AFTER this, life for many months was very grey at Holme. We did not talk
much about the grim days we had passed through. They were pleasant
neither to talk of nor think on. My father's mind was chiefly exercised
about the portentous length of Mr. Blackburn's bill of costs, and upon
some of the items he delivered himself at large:
"'Attending you,'" he quoted, "'when you instructed me to see John
Quarmby and James Eagland with a view to procuring their proofs for this
defence, 6s. 8d.'"
"Think o' that now," he would say, "actually charging me for calling to
tell him what to do, to put him up to his work, so to speak. My certy,
lawyers may well ma' their brass quick! Aw've a good mind to ha' it
taxed."
"What's that?" asked my mother.
"Why, there's a chap i' London 'at's put on by th' Lord Chancellor to go
through 'torneys' bills an' see they ha' not charged too much."
"He'll be a lawyer hissen, 'aw reckon?" queried my mother.
"Aye, aye," said my father, 'set a thief to catch a thief,' tha knows."
"Tha'd best pay up, aw doubt na, awn heard folk tell o' fallin' out wi'
the devil an' goin' below for justice, an' this taxin' 'll be after th'
same fashion. Th' first loss is th' least loss, an' 'what can't be cured
mun be endured.' If folk will ha' law they mun pay for their whistle,
an' you've had yo'r run for yo'r money."
"Aw could ha' thoiled it better if they'd let Mr. Brougham speik to th'
jury. Here's twenty guineas to him, to say nowt o' two guineas for his
clerk, that did nowt 'at aw can hear tell but draw th' brass for his
mester, an' him never allowed to oppen his mouth to th' jury!!"
"But he's had th' brass ha' not be?" asked the partner of my father's
joys and sorrows.
"Aye, he's had it safe enough."
"Well, by all accounts," concluded my mother, "it's ill gettin' butter
out o' a dog's throat." And the bill was paid: the only discount my
father got being a pinch of snuff from Mr. Blackburn's silver box.
Faith was not with us now, nor did she return till hay-time. She had
gone home to her father at the vicarage at Low Moor, but not without a
promise to return in the summer. And about that time too, Soldier Jack
became slack in his attendance at Powle Moor, tho' abating nothing in
his respect for Mr. Webster. He had been away for the week-end, having
said nothing of his intentions, but it turned out he had been to Low
Moor to see Faith and her father, and after this Jack began to go, in a
rather shame-faced way at first, to Church. I asked him what was the
reason of this right-about face.
"Well, yo' see, Ben," he explained, "th' service at th' Church is more
reg'lar like an' more constitutional."
"As how?"
"Well, yo' see, I'm a soldier, an' aw believe i' discipline."
"Yo' broke it often enough, bi all accounts," I ventured to remind him.
"Na, Ben, no back reckonin'! Yo' mun consider that aw wer' young then
an' lawless. Aw'n sown mi wild oats nah, an' settled down an' aw begin
to see that law an' order's a very guid thing, an' authority mun be
respected."
"Well, cannot yo' respect it as much at th' Powle as at th' Church?"
"Now, aw cannot; an' yo cannot, nother. Yo' see yo're dissenters at th'
Powle, an' heresy an' schism an' rebellion against constituted authority
are i' th' air, so to speak, on Powle Moor. Yo're all Republicans at'
heart up yonder, an' aw'll tell yo', another thing, if there'd been no
dissenters there they'd ha' been no Luds, an' George Mellor 'd noan ha'
danced out th' world on nowt."
"But Faith Booth were Church an' yet she went to th' Powle while she
wer' wi' us, an' had a class there into th' bargain."
"Faith's a woman," said Soldier, "an' women ha' no sense o' principle.
She wer' your guest, an' wouldn't pain yo' by going elsewheer. That's
what yo' call nat'ral politeness, an' we should be none the worse i'
Sloughit for a little more on it. But what we're talkin' on now is a
matter o' th' head not a matter o' th' heart, an' i' matters o' th' head
a woman's nowt to go by. Yo' shud hear her father, th' owd vicar at Low
Moor!"
"Oh! he's yo'r text, is he?"
"He put it i' this way. Th' Church o' Christ is an army--the Church
militant, he called it. Th' king, God bless him, is th' head o' th'
Church, jus' same as he's th' head o' th' army. Th' Archbishops is
commanders-in-chief, th' Bishops is generals, the Rectors an' Vicars is
colonels an' captains, an' Curates is th' lieutenants."
"And what of corporals and sergeants?" I asked.
"Th' vicar's warden, to be sure," said Jack promptly, "an' just yo' see
if aw dunnot live to be vicar's warden afore aw dee o' old age: an' if
yo' want to speer further into it, th' Collect an' th' Liturgy is th'
Orders o' th' day an' the surplice an' hood's nobbud a uniform. So
theer!"
And Jack looked at me triumphantly.
"An' wheer do th' Dissenters come in then?" I asked.
"Well aw reckon you're like these volunteers 'at come up when folk wer'
fleyed o' Boney comin'. An' its th' same way i' religion. Folk turn
Methodies when they're in a scare about their souls; but for reg'lar
defence i' ordinary times, th' Church, as by law established, is enough
to ward off th' enemy o' mankind."
"And what does Faith say to all this?" I asked.
"Faith's a very sensible lass, an' wi' a very proper notion o'
discipline," replied Jack. "I tried her t'other day wi' th' text 'wives,
submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord. For the
husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the
Church.'"
"Well?" I asked.
"An' Faith upholds every word of it, an' thinks 'at a woman 'at has a
husband 'oo can respect an' look up to, 'll ma' no bones about obeyin'
him in all things lawful."
"Well, well," I said, "I've no doubt some strapping young fellow will
come along some day, and Faith will have a chance o' squaring preaching
wi' precept."
"Aw don't know so much about a strapping young felly," said Jack,
curtly. "Yo' young chaps think a wench has no eyes for owt but inches
an' spirits. Faith's noan o' that breed. 'Oo thinks a husband owt to be
older nor th' wife, so's 'oo can lean on him an' look to him for
guidance."
"Aye," I said, "Faith's just turned twenty. Th' man owt to be
five-an-twenty."
"Five-an-forty, if a minnit," cried Jack.
And I laughed in his face.
"What, Jack! caught at last! And what about the decent elderly widow
'wi' summat i' th' Bank 'at mi mother's lookin' for'?"
"Ben, quit thi jokin'; it's no jokin' matter, isn't this. Aw tell yo',
Ben, if aw can win Faith Booth for mi wife, aw'st go dahn o' mi knees
an' thank God wi' all mi heart for th' best gift even God can give--a
pure an' good woman. Th' owd Book well says--'A crown unto her
husband.' An' aw'm not wi'out my hope, Ben. But aw'm fleyed on her, man;
aw'm fleyed on her."
"What! a soldier fleyed on a woman, Jack?"
"Aye, Ben, aw'm fleyed on her! Sometime's when 'oo's sat quiet by th'
hearth, there's a look comes on to her face, that aw shouldn't be
surprised any minnit if th' ceiling oppened up, an' 'oo just floated
away to Heaven. An' yo' nivver see her in a temper, like other women,
th' best on 'em; an' yo nivver hear a cross word fra her, nor hear her
gigglin' an' laughin' like other lasses--peas in a drum, th' cracklin'
o' thorns under a pot, that's what they mind me on. She's just too good
to live, is Faith, an' aw'm not worthy 'to touch the hem of her
garment,' an' that's a fact."
And Jack made off with an agitated limp; but from such like talk and a
hint or two that Mary let fall, my mother ceased her quest for the
prudent elderly widow, tho' not without giving a very uncompromising
opinion that there was no fool like an old fool.
"Tho'," she added, "if it wer' to be a young 'un, it couldn't ha' been a
better nor Faith, an' that aw will say; but as for wives being obedient
to their husbands"--for I had taken, occasion to enlighten her as to
Jack's views on the blessed estate--"it's well known St. Paul, good
man, was a bachelor, an' bachelors' wives is same as owd maids' childer,
like nowt in heaven above, nor the earth beneath--nor in the water
under the earth," she added, to complete the text.
It was about this time that Mary had an unexpected visitor. It would be
in July, as near as I can remember. I was piking in the barn, and there
being a good yield that year, it needed all my height and a long pike to
reach to the top of the hay bowk when it neared the roof. Mary and Faith
were raking in the field, and Martha had been with the last bottle of
home-brewed for the hay-makers.
We had always three or four Irishmen that came regularly year after year
to earn their rent at the English harvesting. One of them, Micky, taught
me to count up to twenty in Irish, so that I may claim to know a little
of foreign languages, and if they are all like Irish, I pity the man
that has to learn more of them. I had gone to the barn door, looking
placidly across the field where Bob stood in the traces yoked to the
hurdle on which we dragged the sweet new hay to the mistal; the sun was
westering, and the grateful breezes fanned me with cool and gentle
touch. The girls in the field had thrown off the large straw hats they
wore in the noon heat, their tresses had escaped their coils, and they
moved but slowly with the rakes, following the wake of the hurdle, for
we had had a long and hard day, and all were fain our work was nigh
done, and the hay, thank God, well won. My mother had gone into the
house, for she had long ceased to take any part in the hay-making, and I
made no question she was getting ready the baggin'. I saw her come to
the house door, and heard her shout:
"Mary! Ben! come hither; aw want yo;" and she waved her arms to motion
us in.
"Throw yo'r rakes dahn, an' come naa," came another cry, and there was
that in my mother's voice which told us this was no ordinary summons to
a meal.
Mary and I made for the house hot-foot. My mother met us at the door.
"There's Ben Walker i' th' parlour an' his mother," she said; "an
they've come to talk to thee, Mary--aw thowt Ben had better come as
weel."
"Aw winnot see 'em," said Mary.
"That's right," I said. "Tell 'em to tak' their hook, mother. They're
none wanted here."
"Tell 'em thissen, Ben. It's more o' yo'r business nor mine, an' more or
Mary's nor yo'rs. Both on yo' see 'em's my advice, an' if yo' think
they'll eit yo', I'll stand by to see fair play."
"Aw'm none fit to be seen. Wait till aw tidy misen up a bit," said Mary,
fastening her dress at the neck and prisoning some stray tresses of her
hair.
"Yo're good enough for the likes o' them," said my mother, "an' aw'm
none goin' to have 'em sittin' on th' best furniture i' th' house longer
nor aw can help. They'll noan do it ony good. Let's in, an' ha' it
ovver, an' dunnot pick yo'r words, either, wi' that lot: aw shannot, yo'
may depend."
You never did see in your life such a beau as Ben Walker that day. His
mother was fine dressed, with a big gold brooch and a gold chain round
her neck and reaching like a rope down to her waist, and all the colours
of the rainbow in the silks she wore. But Ben! you should have seen him!
It was a sight for sore eyes. They called his father "Buck," but him I
never saw in the days of his glory. But if he could out-buck Ben he was
a Buck indeed. Why, his vest was a flower garden in miniature, and if
he'd dipped his head in the treacle pot it couldn't have been stickier.
Somebody must have crammed him that the tailor makes the man: but Lord!
a tailor from heaven, if there are such there, couldn't have made a man
of Ben Walker. Neither could ale nor strong waters. He had evidently
been trying for a bit back to import courage from Holland, for his face
was patchy and mezzled and his eye was filmy and his body jerky. We had
heard that he was making the money fly down at th' Brigg, tho' it was
not easy to get anyone to drink with him. However, here he was, and it
was not difficult to guess his errand.
My mother eyed the pair of them with a look of fine disdain and offered
them neither a hand nor a chair.
"Well, what's your business here," she said, "onybody 'at knew owt 'ud
know this is none a time for visitin', th' hay out an' th' glass goin'
down wi' a run, 'at awst be' capped if it doesn't knock th' bottom out,
one o' these days."
"Aye, the weather's very tryin' indeed for th' poor farmers," said Mrs.
Walker, "an' for them 'at has to depend for their livins on a few pounds
worth o' hay. But yo' see gentlefolk needn't bother their yeds abaat
sich things. Wet or fine doesn't matter so much to them. When it's too
wet for walkin' they can ride."
"Aye," put in my mother, "we all know weel enough where a beggar rides
to, if yo' put him on horse-back. But what's yo'r business, aw say?"
"Can't yo' speik, Ben?" said Mrs. Walker, "what's ta stand theer for,
like a moonstruck cauf?"
"Aw wud like to speak wi' Mary here," said Ben.
"Well, it's a free country," said Mary, "an' there's no law agen
speakin'."
"By thissen, aw mean."
"Well, tha cannot, that's all. If tha's owt to say to me, tha mun say it
afore Ben Bamforth."
"Ben Bamforth, indeed!" said Mrs. Walker. "Mind yo'r manners, lass, or
it'll be worse for yo', an' speik more respectful when yo' speik to yo'r
betters. Does ta know tha'rt speikin' to two thousand pund?"
"Aw sud say t' same if aw wer' speikin' to th' king's mint, if Ben
Walker wer' one o' th' stamps," retorted Mary hotly.
"Yo'll alter yo'r tune afore th' week's out, my lass," put in Mrs.
Walker. "In a word, will ta ha' our Ben here? What he's so set on thee
for 'mazes me. But he is set on thee, an' yo' sud be thankful he'll cast
a look yo'r way when it's wi' th' quality he sud be speikin' at this
very minnit, i'stead o' draggin' his mother up this rutty owd hill to a
tumbledown ram-shackle owd sheep-pen not fit for a lady to put her foot
inside on. Will ta ha' him, an' be a lady in silk an' satins, an' a
servant o' yo'r own, an' a gig to drive abaat in, an' th' fat o' th'
land to live' on?"
"Noa, aw winnot, aw winnot, aw winnot, so there's yo'r answer, an' if he
comes near me or after me agen, there's one'll fetch as many colours on
his back as th' weaver's put in his weskit."
"Then awst dahn to Milnsbrig this very neet," said Ben Walker, "an' tell
owd Radcliffe all aw know abaat Rawfolds, an' that long-legged tally o'
yo'rn shall go th' same gait as Mellor an' Thorpe."
And now I had a lucky inspiration--like a flash came into my head what
Mr. Radcliffe had said to me: 'Thank your stars, Justice Radcliffe does
not listen to every idle story that comes to his ears.' So I drew a bow
at a venture:
"Go to Mr. Radcliffe and welcome," I said. "Tha's been before, an' told
him all tha knows, an' more nor yo' could prove, an' yo' know nowt came
on it. Dost think he'll tak more heed o' a second telling?"
Ben Walker and his mother exchanged glances and their faces fell, so I
gathered courage and pushed my advantage.
"Go! aw tell yo'. Aw've known 'at yo' tell'd him long sin' all yo' knew
about me, an' he put it aside. Aw've noan yo' to thank 'at aw'm here to
tell yo' on it."
"Who telled yo'?" gasped Ben, off his guard. "Mr. Radcliffe hissen," I
cried, with the ring of triumph in my voice, "an' he towd me, too, if
ever I fun out who'd peached, aw'd his permission to break every bone in
his body, an', by God, if yo'r not off this hillside before aw count
twenty, aw'll take him at his word," and I strode with uplifted arm
towards the craven that shrank away. He needed no second telling, and
his mother followed him crest-fallen: and never but once again did Ben
Walker, to my knowledge, set foot on the threshold he had trod so often
as a tolerated if not a welcome guest.
"Whatever did ta mean, Ben?" said my mother to me, when she had watched
the pair part way down the hill, to make sure, she said, they pocketed
nought: "Whatever did ta mean?"
"Never yo' mind, mother," I replied. "There's no good i' talking
overmuch about such things. Anyway, it's been enough for yon' lot an'
that should be good enough for you."
"Aw do believe he made it," said my mother to Mary, in a tone of
admiration. And from that day she conceived a higher respect for my
intellect than years of honest truth had been able to inspire.
Only once again, I say, did Ben Walker, to my knowledge, sot foot on our
doorstep. He tarried in Huddersfield for some months and his money
flowed like water. Then he disappeared, and it was said he had gone to
America with a woman who was no better than she should be. Truth was,
the Brigg was getting too hot to hold him. The men who had been in the
Luddite business began to pluck up heart as the time went on and no more
arrests were made. And one fine night the man who kept the toll-gate at
the Brigg heard loud cries for mercy, and rushing out was just in time
to see the heels of a dozen men and to drag a drowning wretch out of the
cut. It was Ben Walker, and he was all but done for. Then, I say, he
vanished, and for years I heard no word of him. Then one wintry
night--November I think it was--Mary and I were sat in the house by
the fireside, she in the rocking chair my mother had loved of old and
knitting as I had seen her that was gone knitting so often that the
thread seemed a very part of my own life's warp; and I was sat smoking
my evening pipe in the chair he that was gone had made to us more sacred
than any monument in church or chapel, and the old clock was ticking
steadily on to the bed-hour as sturdily as it had ticked for more years
than I can tell. Only there was not to be heard through the rafters the
heavy snoring of 'Siah as it had been heard in my father's days. 'Siah
was snoring, I doubt not, but in a bed and a house of his own, and the
not too gentle breathing of Martha swelled the harmony of his own.
There came a knock at the door that gave us both a start. We had heard
no footstep, and Vixen, a waspish daughter of the Vixen of other days,
had not given tongue.
Who could it be?
"Does Mister Bamforth live here?" queried a voice that stirred a memory
of I knew not what, but something painful, and my mind, without my
willing it, was off on the scent.
"He does. Dos't want him?" I said, barring the entrance but holding the
door half open, whilst Mary had risen to her feet and held the light
above her head, to see the better.
"Aw've tramped fra Manchester, an' awn had newt to eit sin break o' day,
an' aw beg yo' for the love of God to gi' me a crust an' th' price o' a
bed or let me lie me dahn i' th' mistal."
And as he spoke and his face struck stronger at me, it all came back.
"It's Ben o' Buck's," I cried.
"It's Ben o' Buck's," he said in a low voice, and hung down his head and
said no more. I was for banging the door in his face, the hot blood
surging to my face and anger and scorn in my heart.
But Mary took the loaf and a slice of cheese from the table where our
supper lay, and a coin from the window sill where the milk money was,
and gave it to him, but turned her eyes from him as she gave it. And I
knew that Mary had taken the better part, and there was no longer anger
in my heart and I closed the door upon the figure that slouched away
into the cold dark night.
Yes: Mary and I were wed, and for the life of me I cannot remember that
I ever asked Mary to be my wife. I always tell her she did all the
love-making. Did she not put her arms about my neck, and did she not
tell Long Tom she meant to wed me. To be sure it was a Leap Year, and
that accounts for it.
I overheard Mary telling Martha that our wedding day was fixed. It was
to be in October--on the sixteenth--to be exact.
"Then that settles it," said Martha.
"Settles what?" asked Mary.
"Th' day for t' spurrins," replied our maid; "'Siah's been puttin' it
off, an' puttin' it off, tho' awn egged him on never so; but nah, aw'll
ha' no more dallyin'. Aw'd fixed i' mi mind to be wed on th' same day as
yo' and Ben, if aw couldn't afore, an' not another day longer will aw
wait. If 'Siah winnot put 'em up aw'll do it misen, an' that aw'll let
him know."
"But perhaps 'Siah doesn't want to get wed," suggested Mary.
"What's that to say to it?" asked Martha. "If he doesn't know who'll
mak' a good wife, aw know who'll mak' a good husband. An' 'Siah's just
that soft, aw sud be feart o' any other 'ooman puttin' on 'im, an' that
'ud just fret me to skin an' bone, to see onybody else puttin' on 'im
an' me no right to stan' up for him."
"But a woman cannot put th' spurrins up," objected Mary.
"Then aw'st ma' 'Si."
"But how if he's loath?"
"Aw'st bray him."
"What! 'Siah?"
"Aye, Mary, an' if yo'll tak' my advice, an' yo' may need it now yo're
goin' to be wed yersen, never let on to be fleyed o' yo'r man. First
time aw gay' 'Si' a bat, mi heart come into mi mouth an' mi knees
knocked one agen t'other, yo'd a thowt aw wer' playin' a tune on th'
bones under mi petticoat; but, Lor' bless yo', he just oppened his mouth
an' gaped at me an' scratted his yed--'Well awm dalled,' says he, 'if
this doesn't beat th' longest day!'--an' so aw fot 'im another clout
wi' mi neive, an' bar tellin' me to be careful aw didn't hurt misen, an'
to hit wheer it wer' soft, if a soft place aw could find, 'Siah said
nowt; but it's done him gooid. He's more fleyed o' me nor ony two i' th'
Colne Valley," concluded Martha with legitimate pride.
And Soldier Jack and Faith made a match of it. We were all married on
the same day, in the same church, by the same parson. It was Mr. Coates,
the vicar at the Parish Church at Huddersfield, tied us, for neither at
the Slaithwaite Church nor at the Powle could that then be done. And a
gradely wedding we had, as is only right when three couples, all
friends, and all of a family after a fashion o' speaking, get wed on the
same day.
Faith and Mary were just enough to send a man off his head, as they
stood in their veils, and even Martha looked comely, for love put its
halo about her head. Mr. Coates couldn't keep his eyes off Mary and
Faith, for I reckon he didn't see two such pictures every day, and when
we went into the vestry to sign th' register:
"The Rose," says he, handing the quill pen for Mary to sign her name.
"And the lily," he added, with a smile and a courtly bow, like the
gentleman he was, to Faith.
"Nay, sir," said Mary, with a happy laugh, "Nay, sir, the lilies come
fra Golcar."
And now, my children, my story is told. You know more about the
Luddites, perhaps, than when you began to read it. You know how vain was
their attempt to stop the introduction of machinery. And no doubt
machinery has been a great boon. Why, I myself, as you know, run my own
mill by it.
But don't tell me the Luds were a bad lot--misguided, short-sighted,
ignorant, if you like, but rogues, and idle, dissolute
n'er-do-weels----No! and still no!
[THE END.]