I HAVE told how I met Justice Radcliffe and what he said to me. That was
after I was better and about. But many things had happened before that,
of which I have yet to tell, and I scarce know how to frame the telling.
Events so crowded one on the heels of the other that it is difficult to
write of them connectedly and in order.
It was Tuesday, April 28th, something more than a fortnight after the
affair at Rawfolds, and I still kept my room but not my bed. I had seen
nothing all this time of my cousin George, and took it hard that he
should not have come near me, but found excuses for him in the thought
that perhaps he feared to bring notice on our house by being seen to
visit it. Martha that night had gone into the village to meet the
carrier's cart by which my mother expected sundry things that she had
ordered from Huddersfield. It drew late, and my mother began to fidget
and to worrit about the difficulty of getting a servant that would not
tarry to gossip whenever sent an errand and the readiness with which
young women lent themselves to gallivanting, so different from what it
was when she was a girl, when, she gave Mary and me to understand, a
self-respecting maid entrenched herself in a barricade of frigid reserve
that only the most intrepid, the most persistent and the most respectful
approaches could surmount. About nine o'clock, however, Martha came
home, and my mother called to her to come upstairs to give an account of
herself, and presently we heard her panting up the steps. She dropped
into the first chair she came to--
"Oh! my poor side," she gasped. "That broo 'll be the death on me yet.
Such a pain as awn got an' sich a gettin' up th' hill as never wor, an'
th' pack hauf as heavy agen as ever it had used to be, an' me awmost
running, all th' way for fear sum'dy sud be afore me an' no one to oppen
th' door to 'em. Aw do believe aw'st faint." And indeed Martha was in a
very bad way.
"If yo' didn't stop talkin' wi' every young felly tha' met at's nowt
better to do nor be tittle-tattlin' wi' ony idle wench he meets, tha
could tak' thi time an' not come home an hour late an' lookin' as if
tha'd been rolled i' th' hedge bottom, a sight not fit to be seen in a
decent house," said my mother severely.
"Oh! Mrs. Bamforth, God forgive yo' those words. Yo'll live to repent
'em, an' yo'll never die easy till yo'n said so, an' me that keeps misen
respectable tho' sore tempted."
Now if ever kindly Nature laboured to shield a helpless virgin from the
craft and allurements of man, it had so laboured on behalf of honest
Martha.
"But p'r'aps yo' dunnot want to be hearing th' news, an' aw'm sure aw
can do wi' all th' wind awn got i'stead o' was-tin' it wheer its noan
wanted. So aw'll just put th' shop stuff away an' yo'll happen count
yo'r change an' I'st go to bed, for it's little supper aw'st want to
neet or for mony a neet to come, if we live to see another neet. But yo'
needn't be so sure o' that. It's more nor likely we'st all be murdered
i' our beds, an' th' mester and 'Siah away when they're most wanted."
"What is it's upset yo', Martha?" asked Mary, giving Martha a little
cold tea which had been left in the pot.
"It's about Edmund Eastwood."
"What o' Slough'it? What on him?" asked my mother. "I'll lay he's had a
stroke. Aw told their Lucy only th' last time aw seed her he wor puttin'
on flesh a deal too fast for a man o' his years."
"Well it's noan a stroke, so tha'rt off thi horse this time, missus,
choose how, an' so's Eastwood too, come to that."
"Don't be so aggravating, Martha," said I. "If you've ought to tell,
let's hear it."
"Well, there's all maks o' tales dahn i' th' village, an' aw stopped to
get th' reights on it, if aw could, for aw thowt it wer' no use bringing
hauf a tale, an' it's little thanks aw get for my trouble. But there's
justice i' Heaven, that's one comfort, for there's little on earth,
certain sure. But as aw wer' sayin', Eastwood wer' comin' fra' th'
market, an' they do say he rode hard, for he wer' trying to catch up wi'
Horsfall o' Ottiwells."
"Aye, they oft rode home together," I put in.
"Weel, they'll nivver ride home together again if all they sen be true,"
continued Martha. "Eastwood had just getten sight o' Horsfall opposite
Radcliffe's Plantation, when bang coom a shot out o' th' wood, an' he
seed, they say, a felly jump on top o' th' wall an' wave his arms. An'
Horsfall fell off his horse just as Eastwood wer riding up."
"Dead?" I gasped.
"Who said he wor dead? Noa, but as good as dead by all accounts.
Eastwood's horse swerved at him as he ligged across th' road, an' Edmund
wer thrown off into th' road. But he sammed hissen up an' bent ovver
Horsfall, an' a lad caught th' mare up th' road as it wer' makin' for
home as if Owd Harry wer' behind it, as he might be for owt aw can tell.
But Eastwood nivver stayed for th' mare. He set off for Huddersfield as
fast as he could split to fot a doctor."
"And Mr. Horsfall?"
"They carried him to th' Warrener, an' in a bit Eastwood comes back in
th' gig wi' Dr. Houghton fra Huddersfield, they say i' a hand gallop an'
covered wi 'sweat. Th' doctor jumps out o' th' trap an' runs into th'
inn an' Eastwood wer' following him. But th' doctor comes running out
again. He'd left some on his tools behind him."
"Aye, aye, most haste least speed," from my mother.
"And th' lad come up wi' Eastwood's horse, an' he up into th' saddle an'
galloped off to th' town helter-skelter, an' reight at th' corner o' th'
churchyard, just as if th' sensible crittur knew that were where th'
rider wer' bun for, it threw him agean. They sen he's twisted his
innards, an' they do say it's a toss up which 'll go first, him or
Horsfall."
"What! is Mr. Horsfall so badly hit?"
"Aye, he's at th' Warrener. They cannot move him wom, and Mr. Scott o'
Woodsome's theer to tak' his dying speech an' confession."
"Deposition," I corrected.
"Well, it's th' same thing, an' aw'm no scholar to crack on. An' little
use learnin' is, it seems to me, if folk cannot keep theirsen out o'
such mullocks as this. It's a mercy 'Siah's away, say I, for if they can
they'll put it on to th' poor folk, an' let their betters go scot free,
tho' its them as puts 'em up to it."
I did not sleep a wink that night. Horsfall shot dead! A man done to
death in broad daylight by a shot from an assassin lurking behind a
wall! It comes home to you when you know the man, when you know well the
very spot on which he fell, when you can see in your mind's eye the
murderers crouching behind the stones of a wall on which you have rested
in many a homeward walk. How much more does it touch you when, as you
ponder this picture of these crouched and waiting men, a face starts
forth, with murder in its eyes, and the face is that of one you have
loved and leaned on! I could not be certain, but I felt the hand of
George Mellor was in this awful deed, and every instinct of manliness,
of fair play, of humanity, rose up within, me and cried shame on the
bloody deed. I remembered what George had said the night Horsfall had
struck him with his riding-whip. I knew how his proud spirit must have
chafed at our repulse at Rawfolds. But murder! oh it is an ugly thing.
To stand up in fair fight, to pit strength against strength, craft
against craft, to stake limb for limb, life for life, why, that, who
shall cry fie upon. But to steal upon your foe in the dark, to stab in
the back, to smite him unawares, to speed him unsummoned and unfit to
judgment--there is no cause so righteous as to redeem an act so
dastard. And that George, so frank, so full of sunshine and gay candour,
should do this cowardly deed, passed comprehension. And yet who of all
the others would dare? And if the thing had to be done, was George one
to leave to others what he shrank from doing himself?
It was a night of torture. I looked back on the night I had passed in
the barn after the fight at Rawfolds, and it seemed by comparison a
night of restful bliss. Once, about midnight, I thought I heard the
rattle of a pebble against the window pane. I stole softly out of bed
and raised the window. But all was still around, and not far away in the
little village a widow mourned a murdered husband and anguished hearts
cried to heaven for just revenge.
After breakfast my mother set off to the village in quest of news. Work
was out of the question. Mary busied herself about the house, and I
tried to fix my mind upon straightening the books, which, after a
fashion, it was my duty to keep. Alas! the invoices to be made out were
few and slight, and an hour or so a week was enough for all the
accountancy our business called for.
To me, thus engaged, tho' with wandering thoughts, came Martha, care
upon her brow and secrecy in her gait.
"There's som'b'dy in th' shippen wants thee, Ben. Oh! dunnot let Mary
know. He doesn't want any but thee to know he's here."
"Who is it?" I said beneath my breath. "It's him," said Martha, and
nodded to me significantly.
"George?"
"Aye, George."
Just then Mary came out of the parlour with a duster in her hand, and
I made pretence to be wrapt up in my ledger. Martha turned to go.
"What are yo' two whispering about?" Mary said suspiciously.
"Oh, nought," said Martha.
"Summot an' nought," I said, for Mary kept looking from one to the
other.
"I don't believe you, Ben. What's agate? oh! Ben, don't trifle wi' me
this morn for aw feel as if th' world were coming to an end, and more
mysteries and horrors will drive me mad."
I reflected. If George were indeed anything to Mary, who had so much
right to see him now as she? Anyway the day had gone by for me to be
mixed up with any more secrets.
"There's George in th' mistal, Mary, he wants to see me by misen."
"Tell George Mellor to come in here and show himself like, a man," cried
Mary. "Go this minute, Martha, and bid him come to his aunt's house as a
man should come. Tell him, I, Mary, say so." And Martha went.
I rose from the little desk at which I sat and stood upon the hearth.
Mary stood by my side, her face pale, her eyes lustrous, her breath
coming short. The door opened slowly, and George came in. My God! I see
him yet! I had passed a sleepless night, but George looked as if he had
known no sleep for weeks. His face was white and drawn. His eyes were
deep sunk in his head, and even by this they had a hunted shifting
look--and when they looked at you, which by rare times they did, they
seemed as tho' they asked a question and feared the answer. His
neckchief was all awry, his boots clay covered, his breeches soiled, his
hands were stained with dirt and torn with thorns, and his whole body
seemed bent and unstrung. He advanced but two uncertain paces into the
house. I stood my stand upon the hearth. George half lifted his hand to
meet mine. For the life of me I could not raise my own, and words died
from my lips. And Mary moved closer to my side, and half her figure drew
behind me.
"What ta, Ben?" and George moaned and flung up his arms and sank upon a
chair by the little round table in the kitchen centre and bowed his head
on his arms and great sobs shook his frame.
"Leave us, Mary," I said very soft.
"I winna, aw'st see it aat. Tha't too soft, Ben."
I shaped to lay my hand on George's shoulder, but even as I raised my
arm the thought of the murdered man came like a shock at me again, and I
stood stiff and still once more. The convulsion passed, and George
lifted his face.
"Tha knows all, Ben?"
"All I fear, George."
"And tha flings me off?"
"I fling thee off."
The angry colour came to his face, some of the old fire to his eye. He
sprang to his feet, something of a man once more.
"And is this thi trust and this thi loyalty; hast ta forgotten thi oath,
Ben?"
"I have forgotten nought, George."
"And yo' desert the Luds? Our greatest enemy lies low. I have struck the
blow that others feared to strike, and terror palsies the oppressors of
the poor. And in the supreme hour of our triumph you draw back?"
"I draw back."
"You brave the consequences of your broken oath, you earn for yourself
the hatred of the poor, the obloquy and the doom of the traitor?"
"I brave them."
"Then out upon you, Ben Bamforth, for a false and perjured knave. The
hour of trial and of danger has come, and it finds thee false. Oh!
bitter the day and cursed the hour I took yo' to my heart, and bitter
the rue thou'st sup for this. And yo' Mary, I've a word to say to yo'.
But cannot I speak to thee alone?"
I made as tho' to leave the house, but Mary stayed me by a touch.
"Say what yo' have to say before Ben. Yo' can have nought to say to me
he cannot hear."
"Nay I care not if tha does'na. He may listen if tha likes. All th'
world may know for me. It has to be said, as well now as another time,
tho' it's a rum courting to be sure. Tha knows aw love thee, Mary; tha
knows aw've sought thee and only thee this many a month back?"
"I know yo've said so, George."
"And yo' did not say me nay. Yo' bid me bide my time, said yo' did not
know yor own mind, that yo' were ower young to think o' such things yet,
and put me off. But tha did not send me away wi'out hope, Mary, and I
thought that in the bottom of your heart there was a tiny seedling that
in time would flower to love."
"And so it might have done, George, but when it was a tender plant, a
cold frost came and nipped it."
"I cannot follow yo', Mary, I am distraught in mind. All this night I
have wandered the fields and in the lanes. A hundred times I have set my
face over the hills to leave this cursed country."
"And your work behind you!" I put in, but he heeded me not.
"But the thought of you, Mary, held me back. I must know your heart,
your mind to me. If yo' will be mine, if yo' will give me your word to
wed me in quieter days, I will quit this work. Things will quieten
themselves. A month or two and the Luddites will be forgotten. Our
secrets are well kept. The Government will be only too glad to let
sleeping dogs lie, and in another country, under another sky under the
flag of the free Republic that has spurned the fetters of its English
mother, you and I will seek fortune, hand-in-hand."
"There is blood upon your hand, George Mellor. Mine it shall never clasp
again."
"So be it I need not stoop to woo too humbly. My star is o'ercast now,
but a day shall come when yo' will regret the hour yo' spurned George
Mellor's love. And yo! Ben Bamforth, traitor to your friend's confided
love," . . . . and he turned upon me fiercely with flashing eye and
clenched fist, and all his wrath surged to his lips and he would have
gladly poured it out on me.
"Nay, George, I have not said my say," Mary broke in. "Yo' have told me
yo' loved me, and when first I knew you I think I could have been easy
won to love. But you were here when Ben Walker told how Long Tom had
outraged me. Yo' heard every word he said, and I grant yo' you talked
big. But what did you do? The girl yo' woo'd for your bride told her
tale, and yo'--yo' made a speech and went home to bed, leaving to
another arm to wreak the punishment you only threatened. My love, such
as it was, died that night, that was the icy breath that killed it, and
from that night I have almost loathed myself that ever I wasted a tender
thought on you. But go, leave this house, your mind should be on other
things than love. I ask no questions. But if my fears are true, it is of
making your peace with an offended Maker you should be thinking, and
crying for mercy rather than suing for love."
"You have had your answer, George," I said, as Mary hastened from the
room leaving us confronting each other.
"Aye, I have had my answer. Yo' have stolen my love from me, yo'r
desertion will wreck our cause, and now, finish what tha has begun, go
to Justice Radcliffe, tell him George Mellor did not sleep at his
father's house last night, put the bloodhounds of the law upon my track,
and when tha draws the price of blood make a merry wedding for thissen
an' th' lass tha's stolen to lay her head upon thi false an' perjured
heart!"
And he waxed me off as I strode towards him, and made with quick step
across the yard, and for many months I saw George Mellor no more.
Horsfall's death had an effect just the opposite to that expected by the
Luds. It did not bring the masters to their knees: on the contrary it
hardened and united them. It did not embolden the Luddites; rather they
became alarmed at their own extremes. A reward was offered for the
discovery of those concerned in the attack on Rawfolds, and a large sum,
three thousand pounds, if my memory serves me, was put together by the
millowners and given to Mr. Cartwright to mend his windows and to reward
his pluck. Another reward, of two thousand pounds, was offered by the
Government to anyone, not the actual murderer, who should betray to
justice those who had shot Mr. Horsfall. Justice Radcliffe never rested.
The least rumour that reached his ear was sufficient to justify an
arrest, and no one knew when it would be his turn to be summoned to
Milnsbridge House and have an ugly half-hour in the sweating room where
the magistrate examined the men, women and children he hauled before
him. I do not know what warrant Justice Radcliffe had for such
examinations--probably none. But, then, how were ignorant folk, half
frightened out of their wits, to know this; or if they knew it, how was
their knowledge to serve them? To refuse to answer would be construed as
a sure sign of guilty knowledge, if not of actual partnership: so people
made themselves as gaumless as they could, and when driven into a corner
lied like blacks.
The manufacturers who felt themselves or their goods in danger took
heart. All eyes at this time were fixed on Marsden. Enoch and James
Taylor, who made the new cropping frames, were looked upon as marked
men, and Woodbottom mill was fortified as if for a siege; soldiers
sleeping in the mill at night.
"Arthur Hirst's a main clever chap," said 'Siah, with unwilling
admiration.
Arthur Hirst was the engineer at Woodbottom.
"How so, 'Siah?" I asked.
"Why mon he's laid a trap for th' Luds 'at 'll give 'em what for, if
they pay a visit to th' Bottom. It's like th' owd nominy, 'walk into my
garden said th' arrunder to th' flea.'"
"What's the' trap, 'Si?"
"Why he leaves a door open that leads ovver th' wheel race; an' there's
a false flure ovver th' race, an' if anybody wer' to walk ovver it, it
'ud give way an' souse into th' race he'd go. Then up wi' t' shuttle, in
with th' watter, an' in a jiffy th' wheel 'ud be turnin' an'
hauf-a-dozen Luds turnin' wi' it, if so be as they be so obligin' as to
walk into th' trap."
But no one did. Woodbottom was not attacked. The midnight raids became
rare, and then ceased, and people went about saying the power of the
Luds was broken and that we should hear no more of them. For my part I
asked for nothing better.
Mary was true to her promise. She went to Low Moor and returned with
Faith, a paler, thinner, sadder Faith. And Mary was very kind to her,
very gentle with her, which surprised me not a little, for more than
once she had been somewhat waspish whenever I had spoken of John's
sister. But all that was past and over, and Mary and Faith seemed as
thick as thieves. They slept in the same bed, and would go about the
place with arms about each other's waists--a pretty picture: Mary in
her blue print, with rosy cheeks and plump figure, and dancing eye and
saucy speech; Faith in a plain close fitting dress of some black stuff,
pale and pensive, with many a sigh and at times a tear of chastened
sorrow when her mind fled back to the brother she had lost.
Of George Mellor we never spoke, though he was not long absent from the
minds of any one of us. Mary put me on my guard.
"Yo' thought, Ben, 'at Faith wer' sweet on yo'!"
I made haste to disclaim the impeachment.
"Now it's no use lying, Ben, yo' six feet o' vanity that ye' are. An'
what's more yo' were wi'in an ace o' bein' i' love wi' her."
I vowed by all my gods that this was false.
"Oh, yo' may swear as hard as yo' like; but aw know ye', Ben. Yo'd
gotten into yo'r head 'at it wer' yo'r mission i' life to look after
folk i' general an' they'd nowt to do but look ailin' an' pinin' as if
they couldn't stick up for theirsen, an' yo' wer' ready to tak' them an'
their trouble on them big shoulders o' yo'rn. That wer' th' way thi
vanity showed itsen."
"I was sorry for Faith, Mary. But bein' sorry an bein' i' love 's two
different things."
"Pity's o' kin to love," quoted Mary. "An' aw tell ye', wi' precious
little encouragement an' th' chapter o' accidents helpin', yo'd ha' been
sprawling at Faith's little feet, an 'ud ha' gone to yo'r grave
believin' yo'd loved her sin' first yo' set eyes on her."
"And who was it taught me the difference atween love and pity, Mary?" I
asked.
"How should I know and why should I care quoth Mary.
"No voice has ever told me, Mary, but the voice of my own heart; no
words that maid e'er spoke, but a pair of arms around my neck and a
maid's kiss upon my brow."
"Then if that's all yo'r warrant, I'd 'vise yo' not to be over certain
on it. There's many a slip 'twixt the cup 'an the lip, an' a woman
doesn't like a felly to be too sure."
"Nay, if yo'd have me plead on," I began and asked nothing better than
to say my say; but Mary had ever a way of slipping from my grasp.
"Do yo' think I've nowt better to do nor listenin' to this nonsense? We
wer' talkin' about Faith, an' how we wandered off aw' cannot tell."
"Well what of Faith?"
"Aw tell yo', Ben, Faith thought more of George Mellor's little finger
nor of all yo'r big body. Aye an' still thinks. He's her hero. Her
brother stuffed her head wi' such a pack o' nonsense that she thinks
George the finest man that ever lived, and yo' not much better nor a
coward for deserting him. She frets because he doesn't come here, and
there's no tellin' what mak' o' folly her silly fancy mayn't lead her
to."
"But George cares nowt for her," I said.
"What's that to do wi' it? Let a felly go sighing an' pinin' after a
wench--an' it's long odds she'll laugh i' his long face. Let him seem
beyond her reach an' it's just as likely she'll break her heart longing
for him."
"Does she know about Horsfall?"
"Of course she does."
"What, all?"
"Aye, all. I took care she should."
"Well?"
"Well, she doesn't believe a word of it."