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."