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.