IT WAS the Christmas Eve of 1811, a night beautiful, bright and clear.
The moon was high in the heavens, and a myriad stars gemmed the sky.
Flakes of snow fell gently, like the lighting of grasshoppers, but not
so thick as to cloud the air. It was cold, but not bitterly cold. The
snow crunched cheerfully under your feet, the hedges were rather frosted
than cumbered; but the wild waste of hill all around and above
Slaithwaite was white with a coverlet smoothed as with careful hands.
The little homesteads on the hillsides stood out stark and black on the
pale setting, their slender lights of lamp or candle declaring that many
this night waked, who every other night in the year went to bed with the
sun. We sat in the house, kitchen you would call it now--all our
household save only 'Siah, who, we made no doubt, was faithful to his
yearly custom of honouring Christmas by getting more ale than was good
for him. Only a candle burned on the table, but the fire was piled high,
and cast a lurid light about the room, the yule log saved from last
year's fire blazing bravely. My father was fidgeting and looking at the
clock. He would have rather been in bed. We had had our supper, but a
great currant loaf and a round of cheese was on the table, and the
biggest pitcher of all our ware was ready for Martha to fill from the
barrel in the cellar, when the right moment should come. Mother and Mary
had speculated, and wondered and then wondered again as to whether the
Church singers would this year sing a verse or two by our door. My
mother argued they would not, as a mark of reprobation for our joining
the Baptists. Mary, who knew that the hearts of the young men of a
choir, church or chapel, are not in the keeping of vicar or minister,
had her own reasons for maintaining a contrary view. My father stoutly
declared he did not care a brass farthing one way or another. Meat and
drink and five good shillings were waiting them, he said, and if they
were fools enough to turn up their noses at good victuals and good
brass, that was their look out, not his. All the same we all knew he
would have felt it keenly that our house should be passed over for the
first time within the memory of any of us. Then came the further
problem--which set would be likely to reach us first, the church, who
must sing first at the Vicarage and Dr. Dean's, and at Sammy Sykes's,
who was churchwarden; or the waits from Powle Moor, who had further to
come and a rougher way. Anyhow we hoped devoutly the two parties would
not arrive together. We could hear, in the still night, the sound of
music in the air, sad and wistful, floating among the hills. However we
should soon be out of doubt, for midnight was hard upon us.
The old clock warned the hour with a staggering click, and its clear
metallic voice had rung out but six of the twelve hours, when we heard a
footfall on the carpet of snow in the yard. There was no murmur of
voices, none of the hawking and tuning and chuntering of a band of lads
and lasses, but right out upon the still air, firm, strong and deep
baritone, as from a singer well set up and fearless, music of itself,
and with instrument neither of string nor reed to back it, came the
grand old words and tune, like which no other words and tune do ever
stir my heart--
"Christians awake! Salute the happy morn,
Whereon the Saviour of Mankind was born.
Rise to adore the mystery of love
Which hosts of angels chanted from above;
With them the joyful tidings first begun
Of God Incarnate and the Virgin's Son."
And then again--
"Of God Incarnate and the Virgin's Son."
Who could it be? Some lone wanderer surely that had stolen a march on
church and chapel alike.
"It's happen 'Siah," hazarded Martha. No 'Siah had a voice like a frog.
"It's th' sexton," said my father.
Now the sexton was sixty years old, with a piping treble, and the voice
of our midnight visitor was rounded, full and mellow.
I looked to Mary for a hazard, for no thought of who it could be came
to my mind, and I was not best pleased that anyone should outstrip the
choirs. And as I looked the voice without took up another strain.
"Then to the watchful shepherds it was told
Who heard the Angelic herald's voice 'Behold.'"
And Mary's face was a sight to see. She had dropped her knitting on
her lap, and her hands were crossed over the work, and her face was as
though the morning sun shone on it, and a soft smile was on her parted
lips, a look half-glad, half sorry, was in her eyes and her bosom
seemed to flutter.
"It's George," she said, very softly, "George Mellor, fra' th' Brigg."
And then came a thundering knock at the door, and my father rose to open
it right heartily, and in came my cousin, George Mellor, with a great
red muffler round his neck, and his coat all flaked with snow, and his
short brown beard and moustache wet with half-melted flakes; now
stamping his feet and now kicking them against the door-post, and
bringing with him a gust of cold air and a sprinkling of tiny feathery
sprays that whisked in at his back.
"A merry Christmas to you, Uncle William, and a happy New Year." "And to
you, aunt, with my mother's love." This with a hearty smacking kiss.
"And to you, Mary, and here's a Christmas Box for you," and I thought
George would have kissed Mary too, but she was away to the other side of
the table.
And so all round, with a noble smack at Martha's lips, Martha being
nothing loth, and giving kiss for kiss with a good will that set us all
laughing. "A right proper lad is George Mellor, and knows how to win a
lass," I heard Martha tell 'Siah afterwards, when she was rating him by
way of curing his aching head.
And a right proper man George Mellor was. Six feet by the stick, and
with shoulders well back, and strong, firm, warm hands that gripped you
to make you tingle. His eyes were brown and full of fire, and dark
auburn hair curled close upon a rounded head. He had a temper, if you
like, but he never bore malice, and I never knew him do or say a mean
thing, and if he was at times unjust he was quick to make amends. He was
a prime favourite of my mother. Her own sister was George Mellor's
mother. His father was dead, and my Aunt Mellor, to my mother's surprise
and indignation, had married John Wood, of Longroyd Bridge, a cloth
finisher, in middle life, somewhat younger than my aunt, and a man it
was hard to like. Whatever could have possessed my aunt capped us all.
She had a bit of money of her own, and could have pulled along in a
middling way without a second marriage. But my father said, "You mun
wait till yo're a widow yoursen, if yo want to know what makes a widdow
get wed again." Anyhow Aunt Matty had a hard time of it, for John Wood
was a hard man, cold-blooded and spiteful. He soon found out that he
could hurt his wife through George, and he always seemed to rub George
the wrong way. The lad ran away once, and none of us knew what became of
him till long afterwards, not even his own mother, who nigh fretted
herself into her grave over him. But he turned up again as suddenly as
he had vanished, taller, stouter, firmer set, quieter. John Wood thought
his spirit was broken, made him so quiet. But he found out his mistake
when he began to slur at him.
"See here, John Wood," George had said, for he would never call him
father, "I have come back home for my mother's sake, because it was made
clear to me my place was by her side. I will work for you, and do my
duty by you, and I will pay you fair for my board and ask no favour of
you as man or lodger. But you must speak me fair, and treat my mother
kindly, or you'll rue the day you ever crossed George Mellor." He had a
quiet way with him when he was most roused, a sort of cold heat, had
George; though over what you would have thought concerned him least, he
would flare up and flush, and his eye would blaze and out his words
would come like a pent-up torrent. I never feared George when he was in
a temper, but it was dangerous to cross him when his cheek and lips
paled and his words came soft and slow.
"Aw walked up th' cut side," he explained. "It seemed an age since aw
saw yo' all; an' our house's none too cheerful just now. Trade's fearful
bad, an' John Wood's as sore as a boil--an' I bowt this sprig o'
mistletoe of a hawker for yo' to hang on th' bowk, an' who' should let
you Christmas in if not your own nevvy, Aunt Bamforth."
"Sakes alive, aw nivvir thowt on it," cried my mother all of a sudden.
"Ben, whip outside this minnit--doesn't ta see George's hair is awmost
red an' it's black for luck--whatever could'st ta be thinking' on,
George?" And so nothing must do but I must step outside and enter with
due Christmas greetings, to cross the luck, and the waits from Powle
Moor arriving at the very nick of time, we all went in together; and
Mary and George and myself were soon busy enough handing round the
cheese and cake and ale.
George and I slept together that night, and next morning, we all, save
my mother and Martha, who must stop at home to cook the dinner, went to
church, for we wouldn't for anything have missed hearing the Christmas
hymn; and near all Slaithwaite was there, Methodie and Baptists and all;
and even folk that went nowhere, Owenwites they called them, made a
point of going to church that one morning of the year. They said it was
to give them an appetite for the beef and plum pudding; but I think it
was more by way of keeping up a sort of nodding acquaintance with what
they felt they might have to fall back on after all, for you may ever
notice that the parson treads very close on the heels of the doctor.
Now after dinner my father must needs have a glass of hot spirits and
water, and presently was fast asleep in his chair, and I would have been
glad to have done likewise, for I was not used to sitting up half the
night, and had dozed off more than once in church, only to be roused
with a start by a nudge from Mary. But George was all for a walk over
Stanedge to stretch his legs and get a mouthful of home-fed air after
the foul smells of the town. I thought Mary pouted a bit, and asked her
to go with us, but she said two were company and three were none, and
George maybe was too fine to walk out with a country lass. I expected
George to disclaim any such slanderous thoughts, but he only laughed and
said something about the wind being too nipping for the roses on Mary's
cheeks. So off we two set towards Marsden at a good swinging pace. When
we had dropped down into the village, and were thinking of calling at
the Red Lion to get a glass of ale and a snack, whom should we come on
but Mr. Horsfall, of Marsden.
"What, Ben, lad!" he said to me heartily and shaking my hand most
warmly--"A right good Christmas to you, and my compliments to my good
friends at Holme." A pleasant man was Mr. Horsfall when he liked, but
one you must not lightly sour or cross. He had an iron hand, folk said,
but he kept it gloved.
"And who's your friend, Ben?"
I made George known to him, and Mr. Horsfall could tell him of knowing
his mother, my aunt, when she was a blithe young girl courting with my
uncle Mellor that was dead. But what surprised me was that George,
generally so cheery and ready to meet civility more than half-way,
seemed to freeze up and would scarce give his hand in greeting to Mr.
Horsfall.
"It'll be cold on the top, Ben," said Mr. Horsfall. "Come along to
Ottiwells and taste our spiced ale. My wife will be glad to have a crack
with yau, and it'll be cozier by th' fireside nor ovver th' top I'll
warrant you."
My own good will went with this invitation, for I got enough and to
spare of Stanedge in my business rounds; but George hung back strangely,
and Mr. Horsfall, not used to have his advances coldly met, ceased to
press us, and with awkward apologies on my part, and a curt nod from
George, we went our several ways.
"I wonder you can speak civil to a man like yond," said George, when we
had our faces straight set to climb the hill.
"Name o' wonder, why, George?" I asked, thinking nothing but that some
private quarrel must have sprung up, of which I knew nothing, but ready
enough to side with George, for in my young days families stood by each
other, right or wrong.
"Don't you know that Horsfall is foremost of all in pressing on the use
of the new machines? Don't you know that he has put them into Ottiwells?
Don't you know he is sacking the old hands and will have none but young
'uns that will and can learn, for it isn't all that will that can, how
to work the new frames? Don't you know that there's many a family in
Marsden now, this very merry Christmas that we're wishing each other
like prating parrots, that has scarce a fire in the grate or a scrap of
meat on the table, or warm clothing to the back, just because of
Horsfall and such as he? Don't you know that in Huddersfleld Market
Horsfall has sworn hanging isn't good enough for the Nottingham lads? If
you don't know, you live with your eyes shut, Ben, and your ears waxed,
for aw'll never believe 'at your heart's shut, lad. And then you ask me
why I couldn't take him hearty by the hand."
"But what does it matter to thee, George?" I asked, wondering at his
warmth and hardly keeping pace with him as he strode on in his
excitement.
"It matters nowt to me in a sense, Ben, and yet it matters all to me. I
suppose th' upshot would be that John Wood might as well shut up shop,
and little I'd care for that. John Wood's cake's baked, and if it
warn't, there's enough for my mother 'bout his brass. But it's not o'
Wood nor myself I'm thinking, Ben, and I don't take it too kindly you
should look at it that way. I tell you, Ben, there's hundreds o' men and
women and wee helpless bairns that's just clemming to death. Yo, don't
see as much of it up i' Slowit nor on th' hill sides, though it's war
there nor yo happen think. And now th' mesters are for doing th' work o'
men an' women too wi' cunning contrivances that will make arms and legs
o' no use, and water and steam in time will do the work that Natur'
intended to be done by good honest muscle."
"Aw think yo' exaggerate, George," I said. "A little saving o' manual
labour here an' there's one thing, th' displacement o' human agency
altogether's what yo' prophesy."
"Aw've no patience wi' thee, Ben. Tha' cannot see farther nor thi own
nose end. Aw tell yo unless the toilers of England rise and strike for
their rights, there'll soon be neither rights nor toilers. Aw've looked
into this thing further nor you, an' aw can see th' signs o' th' times.
Th' tendency's all one way. There'll soon be no room for poor men in
this country. Its part of a system aw tell yo'. There's a conspiracy on
foot to improve and improve till th' working man that has nowt but his
hands and his craft to feed him and his childer, will be improved off
th' face o' creation. Aw've been reading aw tell you, an' aw've been
listening an' aw've been seeing, an' aw've been thinking; an' what aw've
read an' what aw've seen has burned into my soul. The natural rights of
man are not thowt of in this country, th' unnatural rights o' property
ha' swallowed 'em up. It's all property, property."
"Nay, George, yo're riding yo'r high horse again," I said; but I
couldn't help admiring him, for he spoke well, and his face was all lit
up with the glow of intellect and passion.
"It's God's truth aw'm speaking, Ben, and pity o't it 'tis true, as th'
player says. What is it keeps folk so poor? Bad trade. What is it keeps
trade so bad? Th' wars. Allus wars. For twenty years it's been war and
war to it. What are we fighting for, I ask you?"
"To keep Boney out o' England," I said very promptly.
"Nowt o' th' sort, Ben--that's a bogey to frighten babbie's wi'--Boney
axed nowt better nor to be friends wi' England. Th' French ha' more
sense nor us. They saw all th' good things o' this life were grasped by
th' nobles an' th' priests. They saw it were better to be born a beast
of the field than a man child. They saw that the people made wealth by
their toil; and the seigneurs, that's lords, and the church enjoyed the
wealth they made, only leaving them bare enough to keep body and soul
together. Aye, they're careful enough not to kill the goose that lays
the golden eggs. That is, sometimes. Time's they over do it. But a
trodden worm will turn, an' they turned in France. They sent their proud
lords and ladies packing.
"To the guillotine," I interposed.
"Packing, I say, and the fat parsons, faithless shepherds of an
abandoned flock, packing with them. Then the people begin to put things
to rights."
"And a pretty mess they made of it," I put in. "But all the kings and,
emperors in Europe, an' all th' landlords an' all that had got rich by
robbery, an' all th' bishops and clergy, little an' big, hangers on o'
th' aristocrats to a man, took alarm. They thowt their turn would come
next, an' they raised the cry of England in danger. It wasn't the people
of England that wer' fleyed. Not they. They knew well enough nowt could
make them waur off nor they were. Th' war were a put up job of th' king
and th' nobles and th' squires. And who profited by it? The noble and
the squire an' the sleek parson with his tithes. What has made corn as
far beyond the poor man's reach as though a grain of wheat were a ruby
or a pearl? The wars, always the wars. And the people, the thousands
upon thousands of men and women who have no part nor parcel in this war,
save to send their children to die on a gory bed, what voice or what
part have they in all this? The part and the part of sheep driven to the
slaughter"--
"But what has Horsfall to do with all this?" I asked, very naturally I
think.
"He has this to do with it, Ben. Ever since th' bad times began,
Englishmen ha' been told to stand together shoulder to shoulder agen a
common enemy. Th' poor ha' borne their sufferings wi'out much murmuring
as long as they saw th' rich suffer wi' themselves. Patriotism isn't a
rich man's monopoly. Poor folk love th' owd country, though aw wonder
sometimes what they love it for. But now what do we see? These new
machines offer th' masters th' chance o' supplying their customers at a
less cost to theirsen than they ha' done up to now. Aw'll give yo' an
illustration of what aw mean. A lace frame such as they're putting up i'
Nottingham costs £120. They say it'll save the work of four. Th' master
saves in a year more than th' cost o' th' machine. He saves it, but who
loses it? Why th' wage earners to be sure. And that's what they call
standing shoulder to shoulder. Aw call it deserting your comrade and
leaving him to shift for his-sen. Th' 'Leeds Mercury' only last week
said there were twenty thousand stocking-makers out of employment in
Nottingham, and yo' may judge for yersen what that means."
"But what can yo' do, George? Yo' cannot fight agen th' law o' th' land.
Th' masters ha' th' law at their backs--yo'll nobbut get yersen into
trouble. It's waur nor kickin' agen th' pricks. Yo' surely wi'not ha'
ought to do wi' machine breaking. That'll nobbut land thee i' towzer,
an' happen waur nor towzer."
"It isn't towzer 'll stop me, Ben. Aw'm groping i' th' dark just now.
Frame breaking and rick burning seems but spiteful work, but it is
action, and action of some sort seems called for. If we submit like dumb
cattle, our rulers say we are content and have no grievances; if we
assemble in great numbers and proclaim our wrongs they hang us for
sedition. What can we do, where shall we turn? Aw cannot see daylight
which ever way aw turn."
"Cannot yo' let things bide, George? Happen things 'll shape theirsen.
It's little such as us can do to mend things. If tha' were Lord
Dartmouth na', tha' might do some good. But aw can see nowt but trouble
for thee i' me'lling i' this wark, and what hurts thee tha' knows well
will hurt me, George."
"Aw know that, Ben. And aw've more reason nor ever o' late for keeping
out o' trouble. Is there ought between thee and Mary, Ben?"
"What, our Mary?" I asked, bewildered, somewhat by so sudden a change of
subject, and not seeing the working of George's mind.
"Aye, your Mary," said George.
"What does ta' want to know for, George?" I asked; and I tried to ask as
though I cared little for the answer, and yet I knew, all of a flash
like, what the answer would be, and that somehow, and why I could scarce
even myself say to myself, the answer would make me wince.
"Because, George, if ever aw wed, your Mary will be the lass."
"Yo'll happen ask her first," I said, nettled.
"P'raps tha's axed her already?"
"Tha' knows very well aw hannot, Ben. It only came into my head last
neet when 'oo were singing 'Wild Shepherds.' 'Oo's a sweet voice, an'
th' way she looks when 'oo sings makes yo' think a bit o' heaven's
opened up, an' th' light inside is shinin' right down on her
face--hasn't ta' noticed it, Ben?"
"Mary's ower young for courtin'," I said.
"But tha' hasn't told me, Ben, is there owt between yo' and her? But
there cannot be. Tha'd ha' told me if there wor. Besides she's too near
o' kin to thee an' browt up i' th' same house too. She'll be more sister
like to thee, Ben, aw reckon. But is there owt?"
"Nay there's nowt, George. She's thine to win an' to wear for me. But
'oo's ovver young for courtin', George. An' if yo'r for our Mary, tha'
mun put all thowts out o' thi yed but stickin' to work an' makin' her a
good home. And that reminds me. It 'ad welly slipt mi mind. Soldier Jack
was hinting summat t'other day. Tha' are'nt keeping owt back fra' me,
are ta, George?"
"Can aw trust thee, Ben?"
"Tha' knows that best thissen, George." We had reached the very crest of
Stanedge, and were looking down upon the Diggle side and over towards
Pots an' Pans an' where the road leads to St. Chad's and winds round
towards what is now called Bills o' Jack's. We came to a stand by common
impulse. George stood right anent me.
"Can aw trust thee, Ben," he asked again, and looked at me as though he
would search my very heart.
"Tha' knows best thissen," I replied once more; for I should have
thought to lower myself by protesting to him who had been my dearest,
almost my only friend, since we were boys together.
"With my life, Ben," he said very solemnly, and took my hand.
And then George told me something of what was afoot in Huddersfield.
Steps were to be taken, he said, to dissuade the manufacturers from
ousting manual labour in any of the various processes of the making and
finishing of cloth, by the use of machinery. For this purpose the men
were to bind themselves by solemn oath neither to work the new machines
nor to work in any shop or mill into which they might be introduced. No
violence of any sort was to be employed either against man or machine,
at least not if the masters proved amenable to reason; and of that
George thought there could be little question. "They cannot stand
against us, if we are united," said George; "our weakness lies in action
unconcerted and without method. If we set our faces resolutely against
the use of these new fangled substitutes for human labour, we can at
least compel the masters to wait till times are better and trade mends.
It may be that when the wars are over and the market calls for a larger
and a quicker output, machinery may be gradually introduced without
hardship to those who have grown old in the old methods and who cannot
use themselves to new ways. Meantime we shall have learned the secret
and the value of combination and we may turn our organization to the
protection and the improvement of the worker and to the wresting of
those rights that are now withheld."
Now to this I could see no mariner of objection, and partly from
curiosity, partly because my blood had been fired by George's words, but
much more because it was George who urged it, I promised to attend a
meeting of some of George's friends who were' like-minded with himself;
and promised too, though not so readily, to keep my own counsel about
what he had talked on.
The early evening of winter was falling, and we turned homewards. We did
not speak much. My cousin was deep in thoughts of his own, and I, too,
had enough to ponder on. I did not half like my new departure. I was not
much of a politician, and had always thought my part in public affairs
would be to ride to York once in a while and vote for the Whigs as my
father had done before me. As for setting the world straight, I had no
ambition that way. In time I had no doubt I should be either a deacon at
the Powle or a churchwarden at the church, and probably constable of the
manor if I thrived. To make fair goods, to sell them at a fair price, to
live in peace with my neighbours, and in time to marry, such was the sum
of my ambition.
And that sent my mind in a bound to Mary. The house would look strange
and lonesome without Mary. I should miss her saucy greeting of a
morning; I should miss her gentle bantering, the sunshine of her sweet
face and the music of her voice. The more I tried to think of the old
place without Mary, the less I liked the picture. And when I tried to
console myself with thinking that there were as good fish in the sea as
ever came out of it, I failed dismally.
When we reached home keen set for tea, there was the table laid all
ready, and a scolding too for being late. But I turned away my mother's
wrath by giving her Mr. Horsfall's greetings, and set her talking of him
and his wife and all the family tree. For mother had a rare gift that
way, knowing the relationship by blood and marriage of every family for
miles around, and able, in a way you must hear to believe, to count up
cousinships and half-cousins, and uncles and great uncles, till your
brain turned round. Except my lord's family and the folk at the
vicarage, who had come from the south, I think she made us akin to all
the folk in Slaithwaite, Linthwaite and Lingards. As was natural, George
took but little interest in this intimate pedigree, and about eight
o'clock announced his resolve to take the road to the Brigg. He was
greatly pressed to stay to supper, but would not, much to my mother's
concern, who had a firm persuasion, that town bred lads never got enough
to eat, and cherished a suspicion that George, though as hale and hearty
a youth as ever went on two legs, and one as little likely as any to be
put on, was starved as to his body and broken as to his spirit by his
step-father.
It befell that night, whether by chance or that my mother schemed it so,
that she and I sat up by the fireside after all the others had gone to
bed. My mother had her eternal knitting, and I tried to settle my mind
to a book; but could not, for thinking of matters not on the printed
page. I gave up the effort after a while, and set my mind resolutely to
think on my promise to join the plot against the masters; but all to no
good, for do what I would, my thoughts strayed to what George had said
of Mary, and I liked it less and less. It gave me a turn when my mother
said--
"Mary grows a fine lass and noan ill-favoured, think'st ta, Ben? Not 'at
aw set much store on good looks, for beauty's but skin deep, as is weel
known. But Mary's one 'at 'll wear well, an' keep her looks to th'
last," continued my mother, without waiting for the opinion she had
asked from me. "Aw was just such another misen when yo'r father begun a
courting me."
Now I opened my eyes at this, for it had never occurred to me to think
of my mother as a beauty.
"Not but what there's points in Mary 'at could be mended," went on my
mother serenely. "She's a notion o' keepin' things straight an' tidy,
but 'oo's a bit too finickin' in her ways an' too mindful o' her hair
an' careful o' her hands, an' happen too fond o' colour in her ribbons;
but 'oo'l mend o' that when th' children come. An' she's mebbe too free
o' her tongue."
Oh, mother! mother!
"But that comes o' your father encouragin' her an' laughin' at her
answerin' back, when it would seem her better to hearken to what I have
to say an' be thankful 'oo has a aunt to tak' pains wi' her."
"Aw dunnot doubt 'oo is," I cried.
"An' Mary's noan 'bout brass, an' though awst allus hold 'at it's better
to ha' a fortin' in a wife nor wi' a wife, there's summat i' what th'
owd Quaker said, 'at it wer' just as easy to fall i' love where brass
was as where it wasn't. Ever sin' my sister died, an' Mary wer' left o'
mi hands, her fortin' has been out at interest, an' we'n charged her
nowt for her keep."
"Aw should think not, indeed," I cried, indignant at the very thought.
"There's them 'at would," said my mother tartly.
"We're not o' that breed, aw hope," I said. "Anyways we ha' not, so tha
needn't fluster thissen, though aw'll tell thee, Ben, it's better to be
a bit too keen about brass nor a lump too careless. So Mary 'll ha' more
nor her smock to her back, wed who she will, an' a handy lass in a
house, an' th' best of trainin, as all the country side will tell yo'.
An' for my part, when th' parents is agreeable, an' plenty o' room i'
th' house, an' there's th' spare bedroom, an' we could fit th' lumber
hoil up for th' childer, an' when yo've made up yo'r mind, it's no good
wastin' time; an' Easter'll soon be here, an' aw shouldn't like a
weddin' 'atween Easter an' Whissunday. Tha'd better see what Mary says,
an' aw'll speak to yo'r father afore th' week's out."
"But, mother," I cried, "Mary's nivver given me a thowt that way. Aw'm
sure she just thinks o' me as a brother. Aw shud only fley her an'
happen mak' it uneasy for her to live here, if aw said owt and she
didn't like th' thowts on it."
"Who said she had given thee a thowt that way? Aw sud think she knows
what becomes her better nor to be lettin' her mind things till th' man
speaks. But Mary's a good lass, an' I'll go bail 'oll wed to please them
as brought her up."
"Did yo, mother?" I asked with malice, for my father and mother had been
married at Almondbury out of our parish, taking French leave of her
folk. And as my mother rallied her thoughts for a reply, I made my
escape to bed.