me, if yo' please."
+
+"Where's yo'r mistress?"
+
+"'Oo's i' bed. 'Oo's ill. 'Oo's getten th' small pox, an' tha'd better
+be off afore th' smell on it comes dahn stairs an' smittles thee."
+
+"I'm sorry to seem rude, my sweet Martha. But duty's duty. I must search
+yo'r house."
+
+"If tha comes in aw'll set th' dog at thee. Here Vixen, Vixen." And
+Martha called to an imaginary bitch.
+
+There was a slight scuffle, and someone strode into the house.
+
+"No one here anyhow. Now for upstairs." My mother had fled to her bed
+and drawn the clothes about her. For me, I lay back in my chair
+incapable of thought or movement. The stairs creaked under a heavy
+tread. Mary stood by my side, my hand stole into hers, and she faced the
+door, battle in her eyes. A big, burly trooper pushed it open, ducking
+his head as he advanced over the threshold. It was Long Tom with whom I
+had fought at Marsden.
+
+"What want you here?" cried Mary. "How dare you force your way into
+decent folks' house in broad day?"
+
+"The gamesome wench that slapped my face!" cried Long Tom.
+
+"Aye, and will slap it again if yo'r not off."
+
+"Gently, Mary, gently," I said. "The sergeant has doubtless business
+here. Your errand, sir?" I said. "You see you intrude."
+
+"Why this beats Banagher, where the cows run barefoot!" exclaimed the
+soldier. "If this isn't the youngster spoiled my beauty for me. Nay, sit
+still," he went on, as I tried to rise.
+
+"What! bandaged, too, and in the forearm. A queer treatment for small
+pox."
+
+"Sir, if you have business here, I pray you do it."
+
+"Is your name Ben Bamforth?"
+
+"It is."
+
+"The son of William Bamforth?"
+
+"His son."
+
+"And what the devil are yo' doing here, you thundering young idiot? Why
+in the name of common sense aren't you a thousand miles away if horse or
+mail could carry you?"
+
+"And what the devil are yo' doing here, you thundering young idiot? Why
+in the name of common sense aren't you a thousand miles away if horse or
+mail could carry you?"
+
+"I am not accountable to you for my actions that I know of. Again, your
+business?"
+
+My mother had issued from her room in petticoat and scarlet jacket.
+
+"Keep your distance, good woman, if its yo' have the small pox. If I
+must be riddled let it be with pellets not pustules," cried the soldier,
+starting back in horror.
+
+"Oh! good Mr. Soldier. What do yo' want with our Ben? A quiet, harmless
+lad, as ever lived, that never harmed a flee. I'm sure he's done nothing
+wrong, and him bedfast these six months past."
+
+Now heaven forgive you, mother!
+
+"He played a mighty heavy fist for a sick man not three months gone,
+anyhow, good dame. Nay, keep your distance. Good God! if the old lady
+isn't going to kneel to me."
+
+For my mother made as if she would throw herself at the soldier's feet.
+
+"Mother, calm yourself," I said. "Pray, sir, you see I am in no case to
+bear much talking. What is your will with me."
+
+"I'm sorry, I'm very sorry. A man like you that ought to be fighting
+Mounseer, and a proper Life Guardsman yo'd make, for sure. Well, well,
+of all the tomfoolery! However, I see no help for it."
+
+And Long Tom strode about the room in evident perplexity, muttering to
+himself: "A brave lad," "a sad case," "too good for the gallows," and "I
+owe the wench one, too."
+
+I seemed to watch the working of his mind, and hope stole trembling back
+into my heart.
+
+Another too was scanning his face as anxiously as manner marks the
+witness of the skies.
+
+"And so, madam," he said, "you are his mother, and I suppose this tale
+of small pox is all flam. And you, Miss, what is this long-limbed game
+cock to you?"
+
+"Oh! Sergeant," cried Mary, "I am sure you have a good heart, and are a
+brave and generous man. You must not think ill of Ben for besting you
+when yo' fought. It was all for me."
+
+"I don't' think any the worse of him, pretty. I think all the better of
+him. It served me right, and if I hadn't taken a drop too much, I
+shouldn't have tried to steal a kiss. Tho' you will admit the
+provocation." And here the gallant sergeant doffed his shako and made a
+low bow to Mary, who blushed and curtsied and cast down her eyes.
+
+"But I owe you some return, miss, for my ill manners, and as for the
+trouncing, a soldier bears no malice. But you haven't told me, yet, what
+is this Ben here to you? Your brother?"
+
+"No, good sir, my cousin!"
+
+"H'm. Aught else?"
+
+Then did Mary catch her breath and hold me tighter by the hand; and for
+a moment I could hear my own heart beat.
+
+"He is my sweetheart, sir, an't please you. And we're to be wed when
+he's well. And oh! sir, it will kill me if yo' take him from me."
+
+"And a lucky dog he is to have so fair a bride. Well, well, I'll risk
+it. But hark you, Ben Bamforth, you've had a narrow shave. I won't
+enquire how you came by that bandaged arm. Perhaps I know more than yo
+think. A change of air will do you good. I say no more than this: 'Next
+time yo' go out of nights, take missy with you. Veils are dangerous,
+especially with such eyes behind them'"--another bow to Mary--"but
+masks are worse. You take me."
+
+Indeed I did take him.
+
+"And now I'm off. You need fear nothing from my report. But be careful
+of the company you keep. A wink's as good as a nod, they say, and
+there's a man in your confounded league who has no love for Ben
+Bamforth."
+
+"Good day, ma'am, and I wish you better of the small pox."
+
+Long Tom clinked his heels together, drew himself up to the salute,
+nearly knocking his head against the rafters as he did it, and turned to
+go. He had reached the head of the stairs.
+
+"Stay, sir," cried Mary, her face as red as a peony.
+
+He looked back.
+
+"I thought yo' wanted a kiss t'other night."
+
+"Aye, but yo' refused me smartly."
+
+"Well," and here Mary drooped her head and played with the corner of her
+apron. "Well--I've, I've changed my mind."
+
+And Tom laughed a great laugh and stooped over my cousin and she raised
+her crimson face to his.
+
+"Gad! Bamforth, my lad, I'd change places with you this minute and risk
+Jack Ketch. Good luck and good day."
+
+And Long Tom strode down the stairs. There were three other mounted
+soldiers in the yard.
+
+"A false scent again," we heard him say. "Only an old woman in a fever.
+The bird's flown."
+
+"It isn't often you stay upstairs so long with an old woman, sergeant!"
+laughed a trooper; and they shook their reins and clattered out of the
+yard, the hens scurrying with beating wings, and the ducks waddling,
+quacking loudly, out of their way.
+
+I made to thank Mary, but she fled from my room and I saw her no more
+all that day, and when, the next morning, she brought me, instead of the
+bowl of porridge on which I break my fast when hearty, a dish of tea and
+a buttered egg, and I would have drawn her to my heart, as surely lover
+may draw his mistress, Mary held aloof.
+
+"Why, Mary, lass, surely tha'll give me a kiss now?"
+
+"And why now?" she said, as cold as ice.
+
+"Why, after what yo' said yesterday to Long Tom, 'at yo' an' me wer'
+engaged to be wed."
+
+"Oh! that wer' nowt. I just said it because I thowt it might help thee."
+
+"And then, don't yo' mind, Mary, that neet after I'd fought Long Tom at
+Marsden--how yo' come behind th' chair an' kissed me."
+
+"Well, what o' that?"
+
+"Dost ta mean to say, after that, tha cares nowt about me more nor
+common?"
+
+"It it comes to that, Ben, didn't yo' see me do much th' same wi Long
+Tom yesterday?"
+
+"In truth, I did, Mary. And I think it was unnecessary, not to say
+unmaidenly."
+
+"Thank yo', Ben. I'll mind my manners better i' future. But at least yo'
+mun see that yo' munnot argy from what aw did when yo'r eye wer' blacked
+i' Marsden; for bi the same token Long Tom might leap to conclusions.
+And heigh-ho! Long Tom's a proper sort o' man, and I'm awmost stalled o'
+Sloughit. Sup thi tea, Ben, afore it gets cold, an' if tha'rt in such a
+hurry to get wed, remember yo'r more nor hauf promised to Faith Booth."
+
+Long Tom was true to his word. Justice Radcliffe was hot on the trail of
+the Luddites. The patrols were more active than ever, and first one and
+then another was summoned to Milnsbridge House and questioned keenly as
+to his doings, but for a time nothing came of all this questioning,
+except that there grew up among the Luds an uneasy feeling that there
+was a tell-tale in their midst. I lived in daily dread of a visit from
+Justice Radcliffe, but I never came across him but once. It was about
+this time, when I was just beginning to get about a bit, my father and
+'Siah being back from the markets, and I supposed to be returned with
+them, I was going through Milnsbridge when I was aware of Mr. Radcliffe
+on horseback riding towards me, a handsome hearty man as ever you saw in
+your life. "A fine old English gentleman," his friends all called him.
+He drew rein, and at his motion I stood by his saddle.
+
+"Ben Bamforth of Holme, if I mistake not?" he questioned.
+
+"At your service, sir," I said, with confidence in my voice and little
+in my heart.
+
+"Good Mr. Bamforth, the clothier's son.
+
+"The same, sir,--his only son."
+
+"And following his trade, I hear."
+
+"What there is of it, sir."
+
+"A worthy man is your father, Master Bamforth, and a loyal subject of
+His Majesty. You have been sick of late they say."
+
+Who said? I wondered but dared not ask, so muttered:
+
+"Nowt to speak on, I'm all right now."
+
+"Still yo' must be careful. Who's your doctor?"
+
+"Dr. Dean."
+
+"What, my good friend Dean? The sly dog! Still a patient's a
+patient"--this rather to himself than to me. "And has Dr. Dean said
+nothing to you about avoiding the night air for a time?"
+
+"I don't know that he has, your worship."
+
+"Well tell him you've seen me, and that my advice is that yo' keep in
+doors these spring nights, fine or dark, and ask him if he doesn't agree
+with me."
+
+"It is unnecessary, sir, I am entirely of that opinion myself."
+
+"Come that's good hearing. Mind you stick to it. And, hark ye, thank God
+as long as you live that you'd a good father before yo' and that Justice
+Radcliffe doesn't give heed to every idle tale that's brought to him."
+
+And he touched his hat as I uncovered and bent my head to him, for I
+knew all our precautions had been in vain, and that Justice Radcliffe
+had in his keeping a secret that could send me to the gallows.
+
+But who had betrayed me?
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+I HAVE told how I met Justice Radcliffe and what he said to me. That was
+after I was better and about. But many things had happened before that,
+of which I have yet to tell, and I scarce know how to frame the telling.
+Events so crowded one on the heels of the other that it is difficult to
+write of them connectedly and in order.
+
+It was Tuesday, April 28th, something more than a fortnight after the
+affair at Rawfolds, and I still kept my room but not my bed. I had seen
+nothing all this time of my cousin George, and took it hard that he
+should not have come near me, but found excuses for him in the thought
+that perhaps he feared to bring notice on our house by being seen to
+visit it. Martha that night had gone into the village to meet the
+carrier's cart by which my mother expected sundry things that she had
+ordered from Huddersfield. It drew late, and my mother began to fidget
+and to worrit about the difficulty of getting a servant that would not
+tarry to gossip whenever sent an errand and the readiness with which
+young women lent themselves to gallivanting, so different from what it
+was when she was a girl, when, she gave Mary and me to understand, a
+self-respecting maid entrenched herself in a barricade of frigid reserve
+that only the most intrepid, the most persistent and the most respectful
+approaches could surmount. About nine o'clock, however, Martha came
+home, and my mother called to her to come upstairs to give an account of
+herself, and presently we heard her panting up the steps. She dropped
+into the first chair she came to--
+
+"Oh! my poor side," she gasped. "That broo 'll be the death on me yet.
+Such a pain as awn got an' sich a gettin' up th' hill as never wor, an'
+th' pack hauf as heavy agen as ever it had used to be, an' me awmost
+running, all th' way for fear sum'dy sud be afore me an' no one to oppen
+th' door to 'em. Aw do believe aw'st faint." And indeed Martha was in a
+very bad way.
+
+"If yo' didn't stop talkin' wi' every young felly tha' met at's nowt
+better to do nor be tittle-tattlin' wi' ony idle wench he meets, tha
+could tak' thi time an' not come home an hour late an' lookin' as if
+tha'd been rolled i' th' hedge bottom, a sight not fit to be seen in a
+decent house," said my mother severely.
+
+"Oh! Mrs. Bamforth, God forgive yo' those words. Yo'll live to repent
+'em, an' yo'll never die easy till yo'n said so, an' me that keeps misen
+respectable tho' sore tempted."
+
+Now if ever kindly Nature laboured to shield a helpless virgin from the
+craft and allurements of man, it had so laboured on behalf of honest
+Martha.
+
+"But p'r'aps yo' dunnot want to be hearing th' news, an' aw'm sure aw
+can do wi' all th' wind awn got i'stead o' was-tin' it wheer its noan
+wanted. So aw'll just put th' shop stuff away an' yo'll happen count
+yo'r change an' I'st go to bed, for it's little supper aw'st want to
+neet or for mony a neet to come, if we live to see another neet. But yo'
+needn't be so sure o' that. It's more nor likely we'st all be murdered
+i' our beds, an' th' mester and 'Siah away when they're most wanted."
+
+"What is it's upset yo', Martha?" asked Mary, giving Martha a little
+cold tea which had been left in the pot.
+
+"It's about Edmund Eastwood."
+
+"What o' Slough'it? What on him?" asked my mother. "I'll lay he's had a
+stroke. Aw told their Lucy only th' last time aw seed her he wor puttin'
+on flesh a deal too fast for a man o' his years."
+
+"Well it's noan a stroke, so tha'rt off thi horse this time, missus,
+choose how, an' so's Eastwood too, come to that."
+
+"Don't be so aggravating, Martha," said I. "If you've ought to tell,
+let's hear it."
+
+"Well, there's all maks o' tales dahn i' th' village, an' aw stopped to
+get th' reights on it, if aw could, for aw thowt it wer' no use bringing
+hauf a tale, an' it's little thanks aw get for my trouble. But there's
+justice i' Heaven, that's one comfort, for there's little on earth,
+certain sure. But as aw wer' sayin', Eastwood wer' comin' fra' th'
+market, an' they do say he rode hard, for he wer' trying to catch up wi'
+Horsfall o' Ottiwells."
+
+"Aye, they oft rode home together," I put in.
+
+"Weel, they'll nivver ride home together again if all they sen be true,"
+continued Martha. "Eastwood had just getten sight o' Horsfall opposite
+Radcliffe's Plantation, when bang coom a shot out o' th' wood, an' he
+seed, they say, a felly jump on top o' th' wall an' wave his arms. An'
+Horsfall fell off his horse just as Eastwood wer riding up."
+
+"Dead?" I gasped.
+
+"Who said he wor dead? Noa, but as good as dead by all accounts.
+Eastwood's horse swerved at him as he ligged across th' road, an' Edmund
+wer thrown off into th' road. But he sammed hissen up an' bent ovver
+Horsfall, an' a lad caught th' mare up th' road as it wer' makin' for
+home as if Owd Harry wer' behind it, as he might be for owt aw can tell.
+But Eastwood nivver stayed for th' mare. He set off for Huddersfield as
+fast as he could split to fot a doctor."
+
+"And Mr. Horsfall?"
+
+"They carried him to th' Warrener, an' in a bit Eastwood comes back in
+th' gig wi' Dr. Houghton fra Huddersfield, they say i' a hand gallop an'
+covered wi 'sweat. Th' doctor jumps out o' th' trap an' runs into th'
+inn an' Eastwood wer' following him. But th' doctor comes running out
+again. He'd left some on his tools behind him."
+
+"Aye, aye, most haste least speed," from my mother.
+
+"And th' lad come up wi' Eastwood's horse, an' he up into th' saddle an'
+galloped off to th' town helter-skelter, an' reight at th' corner o' th'
+churchyard, just as if th' sensible crittur knew that were where th'
+rider wer' bun for, it threw him agean. They sen he's twisted his
+innards, an' they do say it's a toss up which 'll go first, him or
+Horsfall."
+
+"What! is Mr. Horsfall so badly hit?"
+
+"Aye, he's at th' Warrener. They cannot move him wom, and Mr. Scott o'
+Woodsome's theer to tak' his dying speech an' confession."
+
+"Deposition," I corrected.
+
+"Well, it's th' same thing, an' aw'm no scholar to crack on. An' little
+use learnin' is, it seems to me, if folk cannot keep theirsen out o'
+such mullocks as this. It's a mercy 'Siah's away, say I, for if they can
+they'll put it on to th' poor folk, an' let their betters go scot free,
+tho' its them as puts 'em up to it."
+
+I did not sleep a wink that night. Horsfall shot dead! A man done to
+death in broad daylight by a shot from an assassin lurking behind a
+wall! It comes home to you when you know the man, when you know well the
+very spot on which he fell, when you can see in your mind's eye the
+murderers crouching behind the stones of a wall on which you have rested
+in many a homeward walk. How much more does it touch you when, as you
+ponder this picture of these crouched and waiting men, a face starts
+forth, with murder in its eyes, and the face is that of one you have
+loved and leaned on! I could not be certain, but I felt the hand of
+George Mellor was in this awful deed, and every instinct of manliness,
+of fair play, of humanity, rose up within, me and cried shame on the
+bloody deed. I remembered what George had said the night Horsfall had
+struck him with his riding-whip. I knew how his proud spirit must have
+chafed at our repulse at Rawfolds. But murder! oh it is an ugly thing.
+To stand up in fair fight, to pit strength against strength, craft
+against craft, to stake limb for limb, life for life, why, that, who
+shall cry fie upon. But to steal upon your foe in the dark, to stab in
+the back, to smite him unawares, to speed him unsummoned and unfit to
+judgment--there is no cause so righteous as to redeem an act so
+dastard. And that George, so frank, so full of sunshine and gay candour,
+should do this cowardly deed, passed comprehension. And yet who of all
+the others would dare? And if the thing had to be done, was George one
+to leave to others what he shrank from doing himself?
+
+It was a night of torture. I looked back on the night I had passed in
+the barn after the fight at Rawfolds, and it seemed by comparison a
+night of restful bliss. Once, about midnight, I thought I heard the
+rattle of a pebble against the window pane. I stole softly out of bed
+and raised the window. But all was still around, and not far away in the
+little village a widow mourned a murdered husband and anguished hearts
+cried to heaven for just revenge.
+
+After breakfast my mother set off to the village in quest of news. Work
+was out of the question. Mary busied herself about the house, and I
+tried to fix my mind upon straightening the books, which, after a
+fashion, it was my duty to keep. Alas! the invoices to be made out were
+few and slight, and an hour or so a week was enough for all the
+accountancy our business called for.
+
+To me, thus engaged, tho' with wandering thoughts, came Martha, care
+upon her brow and secrecy in her gait.
+
+"There's som'b'dy in th' shippen wants thee, Ben. Oh! dunnot let Mary
+know. He doesn't want any but thee to know he's here."
+
+"Who is it?" I said beneath my breath. "It's him," said Martha, and
+nodded to me significantly.
+
+"George?"
+
+"Aye, George."
+
+Just then Mary came out of the parlour with a duster in her hand, and
+I made pretence to be wrapt up in my ledger. Martha turned to go.
+
+"What are yo' two whispering about?" Mary said suspiciously.
+
+"Oh, nought," said Martha.
+
+"Summot an' nought," I said, for Mary kept looking from one to the
+other.
+
+"I don't believe you, Ben. What's agate? oh! Ben, don't trifle wi' me
+this morn for aw feel as if th' world were coming to an end, and more
+mysteries and horrors will drive me mad."
+
+I reflected. If George were indeed anything to Mary, who had so much
+right to see him now as she? Anyway the day had gone by for me to be
+mixed up with any more secrets.
+
+"There's George in th' mistal, Mary, he wants to see me by misen."
+
+"Tell George Mellor to come in here and show himself like, a man," cried
+Mary. "Go this minute, Martha, and bid him come to his aunt's house as a
+man should come. Tell him, I, Mary, say so." And Martha went.
+
+I rose from the little desk at which I sat and stood upon the hearth.
+Mary stood by my side, her face pale, her eyes lustrous, her breath
+coming short. The door opened slowly, and George came in. My God! I see
+him yet! I had passed a sleepless night, but George looked as if he had
+known no sleep for weeks. His face was white and drawn. His eyes were
+deep sunk in his head, and even by this they had a hunted shifting
+look--and when they looked at you, which by rare times they did, they
+seemed as tho' they asked a question and feared the answer. His
+neckchief was all awry, his boots clay covered, his breeches soiled, his
+hands were stained with dirt and torn with thorns, and his whole body
+seemed bent and unstrung. He advanced but two uncertain paces into the
+house. I stood my stand upon the hearth. George half lifted his hand to
+meet mine. For the life of me I could not raise my own, and words died
+from my lips. And Mary moved closer to my side, and half her figure drew
+behind me.
+
+"What ta, Ben?" and George moaned and flung up his arms and sank upon a
+chair by the little round table in the kitchen centre and bowed his head
+on his arms and great sobs shook his frame.
+
+"Leave us, Mary," I said very soft.
+
+"I winna, aw'st see it aat. Tha't too soft, Ben."
+
+I shaped to lay my hand on George's shoulder, but even as I raised my
+arm the thought of the murdered man came like a shock at me again, and I
+stood stiff and still once more. The convulsion passed, and George
+lifted his face.
+
+"Tha knows all, Ben?"
+
+"All I fear, George."
+
+"And tha flings me off?"
+
+"I fling thee off."
+
+The angry colour came to his face, some of the old fire to his eye. He
+sprang to his feet, something of a man once more.
+
+"And is this thi trust and this thi loyalty; hast ta forgotten thi oath,
+Ben?"
+
+"I have forgotten nought, George."
+
+"And yo' desert the Luds? Our greatest enemy lies low. I have struck the
+blow that others feared to strike, and terror palsies the oppressors of
+the poor. And in the supreme hour of our triumph you draw back?"
+
+"I draw back."
+
+"You brave the consequences of your broken oath, you earn for yourself
+the hatred of the poor, the obloquy and the doom of the traitor?"
+
+"I brave them."
+
+"Then out upon you, Ben Bamforth, for a false and perjured knave. The
+hour of trial and of danger has come, and it finds thee false. Oh!
+bitter the day and cursed the hour I took yo' to my heart, and bitter
+the rue thou'st sup for this. And yo' Mary, I've a word to say to yo'.
+But cannot I speak to thee alone?"
+
+I made as tho' to leave the house, but Mary stayed me by a touch.
+
+"Say what yo' have to say before Ben. Yo' can have nought to say to me
+he cannot hear."
+
+"Nay I care not if tha does'na. He may listen if tha likes. All th'
+world may know for me. It has to be said, as well now as another time,
+tho' it's a rum courting to be sure. Tha knows aw love thee, Mary; tha
+knows aw've sought thee and only thee this many a month back?"
+
+"I know yo've said so, George."
+
+"And yo' did not say me nay. Yo' bid me bide my time, said yo' did not
+know yor own mind, that yo' were ower young to think o' such things yet,
+and put me off. But tha did not send me away wi'out hope, Mary, and I
+thought that in the bottom of your heart there was a tiny seedling that
+in time would flower to love."
+
+"And so it might have done, George, but when it was a tender plant, a
+cold frost came and nipped it."
+
+"I cannot follow yo', Mary, I am distraught in mind. All this night I
+have wandered the fields and in the lanes. A hundred times I have set my
+face over the hills to leave this cursed country."
+
+"And your work behind you!" I put in, but he heeded me not.
+
+"But the thought of you, Mary, held me back. I must know your heart,
+your mind to me. If yo' will be mine, if yo' will give me your word to
+wed me in quieter days, I will quit this work. Things will quieten
+themselves. A month or two and the Luddites will be forgotten. Our
+secrets are well kept. The Government will be only too glad to let
+sleeping dogs lie, and in another country, under another sky under the
+flag of the free Republic that has spurned the fetters of its English
+mother, you and I will seek fortune, hand-in-hand."
+
+"There is blood upon your hand, George Mellor. Mine it shall never clasp
+again."
+
+"So be it I need not stoop to woo too humbly. My star is o'ercast now,
+but a day shall come when yo' will regret the hour yo' spurned George
+Mellor's love. And yo! Ben Bamforth, traitor to your friend's confided
+love," . . . . and he turned upon me fiercely with flashing eye and
+clenched fist, and all his wrath surged to his lips and he would have
+gladly poured it out on me.
+
+"Nay, George, I have not said my say," Mary broke in. "Yo' have told me
+yo' loved me, and when first I knew you I think I could have been easy
+won to love. But you were here when Ben Walker told how Long Tom had
+outraged me. Yo' heard every word he said, and I grant yo' you talked
+big. But what did you do? The girl yo' woo'd for your bride told her
+tale, and yo'--yo' made a speech and went home to bed, leaving to
+another arm to wreak the punishment you only threatened. My love, such
+as it was, died that night, that was the icy breath that killed it, and
+from that night I have almost loathed myself that ever I wasted a tender
+thought on you. But go, leave this house, your mind should be on other
+things than love. I ask no questions. But if my fears are true, it is of
+making your peace with an offended Maker you should be thinking, and
+crying for mercy rather than suing for love."
+
+"You have had your answer, George," I said, as Mary hastened from the
+room leaving us confronting each other.
+
+"Aye, I have had my answer. Yo' have stolen my love from me, yo'r
+desertion will wreck our cause, and now, finish what tha has begun, go
+to Justice Radcliffe, tell him George Mellor did not sleep at his
+father's house last night, put the bloodhounds of the law upon my track,
+and when tha draws the price of blood make a merry wedding for thissen
+an' th' lass tha's stolen to lay her head upon thi false an' perjured
+heart!"
+
+And he waxed me off as I strode towards him, and made with quick step
+across the yard, and for many months I saw George Mellor no more.
+
+Horsfall's death had an effect just the opposite to that expected by the
+Luds. It did not bring the masters to their knees: on the contrary it
+hardened and united them. It did not embolden the Luddites; rather they
+became alarmed at their own extremes. A reward was offered for the
+discovery of those concerned in the attack on Rawfolds, and a large sum,
+three thousand pounds, if my memory serves me, was put together by the
+millowners and given to Mr. Cartwright to mend his windows and to reward
+his pluck. Another reward, of two thousand pounds, was offered by the
+Government to anyone, not the actual murderer, who should betray to
+justice those who had shot Mr. Horsfall. Justice Radcliffe never rested.
+The least rumour that reached his ear was sufficient to justify an
+arrest, and no one knew when it would be his turn to be summoned to
+Milnsbridge House and have an ugly half-hour in the sweating room where
+the magistrate examined the men, women and children he hauled before
+him. I do not know what warrant Justice Radcliffe had for such
+examinations--probably none. But, then, how were ignorant folk, half
+frightened out of their wits, to know this; or if they knew it, how was
+their knowledge to serve them? To refuse to answer would be construed as
+a sure sign of guilty knowledge, if not of actual partnership: so people
+made themselves as gaumless as they could, and when driven into a corner
+lied like blacks.
+
+The manufacturers who felt themselves or their goods in danger took
+heart. All eyes at this time were fixed on Marsden. Enoch and James
+Taylor, who made the new cropping frames, were looked upon as marked
+men, and Woodbottom mill was fortified as if for a siege; soldiers
+sleeping in the mill at night.
+
+"Arthur Hirst's a main clever chap," said 'Siah, with unwilling
+admiration.
+
+Arthur Hirst was the engineer at Woodbottom.
+
+"How so, 'Siah?" I asked.
+
+"Why mon he's laid a trap for th' Luds 'at 'll give 'em what for, if
+they pay a visit to th' Bottom. It's like th' owd nominy, 'walk into my
+garden said th' arrunder to th' flea.'"
+
+"What's the' trap, 'Si?"
+
+"Why he leaves a door open that leads ovver th' wheel race; an' there's
+a false flure ovver th' race, an' if anybody wer' to walk ovver it, it
+'ud give way an' souse into th' race he'd go. Then up wi' t' shuttle, in
+with th' watter, an' in a jiffy th' wheel 'ud be turnin' an'
+hauf-a-dozen Luds turnin' wi' it, if so be as they be so obligin' as to
+walk into th' trap."
+
+But no one did. Woodbottom was not attacked. The midnight raids became
+rare, and then ceased, and people went about saying the power of the
+Luds was broken and that we should hear no more of them. For my part I
+asked for nothing better.
+
+Mary was true to her promise. She went to Low Moor and returned with
+Faith, a paler, thinner, sadder Faith. And Mary was very kind to her,
+very gentle with her, which surprised me not a little, for more than
+once she had been somewhat waspish whenever I had spoken of John's
+sister. But all that was past and over, and Mary and Faith seemed as
+thick as thieves. They slept in the same bed, and would go about the
+place with arms about each other's waists--a pretty picture: Mary in
+her blue print, with rosy cheeks and plump figure, and dancing eye and
+saucy speech; Faith in a plain close fitting dress of some black stuff,
+pale and pensive, with many a sigh and at times a tear of chastened
+sorrow when her mind fled back to the brother she had lost.
+
+Of George Mellor we never spoke, though he was not long absent from the
+minds of any one of us. Mary put me on my guard.
+
+"Yo' thought, Ben, 'at Faith wer' sweet on yo'!"
+
+I made haste to disclaim the impeachment.
+
+"Now it's no use lying, Ben, yo' six feet o' vanity that ye' are. An'
+what's more yo' were wi'in an ace o' bein' i' love wi' her."
+
+I vowed by all my gods that this was false.
+
+"Oh, yo' may swear as hard as yo' like; but aw know ye', Ben. Yo'd
+gotten into yo'r head 'at it wer' yo'r mission i' life to look after
+folk i' general an' they'd nowt to do but look ailin' an' pinin' as if
+they couldn't stick up for theirsen, an' yo' wer' ready to tak' them an'
+their trouble on them big shoulders o' yo'rn. That wer' th' way thi
+vanity showed itsen."
+
+"I was sorry for Faith, Mary. But bein' sorry an bein' i' love 's two
+different things."
+
+"Pity's o' kin to love," quoted Mary. "An' aw tell ye', wi' precious
+little encouragement an' th' chapter o' accidents helpin', yo'd ha' been
+sprawling at Faith's little feet, an 'ud ha' gone to yo'r grave
+believin' yo'd loved her sin' first yo' set eyes on her."
+
+"And who was it taught me the difference atween love and pity, Mary?" I
+asked.
+
+"How should I know and why should I care quoth Mary.
+
+"No voice has ever told me, Mary, but the voice of my own heart; no
+words that maid e'er spoke, but a pair of arms around my neck and a
+maid's kiss upon my brow."
+
+"Then if that's all yo'r warrant, I'd 'vise yo' not to be over certain
+on it. There's many a slip 'twixt the cup 'an the lip, an' a woman
+doesn't like a felly to be too sure."
+
+"Nay, if yo'd have me plead on," I began and asked nothing better than
+to say my say; but Mary had ever a way of slipping from my grasp.
+
+"Do yo' think I've nowt better to do nor listenin' to this nonsense? We
+wer' talkin' about Faith, an' how we wandered off aw' cannot tell."
+
+"Well what of Faith?"
+
+"Aw tell yo', Ben, Faith thought more of George Mellor's little finger
+nor of all yo'r big body. Aye an' still thinks. He's her hero. Her
+brother stuffed her head wi' such a pack o' nonsense that she thinks
+George the finest man that ever lived, and yo' not much better nor a
+coward for deserting him. She frets because he doesn't come here, and
+there's no tellin' what mak' o' folly her silly fancy mayn't lead her
+to."
+
+"But George cares nowt for her," I said.
+
+"What's that to do wi' it? Let a felly go sighing an' pinin' after a
+wench--an' it's long odds she'll laugh i' his long face. Let him seem
+beyond her reach an' it's just as likely she'll break her heart longing
+for him."
+
+"Does she know about Horsfall?"
+
+"Of course she does."
+
+"What, all?"
+
+"Aye, all. I took care she should."
+
+"Well?"
+
+"Well, she doesn't believe a word of it."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+MAY came, sweet, fair and smiling. The crops bade fair to be good, and
+we looked forward to hay-making time with every assurance of a rich
+harvest. Everything was quiet as quiet could be. Of George I saw nothing
+at all. True I did not seek him, rather I shrank from meeting him. Our
+household settled down into its accustomed ways, and, such is the
+elasticity of the human mind, I began to look back upon the winter
+months as a troubled dream, only an occasional twinge in my right arm
+giving me a sharp reminder of the days I slung a hammer and pounded at
+the massive door of Rawfolds. I was wondrous happy. Health returned to
+my frame like the sap to the branch, and my heart was filled with all
+the sweet delight of love given and returned. There was no troth
+plighted as yet between Mary and me, but there grew up between us an
+unspoken acknowledgment of our love that bettered words. Faith was still
+with us, and as the weeks grew to months her melancholy melted away and
+a pensive content took its place. You did not find her singing like a
+lark, carolling the live-long day, as you did Mary, but there was about
+her an air of serene restfulness and calm that won all our hearts. With
+Mr. Webster she was an especial favourite, and she began, to his great
+delight, to teach a class in the Sunday school at Powle Moor. Faith was
+a rare scholar, tho' not, of course, learned in foreign tongues like
+John had been. She could write a beautiful hand and draw beautiful
+designs of birds and flowers and faces, which she wove in a marvellous
+way into the flourishes in her copy-books. And her figures and summing
+were like print. She taught the girls at the Powle to read and write,
+and she taught them so well that the boys rose in revolt and demanded
+that they too should join Miss Booth's class. It was a sight to see her
+leaving chapel of a Sunday afternoon. The scholars, boys and girls both,
+would wait till service was done that they might walk homewards with
+Miss Faith, and it was as sweet a sight as ever gladdened the eye of man
+to see her crossing the fields by the narrow lanes through the waving,
+nodding, rustling grass, that now began to sigh its own dirge, for
+hay-time drew near, a crowd of children in her train, a toddling urchin
+on either side clutching with chubby hand the folds of her skirt, and an
+advanced guard of sturdy lads marching on in front prepared to face
+imaginary lions and tigers in defence of their beloved teacher. Little
+Joe Gledhill and Jim Sugden fought a battle royal on Wimberlee because
+Faith had kissed Joe, whereas she had only given a lollipop to Jim, and
+on the strength of the kiss Joe went about bragging that when he was a
+man he should wed Faith and live happy ever after, the envy of all the
+boys in Slaithwaite, Lingards and Outlane.
+
+Wonders never cease. At this time Soldier Jack turned religious, and
+began to be very constant in his attendance at Powle Moor, and there was
+much rejoicing in the camp of the godly over this brand plucked from the
+burning. Of a surety there is more rejoicing over one sinner that is
+saved than over ninety and nine righteous men. And Jack announced his
+resolve to forswear sack and live cleanly. He took a little cottage in
+the village, which he minded himself, and it was a picture of
+cleanliness, tho' it was not over stocked with furniture. You should
+have seen Jack polishing his fender, pipe-claying he called it.
+
+There was a stormy scene, folk said, between him and Widow Walker, the
+buxom landlady of the Black Bull, the day Jack paid his last shot and
+announced his resolve to frequent that hostelry no more. The lady wept
+and stormed and even threatened Jack with the terrors of the law; but
+Jack was adamant.
+
+"Dost think awn goin' to tak' up wi' that owd swill-tub's leavin's?"
+Jack asked when I questioned him as to his rupture with the hostess of
+the Black Bull.
+
+"Yo' used to crack on her famous," I replied. "Ah! that wer' i' mi salat
+days, Ben, an' aw'll thank yo' not to throw them days of darkness i' mi
+face."
+
+"But what's converted yo, Soldier?" I asked.
+
+"Parson Webster."
+
+"H...m"
+
+"Aye, tha may h...m, that's ever the way wi' scoffer's an' unbelievers.
+Aw tell yo' th' little man's getten th' reight end o' th' stick an' owd
+Chew at th' church isn't fit to fasten th' latchet o' his shoes, as th'
+Book says: an' if tha thinks contrariwise I'll feight thee for it big as
+tha art."
+
+"That's what they call muscular Christianity," I said.
+
+"An' a very good sort, too," quoth Jack.
+
+Anyhow a great change had undoubtedly come over the man, and none of us
+was surprised when he broached to my father and mother his schemes for
+establishing himself in life.
+
+"It's about time, Mrs. Bamforth, aw settled dahn. Aw've had mi fling an'
+sown mi wild oats, an' nah it's time aw turned mi hand to a reg'lar
+job."
+
+"Yo' should get wed," said my mother, very promptly.
+
+"Would yo' reilly advise me so, maam?" asked Jack.
+
+"Indeed aw should an' th' sooner the better."
+
+"Aw dunnot see as how I can afford."
+
+"Oh, fiddlesticks, what 'll keep one 'll keep two, an' God never sends
+mouths but he sends meat."
+
+"That's cheering anyhow. But don't yo' think awm too old, Mrs.
+Bamforth?"
+
+"An' what age may yo' be, if aw may make so bold?"
+
+"Well yo' see awm noan rightly sure. But put it at forty-two or three,
+an' a gamey leg to boot."
+
+"Limps dunnot run i' fam'lies," replied my mother with conviction.
+"There was that lad o' Crowthers 'at fell off a scaffold twenty foot
+high an' had to be taken to th' 'Firmary at Leeds, an' came back wi'out
+his arm an' went about wi' th' left sleeve o' his jacket pinned across
+his chest an' wed Kerenhappuch Hoyle, which aw shall allers say were no
+name to give a Christian woman, tho' Mr. Webster did say it meant 'the
+horn of beauty': an' yet when th' first child came, an' Kerenhappuch
+that anxious as never was an' not knowing for certain whether to mak th'
+long clo'es wi' one sleeve or two, it had two as fine arms as ever yo'd
+wish to see on a babe. So it's clear arms isn't like squints, which it's
+well known run i' families same as bald heads, an' it stan's to reason
+if arms dunnot legs winnot, not to name a bit of a limp."
+
+"That seems to settle it," admitted Jack.
+
+"An' han yo' fixed yo'r mind on anyone particler, Jack? Awm sure yo'n
+ta'en time enough, an' reason enough too you should. Marry i' haste an'
+repent at leisure's God's truth, an' aw've no patience wi' young folk
+weddin' 'at could awmost go to th' hedge an' see their nippins."
+
+"Nay, ma'am," said the foxy warrior, "In so weighty a matter aw thowt it
+best to seek advice, and who can counsel me better nor yo'rsen."
+
+"Aw thank yo' for the compliment, Soldier, Aw will say that it's th'
+army for puttin' a polish on a man if he do get but little moss. All i'
+good time for th' moss. An yo'll be lookin' maybe for a tidy body wi'
+summot o' her own put bye. A decent, quiet, God-fearing, steady woman,
+that could manage a house an' make yo' comfortable. There's Betty Lumb,
+now, o' th' Town End. She's pretty warm, I'll be bun, for she spends
+nowt."
+
+"Why she's forty, ma'am, if she's a month, an' wi' a tongue like a
+flail."
+
+"An' what age might yo' be thinkin' on, Soldier?" asked my mother with
+asperity, suspicion in her voice.
+
+"Well, aw haven't fixed to a year or two, but she mun be younger nor
+that. Else what about discipline, ma'am, what about discipline?
+'Discipline must be maintained,' the Duke always said, and, zounds, I
+agree with him."
+
+And Jack made his escape leaving my mother the agreeable task of turning
+over in her mind all the single women of middle age for miles around,
+weighing their merits and by no means unmindful of their failings.
+
+With my father Jack's converse was on sterner matters. It seemed the
+Soldier was not without a little money laid by, and he was anxious to
+engage his modest capital in some enterprise in which his want of
+experience, would not be fatal. Farming he rejected with little
+consideration as being too tame a pursuit, tho' Mr. Webster, who was
+also taken into council, pointed out the excellency of beating the sword
+into a plowshare and the spear into a pruning hook.
+
+Jack's doubts were, as often happens to man, rather solved for him than
+by him. Say what folk will, Rawfolds was not attacked nor Horsfall shot
+in vain. Those two events pleaded harder with our masters in Parliament
+than Mr. Brougham. They were arguments that could not be resisted. In
+June of that year, on the 18th to be exact, the Orders in Council were
+repealed, and our Valley and all the West Riding was soon busy with the
+stir of a revived industry. It was as tho' we breathed free after the
+weight and pressure of a long nightmare. The markets briskened at once,
+as tho' under a fairy's touch. Men went about shaking each other by the
+hand and with glad smiles upon their faces and in their eyes. The idle
+looms began to click, the roads were again busy as of yore with the
+traffic of great waggons departing laden and returning empty of their
+load. The canal began to be used freely for the carriage of piles of
+pieces. We could not make goods fast enough. The ports were once more
+open, and it seemed as if, all the world over, the nations were crying
+for our goods. It was as if the waters of commerce, frozen and banked
+up, had been thawed by a sudden heat and hounded forth in tumultuous
+volume. The church bells all over the Riding rang out the glad news. The
+manufacturers of our parts had a great dinner at the Cherry Tree and
+many another hostelry besides, and for the first time in my life and the
+last, I saw my father overcome by strong waters. He held down his head
+many a day at after before the awful face of my mother.
+
+We shared in this great outburst of glorious sunshine. Our house was
+filled with pieces that my mother had vowed could have no other end than
+to be eaten by moths and rats. They found now a ready market, and the
+cry was still for more. We were all as busy as Thropp's wife from
+morning till night. I could not be spared from my own loom and from the
+warping and seeing to the bunting and country work. And so it came about
+that Jack went with my father on one of his rounds and proved himself so
+apt at cozening customers and became so great a favourite with the
+farmers' wives that came to buy suit lengths, that he was in time deemed
+fit to be trusted with a load on his own account. He bought a horse and
+waggon, established a round of his own, where he wouldn't clash with us,
+purchased his goods for the most part of us, and in a smallish way began
+to build a business, and laid the foundations of a thriving trade for
+his son and his son's son.
+
+But with it all Soldier ever delighted to spend his nights at Holme and
+his Sundays at Powle Moor. I soon found he wanted none of my company. He
+had eyes only for Faith. He would talk to Faith by the hour of the
+singular virtues and the unparalleled learning of poor John, and that
+was a theme Faith never wearied of. What a saint, what a hero, what a
+philosopher they made of him between them! I only hope Jack believed
+half of what he said: else, there was a heavy account scoring against
+him somewhere.
+
+We were all very happy during those months of summer and early autumn,
+lulled in a false security. We might have known that sooner or later the
+authorities were bound to get the information for which they never
+ceased to seek. In the middle of October it was rumoured in the market
+that George Mellor and Ben Walker had been arrested by Justice
+Radcliffe, but after a few hours detention had been released for lack of
+evidence. I breathed freely after this, and itched to go to George and
+hear all he had to tell. But I had to bite my thumb and wait, for, apart
+altogether from the coolness between George and me, it would never have
+done to be seen in his company just then. Still it was something to know
+that the police could make out no case against him and Walker, and we
+all felt that was more than a little in our favour. Then, like a bolt
+from the blue, came a piece of news in the "Leeds Mercury." Mr. Webster
+was the first to tell us of it, for we did not, at Holme, see the daily
+paper till after Mr. Mellor the schoolmaster had done with it, he and my
+father joining at the cost of it. I have the paper still before me as I
+write, tho' it is now yellow with age and hangs together very loosely
+and it is worn through at the creases. I may as well copy out what Mr.
+Webster read to us, and you may judge for yourself what a flustration it
+threw us into:
+
+"A man has been taken up and examined by that indefatigable magistrate,
+Joseph Radcliffe, Esq., and has given the most complete and satisfactory
+evidence of the murder of Mr. Horsfall. The villains accused have been
+frequently examined before."--I never heard of but once--"but have
+always been discharged for want of sufficient evidence. The man charged
+behaved with the greatest effrontery till he saw the informer, when he
+changed colour and gasped for breath. When he came out of the room after
+hearing, the informer's evidence, he exclaimed 'Damn that fellow, he has
+done me.' It appears that this man and another have been the chief in
+all the disgraceful transactions that have occurred in this part of the
+country, especially at Rawfolds. This will lead to many more
+apprehensions."
+
+When he had read this aloud Mr. Webster handed the paper to me, and I
+read the bit he pointed out to me again and again, for I was too stunned
+to take the sense of it in at first. The paragraph referred to the
+murderers of Mr. Horsfall. Well, I was clear of that at all events. You
+see my first thoughts were of myself and my own neck. It is no use
+pretending to be different from what I am, and I may as well confess
+that my first feeling was one of relief that the murderers of Mr.
+Horsfall only were indicated by the paragraph. But the feeling was
+short-lived. If Walker, for of course it must be Walker, it never
+entered my mind to question that, if Walker had told about the murder of
+Horsfall, would he hold his tongue about other matters. And if he told
+about the doings at Rawfolds, how many weeks purchase was my life worth.
+"This will lead to many more apprehensions." These words stood out and
+stared me in the face, and I broke out into a cold sweat and my hand
+trembled as I gave the paper back to Mr. Webster.
+
+What was to be done? My father was all for flight, but Mr. Webster
+thought that would be of little use, for, said he, six feet two are not
+so easy hid as three feet one. He should like to see Ben Walker's
+father, who was or had been one of his deacons, and learn from him the
+exact truth of the matter. But he was fearful lest he should bungle the
+business, being as he said little used to the subtleties of the law and
+having a fatal habit of being prodigal in the matter of the truth.
+
+"There's Soldier," said my father, who had unbounded confidence in our
+new foreman's resources, and who also probably felt that whatever qualms
+Jack might feel about parsimony in the matter in which the parson was
+prodigal he would be able to overcome.
+
+"But Jack's in it knee deep," I objected.
+
+"He'll wade out," said my father. And Jack was fetched from the
+scourhole, and came in with his arms bare and sweating from the steam,
+and smelling abominably of lant.
+
+The paragraph was read to him.
+
+"Phew! so George is nabbed. Well he'll noan split aw hope."
+
+"It appears that the man and another have been the chief in all the
+disgraceful transactions that have occurred in this part of the country,
+especially at Rawfolds' read Mr. Webster again. 'The man and
+another...especially at Rawfolds?' You see the betrayal has not been
+confined to the murder of that unfortunate but headstrong man--'The man
+and another.' Who can the other be?"
+
+I looked at Soldier and Soldier looked at me.
+
+"That'll be me," said Jack.
+
+"Nay, me," I said
+
+And the silence of dismay fell upon us all.
+
+"Nay," said the good parson at length, and never did dying absolution
+from priestly lips bring more comfort to a penitent--"Nay, that can
+hardly be. This paper was published in Leeds yesterday morning. The
+information must have been in the possession of Mr. Radcliffe for some
+days. If either of you had been implicated you would have been under
+arrest ere this."
+
+I breathed again.
+
+"Well, Jack, what do yo' say?" asked my father.
+
+"Say? Well aw say I'm noan goin' to be kept on th' tenterhooks. Awm
+goin' to know all at is to be known. I'm goin' to reconnoitre. They
+can't hang me for a spy, any road, an' that's what they nearly did in
+Spain. Just yo' cower quiet, Ben. I'm off to th' Brig. There'll be more
+known there. Just you leave it to me; an' I'll be back wi' my budget bi
+th' afternoon drinkin."
+
+And Jack set off without parley, and left us to our anxieties.
+
+He was back by four o'clock. Mr. Webster had been in and out half a
+dozen times, having passed the afternoon in reading the Scriptures with
+a distraught air at the houses of those of his flock who lived at Upper
+and Lower Holme.
+
+Jack's face was very sober when he came into the house and found us
+waiting, Mary and Faith with us, for I had not thought it necessary to
+hide from them the serious aspect of our affairs, and we had all gone
+about all day, my mother declared, as if we had th' bailiffs in, which
+to her mind was far worse than a death.
+
+"It's Walker's split, sure enough," said Jack coming to the point at
+once. "Him an' Bill Hall. George Mellor and Thorpe and Smith have been
+taken and sent off to York under guard. That's for Horsfall's job they
+say. John Walker, Ben's own brother, 's pinched for Rawfolds. So's
+Jon'than Dean an' Tom Brook an' two or three others, but I couldn't
+reightly find out who an' how many more. But there's no gainsayin' them.
+An' more nor likely there's more to folly. When aw got to th' Brigg
+there wer' a crowd round Buck Walker's house, booin' an' callin' out
+'black sheep, black sheep.' But that'll do no gooid. There wer' some o'
+those new constables at Mr. Radcliffe's brought up i' th' front o' th'
+house, an' bar a stone or two thrown at th' windows no harm wer done. Aw
+made mi way in, an' gate a word wi' Mrs. Walker, Ben's mother."
+
+"But George--where was he taken? Cannot yo' tell us more of him?"
+
+Jack glanced covertly at Faith. She sat with fingers tight interlaced
+upon her knee. Her eyes were fixed on Soldier, wide dilated. Her lips
+were parted, and she scarce breathed.
+
+"Oh, tell us of George," she sighed rather than spoke.
+
+"He wer' ta'en at th' shop. He wer' workin' with th' shears, an' like as
+not thinkin' o' nowt so little as th' sodjers. They'd come up, about six
+on 'em, very quiet, an' owd Radcliffe hissen wer' with 'em wi't officer
+wi' th' warrant. Radcliffe come reight up to th' door as bold as brass
+afore anyone i'side wer' aware on him, an' Ben Walker wer' wi' him. Ben
+sidles into th' shop, an' George turns to speak to him but his eye fell
+o' Mr. Radcliffe stood i' th' door way."
+
+'Hows a wi' yo, George?' says Ben, an' holds out his hand.
+
+"But George took it all in in a jiffy, an' he maks a spring at Ben, an'
+they say he'd ha' run his shears into him if he'd got at him. But th'
+chap wi' th' warrant rushes for'ard an' th' soldiers run in at a word
+fra Mr. Radcliffe. 'Judas,' hissed George, and fixed his eyes on Ben an'
+nivver took them off him while they put th' darbies on him an' Thorpe
+'at wer' taken at th' same time. 'Judas, yo' cursed Judas!' and Walker
+cowered behind th' stout owd magistrate like th' cur at he is. But,
+quick, look to Faith."
+
+Mary and my mother sprang to Faith's side, and Mary caught her in her
+arms as she was falling unconscious to the ground. The poor lass had
+swooned away. Jack supported her to the parlour, and laid her on the
+horsehair sofa and my mother and Mary busied themselves in bringing her
+round.
+
+"Drat me for a tactless fool," said Jack, when he returned to the
+kitchen. "Aw cannot ha' th' wit aw wer' born wi' to be ramblin' on like
+that an' her there. Well, well, it's a pity her heart's so set yonder,
+for awm feart her thowt's 'll be where her eyes 'll nivver rest again."
+And for a long time Jack could not be moved to continue his story. It
+was only when Mary returned to say that Faith was quite recovered, and
+that the mother would stay with her in the parlour that he went on:
+
+"George wer' game to th' last, an' Thorpe, they say, wer' just as
+unconcerned as if he wer' used to bein' charged wi' murder every day o'
+his life. When they thrust 'em into th' coach they had i' waitin',
+George raised his hand as well as he could for th' irons, an' called
+out, 'Three cheers for General Lud.' But th' crowd wer' fleyed to death.
+A lad or two in th' throng cried out i' answer, an' a woman waved her
+shawl, but everyone feart to be seen takin' his part, an' folk 'at had
+known him fra a lad held back fra him same as if he'd getten th'
+small-pox."
+
+"Oh! the cowards, the heartless, ungrateful wretches!" cried Mary with
+flashing eyes. "I wish I'd been there. I'd have, stood by him if his own
+mother had disowned him!" And I have no doubt Mary would have been as
+good as her words.
+
+"Well and then?" said my father to prod on Soldier, who seemed to have
+only half his heart in the story, for he kept his eyes fixed on the door
+of the parlour, and seemed to be listening with all his ears for what
+might be passing within.
+
+"Well, they hustled him off wi' a clatter, th' soldiers mounted their
+horses, three o' each side o' th' coach, an' off i' a gallop to Leeds on
+their way to York. Ther' wer' more dragoons waiting for them by th'
+Brigg for they feared a rescue, but, Lord bless yo', when they'd getten
+George they'd gotten all th' heart an' all th' pluck to be fun' wi' in a
+mile o' th' Brigg. A rescue say yo'? A swarm o' rats not worth feightin'
+for. That's my judgment on 'em all."
+
+"But you saw Mrs. Walker yo' said?" queried my father. "Had yo' no
+speech wi' Ben?"
+
+"Nay, they took good care o' that. Owd Radcliffe has him safe enough,
+an' he'll noan let him slip aat o' his clutches till he's kept his
+bargain an' put th' noose round George's neck. He's to be ta'en, they
+say, to Chester, an' kept theer till th' York 'sizes. They'll noan gi'
+th' Luds a chance o' stoppin' his mouth wi' an ounce o' lead, worse
+luck. For awm noan so sure aw wouldn't ha' a try at him misen."
+
+"And what had his mother to say?"
+
+"Oh! lots. A cunning, contrary bitch, that aw sud say so! There's no
+wonder Ben Walker wer' what he wer' wi' a dam like yon, whinin' an'
+quotin' th' Scriptures, enough to mak a man turn atheist."
+
+"But what did she say?"
+
+"Oh! I cannot burden mi mind wi' all 'oo said, about it bein' th' Lord's
+will, an' submission to th' ways of th' A'mighty, reg'lar blasphemy aw
+call it, callin' in religion to cover up a piece o' as damned rascality
+as ever wer' done by man. But there's something aw munnot forget. It
+concerns thee, Mary."
+
+"Me! what can she have to say to me." "That's what aw wanted to get at.
+But 'oo'd noan send any word bi me. She particler wanted to know if
+ther' wer' owt 'atween yo' an' Ben here."
+
+Mary flushed and tossed her head.
+
+"The impudence o' some folk," she said.
+
+"Aw axed her what business that wer' o hers' an' towd her aw thowt 'oo'd
+best turn her thowts to prayin' for that scamp o' a son o' hers. But 'oo
+stuck to her guns. 'Oo wants to see thee, Mary."
+
+"'Oo may want," said Mary.
+
+"Well it's for yo' to judge. She made out it mut be waur for Ben here if
+tha didn't go."
+
+"Mary 'll noan go near such like wi' my consent," I cried.
+
+"Whativver can th' woman want?" mused Mary. "Aw've a good mind.... Ben
+Walker's away to Chester yo' say? For good an' all?"
+
+"Aye, they'll keep him fast enough yo' may rest content."
+
+"I've a good mind...," continued Mary. "Waur for our Ben, did she say?
+I'll go."
+
+"Yo'll do nowt o' th' sort!" I said.
+
+"An' since when wer' yo' mi mester, cousin Ben?" she asked. "I'st go and
+aunt 'll mebbe go wi' me."
+
+"Not an inch," snapped my mother, who had left Faith in a great measure
+composed "Aw'd be poisoned if aw' breathed th' same air."
+
+"Then aw'st go by misen. Yo' can see me to th' Brigg, Ben, if tha likes.
+But I'll hear what 'oo has to say. She cannot harm me, an I'st happen
+get to know something that may help us."
+
+"Mary's right," said Soldier. "My word, Ben, thee's getten thi mester,"
+he whispered to me on the sly.
+
+But it has been a sweet thraldom. When Mary had made up her mind she was
+not one to let the grass grow under her feet, and the very next evening
+she told me to get me dressed if I meant to go with her to th' Brigg. So
+off we set together by Kitchen Fold, over Crossland Moor, past the
+plantation where Mr. Horsfall had been shot, and so dropped down into
+th' Brigg. I pointed out to Mary the marks of the bullets on the wall on
+the road side opposite the little wood; but Mary shivered and drew her
+shawl tighter about her and hurried on, casting frightened glances at
+the clump of trees and bush as if she feared to see a ghost. She would
+not let me go with her to Walker's, bidding me meet her in an hour's
+time on the Brigg and be ready to company her back. So I thought I might
+as well comfort myself with a glass at th' Nag's Head. It was not so
+long since that the landlord would have fussed about me as I drank my
+ale and offered me a treat. But now, as I sat aloof from the little
+company and took my drink, he talked pointedly to the other customers
+about the honest way he had always kept his house, saying he would have
+neither Luds nor their brass at th' Nag's Head and their room was better
+nor their company. But I would not be hurried for the likes of him, and
+called for another gill and made it last out my hour just to spite him.
+
+Mary did not keep me waiting long on th' Brigg, and fain I was to be
+off, for little knots of people were clustered in the street and many a
+look was cast at me, not over friendly; and faces that I knew well
+enough looked stonily at me, and one or two that knew me well enough,
+and to whom I gave the day, made as tho' they did not know me from Adam.
+It was plain as a pike-staff that the folk at th' Brigg were fleyed out
+of their wits of being suspected of having ought to do with the Luds.
+They altered their tune later on, when th' first panic had passed, but
+for a week or two after George and Thorpe were taken every man was on
+his best behaviour, and a good many lived in hourly fear and trembling.
+
+Be sure, then, we did not loiter in Longroyd Bridge. There was nothing
+there to tempt us to stay, and Mary was in a greater hurry to be gone
+than even I. She was very pale. She had had no spirits to talk of since
+we had heard George was taken, but now she was more down nor ever. Not a
+word spoke she right up th' moor till we got to th' top and turned round
+to look on th' town lying at our feet. She was panting for breath, and I
+drew her to the roadside and made her sit upon the wall. There was
+nobody about, and the early night of late autumn had closed in. I tried
+to steal my arm about her waist, tho' Mary was ever coy of suffering any
+such show of my love. But she put away my arm very gently--"Yo mustn't
+do that again, Ben. It's all ovver now. We'n had our dream, an' it's
+been a sweet 'un. But I've had a rude wakening, an' it's all ovver, it's
+all ovver." And Mary hid her face in her hands and bent over as she sat,
+and tears trickled from under her hands down upon her lap.
+
+I let her be, and she wept silently. Then she sprang to her feet and
+dried her eyes and tried to smile and would have had me take the road
+again; but I would not budge, and she had to sit by my side. The road
+was quiet enough, and what mattered it if all the world saw us? We'd as
+much right there as anyone.
+
+"Now, Mary, tell me, like a sensible lass, what it all means."
+
+Mary did not speak to me. I saw she was considering so I did not hurry
+her. I was getting used to the ways of women. There's nought like loving
+and courting for teaching a man th' way to handle 'em, tho' they're
+kittle cattle to shoe at the' best o' times.
+
+"There's summat aw hannot told thee, Ben. Happen aw should ha' done."
+
+"Aw think aw can guess it."
+
+"Tha nivver can."
+
+"Is it about Ben Walker?"
+
+Mary nodded.
+
+"Martha towd me."
+
+"Oh!"
+
+There was a look passed over Mary's face which I took to mean that
+Martha would have a piece of Mary's mind first chance that offered.
+
+"Well?" I said.
+
+"Well, of course, I'd ha' nowt to do wi' him."
+
+"Aw should think not," I said, moving a little closer to her.
+
+"And at first he thowt aw'd promised George."
+
+"That comes fra not knowin' thi own mind." Mary drew further off.
+
+"I told him so misen," I said.
+
+Mary sprang up as if she'd been shot.
+
+"Yo' did?"
+
+"Aw did."
+
+"Then yo've a deal to answer for, Ben Bamforth. His mother says that's
+what made him peach on George."
+
+"The devil!" I said, and there was silence, and we sat thinking our own
+thoughts.
+
+"It wer' happen my fault," said Mary at last, sitting down again.
+"Anyway it's no use quarrelling about it."
+
+"Nor crying over spilt milk," I said.
+
+"But that's not th' worst on it by a long chalk," said Mary.
+
+"Well, let's hear it?"
+
+"She's a horrid woman, that Mrs. Walker. Just like an owd witch, an'
+such wicked, wicked eyes, a peerin' at yo' an' a peerin' at yo', an'
+wantin' to stroke yo'r hair like as if yo' wer' a cat. But aw'll begin
+at th' beginnin'."
+
+"That's th' best way," I said, and my arm now was where it should be,
+and Mary reckoned not to know. I'd looked up th' road an' down th' road
+an' nobody was coming.
+
+"When aw got in, 'oo dusted a chair wi her apron, an' not afore it
+wanted it. Th' house wer' like a pig-stye. But I sat down, an' 'oo stood
+afore me an' looked me up an' down same as if 'oo wer' vallyin' me. 'Aw
+hope yo'll know me again next time yo' see me, an' that won't be soon if
+I've my way' aw thowt, but said nowt.
+
+'An' so yo'r Mary o' Mally's?' 'oo said at last.
+
+'At yo'r service,' aw said.
+
+'Yo're not much to look at,' 'oo said.
+
+'Thank yo' kindly,' aw answered as polite as never were.
+
+'But yar Ben's a reight to ha' his own way now he's a gentleman.'
+
+'A what?' aw cried.
+
+'A gentleman. A real gentleman at can ha' th' pick o' th' country side.
+He's nowt to do but howd up his finger naa. It'll be whistle an' aw'll
+come to yo', mi lad.'
+
+'He's altered strangely,' aw said.
+
+'Aye, two thousand p'un' does mak' a differ,' says th' owd hag.
+
+"And then aw remembered about th' notice in th' paper.
+
+'It'll do him no good,' aw says. 'It's blood money. There'll be a curse
+on it.'
+
+'It's good gold, lass!' 'oo says. 'Good gold, leastways it will be when
+th' 'sizes is ovver. An then yar Ben's off to 'Meriky, an' nowt 'll suit
+him but yo' mun go wi' him.'
+
+'Then he'll noan be suited,' aw says.
+
+'Hoity-toity, mi fine wench,' 'oo cries. 'Don't thee be too sure o'
+that. Yo'r happen thinkin' o' ta'in up wi' Ben Bamforth. Leastways
+that's what yar Ben heerd just afore he wer' off to Chester. That's what
+aw've sent for yo' for.'
+
+'What's it to him, who aw wed?' I asked, but aw wer' all of a tremble.
+
+'It's this. It'll be yar Ben or nobody sin he's set on it. 'See her
+yoursen, mother,' he said, an' these were awmost his last words afore he
+set off wi' Justice Radcliffe, two gentlemen together. 'See her yo'rsen,
+an' tell her that th' same tongue 'at's teed a rope round George
+Mellor's neck can tee' one round Ben Bamforth's, an' will too, unless
+she speaks the word that'll stop my mouth.' Now, what's ta say, mi fine
+lass?'
+
+"And what could I say, Ben," sobbed Mary, hiding her face on my
+shoulder. "Aw saw she meant it. She gay' me a month to think on it, an'
+if aw don't say yes 'oo swears Ben Walker 'll give thee up to th' law,
+an' it's a hangin' job, sure an' certain."
+
+"What did yo' say, Mary?"
+
+"At first I towd her aw wouldn't wed their Ben if there weren't another
+man i' all England. Aw'd rayther wed a toad, aw said, an' aw meant it.
+But oh, Ben, tha'rt i' their power, an' aw'm noan worth hangin' for. And
+what would yo' have me do, Ben? Aw mun tell her in a month."
+
+"There's one thing tha shalln't do," I cried. "Aw'd rayther hang a
+million times ovver nor tha should ha' a thing like him. Let her do her
+worst. Not if it would save me from ten thousand times ten thousand base
+deaths shall Ben Walker call thee wife. That aw'm fixed on. What say'st
+ta, Mary?"
+
+"Eh, awm fair moithered, Ben. Aw know this, if wed him I must aw'll mak'
+a hole i' th' cut th' same neet," and Mary sobbed again.
+
+And I declare that I was happier whilst I soothed her and whispered
+words of bye and pressed kisses on her cheek and lips than ever before.
+For never till then had I realized to the full all the sweet privileges
+of our love.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+I HAD got my affairs into, a pretty tangle, and for the life of me I
+could not see my way out of the mess. I lived in daily terror of arrest.
+I was not even supported by what appeals so strongly to a young man's
+vanity--popular good-will. When a man gets older he comes to esteem the
+applause of the world at its proper worth, largely indifferent to it and
+content if happily he can be assured of the good-will of his own
+conscience. But even the poor solace of the public voice was just now
+denied the poor Luds. The murder of Mr. Horsfall had revolted the
+general mind. So I found myself quaking at every step that approached
+the door when I kept the house, and met with looks averted or openly
+hostile when I took my walks abroad, which was not oftener than needs
+must be. Then there was that diabolic threat of Ben o' Buck's, which I
+had no reason to hope he would not make good. I could not essay to save
+my own skin by counselling Mary to have Ben Walker. Even had I not loved
+her myself I could scarce have brought her to that. Add to this the
+reflection that, innocently and honestly enough, I had probably been the
+means of drawing upon George Mellor's head the spiteful hatred of the
+traitor by giving him to believe that it was a made up thing between
+Mary and George. I tell you I could neither eat nor sleep these days for
+thinking of all these matters. And Mary looked worn and ill. The rose's
+began to fade from her cheeks, she had scarce a word to throw at a dog,
+and as the days grew to weeks her gloom deepened and misery showed more
+plain upon her face.
+
+I took counsel of 'Siah. I was in such straits that I could have found
+it in my heart to seek wisdom from the town fool. 'Siah had a short cut
+out of the whole perplexity.
+
+"Yo' mun get untwisted, Ben," said 'Si.
+
+"What's untwisted?" I asked.
+
+"I cannot tell wher' yo'r wits are these days," said 'Siah impatiently.
+"Theer tha sits by th' fireside, counting th' co'wks' an' glowerin' into
+th' ass-hoil, as if that 'ud do thi ony good. Tha shud stir about, mon,
+an' hear whats a foot. There's more i'spiration, as th' parson calls it,
+to be fun' at th' Black Bull i' hauf an hour nor i' a week o' sulkin' at
+whom bi thissen."
+
+"Aw've no faith i' th' counsel 'at's to be found at th' bottom o' an'
+ale-pot, 'Si."
+
+"Who want's thee to ha? Th'art as bad as Martha for preachin' these
+days. Ther'll be no livin' for sermons soon. There's summat beside
+drinkin' goin' off in a public."
+
+"Well, lets hear it?" I said passively, for I had not much faith in what
+'Siah might have picked up in his haunts.
+
+"Aw tell thee tha should get untwisted."
+
+"Well?"
+
+"Well and well an' well. Can ta say nowt but well? Doesn't ta know what
+aw mean, or mun I tell thee straight out?"
+
+"Aw've no' more notion nor th' babe unborn," I said.
+
+"Yo' know Mr. Scott o' Woodsome?"
+
+"Of course aw do. Didn't aw sit next to him at th' audit, last year?"
+
+"Well yo' know he's a magistrate, an' main good to th' poor folk,
+everyone says he is. He's everyone's good word, an' that's summat out o'
+th' common for a justice."
+
+"And how can Mr. Scott help us in our troubles? I fear they're a bit
+aboon his power."
+
+"Why, he can untwist thee, mon."
+
+"Untwist?"
+
+"Aye! untwist! There's Doad o' Jamie's an' Lijah o' Mo's an' a seet more
+on 'em 's gate untwisted, an' it costs nowt, an's just as easy as
+sinnin', an' a heap more comfortin' by what they say."
+
+"And what in the name o' wonder is it?" I asked, thinking 'Siah might
+have penetrated deeper into the mysteries of the law than I, and having
+much respect for him, as one who had more than once slipped through the
+constable's hands and left him clinkin'.
+
+"Yo' know th' oath we took at th' Buck," replied 'Siah, lowering his
+voice and looking cautiously round.
+
+I nodded.
+
+"Well, Mr. Scott's untwisting th' oath off th' Luds for miles around.
+Yo'n nowt to do but go to Woodsome an' say yo'r soary an' let on to tell
+all yo' know, an' that needn't be more nor yo' can see wi' both e'en
+shut, an' he untwists yo'. It's same as th' Catholics, tha knows."
+
+"Why that's king's evidence," I cried.
+
+"Yo' may call it what yo' like, but it's cheap an' easy, an' 'll do
+nobody any harm."
+
+"What give evidence again mi own cousin? I'd be as bad as Ben Walker."
+
+"Nowt o' th' sort. They'n getten witnesses enew baht thee, an' Mr. Scott
+'s a friend o' thi father's, an' 'll let thee dahn soft for auld
+acquaintance sake. It isn't as if tha wer' th' first to split, nor as if
+owt tha can other say or do 'ud pull George out o' th' boil or thrust
+him further in."
+
+"I'll ha none of it, 'Si," I cried. "And what's more yo' an' me quarrel
+if yo' do owt o' th' sort thissen. Why man, aw sud nivver sleep another
+wink nor howd up mi head agen if aw lowered misen to that, an' whativver
+tha does, 'Si, keep thissen cleaner nor Ben Walker. Aw'd never speak to
+thee agen, no more would any on us'. Has ta' spoke to Martha on it?"
+
+"Well awm not free to say but what aw han."
+
+"And what does Martha say?"
+
+"Well if aw mun speak th' truth she says th' same as thee. All fools in
+a lump, say I, but gang thi own gate, an' dunnot fear aw'st cross thi
+will. But its hard liggin' for all that."
+
+So I got no comfort from 'Siah.
+
+Then, as if we hadn't troubles enough of our own, my Aunt Wood, George's
+mother, came from the Brigg to see my father about George's case. It
+must not be thought we had not worried about him. We had, and more than
+a little. Whenever I pictured to myself my cousin and more than friend,
+eating his heart out in a prison cell, I was near beside myself with
+grief. As for the end of it all, I dared not think of it. I had parted
+from George in anger; but I made no account of that. I was safe in
+Mary's love, and those who win can afford to be generous. And if these
+Luddite troubles had blown over, George might have come round, and tho'
+our relations might never have been what they had been, still we could
+have patched up a work-a-day friendship that would have served. But now
+George was in prison, charged with the most awful of all crimes, and
+tho' my gorge rose at the deed, I sorrowed for the man.
+
+It was sad to see the change in my Aunt Wood. She was never a strong
+woman, least-wise in my knowledge of her; but now she was piteous to
+look at. She was crushed by the burthen of sorrow and shame. Sorrow's
+bad enough: but add shame to it, and it's more than human soul can bear.
+My mother fair wept over her.
+
+"Eh, lass," she said, when she had taken my aunt's shawl and poke bonnet
+and got her seated by the fire, whilst Mary busied about boiling the
+kettle and making some tea. "Eh! lass, that ever we should live to see
+this day."
+
+My aunt drooped her head. She did not greet nor moan. I think the
+fountain of her tears was dry.
+
+"My heart's sore for yo', Matty, and glad I am yo've come to me i' yo'r
+trouble."
+
+"I had to come, Charlotte, for if yo'r William cannot help me, I dunnot
+know wheer to turn."
+
+"Aw'll do owt aw can. Yo' know that, Matty. Aw set a deal o' store on
+George. We all did. Aw cannot think what possessed him. More aw think on
+it, more awm capped, for George wer' noan o' th' sort to . . . . It's
+fair beyond me. What does Wood say?"
+
+"It's that's brought me here, William. It's a cruel thing to say; but in
+his heart o' hearts aw think mi husband's fair glad they'n fetched our
+George. He never took to th' lad, nor George to him. But yo'd ha' thowt
+at naa, when aw want all th' comfort aw can get, mi own husband 'ud be
+th' first to help."
+
+And Aunt Wood's lips trembled and she pressed her thin hand to her
+throat to keep down the sobs that choked her.
+
+"Dunnot tak' on, Matty," said my father. "We'st stand to yo', wet or
+fine."
+
+"Aw shud think so i'deed," cried my mother; "my own sister. If yo' can't
+look to yo'r own in th' time o' need, what's relations for aw shud like
+to know. Onybody 'll stan' yo'r friend when yo'r i' no need o' frien's.
+It's trouble tries folk. Nah, thee drink this cup o' tea, Matty, an'
+nivver heed drawin' to th' table. Sit wher' tha art an' keep thi feet on
+th' fender. An', see yo', there's a drop o' rum i' thi tea, tho' aw
+dunnot hold wi' it as a reg'lar thing, for wilful waste ma'es woful
+want, but it'll warm thee an' hearten thi up. Tha' looks as if tha
+hadn't a drop o' blood i' thi body, poor thing."
+
+"Hast ta any notion o' what tha'd like doin' for George?" asked my
+father.
+
+"Nay, it'll be a law job, that's all aw know. But see, awm noan come a
+beggin'. Aw dunnot know what William 'ud say, if he knew; but yo'll noan
+tell."
+
+And my aunt lifted her dress and from under the skirt drew a linen bag,
+which she placed upon the table.
+
+"Count that." she said.
+
+My father turned over the greasy, dirty notes, pound notes of the
+Huddersfield Commercial Bank, Ingham's, wetting his forefinger and
+counting aloud, very grave, as he always was whenever he counted money.
+He used to say it gave him a turn, when he went to the Bank, to see the
+flippant way the young men handled the money across the counter--"But
+they don't know its valley, or they'd noan finger it so free," he would
+say.
+
+"A hundred pounds, neither more nor less," he said, after the third
+counting and blowing of each note to see two hadn't stuck together.
+"Wherever did ta get it, Matty?"
+
+"Aw saved it out o' th' housekeepin' brass 'at Wood gives me. Aw'd meant
+it for George' on th' day he should be wed--but nah!"
+
+"It'll come in useful ony road," said my father. "Am aw to keep it for
+thee?"
+
+"Aye, it's for th' law."
+
+"Has ta any fancy?"
+
+"Nay, tha knows best."
+
+"What does ta say to 'Torney Blackburn? He's allus done my bit."
+
+"Aw dunnot know. Aw reckon there's not much to choose among 'em he mun
+be th' best brass can buy."
+
+"Well there's young Allison; aw don't know but what he'd be more cut out
+for a job like this. But they say he's for th' Crown. Him an' Justice
+Radcliffe ha' been here, there an' everywheer huntin' up evidence agen
+th' 'sizes."
+
+"Aye, trust th' quality for havin' th' best o' everything," spoke my
+mother.
+
+"Well, if tha thinks 'Torney Blackburn can be trusted, tha can set him
+on. But awm feart them lawyers is all in a string. Yo' never know who
+yo' can trust these days."
+
+"Well yo' see," said my father, "we'n got to trust 'em an' pray for th'
+best. Aw supposes there's summot i' th' nature o' th' law 'at makes it
+difficult for th' best on 'em to be ony better nor he sud be; an' happen
+if they warn't a bit crooked theirsen, they'd noan be fit to straighten
+other folk's twists. But 'speak of a man as yo' find him,' say I, an'
+aw've allus fun 'Torney Blackburn as straight as they make 'em. But aw
+wish we could ha' had Mr. Allison all th' same."
+
+"Why?" asked my aunt.
+
+"Well, somehow he'st th' name o' bein' thicker wi' Owd Harry; an' that
+goes a long way i' law."
+
+And so it was settled that the defence of George should be entrusted to
+Mr. Blackburn, of the New Street.
+
+I went with my father the very next day to see Mr. Blackburn. I did not
+like being seen about, but there seemed nothing for it but to brazen it
+out and take my luck. I had never been to a lawyer's office before, and
+felt as if I were going to have a tooth pulled; but my father opened the
+door of the outer office as bold as brass. There was a little old
+wizened man with a face like yellow crinkled sheepskin, and a suit that
+had once been black, maybe, but now was rusty brown and white at the
+seams.
+
+"Is he in?" said my father.
+
+"Sit down, Mr. Bamforth, sit down. Come to the fire. Your son, sir?
+Pleased to know you, sir. A chip of the old block, Mr. Bamforth, a chip
+of the old block."
+
+And my father actually looked pleased, tho' if I were a chip of the old
+block there was a deal more chip than block.
+
+Mr. Blackburn was in, and presently we were ushered into an inner room.
+It would have turned my mother sick to see the dust that lay about, and
+the frosted windows that gave on to the New Street looked as if they
+hadn't been washed for a century.
+
+Mr. Blackburn shook us both by the hand in a jerky way, and offered my
+father a pinch of snuff from a big silver box. My father took a pinch
+with the result that he never ceased sneezing till we were out into the
+street and he had hurried to the Boot and Shoe and drunk a pint of ale
+to wash the tickling out of his throat.
+
+"And now, Mr. Bamforth, what can I do for you?" asked Mr. Blackburn,
+pushing his spectacles on to his brow and laying a large brown silk
+handkerchief, snuff coloured, over his knee.
+
+"It's about George Mellor, yo know," said my father.
+
+Mr. Blackburn did not look as if he did know.
+
+"Him 'at's ta'en for Horsfall's job, yo' know," explained my father.
+
+"Well, what of him?"
+
+"He's my nevvy, yo' know."
+
+"Yo'r nevvy? Phew! this is an ugly business, an ugly business."
+
+"Awm feart so."
+
+"Well?"
+
+"Aw want yo' to defend him at th' 'sizes."
+
+"Why my good man, what defence is possible? Allison tells me the case is
+as clear as crystal. Not a loop hole in it."
+
+My father's face fell. Then he pulled out the bag of notes.
+
+"There's a hundred pound here, Mr. Blackburn. George shalln't stand up
+i' Court wi'out one soul to take his side. Guilty or not guilty,
+whatever th' law can do for him shall be done. It'll happen soothe him
+at the last, if th' worst comes to th' worst, to know at some hearts
+felt for him, an' that what brass could do to get him off, wer' done."
+
+"It's a noble sentiment, Mr. Bamforth, and does you credit I'm sure.
+Well, well, no man's guilty in this country, thank God, till he's proved
+guilty. But I can't make bricks without straw, you know. What's the
+defence?"
+
+"Nay, that's for you to find out," said my father, more cheerfully.
+"That's' what th' hundred pound is for."
+
+"But we don't make evidence, my dear sir. There can be only one
+defence--an alibi. The man was shot, that's plain. It wasn't an
+accident, that's clear. Who ever did it, did it of malice prepense.
+There can only be an alibi. This young man now"--turning to me--"the
+prisoner was your cousin?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"And doubtless you were on good terms?"
+
+"The best."
+
+"And equally without doubt you saw a deal of each other?"
+
+"We did."
+
+"He visited you and you him?"
+
+"That's so."
+
+"And you remember the night of the--what day was it?"
+
+"Tuesday the 28th of April last."
+
+"And you remember that day?"
+
+"Only too well."
+
+"Now perhaps--I only say, perhaps, mark you--your cousin George spent
+the evening of that day in your company? A respectable young man like
+you--your word would go a long way."
+
+But I shook my head. No, I could not swear I was with George that
+fateful day.
+
+"Well, well, perhaps someone else can. I must see the prisoner, and when
+I've heard what he has to say, I shall be better able to judge what is
+best to be done. Another pinch, Mr. Bamforth? No? a bad habit, a bad
+habit, don't you begin it, young sir, but clears the brain. Good
+day--Jones, give Mr. Bamforth a receipt for £100. "Rex versus Mellor."
+Good day--we'll do our best, and a case is never lost till it's won."
+
+"Did' yo' notice th' books, Ben?" asked my father, as we crossed the
+street to the Boot and Shoe. "Wonderful isn't it? Aw dunnot wonder a man
+wants some snuff or summat to life th' weight o' all them books off his
+brain. Aw wonder how he crams it all in, for his yed's noan so much
+bigger nor other folk. Wonderful."
+
+When we got home that night we had to tell in detail all that we had
+said to Mr. Blackburn and all that Mr. Blackburn had said to us. Soldier
+Jack and Mr. Webster were of our council.
+
+"It's a tickle business is an alibi," Jack commented. "Them lawyers turn
+a chap inside out. Aw once tried to get a felly out o' a bit o' a mess
+afore th' justices at Bristol. He wer' one o' th' line an' had used his
+belt in a street broil. I went to swear him off."
+
+"I hope, Soldier, not to perjure yourself," said Mr. Webster earnestly.
+
+"Well not to say perjure," said Jack. "They say if yo' kiss yo'r thumb
+i'sted of th' Book, it's noan perjury. But aw did better nor that, aw'd
+a ready reckoner i' th' palm o' my hand, an' aw kissed that. So aw
+reckon aw wer' clear ony road."
+
+Mr. Webster sighed and shook his head.
+
+"But it wer' o' no use. Ther' wer' a little chap at wer' persecutin',
+an' he looked that innercent yo'd ha' thowt ony sort o' a tale 'ud go
+dahn wi' him. But aw nivver wer' so mista'en i' a chap i' my life. He
+began to cross-question me mild as milk. He wanted to know what aw'd had
+for mi breakfast an' wheer aw took my ale an' a hundred thousand things,
+an' raked out th' whole history o' mi life awmost fra mi pap bottle
+up'ards, an' he twisted mi answers so, an' th' magistrates began to look
+at me as if aw wer th' worst specimen o' a criminal they'd ivver seen;
+an' he back'ards an' for'ards, lopin' like a flea fra this spot to that
+spot o' mi tale, till aw didn't know whether aw wer' stood o' mi head or
+mi heels. An' he looked at mi wi' an eye like a gimlet, an' for th' life
+o' me aw couldn't tak' mi e'en fra his, tho' aw'd ha' given owt to do
+it. An' then aw saw aw'd contradicted misen, not exactly a lie, but a
+bit o' a slip, an' aw saw he'd twigged it, an' aw saw he saw aw saw he'd
+twigged it; an' ther' come a quiet smile o' his lips, an' he looked at
+me as much as to say 'what a clever fool yo' are,' an' he played wi' me
+like a cat lakin' wi' a mouse, an' aw broke out into a sweat an' aw'd
+ha' swapped places wi' th' prisoner an' given summat to boot. Phew! it
+mak's me warm yet to think on it! It's risky wark is a haliby, aw tell
+yo', an chance it."
+
+"I suppose the Crown will rely mainly on the evidence of Ben Walker?"
+asked Mr. Webster.
+
+My father nodded assent.
+
+"But I think I have read that a man cannot be hanged on the unsupported
+testimony of an informer. If they have only Walker's evidence to go on,
+or indeed that of any other participator in the deed, the case may break
+down."
+
+"It's no go," said Jack. "There's others beside Ben o' Buck's ha'
+leaked. As soon as it wer' known he'd split there wer' a reg'lar
+scramble to turn informer. Everyone wer' anxious to be i' th' swim.
+There's Joe Sowden."
+
+"O' th' Yews?" I asked.
+
+Jack nodded. "Th' same felly."
+
+"Why what could he say?"
+
+"Th' story is that th' day after th' job wer' done, George went into th'
+croppin' shop, an' him an' Thorpe towd Sowden all about it."
+
+"What, that they had shot Mr. Horsfall?" exclaimed my father, in a voice
+of horror.
+
+"Nowt else. An' they made Sowden tak' a oath to keep th' secret an'
+sweer all th' others to keep th' secret. Everyone i' th' shop wer'
+sworn. There weren't a soul i' all John Wood's that weren't sworn. And
+folk say George held a pistol at Sowden's head while he read th' oath
+off a bit o' papper an' made 'em all kiss th' book."
+
+We stared at each other blankly.
+
+"But is this known to the Crown?" asked Mr. Webster at length.
+
+"Sowden's takin' his tea at this minnit i' Chester Castle, livin' o' th'
+fat o' th' land, a guest o' th' king, feastin' like a fightin' cock, an'
+yo'll nivver set eyes on him agen till yo see him i' th' witness-box at
+York 'sizes," said Jack. "An' there's more to tell. They say George
+borrowed a Russian pistol fra William Hall."
+
+"Well, I'll vouch for Hall, ony road, for all awm worth," I burst out.
+"He'll noan turn traitor. He wer' allus th' keenest o' th' lot on us."
+
+"Tha'd lose thi brass," said Jack quietly. "Hall's sat just nah opposite
+Sowden, like as not drinkin' success to honesty. He lent his pistol to
+George the very day Horsfall wer' shot, an' seed him load it with ball
+an' slugs."
+
+"Why Hall lodged at Wood's an' slept wi' George, i' th' same room if not
+i' th' same bed," I murmured.
+
+"Skin for shin, yea all that a man hath will he give for his fife,' so
+says the Book." Thus Mr. Webster.
+
+"And after Horsfall wer' shot, choose who shot him," Jack went on.
+"George Mellor an' Thorpe went to Joe Mellor's at Dungeon Wood an' hid
+two pistols, an' one on 'em, they do say, is th' self-same pistol 'at
+Hall lent to George afore th' job wer' done."
+
+I do not know whether any of us till then, clung to a hope that George
+might be cleared of any share in the murder. For my own part I had known
+from the first minute I set eyes on George when he came to me at Holme
+the day after the deed, known without a word spoken, that he was guilty.
+All the same the law's the law, and it was none of my business to tell
+what I thought. Thinking's not evidence, and if there was a loop-hole
+for him anywhere I'd widen it for him rather than stop it.
+
+"All the evidence points one way," said Mr. Webster despondently.
+
+"Oh, no! it doesn't, beggin' yo'r pardon for contradictin' yo'," said
+Jack. "There's plenty think George 'll scrape through."
+
+"As how?" I asked.
+
+"Why on th' halibey. Mr. Blackburn 'll have summat to go on. Yo' know
+John Womersley, th' watch maker' i' Cloth Hall Street?"
+
+"Aye, aye."
+
+"Well he says he wer' talkin' wi' George just after six bi th' clock
+opposite th' Cloth Hall, an' had a glass wi' him at th' White Hart."
+
+"Well?"
+
+"Why it wer' just on six when Mr. Horsfall wer' shot on Crosland Moor,
+an' if George were i' th' White Hart at hauf past six, it stan's to
+reason he couldn't be shootin' folk on th' moor at six."
+
+"Womersley's a decent man, and his word will have weight," said my
+father with relief in his tone. "Perhaps we've been misjudgin' the lad
+after all."
+
+"Let's hope so," said Soldier. "An' like enough others 'll turn up 'at
+can give similar evidence. But it's a tickle job is a halibey, best o'
+times."
+
+And so our council ended, Jack engaging to search high and low for any
+scrap of testimony that might help the prisoners.
+
+The month within which Mary must give her answer to Walker's mother
+stole on. I scarce could trust myself to look on Mary so sad and wan was
+she. But one morning towards the middle of December after she had sided
+the breakfast things she donned her Sunday clothes, a thing rarely done
+on week-days in our house, except for visits of more than common
+ceremony, or for weddings and parties.
+
+"I'm going to Huddersfe'lt and mebbe a step beyond," she told my mother.
+
+"To see thi Aunt Matty?"
+
+"I'st happen see her."
+
+My heart quaked.
+
+"Yo'r never goin' to Walker's?" I asked when I could speak to her alone.
+
+"Trust me for that," she said. "I'd rather walk a good few miles another
+way."
+
+"Then where'st ta goin'?" I persisted, "an' winnot yo' tak' Faith? Th'
+walk 'll happen do her good if she wraps well up."
+
+"Faith mun see to th' mixin' o' th' Kersmas cake. Awn towd her how to
+mix th' dough, an' aw'll hope 'oo'll mak' a better job on it nor 'oo did
+o' th' parkin o' Bunfire Day; but it's never too late to larn, an' awm
+thinkin' it won't be long afore she'll need to know summat more nor to
+play on th' spinnet an' to sing hymns an' love ditties. They'll boil no
+man's kettle."
+
+But of her errand to Huddersfield I could get no inkling, and off she
+set in the forenoon through the snow with warm hood over her head and
+thick Paisley shawl and mittens, and pattens to her feet, as sweet a
+picture as ever went down that hill before or since.
+
+It was night, eight o'clock, when she came home, and many a time I'd
+gone into the lane and strained my eyes across the valley to watch the
+road from Kitchen Fold. The snow was falling thick, and when Mary
+entered her shawl was covered with the flakes and little feathery sprays
+were on the curls that twined and twisted from beneath the hood. Her
+cheeks that had grown so pale were a rosy flush with the keen frosty
+air, her eyes were bright and glad and there was the first smile upon
+her lips had played there for many a doleful day. She shook her shawl at
+the house door, whilst Vixen yapped and gambolled about her and Faith
+made haste to remove her pattens and knock the clogged snow from the
+irons while Mary smoothed her hair before the little glass by the
+window.
+
+"An' how's thi Aunt Matty?" asked my mother; "an dun yo' want owt to
+eit? Yo'll be ready for yo'r porridge aw sud judge. Is 'oo bearin' up
+pretty well, an' did ta see John Wood, an' is he lookin' as ill favored
+as ivver?"
+
+"Let th' lass get her breath," pleaded my father.
+
+"Has ta met a fairy?" went on my mother. "For a month an' more tha's
+been mopin' an' turnin' thi nose up at good victuals an' comin' dalin
+o' a mornin' lookin' as if thi bed wer' made o' nettles i'stead o'
+honest feathers, as well aw know 'at plucked 'em, an' nivver a word nor
+a look for anyb'dy, an' wouldn't see th' doctor nor tak' th' herb-tea aw
+brewed thee, an' me thinkin' all th' time it wer' a tiff atween thee an'
+Ben, an' him lookin' waur nor a whipped cur, which it's to be hoped
+yo'll both learn more sense when yo'r well wed, for it'll be as th' man
+said 'Bear an' forbear' then or yo'll ha' a sorry time on it; an' now
+yo' set off wi'out a wi' yo'r leave or by yo'r leave an' come back fra
+goodness knows where lookin' as if yo'd been proved next o' kin to a
+fortin', which it's enough to make anyone think it wor all make believe,
+tho' me that anxious as aw sud be fit to shake yo' if so aw thowt."
+
+My mother paused to get breath.
+
+"I've summat to make me look cheerful," said Mary. "Yo' little know
+wheer I'n been this afternoon, an' who I've talked to and had a cup o'
+tea into th' bargain. Aw don't feel it's real yet. Nip me, Faith, to let
+me know if I'm dreamin!"
+
+"It's a dream we should like to share in," said Faith in her quiet way,
+taking my mother's hard, thin hand, much worn by work, and soothing it
+caressingly, a way she had that always ended by bringing a reposeful
+look upon that eager nervous face and made my mother declare Faith was
+as good as hops in your pillow for restfulness.
+
+"Well aw suppose I'st ha' to begin at th' beginnin'," said Mary,
+settling herself for a long talk and smiling into the fire. My father
+filled another pipe, and my mother let her ball of wool roll upon the
+floor so as to have a long reach of work before her.
+
+"Yo' maybe hannot guessed at Ben Walker wanted me to wed him."
+
+"What Ben o' Buck's o' th' Brigg? Him as turned informer?" asked my
+father, letting his pipe out in his amaze.
+
+Mary nodded.
+
+"That comes o' thi flighty ways," commented my mother with severity. "If
+a lass dunnot keep hersen to hersen, but will ha' a nod for this an' a
+smile for that an' a joke for t' other, she may know what to expec'.
+There wor a differ between decent gells an' hussies when aw wer' young,
+but if there's ony now it's all i' favour o' th' hussies."
+
+Mary flushed angrily.
+
+"Nay, nay, Charlotte, yo' dunnot mean that for yar Mary, aw know," said
+my father. "Go on wi' thi tale, lass. Thi aunt's put out a bit, these
+days."
+
+"Well he did," continued Mary, "and of course aw'd his answer ready for
+him."
+
+"Aw shud think so indeed. It was well for him aw didn't catch 'im at it.
+What did ta say, Mary?"
+
+"Nay, aunt, yo' wouldn't ha' me cumber mi mind wi' such trash. Any road
+aw sent 'im packin'. Then, about a three week sin', his owd mother sent
+for me."
+
+"Did 'oo send a broom for thee to ride on, th' owd witch," put in the
+tireless tongue, more by way of expressing an opinion of Ben Walker's
+mother than a question.
+
+"And aw went," said Mary.
+
+"More fool yo'."
+
+"And 'oo said 'oo'd heard aw'd ta'en up wi' Ben here an' axed me if it
+wer' true."
+
+"An' of course tha'd thi answer to that too," said my mother
+triumphantly.
+
+"Well, yes," admitted Mary.
+
+"So that put a spoke i' that wheel," said my father, knocking his pipe
+head on the fire-grate bar.
+
+"Not a bit on it," quoth Mary. "On th' contrary she seemed rayther glad
+to hear it. But 'oo said he'd noan ha' to ha' me."
+
+"Who, ya'r Ben?"
+
+"Aye, yo'r Ben."
+
+"Who's to stop him?"
+
+"Mrs. Walker o' th' Brigg, by yo'r good leave, aunt. She said 'oo'd gie
+me a month to think on it, an' if aw didn't gi'e mi word to ha' their
+Ben, she'd just speak a word to th' Government ovver that Rawfolds job
+as 'ud send Ben here to keep George Mellor company."
+
+The knitting fell from my mother's hand, the pipe from my father's They
+stared at Mary and at me.
+
+"So that's what's ailed yo' this three week back. Herb-tea might well be
+wasted on yo'," at length my mother managed to gasp.
+
+"That wer' just th' complaint we were suffering fra, wern't it, Ben?"
+
+"An' beyond any physic aw ever heard on," I said. "But tha seems to ha'
+fun a cure."
+
+"But you won't have him," said Faith eagerly. "Oh! the wretched plotter.
+Say you refused, Mary?"
+
+"A varmint not fit to be touched wi' a pair o' tongs," remarked my
+mother.
+
+"But to save Ben here?" asked Mary, maliciously.
+
+And my parents looked at each other. It was a dilemma's horns.
+
+"Don't look worried, ma'am," said Faith. "Mary's only plaguing us. She
+has found a way out, it's plain to see. She wouldn't look as she does if
+she hadn't."
+
+"Then till beseems her to be fleyin' her elders out o' their wits an' mi
+heart goin' pit-a-pat that fast at aw may be took any minnit," said my
+mother.
+
+"Awm sorry, aunt," said Mary, quickly crossing the hearth and putting
+her arms round my mother's neck and kissing her brow. "Aw shouldn't ha'
+done it if aw'd thowt; but awm so happy awm hardly misen. Theer, aw'll
+tell mi tale."
+
+"Well, then, yo' may be sure after aw heerd owd Mother Walker's threat
+aw wer' bothered aboon a bit. Aw wer' noan for weddin' her lad, even if
+he hadn't turned informer, but what use 'ud Ben here be to me hangin' i'
+irons off York gibbet. Aw could na see a road aat, look choose which way
+aw would. Well yesterday aw heerd uncle here say my lord an' lady
+Dartmouth wer' at Woodsome."
+
+My father gave a corroboratory nod.
+
+"So aw thowt it ovver all neet, an' to make a long story short awn been
+to Woodsome this very day."
+
+"An' seen my lord?" cried my father.
+
+"Aye, an' mi lady, too. When aw gate to th' big door lookin' on to th'
+lawn--an' yo' should ha' seen th' deer down th' big avenue made o'
+trees like th' pillars o' a cathedral aisle--when aw gate to th' door
+aw gav' a knock at th' big knocker, an' it made such a clatter aw could
+ha' fun it i' my heart to run, but aw thowt aw'd come so far aw'd see it
+through. A felly oppened th' door. A reg'lar nobob. 'It's mi lord
+hissen,' aw thowt. He'd a powdered wig, an' epaulettes, an' a brown
+plush coat wi' big buttons wi' figurin' on, an' a scarlet weskit, an'
+plush shorts an' silk stockin's an' oh! such an air o' haughty pride. He
+pulled hissen up when he seed me. 'Yo' sud ha' gone to th' tradesmen's
+entrance,' he says. 'Aw want to see his lordship,' aw says as loud as aw
+could, but aw could scarce hear my own voice, an' aw dropped a courtesy,
+'an' a reckon yo' mun be him, tho' aw didn't reckon to see so big a man,
+for Mr. Scott told me ye' wer' nowt much to look at.' And then aw heerd
+a loud laugh, an' i' th' gloom o' th' big hall aw spied a littlish man
+very plain dressed. 'Admit: the lady,' he said. And aw wer' shown into a
+room on th' reight hand, an' th' little man came in an' made me sit
+dahn, but not afore he'd helped me off wi' mi shawl, which wer' wet wi'
+snow, an' made that stuck up jackanapes tak' it to be dried. 'An ask her
+leddyship to spare me a minnit,' sez he. Then there came in a young
+leddy, just such another as thee, Faith, an' so pleasant i' th' face. An
+'oo smiled at me, an' wouldn't hear a word till aw'd warmed misen by th'
+fire, an' 'oo made me drink a glass o' wine."
+
+"Did yo' tell her who's lass tha wer'?" asked my father. "But he'd noan
+know me. Th' owd lord 'ud ha' known me. But this 'un's nobbud been th'
+earl a year or two, an awn nobbud seen him once or twice."
+
+"Well, anyway he didn't say he didn't," said Mary diplomatically. "And
+then," continued Mary, "aw up an' tell'd them all about it, about Ben o'
+Buck's pesterin' me an' about Long Tom an' about Ben's arm an' about
+thee, aunt, bein' confined to thi bed an' havin' th' doctor to thee an'
+all time ailin' nowt...."
+
+"Aye, an' what did they say to that?"
+
+"Well, th' little lord laughed like a good 'un, an' said th' doctor 'ud
+ha' to be sent to th' 'sizes for bein' a summat after the fact, not a
+necessary, what wor it?--oh! an accessory. But aw seed he wer' jokin!
+Then aw began to tell about Ben Walker's mother, an' her ladyship told
+th' little Earl he'd better go out o' th' room, an' when he'd gone aw
+just down o' mi knees i' front on her, an' 'oo drew mi face to her an'
+aw had a good cry, an' 'oo drew mi face everything just as yo know it."
+
+"Well, an' then?"
+
+"Why she looked very grave and said it wer' a serious business an' a
+very delicate matter for his lordship to meddle in. She told me summat
+aw didn't quite mak' out about their party not bein' in just now."
+
+"Of course not," said my father. "Aw could ha' told yo' that."
+
+"But any way,' says she, 'my uncle's in the ministry and good friends
+with th' Secretary of State. So cheer up, Mary; th' men may manage th'
+State; but we know who manages th' men, an' my name's not Fanny Legge if
+yo'r lover shan't go free.'"
+
+"Did she say Fanny?" said my mother.
+
+"She did," replied Mary, "just plain Fan an' never a countess to it, and
+what's more she gave me this locket wi' her picture in it, an' told me
+to wear it o' mi weddin' day, an' wear it aw shall an' will, an' mebbe
+those 'at come after me." And Mary drew from her bosom the portrait you,
+my children, know so well of that young countess who so untimely died.
+
+"Aw think that settles it," said my father, smiting his thigh.
+
+"Of course it does," said my mother. "An' aw hope, William Bamforth, 'at
+after this yo'll vote blue an' side wi' th' quality. T'other lot's good
+enuff for shoutin', but gi' me th' owd fam'lies when it comes to th'
+stick an' lift."
+
+And this profound political aphorism may close a chapter too long drawn
+out.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+I NEVER in my life passed so gloomy a Christmas as that of 1812. We
+killed a goose as usual, and there was the usual seasoned pudding and
+plum pudding, and Faith and Mary made a bit of a show with the holly and
+the mistletoe. But it was no use. We couldn't brighten up our hearts nor
+take our thoughts from the Special Commission which was to sit at York
+in the fore-end of January to try the Luds. Even our neighbours felt we
+could be in no mood for rejoicing, and neither the Church singers nor
+the Powle Moor lot came near us, and as for wishing each other a merry
+Christmas the farce would have been too ghastly.
+
+It was arranged that my father, Mr. Webster and I should go to York for
+the trial, and at the last moment Faith pleaded for leave to accompany
+us. I wanted Mary to go too, but she was very decided in her refusal.
+She wasn't going to leave her aunt alone these long wintry nights, she
+said, tho' I don't think that was the real reason, for was there not
+Martha? I wonder if women ever give the real reasons for their actions.
+Why should Faith make a point of going, I asked myself, and Mary demand
+to be left at home. On the first point Mary herself enlightened me,
+being more ready to speak of Faith's actions than her own.
+
+"It's plain enough why she wants to show George a kindness now," said
+Mary.
+
+"Aye?"
+
+"Can't ta see her heart's reproaching itself? She were more nor hauf i'
+love wi' George, an' no doubt thowt she could never fancy another."
+
+"Well?"
+
+"An' if there's one thing more nor another a woman sets store by, it's
+her own constancy."
+
+"Indeed!"
+
+"Yes, and indeed. And now Faith feels herself slipping, an' she's going
+to try to make it up to George for a treachery he'll never know of by
+sitting through the trial. It's noan so much to please him as to satisfy
+hersen."
+
+Anyhow it was my father and Faith and Mr. Webster and myself that the
+Cornwallis took up at ten of the clock one morning in January at the
+sign of the Rose and Crown in Huddersfield. We might have joined it in
+Slaithwaite on its way through the village from Manchester, but we
+wanted to have as little talk and stir as possible. Mr. Blackburn's
+clerk had got us decent lodgings near the Castle with a widow woman who
+made a living by letting her rooms to witnesses attending the Assizes,
+and whose whole talk was of the counsellors she had heard plead. She was
+pleased to express her satisfaction when she learned we had secured Mr.
+Brougham to defend George.
+
+"Is he so clever a lawyer then?" asked Mr. Webster as we rested in the
+parlour after our long, cold, tedious journey, and warmed ourselves as
+well as we could before a fire on which it seemed to me the coals were
+put on with the sugar tongs.
+
+"Well," said Mrs. Cooke, for that was the garrulous old lady's name, "Of
+course he is a clever lawyer, tho' they do say not so far learned nor so
+deep as some we've known in York in my time, but it isn't that will help
+you in a case like this."
+
+"I do not take you, madam," observed Mr. Webster.
+
+"You see Mr. Brougham has a great name in the city with the Whigs, and
+if yo' can get a sprinkling of them gentry on the jury it will go a
+great way in the poor young man's favour."
+
+"All we ask is an upright and an intelligent jury," said Mr. Webster.
+
+"That's all very well for you, sir, that's safe and sound by a good fire
+and a clean soft bed before you. But from what I've read, sir, that
+young friend of yours will do better with a jury that will lean a bit;
+and trust Mr. Brougham for making the most of his chances with the
+jury."
+
+"Will he be allowed to speak to them?" I asked.
+
+"Dear me, no," said the lady, proud to air her knowledge of the law.
+"And a mercy it is it is so, for if such a counsellor as Mr. Brougham
+could talk to the jury for a prisoner, half the rogues now hanged would
+be walking the county. But there's ways an' means sides talking, a
+shrug, a question to a witness, a meaning look at the gentlemen in the
+box, and above all a quarrel with my lord."
+
+"What! quarrel with the judge?" exclaimed my father. "Surely that would
+be fatal."
+
+"Not a bit of it," explained our landlady. "It's the safest card of all
+to play. You see the judge is sure to be against the prisoner."
+
+"Nay, my good lady, surely nay," remonstrated Mr. Webster. "Ye shall do
+not unrighteousness in judgment: thou shalt not respect the person of
+the poor, nor honour the person of the mighty: but in righteousness
+shalt thou judge thy neighbour."
+
+"Ah! that's in the Bible, I take it," said Mrs. Cooke; "but the Bible's
+one thing and York Assizes is another, and so you'll find, unless I'm
+very much mistaken. The Government will take care to send judges that
+mean hanging, and that's so well known that it sets the back of the jury
+up a bit, particler if a touch of politics can be dragged into the case.
+That's Mr. Brougham's chance, and if he can make the jury think the
+judge is pressing things too hard against your man, I won't say but he
+may have a chance. But it isn't much to cling to after all, poor lad."
+
+The night before the trial, which was fixed for Wednesday the sixth of
+January, Mr. Blackburn was to see George in the Castle cell. By much
+insistence he prevailed on the Governor to permit Mr. Webster to
+accompany him, a great favour, and one, we understood, little to the
+liking of the prison chaplain. When the little man returned to our mean
+lodgings, he was pale and downcast and sat for a long time silent,
+bending over the sullen fire.
+
+"God preserve me from such a scene again," at length he said. "To think
+that one whose face I have seen upturned to mine in my own chapel should
+now be prisoned in yonder noisome cell. Oh! my friends, 'surely the ways
+of transgressor are hard.'"
+
+"If it were not to distress yo' too much we should like to hear all from
+the beginning," said my father.
+
+"Well, when we got to the gate of the gaol," said Mr. Webster, "Mr.
+Blackburn rang the bell. A jailor opened it after such unlocking and
+unbarring as you never heard."
+
+'To see a prisoner,' said Mr. Blackburn.
+
+'An attorney, sir? Your name?'
+
+'Mr. Blackburn, of Huddersfield. For George Mellor and others to be
+tried to-morrow.'
+
+'And your friend?'
+
+'Mr. Webster, a good minister of the gospel.'
+
+'He cannot enter, sir, unless by special order of the governor.'
+
+'It is here.'
+
+'Then enter and follow me. Write your name and address in this book.'
+
+"He was a big, burly man, and treated Mr. Blackburn with great respect;
+but he looked hard at me from under his bushy eyebrows, till I bethought
+me to slip a crown piece into his hand, when he became more civil. He
+had a bunch of great keys by his side, and they jingled as he walked. We
+followed him across a courtyard, where there was more unlocking of gates
+and doors, and at length we were in a stone-flagged corridor with
+whitewashed walls, and on either side of these the cells. There was a
+little spy-hole in the door of every cell, through which, I judged, the
+warders might watch the wretches chained within. Before one door the
+warder stopped."
+
+'This is your man, sir,' he said, and selecting a key turned the lock
+and threw open the door. 'I'll stand outside, sir.'
+
+"Mr. Blackburn nodded and entered the cell, I at his heels, much daunted
+by the cold and the gloom. It was a little while ere my eyes got used to
+the darkness, but as we entered I heard the clank of irons, and was
+aware of some form in the gloom rising in the corner from under the
+grated window. It was George; but oh! how altered! he was gaunt and
+thin, and his eyes that I have known so bright and lit by the joy of
+life, were dull and fixed in sick despair. I forgot the crime of which
+he stands charged and saw only a brother, nay, a son, suffering in
+mortal agony, and all my heart bled for him."
+
+"Poor George! Poor Matty," murmured my father, passing the back of his
+hand over his face, and Faith's eyes were fixed with pained intentness
+on the preacher's face, her lips pale and parted as she held her breath
+and waited on his every word.
+
+"'Mr. Webster!' he cried, for he could see better than I, being used
+doubtless to the little light. 'Mr. Webster, oh! this is good of you!'
+and he seemed to take no heed of Mr. Blackburn, and as well as he could
+for the irons that cribbed his arms, he stretched out his hands to me,
+oh! so wildly and so lovingly, and I took both his hands in mine and
+must have done tho' I had seen the deed with my own eyes. And George
+bowed his head, and tears fell upon our clasped hands that were not
+wholly his nor wholly mine, and I drew down his head and kissed him on
+the brow."
+
+"The good Lord bless yo'," sobbed Faith.
+
+"And Mr. Blackburn stood a little way off fumbling with his papers and
+taking snuff very rapidly and in great quantities."
+
+'Have yo' seen mi mother lately?' asked George; 'does she bear up? Is
+she here in York?' "His first thoughts were of her, poor lad."
+
+"Yo' munnot forget to tell her that, Faith," said my father, and Faith
+nodded, and I know she did not forget, and it comforted my Aunt Matty in
+the after days.
+
+"I told him only you and Ben were here," continued Mr. Webster. "'Not
+Mary?' he asked, and I told him no. 'Better not, happen better not,' he
+said at last; but he seemed disappointed that Mary should not be here, I
+know not why."
+
+"Did he ask for me?" said Faith, very softly.
+
+"Nay," said Mr. Webster. "He did not ask for thee; but I told him yo'
+wer' here and would not be denied."
+
+"And what said he?"
+
+'Faith! Faith Booth? Ah! poor John's sister. 'Oo'd over a tender heart,
+an' I loved her brother next to Ben.'
+
+"Yes, he loved my brother," said Faith, "but not as John loved him." And
+after that she was very silent; only once I heard her murmur to herself,
+"Yes, he loved mi brother."
+
+"Well then," said Mr. Webster, "for a while Lawyer Blackburn talked with
+George in a low voice so's the warder at the door might not hear what
+passed, and I tried to compose my thoughts, so that I might, if time and
+opportunity favoured, say some word that he might take to his heart to
+solace him withal. And when Mr. Blackburn began to tie up his papers and
+bid him bear himself like a man, on the morrow, and hope for the best, I
+asked George it he would pray with me. He did not refuse; but sat upon a
+little block that served for his seat, and I fell upon my knees and the
+lights streamed upon my face from between the bars. Mr. Blackburn turned
+his back and affected to busy himself with his bag, and the warder
+jingled his keys, impatient to be gone. And then I prayed the good God
+and Father to send peace and comfort to our dear brother, that. He might
+be pleased that this great sorrow should pass and this black cloud be
+lifted; but throwing all upon the mercy and compassion of the Heart that
+feels for all, for all, even for the outcast and the sinful. For the
+love of that Heart passeth the love of man and of woman, else woe and
+still woe, aye even for the chosen ones of Israel."
+
+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.
+
+"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.]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ben o' Bill's, The Luddite, by 
+Daniel Frederick Edward Sykes and George Henry Walker
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54030 ***