MITCHELL MILL.
I imagine few masters behave as handsomely by their men as Mr. Wrigley
did by Jim and me when the news spread like fire from Harrop Green to
Greenfield that Parson Holmes's and Jim o' 'Lijah's, th' Tuner, had
dropped into a fortune and were going to start on their own bottom at
Mitchell, commonly called Mickle Mill. "It'll ta' a guidish mony o' them
sort o' mickles to ma' a muckle," the village wit had prophesied; but
Mr. Wrigley was not among the croakers. He sent for Jim and me into the
counting house, if so big a name can be given to the little office in
which he kept his books and paid the wages each Saturday noon. Mr.
Wrigley, I have said, was a man of few words, but a just.
"And so you youngsters are going to run Mitchell Mill?" he said.
"We're going to try," I answered meekly, almost feeling that I was doing
Mr. Wrigley a personal injury.
"It's a grave step," he said, "a very grave step. But you've youth and
courage. Never lose courage, whatever else you lose. There's a saying I
remember--it isn't in the Bible, for I've looked for it from Genesis to
Revelations. Perhaps it's in th' 'Pocrypha--there's a lot o' good
things in th' 'Pocrypha--'He who loses fortune loses much, who loses
friends loses more, but who loses courage loses all.' My first an' last
word to you both is, 'Go steady an' keep your tails up.' If you ever
want a bit of advice, don't be too proud to ask, it, and you know where
to come for it. What's in these envelopes is from Mrs. Wrigley and
myself. They should have been wedding presents--oh! we aren't deaf at
Holly Grove but I daresay it'll come in handy now. Now be off with you,
I'm busy. Oh! and I was to tell you to be sure to be at service next
Sunday night and stop for th' prayer meeting."
We opened the envelopes when we got outside. There was a new Bank of
England note for five pounds in each, fresh and crisp, straight from the
bank.
"Aw'st go to that prayer meeting," said Jim, "if aw nevver go to
another. The Lord send we aren't Matthy Haley'd to death, that's all.
But aw'm thinking th' prayers 'll be fro' Mrs. Wrigley an' th' brass
fro' Mr. Wrigley, an' wi' all respec' for th' fair sex, gi' me th'
brass."
In this innuendo, however, it turned out that Jim did less than justice
to the mistress of Holly Grove; for not to be outdone in magnanimity by
her lord and master she invited my father, and Ruth, and Miriam--I can
imagine with some misgivings in her case--and Mother Haigh, and Jim,
and myself to high tea at Holly Grove. She accompanied the invitation to
my reverend sire by an intimation that she would be much obliged if he
would conduct a service in Wrigley Mill itself, for she was of opinion,
she added, that, though tea drinkings and such like festivities might
occasionally be conceded to the frailties of the flesh, such a crisis as
had now been reached in the fortunes of Jim and myself were better
marked by prayer if not by fasting. In this observation I can imagine my
father wholeheartedly concurring, though I doubt his acquiescence when
Mrs. Wrigley went on to deplore that the pastor of Pole Moor had wedded
himself to the tenets of hyper-Calvinism, she herself finding, she
averred, that doctrine but as dry ashes compared with the comforting and
inspiring teaching of the sainted John Wesley.
The invitations to Mary Haigh, and Jim, and myself were not conveyed by
word of mouth, as they might easily and at no cost have been, but
reached us on separate and individual missives, at Mary's house in
Wrigley Mill Fold, by the Royal Mail. Never before in our lives had any
one of us three residents in Mary's humble cottage received a letter so
transmitted, and each one of us twisted and turned the document about
before mustering courage to break the wafers securing the letters.
"Whativver in the name o' goodness is this?" exclaimed Mary. "Here, Abe,
this'll be for yo', though, to be sewer, th' postman swore it were for
me. Aw weren't for takkin' it, but he'd noan tak' it back. Aw'n noan
oppened it, catch me at it. Aw'n more sense nor that. Aw nivver knew
anyone 'at aw knew ha' a letter bi post but Jane Stewart, an' that wer'
to say their Moll 'ud run away wi' a sojer. There's bad luck i' them
innercent looikin' bits o' papper. Aw feel it i' mi bones. When folk han
onny gooid news to tell they bring it theirsen."
"Weel, here goes," said Jim, opening his letter with the air of one
leading' a forlorn hope, "let's be knowing th' warst on it. Read it out,
Abe, unless bi onny chance it's fro' your Ruth, i' which case aw'll just
off to Pole Moor an' ax her to read it for me hersen."
When Jim and his good mother realised that Mr. and Mrs. Wrigley desired
the pleasure of their company to tea at 'Holly Grove I doubt whether
their pleasure and pride were equal to their consternation. To be sure,
they had sat at table with the master and mistress of Holly Grove at
Sunday school treats. That was one thing, but it was quite another to be
specially invited as guests to Holly Grove; just as, I suppose, it is
one thing to sit at one end of the table at a public banquet and see a
Royal Prince, with a powdered flunkey at his back, and quite another to
receive a pressing invitation to dine at Buckingham Palace: though, I
suppose, even in the former case, as in the latter, you can go about for
the rest of your life bragging that you've dined with Royalty. I knew
a man that did. But that' not to my story.
"Weel! aw nivver did!" gasped Mary. "Oh! my poor heart, it's all o' a
quivver. Aw knew that dratted letter 'ud upset me for th' rest o' th'
week.
"Weel, there's one gooid thing aw'n that silk gown mi aunt left me 'at
aw'n had laid by i' th' prass these twenty year i' lavender, an' wi'
camphor to keep th' moths off. There'll be a seet o' seams to be let
out, to be sewer, for mi naunts were one o' th' lean kine, not to speak
disrespectful o' one 'at's dead an' gone, but truth's truth an' 'll
allus go farthest, choose what yo' say. An' even then aw'm feart aw'st
ha' to be poo'd into th' frock bi horsepower, an' it'll give all ovver.
But aw'll n'er heed if it'll last this do an' yo'r two weddin's. Aw'm
noan likely to want it again. Aw'd aimed to leave it to Ruth after aw
deed. But nah, aw'st wear it at th' Holly Greave if it strangles me. Out
o' mi seet, yo' grinnin' lads, and mind how yo' speik to me till this
thing's off mi mind." And Mary went upstairs to the sacred press in a
highly perturbed state of mind.
"We're coming up i' th' world mighty quick," quoth Jim, shaking his head
very solemnly. "Aw'n heered abaat a chap 'at went up like a rocket an'
cum dahn like a stick, an' aw'm feart this may be just such another do.
Aw'n a gooid mind just to step ovver to th' Pole an' talk it ovver wi'
yo'r Ruth. Aw'n two neck-cloths, one's a breet green an' t' other's a
mottled 'un, an' aw wonder which oo'd like me to wear at th' Holly
Greave," he concluded somewhat lamely.
"Yo'll do nothing of the sort," I said with emphasis. "Our Ruth will tie
you to her apron strings fast enough, I can tell you, without your
trapezing off to Pole Moor every five minutes to ask her to do it.
You'll just off with me to Mitchell Mill and set to work on that
water-wheel. It will take us all our time to get things ship-shape by
the day we've fixed for getting th' looms in.
"Tha'rt a hard taskmaster, Abe," sighed the love-sick giant. "When aw
swopped Mester Wrigley for going partner wi' yo' aw just jumped out o'
th' frying-pan into th' fire. Aw'n put in more time at Mitchell Mill nor
ever aw thowt it possible for one man to put in, an' th' sweat's run off
me like fat out o' a Michaelmas gooise i' a hot oven. But aw'll do thee
justice, Abe, tha'rt noan one to ax another to do what tha'rt noan ready
to do thissen. Tha's swept an' painted an' mortared an' whitewashed
inside an' outside yond' owd mill till tha stinks o' turps, an' limewash
is all ovver thi yure (hair) an' face an' han's an' cloas to sich a tune
tha'd do for a churchyard monniment, an' afore tha can go other to th'
Hollygreave or onny other decent body's haase aw'st ha' to put thee i'
th' scourin' pan and steam thee, an' then scrub thee dahn wi' th'
besom."
And indeed Jim and I had our hands full. Mitchell Mill had been long
untenanted, and had fallen into sad disrepair inside and out. The thatch
had fallen in in places, the doors hung on their hinges, there wasn't
a whole window to the place, the mill-dam needed dredging, head-goit and
tail-goit cleansing, the water-wheel ought justly to have been mended
with a new one--but that was out of the question. But the masonry was
good and solid, the floorings sound, and the iron of the gearing, though
rusted, still firm. And we got a lease renewable at option for a nominal
rental, and that meant a lot to us. Of course, we couldn't afford to
employ slaters, or thackers, or masons, or carpenters, or painters, or
millwrights; so we perforce turned ourselves into Jacks-of-all-trades. I
made but poorly out except at the lighter jobs, but that Jim, though
with many a grunt and groan more than half make-believe, did the work of
six men. He had the strength of a Goliath, and could turn it to any use.
Only give him plenty to eat and a fair allowance of his favourite
homebrewed and Jim seemed as fresh as new paint and ready to start again
after doing a day's work that would have made every bone in my body ache
for a week.
Now, in my young days I confess to a fondness for reading the works of
Mr. Robert Owen, of Lanark, and, to be sure, we are all taught to
believe in the brotherhood of man and to bear one another's burden, and
that may mean that the strong should cheerfully earn the whole cake and
give the better half of it to the weak, thankful to be able to do it.
And I suppose in a perfect state a man will do his day's work just
because it is his day's work, and be content to share and share alike
with a brother who either can't or won't do his. But, alas! we don't
live in a perfect state, and human nature will have a long way to travel
before it ceases to be true that if you want to get the best out of a
man set him to work for himself. Anyhow--I'm no philosopher--Jim and I
toiled in those early days at Mitchell Mill, and for many a long year
thereafter, like galley-slaves. We had a long row to hoe, and we knew
it. And were there not Miriam and Ruth to cheer us when we despaired,
and to lighten our toil by all the arts of loving and good women.
Now, one day in mid-March, whom should we spy seated on a low wall near
the mill dam but that queer, uncanny Burnplatter, that same Daft Billy
who had fetched me from the watch-night service to the bedside of old
Mother Sykes, and who, I had reasons for believing, had carried me to my
father's door after Ephraim had left me for dead on Stanedge top. I
could never quite get over a sort of shrinking from the man, but I knew
that he loved Miriam as the hound loves its master, and hoped that for
Miriam's sake he would do me no ill if he did me no good. So I went to
him with outstretched hand--which he disregarded--and asked him to
share the beef and bread and cheese and onions which Jim and I had
brought in our handkerchief for our mid-day meal.
"Aw want nowt to eit," he said, with, I thought, scant courtesy. "Aw
want to speik to thee private." He scowled in the direction of poor Jim,
and added, "Send yon' hulkin' fooil out o' earshot." I gave Jim a hint,
and he took his tea-cake and pitcher to another part of the mill.
"Now, what is it?" I asked anxiously. "Nothing wrong with Miriam?"
"Not yetten."
"But you fear harm to her?"
"Aw shouldn't be here else. It's none for love o' you."
I quite thought I could believe that.
"Well, well?"--impatiently.
"It's Eph.--an' them Bradburys. Leastwise, th' young 'un."
"But Tom o' Bill's a married man, with a family at that--what can he
want with Miriam?"
"Oh! mostly to spite thee, aw reckon. He wants none o' th' lass. He's
his hands full at whom; but he'd hit thee through Miriam if he can."
Now that was a very long speech for the taciturn Burnplatter, and 'twere
wearisome to tell at large how, bit by bit, like getting gold out of
quartz, I got from Daft Billy the story he had to tell.
It would seem, then, that my old friend and later rival and foe,
Ephraim, aforetime poacher and horsedealer, had now quite cast in his
lot with the gamekeepers at the Moorcock Inn. He was persuaded, too,
that by right divine he was now King of the Burnplatters, in joint
succession with Miriam to old Mother Sykes, whom, it appeared, that
unruly tribe had regarded as their rightful Queen and head. Ephraim was
not disposed to take his kingship lightly. He had exacted an oath of
fealty from the Burnplatters, and trusted to his new-born friendship
with the Bradburys to secure them a certain immunity from the ministers
of the law, But he felt, as the most intense conviction of his being,
that Miriam was destined alike by Nature, by kinship--he knew nothing,
of course, of Mr Garside's revelation--by their upbringing, and, he
believed, by her own predilection, to be alike his bride and queen
consort of the Burnplatters. Daft Billy often came across him on his
wanderings over the moors that lie between Greenfield and Pole Moor, and
had, as I could well imagine under no great pressure, accepted Ephraim's
invitations to drink. Ephraim would begin on ale, of which he would
quaff great draughts, without appearing a penny the worse, and then,
declaring that ale lay too cold on his stomach, would call for brandy.
Now, though I am not learned in these matters, as how should I be, I
have always understood that no greater error can be made than to mix
your liquors. I cannot understand how this should be, for one would have
said that alcohol is alcohol whether derived from the grain or vine. But
so I am assured it is; and Daft Billy left me no room to doubt that when
Ephraim had got well under way with the brandy bottle all the baser and
more repulsive nature of the man betrayed itself. He would begin by
boasting, bragging of his own good looks, and strength, and prowess, and
skill as a judge and swapper of horse flesh; then he would fall to
maudlin talk of his and Miriam's childhood days, and of her girlish awe
and admiration and affection for him; then he would flare up into wild
denunciations of myself: he would cut my liver out and throw it to his
dog to eat; he would set fire to Mitchell Mill and break every loom to
stivers and burn every piece; he would break me in body and in fortune;
he would mar me that no maid would look on me but with loathing; he
would show Miriam which was the better man: he would--and this was
really the gravamen of Daft Billy's story--beguile her from the safe
keeping and, as he deemed them, evil and corrupting influences of Pole
Moor, and, will she nill she, make her his wedded wife.
"But all this," I commented, "is but the raving of a drunken sot. People
who really intend mischief don't go babbling their designs over a pot.
They lie low and keep their mouths shut. Then their blow falls like
lightning out of a summer sky. Besides, there's law in the land. As for
the mill and our pieces, Jim and I can look after them. And as for
Miriam--why, we aren't in the Highlands of Scotland, where such things
might be, but in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and, anyway, Miriam is
not the girl to be forced into marriage by Ephraim Sykes and all the
Burnplatters put together."
But Daft Billy was not to be moved by all my eloquence.
"Yon lad means mischief," he said. "He'd care not a snap of his fingers
for all th' law i' England. He's just out of his senses, what wi' brandy
an' what wi' jealousy, an' what wi' longing for the maid hersen. An'
when a man's mad, he's mad; an it s just sheer nonsense argeying about
him as if he were i' his reet senses. He'll stick at nowt an' damn the
consekences."
"But what's to be done?" I asked with some impatience, for to tell the
truth I attached mighty little importance to Daft Billy's story. "Jim
and I can't put Mitchell Mill in our pockets and carry it about with us.
And we can't keep Miriam under lock and key till we're wed--and that
won't be for many a long day, worse luck. And it would never do to
breathe a word to Miriam about the matter. The girl's happy enough now.
Why, Billy, you would scarce know her for the same girl. Why don't you
come to Pole Moor and drink a dish of tea with my father like a
Christian man? Then you can see for yourself what a change has come over
the dear lass."
"She ailed nowt afore 'at aw e'er saw," averred Billy stoutly.
"She's as happy as the day's long," I went on. "She'd but a dark
childhood and maidenhood. But now the clouds have passed from her young
life and her nature opens and blooms and is fragrant with sweet perfume
like a rose under the summer sun. Ah! Billy, 't would do your heart good
to see the glad light in her eyes and hear the glad song of her as she
goes about her work. I'm not going to darken her days for her by filling
her mind with bogeys. Besides, again, what _could_ we do?"
"Aw'n thowt o' that," said that daft man curtly. "Don yo' think aw'n
ta'en trouble to come here just to fley yo'? That's noan my way. Aw tell
yo' aw'm as sewer as ivver aw were o' owt 'at one road or other Ephraim
'll try to get howd o' Miriam, an' if once oo gets into his clutches
when th' drink's in him an' all his evil passions burnin' hot as hell
flames, don yo' think it likely oo'll escape wi'out hurt? Does a moth go
through th' flame o' th' candle wi'out scorchin' its wings? And yo' sit
theer an' talk about law an' its ministers, meanin' th' constables, aw
suppose. What gooid will other law or Gospel be when th' mischief's
done. Yo' may piecen a cracked pot together, but th' crack's theer all
th' same. Aw'm noan what yo' ca' a pertickler sort o' man. Burnplatts is
noan exac'ly th' spot for rearin' saints. But aw tell yo' this, Abel
Holmes, aw love yon lass more nor ivver aw thowt it i' mi natur' to love
any human being. Aw'n seen her come up sin' oo began to lisp mi name.
Aw'n borne her i' these arms o'er mony a mile o' crag an' fell; her
little arms han clung raand mi neck; her little lips han kissed mine;
her little head, wi' its clusters o' ringlets, has pillowed itsen agen
this hard owd heart o' mine, and aw tell thee, man, if Ephraim Sykes, or
onny other man 'at wronged that maid were at th' bottom o' Satan's pit,
aw'd lope in an' glut missen wi' th' awfullest vengeance 'at a legion o'
devils could devise."
I gazed with a horrid fascination on Daft Billy's face as he uttered
these words in a very torrent or whirlwind of speech. The man was wholly
stirred from his wonted stolid demeanour. Hitherto I had known him as a
morose, silent, phlegmatic being whom, to all seeming, nothing short of
an earthquake or an electric battery could move. Well, I suppose the
thoughts of danger to Miriam that his silent broodings had conjured up
were the convulsion that had fired his passion and loosed his tongue. We
ordinary folk are so begirt by law and order and convention that we
forget the elemental forces and little realise the heights and depths to
which human nature can soar or fall when law and order and convention
are swept away as I have seen the dam walls swept away by the waters of
a swollen, raging stream. I sat in silence till such time as Billy
should recover himself, and then asked quietly, and as if unconcernedly:
"And your plan, Billy--what is it?"
"Weel," said our visitor, lapsing into his accustomed taciturnity,
"weel, aw'm come here to pick a quarrel wi' yo' or you long-legged
peartner o' yourn, or both on yo'."
"To pick a quarrel! Why, whatever have we done wrong to you to quarrel
about?"
"That's nother here nor theer. We mun fa' out about owt or nowt. An' yo'
mun beat me wi' a pickin' rod till aw'm black an' blue, or drag me
through th' mill dam, or put me into th' sizin' tub, or do owt yo' like
'at 'll leave a mark on me 'at aw can show at th' 'Moorcock.' Then aw
off to Ephraim an' mak' it out 'at aw'll ha' yo'r lives to pay yo aat.
Yo' see, if Eph. thinks aw'm on his side he'll happen oppen aat to me
more nor he has done, an' forewarned's forearmed. If we nobbut knew
aforehand what he's up to we can tak' steps accordingly. But th' main
thing is to mak' him believe aw'm just as set agen yo' as he is hissen.
Aw think it'll have to be th' mill dam. What sayn yo'?"
"Well, I for one am not going to beat you black and blue, nor yet drag
you through the mill dam. But I quite think it will do no harm for you
to make Ephraim and his new mates think we're on bad terms. So be off
these premises"--this with a very menacing tone "be off these premises,
you idle, skulking blackguard. Get you out of sight of honest men and go
to the scum you're fit for, or I'll souse you over head in th' sizing
tub."
Daft Billy rose hurriedly to his feet, raised one arm as to ward off a
blow, clenched his right fist ready for a fray, and eyed me with mingled
amaze and indignation. Then a broad grin spread across his features, and
he slowly winked first one eye, then the other:
"Tha'lt do, lad; tha'lt do. Aw'm off, and tha'rt noan sich a fooil as aw
thowt thee."
And he lumbered heavily away, chuckling audibly.
I confess I did not attach to the warnings of Daft Billy the importance
that subsequent events were to demonstrate in a terrible and tragic
manner they deserved. For one thing, I did not know Ephraim Sykes as
Daft Billy did. I knew him to be a reckless, lawless sort of fellow, but
thought that poaching and an occasional brawl were the limits beyond
which even his ungoverned temper would not lead him. Nor, for another
thing, had my experience of life and human nature then taught me what
devastating havoc can be wrought in the heart of man by thwarted
passion, its fires fed by strong drink. "Hell," says the proverb, "has
no fury like a woman scorned," and I suppose a man who sees the woman he
has for years looked upon as his own and whom after his wild and fiery
fashion he loves, give the treasures of her young love to another, is in
like case to a woman scorned. And, for yet another thing, was there not
the entrancing thought that Miriam was to be at the special service at
Wrigley Mill, the honoured guest of Mr. and Mrs. Wrigley.
The service was held in the weaving shed, the warping room not being
large enough to hold all those who flocked to the meeting. For besides
the mill hands at Wrigley Mill, it was known that a number of good folk
from Diggle and Woolroad and Uppermill meant to attend the service,
friends and well-wishers these of good old Jim. From Stanedge Top and
Dig Lea and Harrop Green and Weakey and Harrop Edge and Tamewater right
over the hill to Delph, Jim had hosts of friends, and not one to
begrudge him his rise in the world. So when it was bruited abroad that
this service was to be his farewell to Wrigley Mill, men and women,
youths and maidens, wished to do him honour. And, of course, the girls
were all agog to see our Ruth and Miriam. Jim had been somewhat of a
general lover in the sense at least that he had ever had a hearty word
and maybe a sly kiss for all the pretty lasses of the countryside;
though I'd stake my life that no girl was ever wronged by Jim. It had
been, indeed, a common jest against Jim that he was wedded to his old
mother. Perhaps that was why the girls had so set their caps at him, for
the French have a saying, I am told--and who should know a woman's ways
better than the French, who seem to think of little else?--that if you
run after the provoking creatures they run away, but if _you_ run away
they'll e'en run after you. And Jim was popular with the mothers, too;
for who so tender and gentle as he with the little mites that in those
days used to come down the rough hill sides in rain and sleet and snow
of the dark winter mornings to earn their few shillings to swell the
slender income of the family. Was it not Jim who let them warm their
frozen hands and numbed feet by the boiler fires, and Jim who cared
their sodden skirts and hose, and dried them carefully in the
drying-hoil, and Jim who carried many a weary little toddlekin home on
his broad shoulders hushing its sobs and drying its tears with lumps of
goodstuff, all dirty and sticky from being kept in his coat by the
blazing, roaring fires, but still goodstuff. And Jim was popular with
the men, too, for he had not scorned to take his pint and stand his
corner like a man at all the hostelries of those parts; and though, to
be sure, there had been a sad falling off in these respects since he had
taken to tramping over Stanedge to Pole Moor, it was hoped that marriage
would restore him to sanity and his accustomed ways.
And about Miriam there were a thousand rumours and wild conjectures.
Mary Haigh's cottage had been simply besieged by women itching to know
the very truth of the whole business; but, though Mary's tongue ran on
wheels most times, she knew when to keep it still. And, of course, the
more she didn't tell, the more everybody seemed to know. Miriam was the
daughter of a wicked baronet, and had been changed at birth; Miriam had
been proved to be the rightful heiress to fabulous sums now safely,
perhaps too safely, coffered in that mysterious repository of great
fortunes known as Chancery; Miriam had been the cause of a bloody feud
between the gipsy king and the parson's son; Miriam was a godless
heathen who had been brought to grace by the little parson of Pole Moor;
Miriam could neither read nor write; Miriam was a prodigy of wit and
learning, and could divine the future by the stars--in fine, Miriam was
more than a nine days' wonder for all the womenfolk and some of the men
of the other side of Stanedge, as we of Pole Moor called the Diggle
Valley.
When Mary and Jim and I got to Holly Grove on the eventful afternoon of
that ever-memorable service, we found my father and Miriam and Ruth
already arrived, and seated in great state in one of the big front rooms
of that imposing mansion. As we walked up Ward Lane and along the
tree-flanked carriage drive there had been great debate as to whether we
should knock boldly at the great white front door with the flower garden
facing towards Greenfield, or whether we should, as usual, seek
admission to the presence by way of the kitchen. The debate ended, as
great debates often end, by a compromise, it being finally settled, to
Jim's secret relief, that Mary and I should take our courage in both
hands and valiantly assail the front door knocker, whilst Jim modestly
tapped at the back. We need have been under no apprehensions, for no
sooner was Mary within than she was pounced upon by Mrs. Wrigley and
Miriam and Ruth and conveyed upstairs to be relieved of bonnet and her
wondrous shawl, and Jim and myself were bid by Mr. Wrigley to help
ourselves to the gin and water if we wanted to wet our clays, as he
called it, and then, taking no more notice of us, he fell to, hammer and
tongs, at my poor father.
Now I had always known my good master as a silent, reserved man, very
gentle with the children at the Sunday school, seldom taking vocal part
in the prayer meetings, except in the hymns, which he sang very heartily
and very much out of tune. But now, whether it was the gin and water, or
whether it was the theme, he came out in quite a new character. I would
have you know that those were the days of the great Reform Bill that set
all classes by the ears. And Mr. Wrigley, as beseemed a good Wesleyan,
was as stout a Tory as ever drew on a pair of Wellington tops, and my
father, as was but natural in a Baptist, was as stout a Whig.
"I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Holmes, this country is just going
headlong to the dogs." It is a curious fact: I have been young and now
am old, yet there has never been a time when, to hear some folk, Old
England has not been going headlong to the dogs--but this by the way.
"Yes, sir, to the dogs. And little Johnny Russell" thus familiarly did
Wrigley speak of Lord John--"little Johnny Russell's whooping it on.
Reform Bill! indeed--giving every twopenny-ha'penny householder the
vote, forsooth. And it won't end there, mark my words, sir. It's but the
thin end of the wedge. Before long my own workpeople will have the vote,
and who'll be master in my mill then I should like to know? What's the
like of them to know about politics and affairs of State I ask you? A
man's got to have a head on his shoulders, I can tell you, to mell with
matters like that. And he must have a stake in the country, yes, sir, a
stake, and then he feels the responsibility of the thing. But lower the
franchise, and where are you? Why, at the mercy of the mob, sir, the
mob, a set of rick-burning, frame-smashing, ignorant no-breeches. Help
yourself to the gin, Mr. Holmes, and pass the tobacco-jar to the
youngsters. They're better without the Geneva water. Look what it's done
for France, sir, this reforming rubbish: revolution and republicanism,
and the guillotine, red ruin, and the breaking up of laws: no king, no
church, no State, no aristocracy, no property, nothing sacred, atheism
rampant, virtue dethroned, and vice triumphant. Now I put it to you, Mr.
Holmes, isn't it only natural, part of God's law in a manner of
speaking, that men of birth, and family, and fortune, and education, men
with a stake in the country, aye, I stick to that, a stake, sir, a
stake, should have the ruling of it. Answer me that, if you can."
Now if I never admired my father before I admired him that afternoon.
There he sat in a lofty armchair, his little thin legs scarce touching
the floor, his old black coat almost white at the seams, and looking
sadly threadbare and shabby by contrast with the shining broadcloth Mr.
Wrigley had donned for the occasion--yet did he cower and quail before
the owner of Wrigley Mill, and that great mansion, and many a broad acre
that lay around? Not he my certes. He was just as calm and composed as
when he sat in our little parlour at the head of a conference of
ministers, and the hotter Mr. Wrigley blew the cooler my father seemed.
"It's true enough," he said, "the great mass of the people are sadly
ignorant. But whose fault is that? The great ones of the earth have
ruled the roost for centuries, and yet we find they have left those
whose natural guardians you say they are in an abysmal darkness."
"They should educate themselves, sir," bawled Mr. Wrigley; "that is, if
they've the minds to carry it, which I doubt.
"That's to flout your God, sir," said my father. "Our heavenly Father is
not so partial as you would have Him to be. One baby's very much like
another when it first blinks its little eyes at this strange world. Take
a little prince from Buckingham Palace and bring him up in the gutter
and a gutter-snipe he'll be, blue blood or no blue blood; take a
beggar's brat and plant it in Buckingham Palace and 'twill make in time
a very passable Prince."
"And when are the working-classes to find time for education, sir, even
if what you say's true, which may be or may not be?" asked Mr. Wrigley
as one who puts a poser.
"They'll have to find time before they begin to work," said my father
stoutly. "Boys and girls of ten years of age ought to be at school and
not in a mill. The manufacturers of this Riding are building up their
fortunes on the life's blood of tender and helpless children, and their
little voices ascend to heaven and will yet be heard by their Father
there."
Yes, my father said that, and the walls of Holly Grove did not fall and
bury him alive. I quaked in my chair. Mr. Wrigley grew purple in his
wrath and was evidently rallying all his forces for a crushing rejoinder
when fortunately Mrs. Wrigley sailed into the room with Mary and the two
girls in her train. Mrs. Wrigley cast her keen glance at her husband.
"I believe you've been arguing, John. It's that horrid gin. It's a
strange thing a man can't take spirits without wanting to argue. And you
lost your temper, too. I heard you from the bedroom. That temper of
yours will be your undoing, John, You must pray against it, mustn't he,
Mr. Holmes?"
"Oh Lord!" muttered Mr. Wrigley, feebly, mopping his brow with a large
silk handkerchief.
"Now we'll go in to tea. John, you'll take Ruth; Abel, look after Mrs.
Haigh; Jim must look after himself, for I want Miriam to sit by me."
Now I was mighty pleased and proud to see that from the first Mrs.
Wrigley had taken a great fancy to my dear sweetheart. Perhaps it was
her strange and sad story that had touched her heart; perhaps the
mother's heart in her breast yearned over the orphaned girl; or belike
it was a way Miriam had of soft and yielding deference to those older
than herself.
Now, no one would thank me to tell in full the story of that evening's
service. Matthey Haley surpassed himself. He had listened, I thought,
with some impatience to my father's discourse, which he based, somewhat
unfeelingly I thought, on the cryptic saying of Ecclesiastes: "Better is
the end of a thing than the beginning thereof." I was in a chastened
mood, and listened meekly enough even to Matthey's ranting, which
usually jarred upon my feelings. But I was learning be-times that most
difficult of all lessons: to be indulgent of the weaknesses of others;
to all their faults a little blind; to all their virtues very kind. And
though, to be sure, Matthey, when in full blast, did rave and roar as
though indeed his God was "either talking, or he was pursuing, or he wag
on a journey, or peradventure he slept and must be awaked;" yet I doubt
not his God, as he conceived him, a sort of magnified man to be
flattered, cajoled, and entreated, was to Matthey a very real Being, and
Matthey's religion to him a very real and living thing.
I had looked forward all the day to accompanying my father and the girls
at least a part of the way home to Pole Moor; but at the close of the
service Mrs. Wrigley was good enough to ask my father to allow Miriam to
stay for a week or two at Holly Grove, adding that she had formed the
highest estimate of my loved one's graces of mind and heart, and hoped
a little change from the routine of Pole Moor might be all to her
benefit. To this my father willingly assented; so that instead of
journeying over Stanedge with Miriam by my side, her little hand
stealing into mine in the friendly cover of the night, I turned my face
to Wrigley Mill Fold with only Mary as my companion. No need to say
where Jim was.
"Eh," said Mary, as we walked slowly down Ward Lane, "Eh! that aw should
ha' lived to see this day, an' my 'Lijah ta'en away i' his prime afore
it come off. 'Affliction sore long time he bore, physicians were i'
vain'; at least Dr. Garstang were. But happen he's been permitted to
look down from aboon an' see his lone widder an' th fruit o his loins
sittin at table wi' his owd mester an' his mester's missus. Did yo'
notice th' spooin's, Abe? Real silver, every one on 'em, hall-marked,
an' th' salt cellars an' th' teapot. Aw wonder Mrs. Wrigley can sleep i'
bed o' neets wi' so mich silver about. Little cattle, little care's a
true sayin'. An' th' cups an' saucers, Crown Derby 'oo towd me. An' yo'
should ha' seen upstairs. Th' cloe's on th' bed that high they'd to ha'
a steppin' stooil to get into bed; an' a feather bed that soft an' thick
'at it's a wonder onnybody can be got to ger up in a mornin. An' th'
hair brushes--iv'ry backs an' han'les. An' a wardrobe, aw think oo
ca'ed it, wi' a glass to it fro' top to bottom, so yo' could see yersen
fro yead to fooit. It gay' mi a turn it did, aw assewer yo'. Aw nivver
seed missen full length afore, an' aw could hardly believe it were me.
An' th' dresses! Aw do believe oo's a dress for evvry day i' th' week,
an' two for Sundays. An' th' linen--all ready choose oo dies. Oo showed
me th' sheets Mr. Wrigley's to be laid out in, an' th' shirt wi',
frilled front, an' th' same for hersen. Oh, they needn't be feart to go
whenivver it may please th' gooid Lord to ca' 'em, for they'n all ready
if it were to-morrow. An' to think yo' an' our Jim may ha' th' same if
it sud please the Lord to prosper yo'. Aw cannot bear to think on it,
Abe; mi heart's full to burstin'. Aw dunnot know what aw'n done to ha'
so mich happiness showered on mi i' mi owd days"--and here Mary fairly
sobbed, and the tears streamed down her cheeks.
I comforted her as best I could by saying that to be sure she hadn't
done much to deserve such luck: only been the best of wives, the best of
mothers, and the best of friends, with a hand ready for any service and
a heart that made all her neighbours' troubles its own. And so by the
time we reached her little cot Mary was her serene self once more, and
on her straw mattress slept, I doubt not, as sweet a sleep as Mrs.
Wrigley on her bed of down.