CHAPTER IX.

MY Father and Siah left home that very day with the waggon. It was given out in the little village that I was gone too, and it was soon town's talk that Mrs. Bamforth was sick and that Dr. Dean was visiting her twice a day. 'Siah came up to see me in bed before he started.

"Th' mester's awful put out," he told me. "Aw heard thi mother askin' him if he weren't bahn to come up an' say good-bye to thee, Ben. But he said nowt. Tha's put his back up gradely this time, lad, an' I expect aw'st have a roughish time on it missen. But hard words an' foul looks break no bones, an' aw'd rather be i' Macclesfield wi' Awd Harry hissen,' just nah, nor at wom among th' Luds. No more sojerin' for me, Ben. My yed's fair stunned wi' th' din. An' ne'er thee mind about thi father. He'll come rahnd, an' then he'll ma' it up to thee as if he'd been i' fault hissen. By gow, tha has getten a arm, to be sure. It looks like three pund o' lites, and they'd best keep th' cat out o' th' room when th'ar asleep, or 'oo'l be at thee, sure as God made little apples."

And soon afterwards I heard the cart lumbering out of the yard to the usual accompaniment of the dog's excited barking and 'Siah's apostrophes to Old Bess.

Then my mother and Mary took possession of me, and I am persuaded that never did my mother enjoy herself so thoroughly as during the three weeks or more that I kept my bed. Her own room adjourned the one in which I lay, and as she was supposed to be herself bedridden she had all the advantage of being at close quarters. She would come to my bedside a hundred times a day in her linsey petticoat and a red flannel jacket with big bone buttone that gave her quite a martial air, and at every knock at the house door she would skip back to her own room, tumble into bed, draw the clothes over her, and set to groaning as tho' in mortal agony. Then, when retreating footsteps assured her the coast was clear, she would steal back with a shame-faced look and busy herself about the room. How many times a day she dusted the furniture of my room and arranged and rearranged the odds and ends on the little dressing table, I cannot hazard a guess at. She spent hours each day listening at the top of the staircase to what was going on below, for she was tortured by the conviction that things were going to rack and ruin in her absence and that Martha and Mary were in a conspiracy to do all things they ought not to do and leave undone the things they ought to do. Nothing would persuade her that any cleaning was being done in the parlour, and she knew that when she was able to get about again she would be able to write her name in dust on the looking-glass and the chiffonier, that is if she should haply be able to get into the room at all, of which she was somewhat sceptical. When Mary brought my chicken broth and rice pudding, my prescribed diet, on which by the bye I soon began to lose flesh at an alarming rate, my mother would meet her at the stair head and herself bring it to the bedside, very jealous, as was easy enough to see, that he could not cook it herself. Such tasting of broth and puddings sure never was before nor since, nor such fault-finding. Some days the rice hadn't been soaked long enough, other days too long. Some days the broth was too strong, others too weak, or the salt was in excess, or the pepper, or a pinch of this or that would have improved the flavour. Poor Mary, did it ever set you thinking, I wonder, what an ideal mother-in-law your aunt would make?

Then, when the ball had been extracted from my arm and my shoulder began to look less like a lump of liver, it became clear to my mother that I was in need of spiritual comfort. The big Family Bible was brought from the parlour and placed on a little table by my bedside. I was perfectly capable of reading it for myself, but that would not have suited my nurse. She read with difficulty and had many a stubborn tussle with the hard words. At first I helped her with them but soon perceived she took a delight in the struggle and so left her to grapple with them. As she opined my illness would be a long one and she did not mean to be gravelled for lack of matter, she began at the first chapter of the Book of Genesis and advanced by slow stages to the tenth, when she floundered in a genealogical bog from which she brought forth, I fear, only one piece of abiding information, to wit, that the eldest son of Eber bore the same name as the crippled son of the village postmaster--Peg-leg.

Dr. Dean was her great comfort during this enforced confinement. Twice daily did that cheery visitor drive up to Holme, and from the long stay that his champing, stamping mare made by our door, the neighbours drew gloomy auguries as to my mother's desperate state. If they could have seen him sat in an easy chair, profaning the chaste sanctity of the bedroom with tobacco smoke, and relishing our best Hollands while he detailed the village gossip to my mother's delighted ears, they would have had less concern for the good soul's health. My mother declared the doctor's visits were worth a guinea apiece.

"Mrs. Garside's been enquiring after yo' Mrs. Bamforth." Now this was that Hannah Garside who had pulled up my mother's half-cousin, Sam o' Sall's, because of the eggs.

"She met save her breath to cool her porridge," was my mother's ungrateful comment.

"She says she freely forgives yo', ma'm."

"The imperence on her. Ah! wait till I get better, an' I'll gi'e her forgive me!"

"She promises to pray for you, Mrs. Bamforth."

"To pray for me! Hannah Garside, pray for me! Oh! this must be stopped, doctor. It's too bad 'at she's none content wi' makin' th' village unbearable an' nah mun' be bringing me into bad odour wi' th' saints above."

"She sends her compliments, ma'am, and says if I prescribe custards she won't venture to send any batter as it's well known your family knows a way o' never being short o' eggs."

"Oh! trust her for taking a mean advantage o' me, an' me laid o' mi back an' not able to stick up for missen. Take her a cruet o' water, doctor, an' say I'd be glad if she'd look into it an' turn it to vinegar. But yo'r taking nothing, doctor. Fill your glass, now do, and have another pipe. Never mind th' smoke. It's good for moths." And thus did Doctor Dean pass the time in those professional visits the portentous length of which gave so much anxiety to our friends.

It was Soldier Jack who told me the news of poor John Booth's sad end. Soldier had been chary of coming at first for fear of arousing the suspicions of our neighbours, but he was very useful in spreading the news of my mother's illness. He had her one day on the brink of death, another day rallying. One day it was current through the village that my mother had sent for Lawyer Blackburn, and the undertaker went about with a visibly expectant face. When Mr. Webster called, all hope was abandoned. When he went away without being admitted to the sick chamber, tho' my mother had to bite her tongue to prevent herself calling out to him from the stairhead, our kinsfolk of all degrees began to look up their mourning, and the stone-cutter at Powle Moor got ready a selection of appropriate head-lines.

At length Jack could keep away no longer and came one afternoon into my room, walking softly in on tip-toe of one foot and a limp of the other, as tho' I were dead or sleeping. Poor Jack, he looked sadly worn and harassed of these days and had lost all his swagger and even his cheerfulness.

"Yes, it's too true, Ben. Poor John Booth's dead as a nit. Shot through th' leg, an' no stamina to bear it. He died th' same neet.

"Tell me about it Soldier? Poor lad, poor lad."

"He died at Tommy Sheard's at th' Star i' Roberdta'n. He wer' a good plucked 'un, an' his father a parson too. His mother mun ha' been a none such, aw reckon."

"Who was with him Jack? Was he in much pain? Did he say owt? Tell me all about it."

"Well, as far as aw can gather, after we carried yo' off t'others didn't stay long behind. Th' game wor up."

"How did we come to leave Booth? We ought not to have left Booth. I promised I'd see to him, and a pretty way I've kept my word."

"Dunnot yo' fash yersen, Ben. Yo'd your work set wi' Enoch. John brought it on hissen. He wer' all ovver th' shop', egging th' men on. Aw told him to keep i' covver, but he seemed fair to run agen th' bullets as if he wanted killing. Well he gate what he wanted. Still if we hadn't had our hands full wi yo', we might ha' carried him off. But he's dead, so we should nobbud ha' had our wark for nowt, an' a mort o' trouble to account for th' corpse. Yo' mebbe hannot thowt o' that. What should we ha' done wi' a dead body wi' a leg smashed to mush, on our hands?"

Aye, what, I thought.

"Well, theer John lay among broken glass, an' stones, an' sticks, an' plaster, in front o' th' mill, an' Sam Hartley shot through th' lung an' vomiting quarts o' blood, not far off him. After a bit owd Hammond Roberson, th' feightin' parson, come gallopin' up wi' a lot o' soldiers, an' Cartwright oppens th' mill door, an' him an' his men comes out, an' they do say Cartwright took on rarely when he see'd th' mess we'd made o' th' mill front. Poor John were beggin' some o' th' folk 'at had run up to fetch him a drop o' water. Aw know what it's like when yo'r wounded. Yo' feel as if yo'd got a little hell o' yo'r own inside yo'. But Cartwright wer' noan for lettin' him have a drop, not even to wet his lips, till he'd gi'en th' names o' those 'at wer' th' leaders. But John tak' no notice nor Hartley nawther, but nobbut begged for water. Old Roberson, dam him, wor as bad as Cartwright. It wer' confession first, an' water after. But a chap called Billy Clough ran an' put a stone under John's yed, an' then fot him a drink. If awther th' parson or Cartwright had stopped him, aw'm told th' folk round 'ud ha' mobbed 'em. Aw can forgi'e Cartwright, for it's none calc'lated to put a chap into th' best o' tempers to ha' his mill made such a mullock on; but, curse Roberson, an' all such like, say I, an' him a parson, too!"

"But what of John, Soldier?"

"Well at last when he'd say nowt, water or no water, they put him on a gate an' carried him an' Hartley to th' Star. A doctor wer' noan long i' turnin' up, for them chaps smell blood like vultures. He said ther' wer' nowt for it but to hampotate th' leg, an' that wer' just more nor John could stand, an' he cheat both th' parson an' th' gallows, an' deed like a man an' a Briton at he wor.

"How cheat th' parson, Jack?"

"Well owd Roberson wouldn't let him die i' peace, but wer all th' time naggin' him to confess. Then when Booth knew his end were near, he called old Roberson to stand ovver him, an' th' owd sinner's face lit up wi' glee, an' he stepped up to John as brisk as a bee."

"You see, gentlemen, the power of the Church! And now, my good man."

"Can yo' keep a secret, sir?" said John, in a whisper; but all were so still yo' could have heard a pin drop. Even Sammy Hartley, who wer' deein' fast, stopped moanin', they say; tho' that mun be either accident or fancy."

"Can yo' keep a secret, sir?" whispered John.

"I can, I can," said th' parson.

"An' so can I," said John, "wi' a smile, an he put his head back an' never spak' no more; an', oh! Ben, when aw talk on it aw'm fit to blubber like a child. He wer' a rare un, wer' John."

Mary was there and my mother, and Mary's face was buried in the counterpane and I heard her sob, and a tear trickled down my mother's cheek, and I turned my face to the wall and mourned for my friend.

"We got his body," went on Jack after a long pause. "Mr. Wright, th' saddler, saw to that. It wer' brought to his house, an' th' funeral wer' fra' theer. He wer' buried i' Huddersfield Churchyard, an' all th' town wer' theer. George Mellor and Thorpe walked after th' hearse, an' all th' folk, hundreds on 'em, 'at could lay the'r hands on a bit, wore white crape around their arm. It wer' a gran' funeral."

"And Faith?" said Mary.

"'Oo leaned o' Mrs. Wright, 'at wer' like a mother to her. Th' owd father weren't theer. But Faith looked just all brokken to pieces, poor wench."

"I'll go to her, straight away," cried Mary.

"Aye, do, Mary," said my mother, "and bring her up to Holme wi' yo'. She wants some kitchen physic as well as other folk."

"Yo' forget yo'r ill i' bed, aunt," said Mary, "and Ben's away to Macclesfield."

"Well, if aw amn't, aw soon shall be, if this mak' o' wark goes on. Oh! George, tha's a deal to answer for, an' it's much if tha doesn't break thi mother's heart afore tha's done, an' then there 'll be an end o' poor Matty, too."

I fret a deal over John Booth's awful death and felt in a manner that it lay at my door. Faith's sad face haunted my fevered dreams, and I reproached myself not a little that I had not taken more care of the lad. And yet, looking back, I do not see that I could have done other than I did. I spoke with Mary on the matter.

"It's a bad job for Faith losing her brother like this, Mary. I doubt she'll take it sore to heart. Her whole life seemed centred and wrapped up in John. They might have been twins. I blame misen shocking that aw left him to shift for hissen."

"I don't see how yo'r to blame, Ben. From all I can make out, yo'd enough to do to look out for yersen; and it's only natural that 'Siah an' Soldier, anyway 'Siah, our own man, should look to yo' first an' foremost, choose how others fared."

"But I promised Faith that I'd have an eye to him."

"Well you did your best, and th' best can do no more. It's no use thee working thissen into a fever, an' tossin' about as if tha wer' on a hot backstone, an' kickin' th' clo'es off thee as fast as aw can put them on, over summat at's done an' can't be undone."

"Yo'r only a Job's comforter, Mary. Aw should have thought tha'd more feeling in thee."

"Feeling! aw've feeling enough. But it's time to talk a bit o' sense. There's been mischief enough an' to spare o' late about feeling. It's feeling baht sense 'at brought yo' into this mess, an' yo'r noan aht o' th' wood yet. Happen tha'll live to envy John Booth, an' wish tha'd been left for dead at Rawfolds i'stead o' 'scaping to find a worse fate. I declare aw never hear a step come to th' door but my heart goes into mi mouth an mi knees shake so aw can hardly stand. There's feeling for yo', if yo' like. Mr. Chew says it's a hanging job for them 'at's caught."

I flushed at this you may be sure, tho' Mary only put into words the thought that had tortured my waking hours and made my dreams hideous. That was a subject not to be dwelt on. So I made haste to revert to Faith.

"Aw hannot told yo' yet, Mary, that I made a promise to John, too."

"Yo seem to ha' been precious free wi thi promises."

"Nay, Mary, what's come ovver thee? Its noan like thee to turn agen them 'at's i' trouble. It wer' at Kirklees, just before we started for Rawfolds."

And I told Mary of what had passed between John Booth and me.

"Well, what is it all leading to?" she asked.

"A've been turning things ovver i' mi mind, Mary, as aw've laid o' mi back. Yo' see, Faith's nobbut a poor weak thing, an' fra all aw can hear her father's awmost as bad. Don't yo' think we ought to do summat to help her?"

"With all my heart--as how?"

"Nay, that's wheer aw'm fast. Cannot yo' suggest summat?"

"Yo' might happen ask her if she wants a home--Martha 'll mebbe be so accommodatin' as to mak' room for her i' th' house. Martha could get another job fast enough, an' then yo'll have Faith under yo'r own e'en, an' it'll be little trouble to look after her then."

"The thing's preposterous, Mary. The idea of Faith scouring and, milking and such like."

"Yo' might perhaps offer her work at the spinning."

"Why, Faith's been brought' up a lady," I cried.

"It's no more nor yo'r mother an' me does every day of our lives. But to be sure I'm not a lady. But, perhaps, yo'd like to make Faith a present or allow her a pension. I'm glad to see things are mending wi' yo', Ben. Aw allus thowt yo' had nought but what yo' addled, an' that's like to be little enough for many a month to come. But, perhaps, tha's come in for a fortin', an' been keepin' it secret for fear o' killin' us wi' joy. Tell us on it, Ben. Aw'll try to bear it, if it isn't too dazzling."

"Do quit thi teasing, Mary, an' talk some sense. It's no jesting matter for poor Faith."

"And that's true enough, cousin, and I'm a wicked girl to run on so. But yo' aggravate me so wi' thi wild schemes an' foolish talk."

"How foolish!"

"Why, how can ta help Faith? It were reight enough for poor John to speak to yo'. I expect his heart wer' full, an' it eased him to speak to thee. But now what can yo' do? Tha has nowt, an' half nought's nought all th' world over."

"I could be a brother to her, Mary."

"Oh! a brother! I should ha' thowt yo'd had enough o' brotherhoods to sicken thi for life. Aw've no patience wi' thee. There's Faith living at Low Moor wi' her father, an' needed there, aw've little doubt, an' wi' her hands full enough, an' now yo' mun strike up a brotherhood wi' her. Aw suppose we'st ha' yo', as soon as yo'r up, settin' off every week end to Low Moor to play the brother. Yo'll ha' to take yo'r sister out for long walks aw suppose, an' to buy her rings an' keepsakes an' all that. Yo'll find it cheaper to buy her a plain 'un to begin wi'."

"Well, and why not?" I said, getting nettled, for Mary had told me some home truths that had been none too pleasant in the hearing and digestion.

"And why not?" I repeated. "Faith's a sweet lass, and a good one an' true. She's over pale an' thin mebbe, for everyone's fancy."

"Oh! beauty's in the eye of the beholder," put in Mary, tossing her head.

"But she'd cure o' that, wi' plenty o' good milk an' fresh air such as we han at Holme. An' aw think she leans a bit to me. Don't yo' think so yoursen, Mary.

"Dunnot ask me. My head doesn't run on such trash. What's ta talking to me for? Aw'm noan Faith. Yo'd soon have an answer, an' one 'at 'ud tak' th' conceit out on thee if owt could. Ask hersen."

"Well! I happen will," I said. "Aw've a good mind."

"It's a pity to spoil a good mind then. I'd waste no time about it, chance some'dy snaps her up. An' while th' art abaht it, yo might ask her to come an' nurse thee, so's 'oo'll know what's afore her."

And Mary bounced out of the room in a tantrum.

The frame of mind in which she left me was certainly not one that Dr. Dean could have desired for a feverish patient. It. was clear to me that my own position was anything but an enviable one. Large rewards had been offered, I knew, for such information as would lead to the conviction of those concerned in the attack on Rawfolds, and machine breaking had been made a capital offence. My own participation in that affair was known to scores, and suspected by hundreds more. An incident that befel shortly afterwards aggravated my alarm. My father was still away. A letter had come from him, written in an obviously bad temper, complaining of the awful state of trade and driving my mother to distraction by telling of the trial and punishment of the Nottingham Luddites. However, I had so far proceeded to convalescence as to leave my bed, and I was looking forwards to being out and about in a few days, and I was turning over in my mind the feasibility of leaving home for a few months till things blew over a bit. I did not feel safe at home and that's the fact, and I was on tenterhooks to put a hundred miles and more between me and Justice Radcliffe, who was scouring the district for Luds.

I was meditating on these matters and wondering why George Mellor never came near me even to ask after my recovery, when I heard the dog give tongue in the yard and the sound of horses' hoofs. I managed to support myself to the stairhead. I heard a clatter at the door, which was opened by Martha.

"Does William Bamforth live here?" asked a voice, and there was the pawing of a horse's hoof, the jingling of a bit-chain, the sound of one swinging himself heavily to the ground, and the clinking of spurs.

"Does ta' mean Bill o' Ben's?" queried Martha.

"I mean William Bamforth."

"Well yo'see, there's a seet o' Bamforths i' Holme, an' four on 'em's Bills. It'll be Bill o' Luke's yo'r wantin', or happen Bill o' Nan's Back Side."

"I mean William Bamforth, who has a son called Ben."

"Well, he's noan at wom. He's i' Macclesfield. But aw munnot stop talkin' here. Aw'm churnin', an' th' butter's just on th' turn. Aw'll tell him a felly come to see him."

"Not so fast, my good woman."

"I'll trouble yo' to keep a civil tongue in yo'r head. My name's Martha. Don't 'Good woman' me, if yo' please."

"Where's yo'r mistress?"

"'Oo's i' bed. 'Oo's ill. 'Oo's getten th' small pox, an' tha'd better be off afore th' smell on it comes dahn stairs an' smittles thee."

"I'm sorry to seem rude, my sweet Martha. But duty's duty. I must search yo'r house."

"If tha comes in aw'll set th' dog at thee. Here Vixen, Vixen." And Martha called to an imaginary bitch.

There was a slight scuffle, and someone strode into the house.

"No one here anyhow. Now for upstairs." My mother had fled to her bed and drawn the clothes about her. For me, I lay back in my chair incapable of thought or movement. The stairs creaked under a heavy tread. Mary stood by my side, my hand stole into hers, and she faced the door, battle in her eyes. A big, burly trooper pushed it open, ducking his head as he advanced over the threshold. It was Long Tom with whom I had fought at Marsden.

"What want you here?" cried Mary. "How dare you force your way into decent folks' house in broad day?"

"The gamesome wench that slapped my face!" cried Long Tom.

"Aye, and will slap it again if yo'r not off."

"Gently, Mary, gently," I said. "The sergeant has doubtless business here. Your errand, sir?" I said. "You see you intrude."

"Why this beats Banagher, where the cows run barefoot!" exclaimed the soldier. "If this isn't the youngster spoiled my beauty for me. Nay, sit still," he went on, as I tried to rise.

"What! bandaged, too, and in the forearm. A queer treatment for small pox."

"Sir, if you have business here, I pray you do it."

"Is your name Ben Bamforth?"

"It is."

"The son of William Bamforth?"

"His son."

"And what the devil are yo' doing here, you thundering young idiot? Why in the name of common sense aren't you a thousand miles away if horse or mail could carry you?"

"And what the devil are yo' doing here, you thundering young idiot? Why in the name of common sense aren't you a thousand miles away if horse or mail could carry you?"

"I am not accountable to you for my actions that I know of. Again, your business?"

My mother had issued from her room in petticoat and scarlet jacket.

"Keep your distance, good woman, if its yo' have the small pox. If I must be riddled let it be with pellets not pustules," cried the soldier, starting back in horror.

"Oh! good Mr. Soldier. What do yo' want with our Ben? A quiet, harmless lad, as ever lived, that never harmed a flee. I'm sure he's done nothing wrong, and him bedfast these six months past."

Now heaven forgive you, mother!

"He played a mighty heavy fist for a sick man not three months gone, anyhow, good dame. Nay, keep your distance. Good God! if the old lady isn't going to kneel to me."

For my mother made as if she would throw herself at the soldier's feet.

"Mother, calm yourself," I said. "Pray, sir, you see I am in no case to bear much talking. What is your will with me."

"I'm sorry, I'm very sorry. A man like you that ought to be fighting Mounseer, and a proper Life Guardsman yo'd make, for sure. Well, well, of all the tomfoolery! However, I see no help for it."

And Long Tom strode about the room in evident perplexity, muttering to himself: "A brave lad," "a sad case," "too good for the gallows," and "I owe the wench one, too."

I seemed to watch the working of his mind, and hope stole trembling back into my heart.

Another too was scanning his face as anxiously as manner marks the witness of the skies.

"And so, madam," he said, "you are his mother, and I suppose this tale of small pox is all flam. And you, Miss, what is this long-limbed game cock to you?"

"Oh! Sergeant," cried Mary, "I am sure you have a good heart, and are a brave and generous man. You must not think ill of Ben for besting you when yo' fought. It was all for me."

"I don't' think any the worse of him, pretty. I think all the better of him. It served me right, and if I hadn't taken a drop too much, I shouldn't have tried to steal a kiss. Tho' you will admit the provocation." And here the gallant sergeant doffed his shako and made a low bow to Mary, who blushed and curtsied and cast down her eyes.

"But I owe you some return, miss, for my ill manners, and as for the trouncing, a soldier bears no malice. But you haven't told me, yet, what is this Ben here to you? Your brother?"

"No, good sir, my cousin!"

"H'm. Aught else?"

Then did Mary catch her breath and hold me tighter by the hand; and for a moment I could hear my own heart beat.

"He is my sweetheart, sir, an't please you. And we're to be wed when he's well. And oh! sir, it will kill me if yo' take him from me."

"And a lucky dog he is to have so fair a bride. Well, well, I'll risk it. But hark you, Ben Bamforth, you've had a narrow shave. I won't enquire how you came by that bandaged arm. Perhaps I know more than yo think. A change of air will do you good. I say no more than this: 'Next time yo' go out of nights, take missy with you. Veils are dangerous, especially with such eyes behind them'"--another bow to Mary--"but masks are worse. You take me."

Indeed I did take him.

"And now I'm off. You need fear nothing from my report. But be careful of the company you keep. A wink's as good as a nod, they say, and there's a man in your confounded league who has no love for Ben Bamforth."

"Good day, ma'am, and I wish you better of the small pox."

Long Tom clinked his heels together, drew himself up to the salute, nearly knocking his head against the rafters as he did it, and turned to go. He had reached the head of the stairs.

"Stay, sir," cried Mary, her face as red as a peony.

He looked back.

"I thought yo' wanted a kiss t'other night."

"Aye, but yo' refused me smartly."

"Well," and here Mary drooped her head and played with the corner of her apron. "Well--I've, I've changed my mind."

And Tom laughed a great laugh and stooped over my cousin and she raised her crimson face to his.

"Gad! Bamforth, my lad, I'd change places with you this minute and risk Jack Ketch. Good luck and good day."

And Long Tom strode down the stairs. There were three other mounted soldiers in the yard.

"A false scent again," we heard him say. "Only an old woman in a fever. The bird's flown."

"It isn't often you stay upstairs so long with an old woman, sergeant!" laughed a trooper; and they shook their reins and clattered out of the yard, the hens scurrying with beating wings, and the ducks waddling, quacking loudly, out of their way.

I made to thank Mary, but she fled from my room and I saw her no more all that day, and when, the next morning, she brought me, instead of the bowl of porridge on which I break my fast when hearty, a dish of tea and a buttered egg, and I would have drawn her to my heart, as surely lover may draw his mistress, Mary held aloof.

"Why, Mary, lass, surely tha'll give me a kiss now?"

"And why now?" she said, as cold as ice.

"Why, after what yo' said yesterday to Long Tom, 'at yo' an' me wer' engaged to be wed."

"Oh! that wer' nowt. I just said it because I thowt it might help thee."

"And then, don't yo' mind, Mary, that neet after I'd fought Long Tom at Marsden--how yo' come behind th' chair an' kissed me."

"Well, what o' that?"

"Dost ta mean to say, after that, tha cares nowt about me more nor common?"

"It it comes to that, Ben, didn't yo' see me do much th' same wi Long Tom yesterday?"

"In truth, I did, Mary. And I think it was unnecessary, not to say unmaidenly."

"Thank yo', Ben. I'll mind my manners better i' future. But at least yo' mun see that yo' munnot argy from what aw did when yo'r eye wer' blacked i' Marsden; for bi the same token Long Tom might leap to conclusions. And heigh-ho! Long Tom's a proper sort o' man, and I'm awmost stalled o' Sloughit. Sup thi tea, Ben, afore it gets cold, an' if tha'rt in such a hurry to get wed, remember yo'r more nor hauf promised to Faith Booth."

Long Tom was true to his word. Justice Radcliffe was hot on the trail of the Luddites. The patrols were more active than ever, and first one and then another was summoned to Milnsbridge House and questioned keenly as to his doings, but for a time nothing came of all this questioning, except that there grew up among the Luds an uneasy feeling that there was a tell-tale in their midst. I lived in daily dread of a visit from Justice Radcliffe, but I never came across him but once. It was about this time, when I was just beginning to get about a bit, my father and 'Siah being back from the markets, and I supposed to be returned with them, I was going through Milnsbridge when I was aware of Mr. Radcliffe on horseback riding towards me, a handsome hearty man as ever you saw in your life. "A fine old English gentleman," his friends all called him. He drew rein, and at his motion I stood by his saddle.

"Ben Bamforth of Holme, if I mistake not?" he questioned.

"At your service, sir," I said, with confidence in my voice and little in my heart.

"Good Mr. Bamforth, the clothier's son.

"The same, sir,--his only son."

"And following his trade, I hear."

"What there is of it, sir."

"A worthy man is your father, Master Bamforth, and a loyal subject of His Majesty. You have been sick of late they say."

Who said? I wondered but dared not ask, so muttered:

"Nowt to speak on, I'm all right now."

"Still yo' must be careful. Who's your doctor?"

"Dr. Dean."

"What, my good friend Dean? The sly dog! Still a patient's a patient"--this rather to himself than to me. "And has Dr. Dean said nothing to you about avoiding the night air for a time?"

"I don't know that he has, your worship."

"Well tell him you've seen me, and that my advice is that yo' keep in doors these spring nights, fine or dark, and ask him if he doesn't agree with me."

"It is unnecessary, sir, I am entirely of that opinion myself."

"Come that's good hearing. Mind you stick to it. And, hark ye, thank God as long as you live that you'd a good father before yo' and that Justice Radcliffe doesn't give heed to every idle tale that's brought to him."

And he touched his hat as I uncovered and bent my head to him, for I knew all our precautions had been in vain, and that Justice Radcliffe had in his keeping a secret that could send me to the gallows.

But who had betrayed me?