Chapter 4

"Nay, 'twere better nor that," replied Abe. "I' t' spot wheer I'd buried t' pig an' buried t' potate afore that, somebody had belt a house, ay, an' belt it all i' one neet. It had sprung up like a mushroom. So I went up to t' house an' looked in at t' windey, an' by Gow! but it were my house an' all."

"How did you know that it was your house?" I asked.

"Well, you see," Abe rejoined, "I could tell by t' furnitur that were in it. There was our kitchen-table that I'd bowt at t' sale when t' missus an' me were wed, an' t'owd rockin'-chair set agean t' fire; ay, an' t' pot-dogs on t' chimley-piece an' my father's an' muther's buryin'-cards framed on t' walls; 'twere all plain as life."

"So the lad with the green eyes had carried away your house in the night and set it down on your allotment?"

"Nay, 'twere nowt o' t' sort. T' house wheer I'd bin livin' were a back-to-back house, facin' north, so as we niver gat no sun thro' yeer's end to yeer's end. But t' new house stood all by itsen, wi' windeys on all sides, an' a back door oppenin' into t' gardin. If there were one thing that t' missus an' me had set wer hearts on 'twere a back-door. We'd never lived i' a house wi' a back door, an' t' missus had to hing all her weshin' of a Tuesday across t' street. Well, I looked round to see if I could clap eyes on t' lad that had telled me to bury t' pig, but he were nowheer to be seen. But just then I heerd a buzzin' sound, an' I reckoned there mun be a waps somewheer about. An' a waps it were. He flew round an' round my heead, allus coomin' nearer an' nearer, an' at lang length he settled hissen reight on t' top o' my neb. An' wi' that I gav a jump, an' by Gow! there was I sittin' on t' bench in my 'lotment. I'd fallen asleep, an all that I'd seen o' t' potate an' t' pig an' t' house, ay, an' t' lad wi' green eyes, were nobbut a dream. But t' waps weren't a dream, for I'd seen him flee away when I wakkened up."

"What you've told me, Abe, is like a bit of real life," I said, after a pause. "Most of our dreams in this world turn into wasps, with stings in their tails."

"Nay," replied Abe the optimist; "but 'twere not a proper sort of dream nawther. I've thowt a vast about it off an' on, an' I reckon 'twere a dream wi' a meanin' tul it. 'Twere like Pharaoh's dream o' t' fat an' lean beasts. Happen one day I'll find a Joseph that'll tell me what it all means!"

Coals of Fire

I

A visitor to Holmton, one of the smaller manufacturing towns of the West Riding, on a certain October morning, about the middle of the nineteenth century, might have witnessed a strange sight. It was market-day, and a number of farm people were collected in the market-place, where a brisk trade in cattle, sheep, and dairy produce was being transacted. Suddenly there appeared in their midst a farmer holding the end of a rope, the noose of which was attached, not to a bull, calf or horse, but to the neck of a girl of nineteen. At this strange sight loud shouts were raised on all sides, and a stampede was made to the spot where the man and the girl were standing.

The town was originally merely a centre for the farmers in the neighbouring villages, but within the last fifty years it had seen the establishment of the cloth trade in its midst, and the population had considerably increased. Round about the market-place stone-paved streets had branched off in all directions, and two-storied stone houses had been built, in which the rooms on the ground floor served for kitchen and bedroom, while in the long, low room above hand-looms had been erected, and wool was spun and woven into cloth.

The shouts of the farm people in the market-place at once brought the weavers to their windows and doors. Ever eager for any excitement which should relieve the drab monotony of their lives, they rushed into the streets and elbowed their way to the market-place.

"What's up?" asked one of them of a farmer's man, as he followed the sound of the hubbub.

"It's Sam Learoyd," the man replied, "and he wants to know if onybody's wantin' to buy his dowter."

"Black Sam o' Fieldhead Farm! By Gow! I reckon he's bin crazed sin his missus left him for t' barman. But he hasn't gotten no dowters, nor sons nowther. It'll be his stepdowter, Mary Whittaker, that he's browt to market."

The speakers were now approaching the spot where the father and the haltered stepdaughter were standing. The former, a hard-featured, sullen man of about forty-five, was addressing the crowd. The latter, hiding as much of her face as she could beneath her grey shawl, stood with her hands clasped before her and her eyes fixed on the ground. Mute resignation was written on every line of her face. Whatever indignation or shame she might feel at the degrading situation in which she was placed seemed repressed, either by the humility that comes from long suffering or by a supreme effort of the will, of which the tightly closed lips gave some indication.

The spot chosen by Sam Learoyd for his traffic in human flesh was not without significance. Behind him, and approached by steps, on which the farmers' wives exposed for sale their baskets of poultry and eggs, stood what was left of the market cross. It was one of those old Saxon crosses of Irish design which may still be seen in some of the towns and villages of England, and are said to mark the spot where the early Christian missionaries, long before the churches were built, preached their gospel of peace and good will to a pagan audience. Close at hand were the stocks, where, until quite recently, the bullies and scolds of the town had been set by their fellow-citizens and suhjected to the missiles and taunts of every passer-by. Here, then, between these two symbols--the one of Divine mercy and the other of the vindication of popular justice--Mary Whittaker was exposed for sale.

It took some time for the crowd to realise that Learoyd was in earnest. This sale by public auction of a young woman whom many of the bystanders had known for years seemed little better than a grim jest. Yet most were aware that sales like this had taken place in the town before, and deep down in their minds there survived the old primitive idea that the head of a family had a right to do what he liked with the members of his household. There were muttered protests from the few women and some of the older men who were present, but most of the young men, in whom a sense of chivalry had been blunted by hard lahour and penury, found a pleasure in goading the farmer on. No magistrate was at hand to put a stop to the traffic in human life, and the single policeman, realising that he had no written instructions to deal with such a case as this, had discreetly withdrawn himself to the remotest quarter of the town. So Learoyd was left free to conduct his infamous auction.

"Shoo's for sale," he cried, "same as if shoo were a cauf; and shoo goes to t' highest bidder." A roar of laughter greeted these words, but nobody had the courage to make a bid. Seeing that purchasers held back, Learoyd after the manner of an auctioneer, proceeded to announce his stepdaughter's "points."

"Shoo's a gradely lass, I tell you, for all shoo looks sae dowly. Shoo can bak an' shoo can brew, and I've taen care that shoo'll noan speyk while shoo's spoken to."

"If shoo can do all that," asked a bystander, "why doesta want to sell her?"

The farmer eyed the questioner narrowly, and then, in a sullen voice, answered: "I'm sellin' her because I want to get shut on her. Happen that'll be reason enough for the likes o' thee, Timothy."

After more of this altercation one of the younger men, urged on by his comrades, summoned up courage to make a bid.

"Sithee, I'll gie thee threepence for her, farmer."

The girl, hearing the insulting offer that was made, raised her eyes for a moment to glance at the speaker, then shuddered, and, after a pleading look at her stepfather, lowered them again.

Learoyd, taking no notice of the girl, looked the bidder steadily in the face for a moment, in order to discover whether the offer was seriously made, and, apparently satisfied that such was not the case, replied: "I'll noan sell her for threepence. Shoo's worth more nor that, let alone the clothes shoo stands in." But when no further offer was forthcoming he turned again to the speaker and said: "Well, threepence is t' price o' a pint o' beer; mak it a quart an' t' lass is thine."

But the bargainer, seeing that the offer which he made in jest was taken in earnest, slunk away to the rear of the crowd, and it seemed as though the girl would remain unsold. Then it was that a ragged, out-at-heel weaver of diminutive size slowly elbowed his way to the front, and, holding up six pennies, said, with a shamefaced look on his face: "There's thy brass. I'll tak t' lass."

The farmer eyed him curiously, while the crowd, realising that a serious offer had at last been made, held their breath to see what would follow.

"Sixpence is it," said Learoyd, "an' what mak o' man art thou that want to buy her?"

The weaver made no reply, but the bystanders, to whom the bidder was well known, gave the necessary information.

"It's Tom Parfitt o' Mill Lane; he's lossen his wife a while sin and he'll happen be wantin' a lass to look after t' barns."

There was something in the shabby dress and down-cast mien of the little weaver that appealed to the farmer's saturnine humour. He measured with his eye first of all the man, and next the girl; then, slapping his knee with his right hand, exclaimed: "Well, Tom, t' lass is thine; an' thou's gotten her muck-cheap."

Without more ado he unloosed the halter from the girl's neck, led her roughly by the arm to where the weaver was standing, pocketed the six pennies, and, followed by a crowd of rowdies, made his way to the nearest inn. Meanwhile the weaver and the girl he had bought were facing each other in silence, neither having the courage to utter a word. Those of the crowd who had not followed Learoyd began a fire of questions, to all of which Parfitt made no reply. At last he turned to the girl, and in as kindly a voice as he could command, said: "Coom thy ways home, lass," and leading the way, with the girl at his heels, strode through the crowd and out of the market-place. A number of people proceeded to follow him, but as they received no answer to all their questions they gradually fell off, and by the time that Parfitt's cottage was reached purchaser and purchase were alone.

Closing the front door behind him the weaver led the girl through the kitchen, where his three young children were playing at cat's cradle, into the adjoining bedroom. Here he left her to herself, and, re-entering the kitchen, got ready a meal of tea and buttered oat-cake, which he sent in to Mary Whittaker by the hands of his eldest child, a girl of seven. Then, without further intrusion on the girl's privacy, he climbed the rickety staircase to the upper chamber and set to work at his loom. Eager to make up for the time he had lost, he worked with energy, but every sound from the rooms below came up through the cracks in the raftered floor. He could hear the voices of the children and, when the loom was silent for a few moments, the half-suppressed sobs of the outraged girl were distinctly audible. These drew tears to his eyes, but he wisely refrained from descending the staircase and attempting to comfort her.

After a time the sobbing ceased, and then one by one the children stole quietly into the bedroom, and a hum of conversation was heard, in which Mary Whittaker was taking her part.

"Arta baan to stop wi' us?" he heard his eldest girl, Annie, ask.

"I don't know," Mary replied. "Happen I'll be goin' back home to-morn."

"I wish thou'd coom an' live wi' us an' mind Jimmy, so as I can help father wi' t' loom," Annie continued.

"Aye, an' thou can laik at cat's cradle wi' me," interposed the younger girl, Ruth.

Jimmy, aged three, was silent, but he climbed into Mary's lap, and, with a grimy finger, made watercourses down her cheeks for the tears that still filled her eyes.

"Give ower, Jimmy, or I'll warm thy jacket," exclaimed Annie, fearful lest the boy should hurt Mary's feelings.

"Nay, let him be," replied Mary, and wiping the tears from her face she drew Jimmy closer to herself and mothered him.

A hole in one of the rafters, caused by the dropping out of a knot in the wood, enabled Parfitt to see something of what was going on below, and with a sigh of relief he realised that the worst was now over and that the children had effected what he himself could not have done. When six o'clock came he called to Annie to bring him his tea and light his benzoline lamp. When she appeared he gave orders that the evening meal should be got ready in the kitchen, and that when it was over she should ask Mary to wash Jimmy and put him to bed. Anxiously the weaver listened to the carrying out of his instructions, and when he descended the staircase at half-past seven he found the kitchen neatly tidied up and Mary Whittaker seated at the fireside with the two girls on stools at her feet. Until all the children were in bed he made no attempt to get the girl to tell him her story, but sought by tactful means to win her confidence. At first she shrank from him and cast anxious eyes towards the inner room where the three children were asleep. But the weaver's gentle voice gradually stilled her fears.

"Thou'll be tired, lass," he said at length, "and wantin' to get to bed. Thou can sleep wi' Jimmy in yonder anent t' wall."

A frightened look came into Mary's eyes as she answered: "But that'll be thy bed."

"Nay," replied the weaver, "it'll be thy bed so lang as thou bides wi' me. I'll mak up a bed for misen i' t' kitchen on t' lang-settle."

A grateful expression came over the girl's face, but she made no move in the direction of the inner room. Silence prevailed for some time until the weaver asked: "Is there owt I can do for thee, or owt that thou's gotten to tell me, lass? It's been a dree day for thee, to-day; ay, an' mony a day afore to-day, I reckon."

This reference to the happenings of the morning brought tears to the girl's eyes, and it was some time before she could summon up courage to speak.

"Don't mind me," she said at last; "I'll be better to-morn. But he didn't ought to hae browt shame on me i' t' way he's done. It wasn't my fault mother left him. I'd allus been a gooid lass to him, choose what fowks say."

Step by step the weaver led her on to tell him the story of what had led up to the shameful transaction in the market-place. It was no mere curiosity that moved him, but a realisation that there could be no peace of mind for Mary Whittaker until she had found relief by unburdening her tortured soul. The weaver's gentle ways and tactful bearing were slowly winning her heart, and, painful though the recital of her past history was for her, Parfitt knew that it would bring relief. It was a long story that Mary had to tell. She had little art of narrative, and her endeavours to shield both her mother and stepfather as far as possible from blame impeded the flow of her words. Reduced to plain terms, her story ran as follows:--

Mary Whittaker was a girl of fourteen when her mother had married Samuel Learoyd. Of her father she knew nothing. He had died when she was a baby. From the first the Learoyds had proved an ill-matched pair. Anne Learoyd, her mother, had been brought up in Leeds, and having been used to all the excitements of life in a big town, found the solitary farm lonesome. Samuel Learoyd, though genial enough at times in the society of his male friends, was capricious. His temper was often sullen, and when in one of his gloomy moods he would spend the whole evening in his farm kitchen in morose silence. This state of mind was in part due to physical infirmity. As a child he had been subject to epileptic fits, and though these grew less frequent as he advanced to manhood, he never entirely shook them off, and during his married life a long spell of gloomy misanthropy would sometimes end in the return of one of these attacks. He was, too, a proud man, and his pride bred in him a morbid sensibility towards any slight, real or fanciful, that was practised on him. He treated his stepdaughter not unkindly, but never accepted any parental responsibility towards her.

Meanwhile Anne Learoyd, finding no congenial society in her own home, spent much of her time in neighbours' houses. Her chief friend was the landlady of the Woolpack Inn, a public-house situated midway between the farm-house and Holmton. Here whole afternoons and evenings were spent, and the work of the farm-house was left in the hands of Mary Whittaker, towards whom her mother had never shown any real affection. Years passed away and the relations between husband and wife grew steadily worse, till at length the crisis came. A new barman was appointed at the Woolpack, a man whom Anne Learoyd had known during her early life in Leeds. Rumour was soon busy with the relations which existed between the barman and the farmer's wife, and after a time suspicious stories reached the ears of Samuel Learoyd. A violent scene between husband and wife took place in the farm kitchen, but, in spite of this, Anne's visits to the public-house continued as before. One afternoon, when her husband was attending a cattle-mart in a neighbouring town, Anne Learoyd, without saying a word to her daughter, left the house and was still absent when her husband returned for supper. Mary Whittaker was at once dispatched to the Woolpack Inn, and, after an hour, returned with the news that her mother was not there and that the barman was also missing. With an oath, Learoyd saddled his mare and rode in all haste to Holmton. Finding no news of the missing couple in the town he made his way to the nearest station, where he found that a man and woman answering to his description had left by train for Liverpool four hours before. Learoyd, his heart raging with fury and wounded pride, followed in pursuit. He arrived at Liverpool in the early hours of the next morning, and, making his way to the docks, discovered that the fugitives had sailed at midnight for America. Further pursuit was impossible. He returned home, and late that same evening was found lying dead drunk on the road-side within a hundred yards of the local railway station. He was brought home and put to bed, and next day was seized with a severe fit of epilepsy. For weeks his life was in danger, and when at last he recovered strength of body, his mind remained in a state of moroseness that at times bordered on insanity. He became a fierce hater of women, and the chief victim of his frenzy was his stepdaughter, Mary Whittaker.

She bore his harshness with a Griselda patience, but this seemed only to add provocation to his anger. In her he saw the daughter of the woman who had trodden his pride in the dust, and he marked her out as the object of his vengeance. Finding that bitter words and deeds of cruelty left her seemingly unmoved, his morose and wounded spirit devised other and darker plans of revenge. At first he conceived the idea of driving her penniless from his doors, but, realising that the girl would find no difficulty in obtaining a place as servant on one of the neighbouring farms, he abandoned it as furnishing insufficient satisfaction for his tortured heart. One day he heard how a farmer had some years before ignominiously sold by public auction the wife of whom he had grown tired, and Learoyd gloated over the story with malicious glee. Here was a means of satisfying his vengeance to the full. To his warped imagination it mattered little that Mary Whittaker was entirely innocent of her mother's desertion of him, or that Anne Learoyd, far away in America, would probably never hear of her daughter's shame. Inasmuch as the guilty wife was out of his clutch, he was content with the vicarious sacrifice that he could demand from her daughter.

For some days he brooded over his cruel purpose, and it found ever more favour in his eyes. Market day came and the time was ripe for action. Roughly informing his stepdaughter that she must go with him to market, he left the house with her on foot, carrying a halter in his hand. On the road he brutally informed her of his purpose. A chill of horror seized the girl when she heard the news, but her tears and entreaties, so far from melting his heart, filled him with an unholy joy. As they passed a farm-house on the road Mary screamed out for help, but Learoyd silenced her with a blow on the mouth, and then, leaving the high road, took the path through the fields in order to avoid company. Arriving at the outskirts of the town, he slipped the halter over her head and dragged her through the by-streets to the market-place.

Such was Mary's story as told to the weaver that evening in his cottage. Tom Parfitt was a man of few words, but the tears that rolled down his cheek showed his sympathy. "Poor lass, poor lass" was his frequent comment as he listened to the harrowing details and thought of the agony of the market-place; and when she had ended her tale his voice was broken with sobs.

"Thou sal niver want for a home, lass, so lang as I can addle a bite an' a sup wi' my weyvin'."

"Happen Learoyd will be wantin' me back agean when he's gotten ower things a bit."

"Then he'll noan get thee," and the weaver struck his fist on the table with unusual vehemence. "A wilful man mun have his way, fowks say; an' I reckon Sam Learoyd has had it; but he'll noan have it twice ower, if I know owt about justice."

"But he's bin sadly tewed wi' mother leavin' him an' all," replied Mary, "and there's them fits that he has to contend wi'. If he wants me I mun go. There's nobody left on t' farm to fend for him."

"If he cooms here he'll find t' door sparred agean him," exclaimed Parfitt, in his indignation.

Mary shook her head sadly, but made no reply.

They sat awhile in silence, gazing into the dying fire, and then the girl, with a timid "I thank thee for what thou's done for me," withdrew to the inner room and cried herself to sleep. The weaver lit his clay pipe and, bending forwards over the grey ashes of his peat-fire, buried himself in his thoughts till the clock, striking eleven, roused him from his reverie. He slowly rose, placed a cushion on the settle, and without undressing, flung himself on the hard boards and fell asleep.

Days and weeks passed and Mary Whittaker still remained in the weaver's cottage. The cowed look in her eyes passed gradually away, though it would come back whenever a man's footfall was heard in the street outside, and a cold fear seized her at the thought that Learoyd was at hand to demand her return to the farm. But he never came, and Mary grew more and more at ease in her new surroundings. The change from the roomy farmstead, with its wide horizons of moors and woods, to the narrow cottage in the sunless back street was a strange one for her. She missed, too, the farm work: the churning of the butter and the feeding of the calves and poultry. But youth was on her side and she soon learnt to adapt herself to her new life. Soon after six in the morning she would mount with Parfitt to the upper room and spin the wool, which he would then weave into cloth. The work was hard, and some of the processes of cleaning the wool were repulsive to her nature at first, but in time she accustomed herself to this as to so much else. It was easy for her gentle nature to win the hearts of the three children; she quickly learnt the duties of a mother, nursed them in their childish ailments, and when the loom was still, joined with them in their games. Six months Tom Parfitt waited to see whether Learoyd would make any attempt to recover the stepdaughter whom he had wronged, and then, as the farmer made no move, he quietly married Mary Whittaker at the Primitive Methodist Chapel.

II