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.