← catalogue

Through the Fray: A Tale of the Luddite Riots

by G. A. Henty · English · Gutenberg #8732 · 559,370 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Through the Fray: A Tale of the Luddite Riots
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Through the Fray: A Tale of the Luddite Riots

Author: G. A. Henty


        
Release date: August 1, 2005 [eBook #8732]
                Most recently updated: March 11, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8732

Credits: Produced by Martin Robb, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH THE FRAY: A TALE OF THE LUDDITE RIOTS ***




Produced by Martin Robb





THROUGH THE FRAY

A TALE OF THE LUDDITE RIOTS


By G. A. Henty




PREFACE


My Dear Lads:

The beginning of the present century, glorious as it was for British
arms abroad, was a dark time to those who lived by their daily labor at
home. The heavy taxation entailed by the war, the injury to trade,
and the enormous prices of food, all pressed heavily upon the working
classes. The invention of improved machinery, vast as has been the
increase of trade which it has brought about, at first pressed heavily
upon the hand workers, who assigned all their distress to the new
inventions. Hence a movement arose, which did much damage and for a time
threatened to be extremely formidable. It had its ramifications through
all the manufacturing districts of England, the object being the
destruction of the machinery, and a return to the old methods of work.
The troubles which occurred in various parts of the country were known
as the Luddite Riots, and the secret body which organized them was
called King or General Lud. In the present story I have endeavored to
give you an idea of the state of things which prevailed in Yorkshire,
where, among the croppers and others employed in the woolen
manufactures, was one of the most formidable branches of the secret
association. The incidents of the murder of Mr. Horsfall and the attack
upon Mr. Cartwright's mill are strictly accurate in all their details.

In this story I have left the historical battlefields, across so many
of which I have taken you, and have endeavored to show that there are
peaceful battles to be fought and victories to be won every jot as
arduous and as difficult as those contested under arms. In “Facing
Death” my hero won such a battle. He had to fight against external
circumstances, and step by step, by perseverance, pluck, and
determination, made his way in life. In the present tale my hero's enemy
was within, and although his victory was at last achieved the victor was
well nigh worsted in the fray. We have all such battles to fight, dear
lads; may we all come unscathed and victorious through the fray!

Yours sincerely,

G. A. Henty




CHAPTER I: A FISHING EXPEDITION


It has just struck one, and the boys are streaming out from the
schoolroom of Mr. Hathorn's academy in the little town of Marsden in
Yorkshire. Their appearance would create some astonishment in the minds
of lads of the present generation, for it was the year 1807, and their
attire differed somewhat materially from that now worn. They were for
the most part dressed in breeches tight at the knee, and buttoning up
outside the close fitting jacket nearly under the arms, so that
they seemed almost devoid of waist. At the present moment they were
bareheaded; but when they went beyond the precincts of the school they
wore stiff caps, flat and very large at the top, and with far projecting
peaks.

They were not altogether a happy looking set of boys, and many of their
cheeks were stained with tears and begrimed with dirt from the knuckles
which had been used to wipe them away; for there was in the year 1807
but one known method of instilling instruction into the youthful mind,
namely, the cane, and one of the chief qualifications of a schoolmaster
was to be able to hit hard and sharp.

Mr. Hathorn, judged by this standard, stood very high in his profession;
his cane seemed to whiz through the air, so rapidly and strongly did
it descend, and he had the knack of finding out tender places, and of
hitting them unerringly.

Any one passing in front of the schoolhouse during the hours when the
boys were at their lessons would be almost sure to hear the sharp cracks
of the cane, followed sometimes by dead silence, when the recipient of
the blows was of a sturdy and Spartan disposition, but more frequently
by shrieks and cries.

That Hathorn's boys hated their master was almost a matter of course. At
the same time they were far from regarding him as an exceptional monster
of cruelty, for they knew from their friends that flogging prevailed
almost everywhere, and accepted it as a necessary portion of the woes
of boyhood. Indeed, in some respects, when not smarting under the
infliction, they were inclined to believe that their lot was, in
comparison with that of others, a fortunate one; for whereas in many
schools the diet was so poor and bad that the boys were half starved, at
Hathorn's if their food was simple and coarse it was at least wholesome
and abundant.

Mr. Hathorn, in fact, intended, and as he quite believed with success,
to do his duty by his boys. They were sent to him to be taught, and he
taught them through the medium then recognized as most fitting for
the purpose--the cane; while, as far as an abundance of porridge
for breakfast, and of heavy pudding at dinner, with twice a week an
allowance of meat, the boys were unstinted. He would indeed point
with pride to his pupils when their parents assembled at the annual
presentation of prizes.

“Look at them!” he would say proudly. “None of your half starved
skeletons here--well filled out and in good condition every boy of
them--no stint of porridge here. It keeps them in good health and
improves their learning; for, mark you, a plump boy feels the cane twice
as much as a skinny one; it stings, my dear sir, it stings, and leaves
its mark; whereas there is no getting at a boy whose clothes hang like
bags about him.”

This was no doubt true, and the boys themselves were conscious of it,
and many had been the stern resolutions made while smarting in agony
that henceforward food should be eschewed, or taken only in sufficient
quantities to keep life together. But boys' appetites are stronger than
boys' resolutions, and in the end there was never any marked falling off
in the consumption of viands at Hathorn's.

Like other things punishment fails when administered in excess. There
was no disgrace whatever in what was common to all, for although some
of the boys of superior ability and perseverance would escape with a
smaller amount of punishment than their fellows, none could hope to
escape altogether. Thus it was only the pain that they had to bear,
and even this became to some extent deadened by repetition, and was
forgotten as soon as inflicted, save when a sudden movement caused a
sharp pain in back or leg. Once in the playground their spirits revived,
and except a few whose recent punishment incapacitated them for a time
from active exercise, the whole were soon intent upon their games.

One only of the party wore his cap, and he after a few minutes left the
others, and went toward a door which led from the playground into the
road.

“Don't be long, Sankey; come back as soon as you can, you know we agreed
to go fishing this afternoon.”

“All right, Tompkins; I will come back directly I have done my dinner. I
expect I shall have finished quite as soon as you will.”

Edward Sankey, who was regarded with envy by his schoolfellows, was the
only home boarder at Hathorn's; for, as a general thing, the master
set his face against the introduction of home boarders. They were, he
considered, an element of disturbance; they carry tales to and from the
school; they cause discontent among the other boys, and their parents
are in the habit of protesting and interfering. Not, indeed, that
parents in those days considered it in any way a hardship for their boys
to suffer corporal punishment; they had been flogged at school, and
they believed that they had learned their lessons all the better for it.
Naturally the same thing would happen to their sons. Still mothers are
apt to be weak and soft hearted, and therefore Mr. Hathorn objected to
home boarders.

He had made an exception in Sankey's case; his father was of a different
type to those of the majority of his boys; he had lost his leg at the
battle of Assaye, and had been obliged to leave the army, and having
but small means beyond his pension, had settled near the quiet little
Yorkshire town as a place where he could live more cheaply than in
more bustling localities. He had, when he first came, no acquaintances
whatever in the place, and therefore would not be given to discuss with
the parents of other boys the doings in the school. Not that Mr. Hathorn
was afraid of discussion, for he regarded his school as almost perfect
of its kind. Still it was his fixed opinion that discussion was, as a
general rule, unadvisable. Therefore, when Captain Sankey, a few weeks
after taking up his residence in the locality, made a proposal to him
that his son should attend his school as a home boarder, Mr. Hathorn
acceded to the proposition, stating frankly his objections, as a rule,
to boys of that class.

“I shall not interfere,” Captain Sankey said. “Of course boys must be
thrashed, and provided that the punishment is not excessive, and that it
is justly administered, I have nothing to say against it. Boys must
be punished, and if you don't flog you have to confine them, and in my
opinion that is far worse for a boy's temper, spirit, and health.”

So Ned Sankey went to Hathorn's, and was soon a great favorite there.
Just at first he was regarded as a disobliging fellow because he adhered
strictly to a stipulation which Mr. Hathorn had made, that he should not
bring things in from the town for his school fellows. Only once a week,
on the Saturday half holiday, were the boys allowed outside the bounds
of the wall round the playground, and although on Wednesday an old
woman was allowed to come into those precincts to sell fruit, cakes,
and sweets, many articles were wanted in the course of the week, and
the boys took it much amiss for a time that Ned refused to act as their
messenger; but he was firm in his refusals. His father had told him not
to do so, and his father's word was law to him; but when the boys saw
that in all other respects he was a thoroughly good fellow, they soon
forgave him what they considered his undue punctiliousness, and he
became a prime favorite in the school.

It is due to Mr. Hathorn to say that no fear of interference induced him
to mitigate his rule to thrash when he considered that punishment
was necessary, and that Ned received his full share of the general
discipline. He was never known to utter a cry under punishment, for he
was, as his school fellows said admiringly, as hard as nails; and he
was, moreover, of a dogged disposition which would have enabled him,
when he had once determined upon a thing, to carry it through even if it
killed him. Mr. Hathorn regarded this quality as obstinacy, the boys as
iron resolution; and while the former did his best to conquer what he
regarded as a fault, the boys encouraged by their admiration what they
viewed as a virtue.

At home Ned never spoke of his punishments; and if his father observed
a sudden movement which told of a hidden pain, and would say cheerfully,
“What! have you been getting it again, Ned?” the boy would smile grimly
and nod, but no complaint ever passed his lips.

There was no disgrace in being flogged--it was the natural lot of
schoolboys; why should he make a fuss about it? So he held his tongue.
But Mr. Hathorn was not altogether wrong. Ned Sankey was obstinate, but
though obstinate he was by no means sulky. When he made up his mind to
do a thing he did it, whether it was to be at the top of his class in
order to please his father, or to set his teeth like iron and let no
sound issue from them as Mr. Hathorn's cane descended on his back.

Ned Sankey was about fourteen years of age. He had a brother and a
sister, but between them and himself was a gap of four years, as some
sisters who had been born after him had died in infancy. Ned adored
his father, who was a most kind and genial man, and would have suffered
anything in silence rather than have caused him any troubles or
annoyance by complaining to him.

For his mother his feelings were altogether different. She was a kindly
and well intentioned woman, but weak and silly. On leaving school she
had gone out to join her father in India. Captain Sankey had sailed
in the same ship and, taken by her pretty face and helpless, dependent
manner, he had fallen in love with her, knowing nothing of her real
disposition, and they had been married upon their arrival at the
termination of the voyage. So loyal was his nature that it is probable
Captain Sankey never admitted even to himself that his marriage had been
a mistake; but none of his comrades ever doubted it. His wife turned out
one of the most helpless of women. Under the plea of ill health she had
at a very early period of their marriage given up all attempt to manage
the affairs of the household, and her nerves were wholly unequal to the
strain of looking after her children. It was noticeable that though her
health was unequal to the discharge of her duties, she was always well
enough to take part in any pleasure or gayety which might be going on;
and as none of the many doctors who attended her were able to discover
any specific ailment, the general opinion was that Mrs. Sankey's ill
health was the creation of her own imagination. This, however, was
not wholly the case. She was not strong; and although, had she made an
effort, she would have been able to look after her children like other
women, she had neither the disposition nor the training to make that
effort.

Her son regarded her with the sort of pity, not unmingled with contempt,
with which young people full of life and energy are apt to regard those
who are weak and ailing without having any specific disease or malady
which would account for their condition.

“All the bothers fall upon father,” he would say to himself; “and if
mother did but make up her mind she could take her share in them well
enough. There was he walking about for two hours this evening with
little Lucy in his arms, because she had fallen down and hurt herself;
and there was mother lying on the sofa reading that book of poetry, as
if nothing that happened in the house was any affair of hers. She is
very nice and very kind, but I do wish she wouldn't leave everything for
father to do. It might have been all very well before he lost his leg,
but I do think she ought to make an effort now.”

However, Mrs. Sankey made no effort, nor did her husband ever hint that
it would be better for herself as well as her family if she did so.
He accepted the situation as inevitable, and patiently, and indeed
willingly, bore her burden as well as his own.

Fortunately she had in the children's nurse an active and trustworthy
woman. Abijah Wolf was a Yorkshire woman. She had in her youth been
engaged to a lad in her native village. In a moment of drunken folly, a
short time before the day fixed for their wedding, he had been persuaded
to enlist. Abijah had waited patiently for him twelve years. Then he had
returned a sergeant, and she had married him and followed him with his
regiment, which was that in which Captain Sankey--at that time a young
ensign--served. When the latter's first child was born at Madras there
was a difficulty in obtaining a white nurse, and Mrs. Sankey declared
that she would not trust the child to a native. Inquiries were therefore
made in the regiment, and Sergeant Wolf's wife, who had a great love for
children although childless herself, volunteered to fill the post for a
time. A few months afterward Sergeant Wolf was killed in a fight with a
marauding hill tribe. His widow, instead of returning home and living on
the little pension to which she was entitled at his death, remained in
the service of the Sankeys, who soon came to regard her as invaluable.

She was somewhat rough in her ways and sharp with her tongue; but even
Mrs. Sankey, who was often ruffled by her brusque independence, was
conscious of her value, and knew that she should never obtain another
servant who would take the trouble of the children so entirely off her
hands. She retained, indeed, her privilege of grumbling, and sometimes
complained to her husband that Abijah's ways were really unbearable.
Still she never pressed the point, and Abijah appeared established as a
permanent fixture in the Sankeys' household. She it was who, when, after
leaving the service, Captain Sankey was looking round for a cheap and
quiet residence, had recommended Marsden.

“There is a grand air from the hills,” she said, “which will be just the
thing for the children. There's good fishing in the stream for yourself,
captain, and you can't get a quieter and cheaper place in all England. I
ought to know, for I was born upon the moorland but six miles away from
it, and should have been there now if I hadn't followed my man to the
wars.”

“Where are you going, Master Ned?” she asked as the boy, having finished
his dinner, ran to the high cupboard at the end of the passage near the
kitchen to get his fishing rod.

“I am going out fishing, Abijah.”

“Not by yourself, I hope?”

“No; another fellow is going with me. We are going up into the hills.”

“Don't ye go too far, Master Ned. They say the croppers are drilling on
the moors, and it were bad for ye if you fell in with them.”

“They wouldn't hurt me if I did.”

“I don't suppose they would,” the nurse said, “but there is never no
saying. Poor fellows! they're druv well nigh out of their senses with
the bad times. What with the machines, and the low price of labor, and
the high price of bread, they are having a terrible time of it. And no
wonder that we hear of frame breaking in Nottingham, and Lancashire, and
other places. How men can be wicked enough to make machines, to take the
bread out of poor men's mouths, beats me altogether.”

“Father says the machinery will do good in the long run, Abijah--that it
will largely increase trade, and so give employment to a great many
more people than at present. But it certainly is hard on those who have
learned to work in one way to see their living taken away from them.”

“Hard!” the nurse said. “I should say it were hard. I know the croppers,
for there were a score of them in my village, and a rough, wild lot
they were. They worked hard and they drank hard, and the girl as chose
a cropper for a husband was reckoned to have made a bad match of it; but
they are determined fellows, and you will see they won't have the bread
taken out of their mouths without making a fight for it.”

“That may be,” Ned said, “for every one gives them the name of a rough
lot; but I must talk to you about it another time, Abijah, I have got
to be off;” and having now found his fishing rod, his box of bait, his
paper of books, and a basket to bring home the fish he intended to get,
Ned ran off at full speed toward the school.

As Abijah Wolf had said, the croppers of the West Riding were a rough
set. Their occupation consisted in shearing or cropping the wool on the
face of cloths. They used a large pair of shears, which were so set that
one blade went under the cloth while the other worked on its upper face,
mowing the fibers and ends of the wool to a smooth, even surface. The
work was hard and required considerable skill, and the men earned about
twenty-four shillings a week, a sum which, with bread and all other
necessities of life at famine prices, barely sufficed for the support
of their families. The introduction of power looms threatened to abolish
their calling. It was true that although these machines wove the cloth
more evenly and smoothly than the hand looms, croppers were still
required to give the necessary smoothness of face; still the tendency
had been to lower wages.

The weavers were affected even more than the croppers, for strength and
skill were not so needed to tend the power looms as to work the hand
looms. Women and boys could do the work previously performed by men, and
the tendency of wages was everywhere to fall.

For years a deep spirit of discontent had been seething among the
operatives in the cotton and woolen manufactures, and there had been
riots more or less serious in Derbyshire, Nottingham, Lancashire and
Yorkshire, which in those days were the headquarters of these trades.
Factories had been burned, employers threatened and attacked, and the
obnoxious machines smashed. It was the vain struggle of the ignorant
and badly paid people to keep down production and to keep up wages, to
maintain manual labor against the power of the steam engine.

Hitherto factories had been rare, men working the frames in their own
homes, and utilizing the labor of their wives and families, and the
necessity of going miles away to work in the mills, where the looms were
driven by steam, added much to the discontent.

Having found his fishing appliances Ned hurried off to the school, where
his chum Tompkins was already waiting him, and the two set out at once
on their expedition.

They had four miles to walk to reach the spot where they intended to
fish. It was a quiet little stream with deep pools and many shadows, and
had its source in the heart of the moorlands. Neither of them had ever
tried it before, but they had heard it spoken of as one of the best
streams for fish in that part. On reaching its banks the rods were put
together, the hooks were baited with worms, and a deep pool being chosen
they set to work. After fishing for some time without success they tried
a pool higher up, and so mounted higher and higher up the stream, but
ever with the same want of success.

“How could they have said that this was a good place for fish?” Tompkins
said angrily at last. “Why, by this time it would have been hard luck if
we had not caught a dozen between us where we usually fish close to the
town, and after our long walk we have not had even a bite.”

“I fancy, Tompkins,” Ned said, “that we are a couple of fools. I know it
is trout that they catch in this stream, and of course, now I think of
it, trout are caught in clear water with a fly, not with a worm. Father
said the other day he would take me out some Saturday and give me a
lesson in fly fishing. How he will laugh when I tell him we have wasted
all our afternoon in trying to catch trout with worms!”

“I don't see anything to laugh at,” Tompkins grumbled. “Here we waste
a whole half holiday, and nothing to show for it, and have got six or
seven miles at least to tramp back to school.”

“Well, we have had a nice walk,” Ned said, “even if we are caught in the
rain. However, we may as well put up our rods and start. I vote we try
to make a straight cut home; it must be ever so much shorter to go in a
straight line than to follow all the windings of this stream.”

They had long since left the low lands, where trees and bushes bordered
the stream, and were in a lonely valley where the hills came down close
to the little stream, which sparkled among the boulders at their feet.
The slopes were covered with a crop of short wiry grass through which
the gray stone projected here and there. Tiny rills of water made their
way down the hillside to swell the stream, and the tinge of brown which
showed up wherever these found a level sufficient to form a pool told
that they had their source in the bogs on the moorland above. Tompkins
looked round him rather disconcertedly.

“I don't know,” he said. “It's a beastly long way to walk round; but
suppose we got lost in trying to make our way across the hills.”

“Well, just as you like,” Ned said, “I am game to walk back the way we
came or to try and make a straight cut, only mind don't you turn round
and blame me afterward. You take your choice; whichever you vote for I
am ready to do.”

“My shoes are beginning to rub my heels,” Tompkins said, “so I will take
the shortest way and risk it. I don't see we can go far out of our way.”

“I don't see that we can,” Ned replied. “Marsden lies to the east, so we
have only to keep our backs to the sun; it won't be down for another two
hours yet, and before that we ought to be in.”

By this time they had taken their rods to pieces, wound up their lines,
and were ready to start. A few minutes' sharp climbing took them to the
top of the slope. They were now upon the moor, which stretched away with
slight undulations as far as they could see.

“Now,” Ned said, “we will make for that clump of rocks. They seem to be
just in the line we ought to take, and by fixing our eyes upon them we
shall go straight.”

This, however, was not as easy to do as Ned had fancied; the ground
was in many places so soft and boggy that they were forced to make
considerable detours. Nevertheless the rocks served as a beacon, and
enabled them to keep the right direction; but although they made their
way at the best of their speed it was an hour after starting before they
approached the rock.

When they were within fifty yards of it a figure suddenly rose. It was
that of a boy some fifteen years of age.

“Goa back,” he shouted; “dang yer, what be'est a cooming here vor?”

The two boys stopped astonished.

“We are going to Marsden,” Ned replied; “but what's that to you?”

“Doan't ee moind wot it be to oi,” the boy said; “oi tell ee ee can't
goa no further; yoi've got ter go back.”

“We shan't go back,” Ned said; “we have got as much right to go this way
as you have. This is not your land; and if it is, we ain't hurting it.”

By this time they were at the foot of the pile of rocks, and the lad was
standing some ten feet above them.

“Oi tell ee,” he repeated doggedly, “yoi've got vor to go back.”

The boy was so much bigger and stronger than either Ned or his companion
that the former, although indignant at this interference, did not deem
it prudent to attempt to climb the crag, so he said to Tompkins: “Of
course we ain't going back, but we had better take a turn so as to get
out of the way of this fellow.”

So saying they turned to the right and prepared to scout round the rock
and continue their way; but this did not suit their obstructor.

“If ee doan't go back at oncet oi'll knock the heads off thee
shoulders.”

“We can't go back,” Tompkins said desperately, “we are both as tired as
we can be, and my heel is so sore that I can hardly walk. We shouldn't
get to Marsden tonight if we were to turn back.”

“That's nowt to oi,” the boy said. “Oi bain't a-going to let ee pass
here.”

“What are we to do, Ned?” Tompkins groaned.

“Do!” Ned replied indignantly. “Why, go on, of course. Marsden cannot be
more than three miles off, and I ain't going to walk twelve miles round
to please this obstinate brute.”

“But he is ever so much bigger than we are,” Tompkins said doubtfully.

“Well, there are two of us,” Ned said, “and two to one is fair enough
when he is as big as the two of us together.”

“We are going on,” he said to the boy, “and if you interfere with us it
will be the worse for you.”

The boy descended leisurely from his position on the rocks.

“Oi don't want to hurt ee, but oi've got to do as oi were bid, and if ee
doan't go back oi've got to make ee. There be summat a-going on thar,”
 and he jerked his head behind him, “as it wouldn't be good vor ee to
see, and ye bain't a-going vor to see it.”

But Ned and Tompkins were desperate now, and dropping their rods made a
rush together against him.




CHAPTER II: THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR


The lad threw himself into a position of defense as the two boys rushed
at him.

“Oi doan't want vor to hurt ee,” he said again, “but if ee will have it,
why, it won't be moi vault;” and swinging his arm round, he brought
it down with such force upon the nose of Tompkins that the latter was
knocked down like a ninepin, and, once down, evinced no intention of
continuing the conflict.

In Ned, however, the lad found an opponent of a different stamp. The
latter saw at once that his opponent's far greater weight and strength
rendered it hopeless for him to trust to close fighting, and he worked
round and round him, every now and then rushing at him and delivering a
telling blow, and getting off again before his heavy and comparatively
unwieldy companion could reply.

Once or twice, indeed, the lad managed to strike him as he came in, each
time knocking him fairly off his feet; but in the fair spirit which at
that time animated English men and boys of all classes he allowed Ned
each time to regain his feet without interference.

“Thou bee'st a plucky one,” he said, as Ned after his third fall again
faced him, “but thou bain't strong enough for oi.”

Ned made no reply, but nerved himself for a fresh effort. The blows he
had received had been heavy, and the blood was streaming from his face;
but he had no idea of giving in, although Tompkins, in spite of
his calls and reproaches, refused to raise himself beyond a sitting
position.

“It's no good, Ned,” he replied, “the brute is too big for us, and I'd
rather try to walk home all the way round than get another like the
last. My nose feels as big as my head.”

Ned hardly heard what his companion said. He would have been killed
rather than yield now, and gathering all his strength he sprang at his
opponent like a tiger. Avoiding the blow which the boy aimed at him,
he leaped upon him, and flung his arms round his neck. The sudden shock
overthrew him, and with a crash both boys came to the ground together.

Ned at once loosened his hold, and springing to his feet again, awaited
the rising of his opponent. The latter made a movement to get up, and
then fell back with a cry.

“Thou hast beaten me,” he said. “Oi think moi leg be broke.”

Ned saw now that as the lad had fallen his leg had been twisted under
him, and that he was unable to extricate it. In a moment he was kneeling
before the prostrate lad.

“Oh! I am sorry,” he exclaimed; “but you know I didn't mean to do it.
Here, Tompkins, don't sit there like a fool, but come and help me move
him and get his leg straight.”

Although the boys did this as gently as they could, a groan showed how
great was the agony.

“Where is it?” Ned asked.

“Aboove the knee somewhere,” the lad said, and Ned put his hand gently
to the spot, and to his horror could feel something like the end of a
bone.

“Oh! dear, what is to be done? Here, Tompkins, either you or I must go
on to the town for help.”

“It's getting dark already,” Tompkins said; “the sun has set some time.
How on earth is one to find the way?”

“Well, if you like I will go,” Ned said, “and you stop here with him.”

The lad, who had been lying with closed eyes and a face of ghastly
pallor, now looked up.

“There be soom men not a quarter of a mile away; they be a-drilling,
they be, and oi was sot here to stop any one from cooming upon em; but
if so bee as thou wilt go and tell em oi has got hurt, oi don't suppose
as they will meddle with ye.”

Ned saw now why the lad had opposed his going any further. Some of
the croppers were drilling on the moor, and the boy had been placed
as sentry. It wasn't a pleasant business to go up to men so engaged,
especially with the news that he had seriously injured the boy they had
placed on watch. But Ned did not hesitate a moment.

“You stop here, Tompkins, with him,” he said quietly, “I will go and
fetch help. It is a risk, of course, but we can't let him lie here.”

So saying, Ned mounted the rock to get a view over the moor. No sooner
had he gained the position than he saw some thirty or forty men walking
in groups across the moor at a distance of about half a mile. They
had evidently finished their drill, and were making their way to their
homes. This at least was satisfactory. He would no longer risk their
anger by disturbing them at their illegal practices, and had now only to
fear the wrath which would be excited when they heard what had happened
to the boy.

He started at a brisk run after them, and speedily came up to the last
of the party. They were for the most part men between twenty and thirty,
rough and strongly built, and armed with billhooks and heavy bludgeons,
two or three of them carrying guns.

One of them looked round on hearing footsteps approaching, and gave a
sudden exclamation. The rest turned, and on seeing Ned, halted with a
look of savage and menacing anger on their faces.

“Who be'est, boy? dang ee, what brings ye here?”

Ned gulped down the emotion of fear excited by their threatening
appearance, and replied as calmly as he could: “I am sorry to say that
I have had a struggle with a boy over by that rock yonder. We fell
together, and he has broken his leg. He told me if I came over in this
direction I should find some one to help him.”

“Broaken Bill's leg, did'st say, ye young varmint?” one of the men
exclaimed. “Oi've a good moinde to wring yer neck.”

“I am very sorry,” Ned said; “but I did not mean it. I and another boy
were walking back to Marsden from fishing, and he wouldn't let us pass;
it was too far to go back again, so of course we had to try, and then
there was a fight, but it was quite an accident his breaking his leg.”

“Did'st see nowt afore ye had the voight?” one of the other men
inquired.

“No,” Ned replied; “we saw no one from the time we left the stream till
we met the boy who would not let us pass, and I only caught sight of you
walking this way from the top of the rock.”

“If 'twere a vair voight, John, the boy bain't to be blamed, though oi
be main grieved about thy brother Bill; but we'd best go back for him,
voor on us. And moind, youngster, thee'd best keep a quiet tongue in thy
head as to whaat thou'st seen here.”

“I haven't seen anything,” Ned said; “but of course if you wish it I
will say nothing about it.”

“It were best for ee, for if thou go'st aboot saying thou'st seen men
with guns and clubs up here on the moor, it ull be the worsest day's
work ee've ever done.”

“I will say nothing about it,” Ned replied, “but please come on at once,
for I am afraid the boy is in terrible pain.”

Four of the men accompanied Ned back to the rock.

“Hullo, Bill! what's happened ee?” his brother asked.

“Oi've had a fight and hurted myself, and broke my leg; but it wa'nt
that chap's fault; it were a vair voight, and a right good 'un he be.
Doan't do nowt to him.”

“Well, that's roight enough then,” the man said, “and you two young 'uns
can go whoam. Marsden lies over that way; thou wilt see it below ye when
ye gets to yon rock over there; and moind what I told ee.”

“I will,” Ned said earnestly; “but do let me come up to see how he is
getting on, I shall be so anxious to know.”

The man hesitated, but the lad said, “Let um coom, John, he bee a roight
good un.”

“Well, if thou would'st like it, Bill, he shall coom.”

“If thou coom oop to Varley and ask vor Bill Swinton, anyone will show
ee the place.”

“Goodby,” Ned said to the boy, “I am so sorry you have got hurt. I will
come and see you as soon as I can.”

Then he and Tompkins set off toward the rock the man had pointed out,
which by this time, in the fast growing darkness, could scarce be made
out. They would indeed probably have missed it, for the distance was
fully a mile and a half; but before they had gone many yards one of the
four men passed by them on a run on his way down to Marsden to summon
the parish doctor, for a moment's examination had sufficed to show them
that the boy's injury was far too serious to treat by themselves.

Tired as the boys were, they set off in his footsteps, and managed to
keep him in sight until they reached the spot whence Marsden could be
seen, and they could no longer mistake the way.

“Now, look here, Tompkins,” Ned said as they made their way down the
hill; “don't you say a word about this affair. You haven't got much to
boast about in it, sitting there on the grass and doing nothing to help
me. I shan't say anything more about that if you hold your tongue; but
if you blab I will let all the fellows know how you behaved.”

“But they will all notice my nose directly I get in,” Tompkins said.
“What am I to say?”

“Yes, there's no fear about their not noticing your nose,” Ned replied.
“I don't want you to tell a lie. You can say the exact truth. We were
coming home across the moors; a boy interfered with us, and would not
let us pass; we both pitched into him, and at last he got the worst of
it, and we came home.”

“But what's the harm of saying that you and he fell, and he broke his
leg?”

“A great deal of harm,” Ned replied. “If it was known that a boy's leg
got broke in a fight with us it would be sure to come to Hathorn's ears;
then there would be an inquiry and a row. Like enough he would go up to
see the boy and inquire all about it. Then the men would suppose that
we had broken our words, and the next time you and I go out on a fishing
expedition there's no saying what mightn't happen to us. They are a
rough lot those moor men, and don't stick at trifles.”

“I will say nothing about it,” Tompkins replied hastily; “you may rely
on that. What a lucky fellow you are to be going home! Nothing will
be said to you for being an hour late. I shall get a licking to a
certainty. How I do hate that Hathorn, to be sure!”

They now came to the point where the road separated and each hurried on
at his best speed.

“You are late tonight, Ned,” the boy's father said when he entered. “I
don't like your being out after dark. I don't mind how far you go so
that you are in by sunset; but, halloo!” he broke off, as he caught
sight of the boy's face as he approached the table at which the rest of
the party were sitting at tea; “what have you been doing to your face?”

Captain Sankey might well be surprised. One of the boy's eyes was
completely closed by a swelling which covered the whole side of his
face. His lip was badly cut, and the effect of that and the swelling
was to give his mouth the appearance of being twisted completely on one
side.

“Oh! there's nothing the matter,” Ned replied cheerfully; “but I had a
fight with a boy on the moor.”

“It is dreadful!--quite dreadful!” Mrs. Sankey said; “your going on like
this. It makes me feel quite faint and ill to look at you. I wonder you
don't get killed with your violent ways.”

Ned made no reply but took his seat at the table, and fell to work upon
the hunches of thick brown bread and butter.

“I will tell you about it afterward, father,” he said; “it really wasn't
my fault.”

“I am sure I don't wish to hear the story of your quarrels and fighting,
Edward,” Mrs. Sankey said; “the sight of you is quite enough to upset my
nerves and make me wretched. Of course if your father chooses to support
you in such goings on I can say nothing. Neither he nor you seem to
remember how trying such things as these are to any one with a broken
constitution like mine.”

Captain Sankey, knowing from experience how useless it was to attempt to
argue with his wife when she was in this mood, continued to eat his meal
placidly. Ned seized his mug of milk and water, and took an impatient
drink of it.

“Is there anything I had better do for my face?” he asked his father
presently.

“I don't think anything you can do, Ned, will make you presentable for
the next few days. I believe that a raw beefsteak is the best thing to
put on your eye, but is not such a thing in the house, and if there
was, I don't think that I should be justified in wasting it for such
a purpose. I should say the next best thing would be to keep a cloth
soaked in cold water on your face; that will probably take down the
swelling to some extent.”

After tea Ned repaired to the kitchen, where Abijah, with much scolding
and some commiseration, applied a wet cloth to his face, and fastened a
handkerchief over it to keep it in its place. Then the boy went into the
little room which his father called his study, where he used to read
the papers, to follow the doings of the British armies in the field, and
above all to smoke his pipe in quiet. He laughed as Ned entered.

“You look like a wounded hero, indeed, Ned. Now sit down, my boy, and
tell me about this business; not, you know, that I have any objection
to your fighting when it's necessary. My experience is that it is the
nature of boys to fight, and it is no use trying to alter boys' nature.
As I have always told you, don't get into a fight if you can help it;
but, if you once begin, fight it out like a man.”

“Well, I couldn't help it this time, father, and I will tell you all
about it. I promised not to tell; but what was meant by that was that
I should not tell any one who would do anything about it; and as I know
you won't, why, of course I can tell you.”

“I don't know what you mean in the least, Ned; a promise, whatever it is
about, is a promise.”

“I know, father, but all that was meant in my case was that I would say
nothing which would cause injury to those to whom I promised; and it
will do them no injury whatever by telling you in confidence. Besides,
it is probable you may learn about it in some other way; because,
unfortunately, I broke the other fellow's leg very badly, and there
is no saying what may come of it, so I think you ought to know all the
circumstances.”

“Very well, Ned,” his father said quietly; “this seems to be a serious
business. Go on, my boy.”

Ned related the whole circumstances, his father saying no word until he
had finished.

“You have been in no way to blame in the matter, nor could you have
acted otherwise. The breaking of the boy's leg is unfortunate, but it
was a pure accident, and even the boy's friends did not blame you in the
matter. As to the illegal drilling, that is no new thing; it has been
known to be going on for many months, and, indeed, in some places for
years. The authorities take but little notice of it. An outbreak of
these poor fellows would, indeed, constitute a considerable local
danger. Mills might be burned down, and possibly some obnoxious masters
killed, but a few troops of dragoons, or half a regiment of light
infantry, would scatter them like chaff.

“The Irish rebellion thirteen years ago was a vastly more formidable
affair. There it may be said that the whole country was in arms, and the
element of religious fanaticism came into play; but in spite of that the
resistance which they opposed to the troops was absolutely contemptible;
however, it is just as well that you did not see them drill, because
now, if by any chance this lad should die, and inquiry were made about
it, there would be no occasion for you to allude to the subject at all.
You would be able to say truthfully that finding that he was hurt, you
went off, and happened to come upon four men on the moor and brought
them to his assistance.”

“I promised to go up to see the boy, father. I suppose that there is no
harm?”

“None at all, Ned, it is only natural that you should entertain the
wish; in fact you have injured him seriously, and we must do all in our
power to alleviate his pain. I will go in the morning and see Dr. Green.
I shall, of course, tell him that the boy was hurt in a tussle with you,
and that you are very sorry about it. The fact that he is some two years
older, as you say, and ever so much stronger and bigger, is in itself
a proof that you were not likely to have wantonly provoked a fight with
him. I shall ask the doctor if there is anything in the way of food and
comforts I can send up for him.”

Accordingly, the next morning, the first thing after breakfast, Captain
Sankey went out and called upon the doctor. Ned awaited his return
anxiously.

“The doctor says it's a bad fracture, Ned, a very bad fracture, and the
boy must have had his leg curiously twisted under him for the bone to
have snapped in such a way. He questions whether it will be possible to
save the leg; indeed, he would have taken it off last night, but the boy
said he would rather die, and the men were all against it. By the help
of half a dozen men he got the bones into their places again, and has
bandaged the leg up with splints; but he is very doubtful what will come
of it.”

Ned was crying now.

“I would give anything if it hadn't happened, father, and he really
seemed a nice fellow. He said over and over again he didn't want to hurt
us, and I am sure he didn't, only he thought he oughtn't to let us pass,
and as we would go on he had to stop us.”

“Well, it can't be helped, Ned,” his father said kindly. “It is very
natural that you should be grieved about it; but you see it really was
an accident; there was nothing willful or intentional about it, and you
must not take it to heart more than you can help.”

But Ned did take it to heart, and for the next fortnight was very
miserable. The doctor's reports during that time were not hopeful. Fever
had set in, and for some days the boy was delirious, and there was no
saying how it would turn out. At the end of that time the bulletins
became somewhat more hopeful. The lad was quiet now from the complete
exhaustion of his strength. He might rally or he might not; his leg was
going on favorably. No bad symptom had set in, and it was now purely a
question of strength and constitution whether he would pull through it.

Mrs. Sankey had been kept in entire ignorance of the whole matter. She
had once or twice expressed a languid surprise at Ned's altered manner
and extreme quietness; but her interest was not sufficient for her to
inquire whether there were any reasons for this change. Abijah had
been taken into Captain Sankey's counsels, and as soon as the fever had
abated, and the doctor pronounced that the most nourishing food was now
requisite, she set to work to prepare the strongest broths and jellies
she could make, and these, with bottles of port wine, were taken by
her every evening to the doctor, who carried them up in his gig on his
visits to his patient in the morning. On the third Saturday the doctor
told Ned that he considered that the boy had fairly turned the corner
and was on the road to recovery, and that he might now go up and see
him. His friends had expressed their warm gratitude for the supplies
which had been sent up, and clearly cherished no animosity against Ned.
The boy had been informed of the extreme anxiety of his young antagonist
as to his condition, and had nodded feebly when asked if he would see
Ned should he call upon him. It was therefore without any feeling of
trepidation as to his reception that Ned on the Saturday afternoon
entered Varley.

Varley was a scattered village lying at the very edge of the moor.
The houses were built just where the valley began to dip down from the
uplands, the depression being deep enough to shelter them from the
winds which swept across the moor. Some of those which stood lowest were
surrounded by a few stumpy fruit trees in the gardens, but the majority
stood bleak and bare. From most of the houses the sound of the shuttle
told that hand weaving was carried on within, and when the weather was
warm women sat at the doors with their spinning wheels. The younger men
for the most part worked as croppers in the factories in Marsden.

In good times Varley had been a flourishing village, that is to say its
inhabitants had earned good wages; but no one passing through the bare
and dreary village would have imagined that it had ever seen good days,
for the greater proportion of the earnings had gone in drink, and the
Varley men had a bad name even in a country and at a time when heavy
drinking was the rule rather than the exception. But whatever good times
it may have had they were gone now. Wages had fallen greatly and the
prices of food risen enormously, and the wolf was at the door of every
cottage. No wonder the men became desperate, and believing that all
their sufferings arose from the introduction of the new machinery, had
bound themselves to destroy it whatever happened.

A woman of whom he inquired for John Swinton's cottage told him that it
was the last on the left. Although he told himself that he had nothing
to be afraid of, it needed all Ned's determination to nerve himself to
tap at the door of the low thatched cottage. A young woman opened it.

“If you please,” Ned said, “I have come to see Bill; the doctor said he
would see me. It was I who hurt him, but indeed I didn't mean to do it.”

“A noice bizness yoi've made of it atween ee,” the woman said, but in
a not unkind voice. “Who'd ha' thought as Bill would ha' got hurted by
such a little un as thou be'st; but coom in, he will be main glad to see
ee, and thy feyther ha' been very good in sending up all sorts o' things
for him. He's been very nigh agooing whoam, but I believe them things
kept un from it.”

The cottage contained but two rooms. In a corner of the living room,
into which Ned followed the woman, Bill Swinton lay upon a bed which
Captain Sankey had sent up. Ned would not have known him again, and
could scarce believe that the thin, feeble figure was the sturdy, strong
built boy with whom he had struggled on the moor. His eyes filled with
tears as he went up to the bedside.

“I am so sorry!” he said; “I have grieved so all the time you have been
ill.”

“It's all roight, young un,” the boy said in a low voice, “thar's no
call vor to fret. It warn't thy fault; thou couldn't not tell why oi
would not let ee pass, and ye were roight enough to foight rather than
to toorn back. I doan't blame ee nohow, and thou stoodst up well agin
me. Oi doan't bear no malice vor a fair foight, not loikely. Thy feyther
has been roight good to oi, and the things he sends oi up has done oi a
power o' good. Oi hoap as how they will let oi eat afore long; oi feels
as if oi could hearty, but the doctor he woin't let oi.”

“I hope in a few days he will let you,” Ned said, “and then I am sure
father will send you up some nice things. I have brought you up some of
my books for you to look at the pictures.”

The boy looked pleased.

“Oi shall like that,” Bill said; “but oi shan't know what they be
about.”

“But I will come up every Saturday if you will let me, and tell you the
stories all about them.”

“Willee now? That will be main koinde o' ye.”

“I don't think you are strong enough to listen today,” Ned said, seeing
how feebly the boy spoke; “but I hope by next Saturday you will be much
stronger. And now I will say goodby, for the doctor said that I must not
talk too long.”

So saying Ned left the cottage and made his way back to Marsden in
better spirits than he had been for the last three weeks.

From that time Ned went up regularly for some weeks every Saturday to
see Bill Swinton, to the great disgust of his schoolfellows, who could
not imagine why he refused to join in their walks or games on those
days; but he was well repaid by the pleasure which his visits afforded.
The days passed very drearily to the sick boy, accustomed as he was to
a life spent entirely in the open air, and he looked forward with eager
longing to Ned's visits.

On the occasion of the second visit he was strong enough to sit up
in bed, and Ned was pleased to hear that his voice was heartier and
stronger. He listened with delight as Ned read through the books he had
brought him from end to end, often stopping him to ask questions as
to the many matters beyond his understanding, and the conversations on
these points were often so long that the continuance of the reading had
to be postponed until the next visit. To Bill everything he heard was
wonderful. Hitherto his world had ended at Marsden, and the accounts of
voyages and travels in strange lands were full of surprise and interest
to him. Especially he loved to talk to Ned of India, where the boy had
lived up to the time when his father had received his wound, and Ned's
account of the appearance and manners of the people there were even more
interesting to him than books.

At the end of two months after Ned's first visit Bill was able to walk
about with a stick, and Ned now discontinued his regular visits; but
whenever he had a Saturday on which there was no particular engagement
he would go for a chat with Bill, for a strong friendship had now sprung
up between the lads.

On Ned's side the feeling consisted partly of regret for the pain and
injury he had inflicted upon his companion, partly in real liking for
the honesty and fearlessness which marked the boy's character. On Bill's
side the feeling was one of intense gratitude for the kindness and
attention which Ned had paid him, for his giving up his play hours to
his amusement, and the pains which he had taken to lighten the dreary
time of his confinement. Added to this there was a deep admiration for
the superior knowledge of his friend.

“There was nothing,” he often said to himself, “as oi wouldn't do for
that young un.”




CHAPTER III: A CROPPER VILLAGE


Bad as were times in Varley, the two public houses, one of which stood
at either end of the village, were for the most part well filled of an
evening; but this, as the landlords knew to their cost, was the result
rather of habit than of thirst. The orders given were few and far
between, and the mugs stood empty on the table for a long time before
being refilled. In point of numbers the patrons of the “Brown Cow” and
the “Spotted Dog” were not unequal; but the “Dog” did a larger trade
than its rival, for it was the resort of the younger men, while the
“Cow” was the meeting place of the elders. A man who had neither wife
nor child to support could manage even in these hard times to pay for
his quart or two of liquor of an evening; but a pint mug was the utmost
that those who had other mouths than their own to fill could afford.

Fortunately tobacco, although dear enough if purchased in the towns,
cost comparatively little upon the moors, for scarce a week passed but
some lugger ran in at night to some little bay among the cliffs on the
eastern shore, and for the most part landed her bales and kegs in spite
of the vigilance of the coast guard. So there were plenty of places
scattered all over the moorland where tobacco could be bought cheap, and
where when the right signal was given a noggin of spirits could be had
from the keg which was lying concealed in the wood stack or rubbish
heap. What drunkenness there was on the moors profited his majesty's
excise but little.

The evenings at the “Cow” were not lively. The men smoked their long
pipes and sipped their beer slowly, and sometimes for half an hour no
one spoke; but it was as good as conversation, for every one knew what
the rest were thinking of--the bad times, but no one had anything new to
say about them. They were not brilliant, these sturdy Yorkshiremen. They
suffered patiently and uncomplainingly, because they did not see that
any effort of theirs could alter the state of things. They accepted
the fact that the high prices were due to the war, but why the war was
always going on was more than any of them knew. It gave them a vague
satisfaction when they heard that a British victory had been won; and
when money had been more plentiful, the occasion had been a good excuse
for an extra bout of drinking, for most of them were croppers, and had
in their time been as rough and as wild as the younger men were now; but
they had learned a certain amount of wisdom, and shook their heads over
the talk and doings of the younger men who met at the “Dog.”

Here there was neither quiet nor resignation, but fiery talk and stern
determination; it was a settled thing here that the machines were
responsible for the bad times. The fact that such times prevailed over
the whole country in no way affected their opinion. It was not for them
to deny that there was a war, that food was dear, and taxation heavy.
These things might be; but the effect of the machinery came straight
home to them, and they were convinced that if they did but hold together
and wreck the machines prosperity would return to Varley.

The organization for resistance was extensive. There were branches in
every village in West Yorkshire, Lancashire, Nottingham, and Derby--all
acting with a common purpose. The members were bound by terrible oaths
upon joining the society to be true to its objects, to abstain on pain
of death from any word which might betray its secrets, and to carry into
execution its orders, even if these should involve the slaying of a near
relation proved to have turned traitor to the society.

Hitherto no very marked success had attended its doings. There had been
isolated riots in many places; mills had been burned, and machinery
broken. But the members looked forward to better things. So far their
only successes had been obtained by threats rather than deeds, for many
manufacturers had been deterred from adopting the new machinery by the
receipt of threatening letters signed “King Lud,” saying that their
factories would be burned and themselves shot should they venture upon
altering their machinery.

The organ of communication between the members of the society at Varley
and those in other villages was the blacksmith, or as he preferred to be
called, the minister, John Stukeley, who on weekdays worked at the forge
next door to the “Spotted Dog,” and on Sundays held services in “Little
Bethel”--a tiny meeting house standing back from the road.

Had John Stukeley been busier during the week he would have had less
time to devote to the cause of “King Lud;” but for many hours a day
his fire was banked up, for except to make repairs in any of the frames
which had got out of order, or to put on a shoe which a horse had cast
on his way up the hill from Marsden, there was but little employment for
him.

The man was not a Yorkshireman by birth, but came from Liverpool, and
his small, spare figure contrasted strongly with those of the tall,
square built Yorkshiremen, among whom he lived.

He was a good workman, but his nervous irritability, his self assertion,
and impatience of orders had lost him so many places that he had finally
determined to become his own master, and, coming into a few pounds at
the death of his father, had wandered away from the great towns, until
finding in Varley a village without a smith, he had established himself
there, and having adopted the grievances of the men as his own, had
speedily become a leading figure among them.

A short time after his arrival the old man who had officiated at Little
Bethel had died, and Stukeley, who had from the first taken a prominent
part in the service, and who possessed the faculty of fluent speech to a
degree rare among the Yorkshiremen, was installed as his successor, and
soon filled Little Bethel as it had never been filled before. In
his predecessor's time, small as the meeting house was, it had been
comparatively empty; two or three men, half a dozen women, and their
children being the only attendants, but it was now filled to crowding.

Stukeley's religion was political; his prayers and discourses related to
the position of affairs in Varley rather than to Christianity. They
were a downtrodden people whom he implored to burst the bonds of their
Egyptian taskmasters. The strength he prayed for was the strength to
struggle and to fight. The enemy he denounced was the capitalist rather
than the devil.

Up to that time “King Lud” had but few followers in Varley; but the
fiery discourses in Little Bethel roused among the younger men a
passionate desire to right their alleged wrongs, and to take vengeance
upon those denounced as their oppressors, so the society recruited its
numbers fast. Stukeley was appointed the local secretary, partly because
he was the leading spirit, partly because he alone among its members was
able to write, and under his vigorous impulsion Varley became one of the
leading centers of the organization in West Yorkshire.

It was on a Saturday evening soon after Bill Swinton had become
convalescent. The parlor of the “Brown Cow” was filled with its usual
gathering; a peat fire glowed upon the hearth, and two tallow candles
burned somewhat faintly in the dense smoke. Mugs of beer stood on the
tables, but they were seldom applied to the lips of the smokers, for
they had to do service without being refilled through the long evening.
The silence was broken only by the short puffs at the pipes. All were
thinking over the usual topic, when old Gideon Jones unexpectedly led
their ideas into another channel.

“Oive heern,” he said slowly, taking his pipe from his mouth, “as how
Nance Wilson's little gal is wuss.”

“Ay, indeed!”

“So oi've heern;”

“Be she now?” and various other exclamations arose from the smokers.

Gideon was pleased with the effect he had produced, and a few minutes
later continued the subject.

“It be the empty coopbud more nor illness, I expect.”

There was another chorus of assent, and a still heartier one when he
wound up the subject: “These be hard toimes surely.”

Thinking that he had now done sufficient to vindicate his standing
as one of the original thinkers of the village, Gideon relapsed into
silence and smoked away gravely, with his eyes fixed on the fire, in the
post of honor on one side of which was his regular seat. The subject,
however, was too valuable to be allowed to drop altogether, and Luke
Marner brought it into prominence again by remarking:

“They tell oi as how Nance has asked Bet Collins to watch by the rood
soide to catch doctor as he droives whoam. He went out this arternoon to
Retlow.”

“Oi doubt he woant do she much good; it be food, and not doctor's stuff
as the child needs,” another remarked.

“That be so, surely,” went up in a general chorus, and then a newcomer
who had just entered the room said:

“Oi ha' joost coom vrom Nance's and Bill Swinton ha' sent in a basin o'
soup as he got vrom the feyther o' that boy as broke his leg. Nance war
a feeding the child wi' it, and maybe it will do her good. He ha' been
moighty koind to Bill, that chap hav.”

“He ha' been that,” Gideon said, after the chorus of approval had died
away.

“Oi seed t' young un today a-sitting in front o' th' cottage, a-talking
and laughing wi' Bill.”

“They be good uns, feyther and son, though they tells oi as neither on
them bain't Yaarkshire.”

The general feeling among the company was evidently one of surprise that
any good thing should be found outside Yorkshire. But further talk on
the subject was interrupted by a slight exclamation at the door.

“O what a smoke, feyther! I can't see you, but I suppose you're
somewhere here. You're wanted at home.”

Although the speaker was visible to but few in the room there was no
doubt as to her identity, or as to the person addressed as feyther. Mary
Powlett was indeed the niece and not the daughter of Luke Marner, but as
he had brought her up from childhood she looked upon him as her
father. It was her accent and the tone of her voice which rendered it
unnecessary for any of those present to see her face.

Luke was a bachelor when the child had arrived fifteen years before in
the carrier's cart from Marsden, having made the journey in a similar
conveyance to that town from Sheffield, where her father and mother had
died within a week of each other, the last request of her mother being
that little Polly should be sent off to the care of Luke Marner at
Varley.

Luke had not then settled down into the position of one of the elders of
the village, and he had been somewhat embarrassed by the arrival of the
three year old girl. He decided promptly, however, upon quitting the
lodgings which he had as a single man occupied and taking a cottage by
himself. His neighbors urged upon him that so small a child could not
remain alone all day while he was away at Marsden at work--a proposition
to which he assented; but to the surprise of every one, instead of
placing her during the day under the care of one of the women of the
place, he took her down with him to Marsden and placed her under the
care of a respectable woman there who had children of her own.

Starting at five every morning from his cottage with Polly perched on
his shoulder he tramped down to the town, leaving her there before going
to work, and calling for her in the evening. A year later he married,
and the village supposed that Polly would now be left behind. But they
were mistaken. When he became engaged he had said:

“Now, Loiza, there's one point as oi wish settled. As oi have told ye,
oi ha' partly chosen ye becos oi knowed as how ye would maake a good
mother to my little Polly; but oi doan't mean to give up taking her down
with me o' days to the town. Oi likes to ha' her wi' me on the roade--it
makes it shorter like. As thou knowest thyself, oi ha' bin a chaanged
man sin she coom. There warn't a cropper in the village drank harder nor
oi, but oi maad oop moi moind when she came to gi' it up, and oi have
gi'd it up.”

“I know, Luke,” the girl said, “I wouldna have had ye, hadn't ye doon
so, as I told ye two years agone. I know the child ha' done it, and I
loves her for it, and will be a good mother to her.”

“Oi knows you will, Loiza, and oi bain't feared as ye'll be jealous if
so be as ye've children o' your own. Oi shan't love 'em a bit the less
coss oi loves little Polly. She be just the image o' what moi sister
Jane was when she war a little thing and oi used to take care o' her.
Mother she didn't belong to this village, and the rough ways of the men
and the drink frightened her. She war quiet and tidy and neat in her
ways, and Jane took arter her, and glad she was when the time came
to marry and get away from Varley. Oi be roight sure if she knows owt
what's going on down here, she would be glad to know as her child ain't
bein' brought oop in Varley ways. I ha' arranged wi' the woman where she
gets her meals for her to go to school wi' her own children. Dost thee
object to that, lass?--if so, say so noo afore it's too late, but doon't
thraw it in moi face arterwards. Ef thou'st children they shalt go to
school too. Oi don't want to do more for Polly nor oi'd do for moi own.”

“I ha' no objection, Luke. I remembers your sister, how pretty and quiet
she wor; and thou shalt do what you likest wi' Polly, wi'out no grumble
from me.”

Eliza Marner kept the promise she had made before marriage faithfully.
If she ever felt in her heart any jealousy as she saw Polly growing up a
pretty bright little maiden, as different to the usual child product
of Varley as could well be, she was wise enough never to express her
thoughts, and behaved with motherly kindness to her in the evening hours
spent at home. She would perhaps have felt the task a harder one had her
own elder children been girls; but three boys came first, and a girl
was not born until she had been married eleven years. Polly, who was now
fourteen, had just come home from her schooling at Marsden for good,
and was about to go out into service there. But after the birth of her
little girl Mrs. Marner, who had never for a Varley girl been strong,
faded rapidly away; and Polly's stay at home, intended at first to last
but a few weeks, until its mother was about again, extended into months.

The failing woman reaped now the benefit of Polly's training. Her
gentle, quiet way, her soft voice, her neatness and tidiness, made her
an excellent nurse, and she devoted herself to cheer and brighten the
sickroom of the woman who had made so kind an adopted mother to her. Her
influence kept even the rough boys quiet; and all Varley, which had at
first been unanimous in its condemnation of the manner in which Luke
Marner was bringing up that “gal” of his, just as if the place was not
good enough for her, were now forced to confess that the experiment had
turned out well.

“Polly, my dear,” the sick woman said to her one afternoon when the girl
had been reading to her for some time, and was now busy mending some of
the boys' clothes, while baby, nearly a year old, was gravely amusing
herself with a battered doll upon the floor, “I used to think, though I
never said so, as your feyther war making a mistake in bringing you up
different to other gals here; but I see as he was right. There ain't
one of them as would have been content to give up all their time and
thoughts to a sick woman as thou hast done. There ain't a house in the
village as tidy and comfortable as this, and the boys mind you as they
never minded me. When I am gone Luke will miss me, but thar won't be no
difference in his comfort, and I know thou'lt look arter baby and be
a mother to her. I don't suppose as thou wilt stay here long; thou art
over fifteen now, and the lads will not be long afore they begin to come
a-coorting of thee. But doan't ee marry in Varley, Polly. My Luke's been
a good husband to me. But thou know'st what the most of them be--they
may do for Varley bred gals, but not for the like of thee. And when thou
goest take baby wi' thee and bring her up like thysel till she be old
enough to coom back and look arter Luke and the house.”

Polly was crying quietly while the dying woman was speaking. The doctor,
on leaving that morning, had told her that he could do no more and
that Mrs. Marner was sinking rapidly. Kneeling now beside the bed she
promised to do all that her adopted mother asked her, adding, “and I
shall never, never leave feyther as long as he lives.”

The woman smiled faintly.

“Many a girl ha' said that afore now, Polly, and ha' changed her moind
when the roight man asked her. Don't ee make any promises that away,
lass. 'Tis natural that, when a lassie's time comes, she should wed; and
if Luke feels loanly here, why he's got it in his power to get another
to keep house for him. He be but a little over forty now; and as he ha'
lived steady and kept hisself away from drink, he be a yoonger man now
nor many a one ten year yoonger. Don't ye think to go to sacrifice your
loife to hissen. And now, child, read me that chapter over agin, and
then I think I could sleep a bit.”

Before morning Eliza Marner had passed away, and Polly became the head
of her uncle's house. Two years had passed, and so far Mary Powlett
showed no signs of leaving the house, which, even the many women in the
village, who envied her for her prettiness and neatness and disliked her
for what they called her airs, acknowledged that she managed well.
But it was not from lack of suitors. There were at least half a dozen
stalwart young croppers who would gladly have paid court to her had
there been the smallest sign on her part of willingness to accept their
attentions; but Polly, though bright and cheerful and pleasant to
all, afforded to none of them an opportunity for anything approaching
intimacy.

On Sundays, the times alone when their occupations enabled the youth of
Varley to devote themselves to attentions to the maidens they favored,
Mary Powlett was not to be found at home after breakfast, for, having
set everything in readiness for dinner, she always started for Marsden,
taking little Susan with her, and there spent the day with the woman who
had even more than Eliza Marner been her mother. She had, a month after
his wife's death, fought a battle with Luke and conquered. The latter
had, in pursuance of the plans he had originally drawn up for her,
proposed that she should go into service at Marsden.

“Oi shall miss thee sorely, Polly,” he said; “and oi doan't disguise
it from thee, vor the last year, lass, thou hast been the light o' this
house, and oi couldna have spared ye. But oi ha' always fixed that thou
shouldst go into service at Marsden--Varley is not fit vor the likes o'
ye. We be a rough lot here, and a drunken; and though oi shall miss thee
sorely for awhile, oi must larn to do wi'out thee.”

Polly heard him in silence, and then positively refused to go.

“You have been all to me, feyther, since I was a child, and I am not
going to leave you now. I don't say that Varley is altogether nice, but
I shall be very happy here with you and the boys and dear little Susan,
and I am not going to leave, and so--there!”

Luke knew well how great would be the void which her absence would make,
but he still struggled to carry out his plans.

“But, Polly, oi should na loike to see thee marry here, and thy mother
would never ha' loiked it, and thou wilt no chance of seeing other men
here.”

“Why, I am only sixteen, feyther, and we need not talk of my marriage
for years and years yet, and I promise you I shan't think of marrying
in Varley when the time comes; but there is one thing I should like, and
that is to spend Sundays, say once a fortnight, down with Mrs. Mason;
they were so quiet and still there, and I did like so much going to the
church; and I hate that Little Bethel, especially since that horrible
man came there; he is a disgrace, feyther, and you will see that
mischief will come out of his talk.”

“Oi don't like him myself, Polly, and maybe me and the boys will
sometoimes come down to the church thou art so fond of. However, if thou
wilt agree to go down every Sunday to Mrs. Mason, thou shalt stay here
for a bit till oi see what can best be done.”

And so it was settled, and Polly went off every Sunday morning, and Luke
went down of an evening to fetch her back.

“Well, what is't, lass?” he asked as he joined her outside the “Brown
Cow.”

“George has scalded his leg badly, feyther. I was just putting Susan
to bed, and he took the kettle off the fire to pour some water in the
teapot, when Dick pushed him, or something, and the boiling water went
over his leg.”

“Oi'll give that Dick a hiding,” Luke said wrathfully as he hastened
along by her side. “Why didn't ye send him here to tell me instead of
cooming thyself?”

“It was only an accident, feyther, and Dick was so frightened when he
saw what had happened and heard George cry out that he ran out at once.
I have put some flour on George's leg; but I think the doctor ought to
see him, that's why I came for you.”

“It's no use moi goaing voor him now, lass, he be expected along here
every minute. Jack Wilson, he be on the lookout by the roadside vor to
stop him to ask him to see Nance, who be taken main bad. I will see him
and ask him to send doctor to oor house when he comes, and tell Jarge I
will be oop in a minute.”

Upon the doctor's arrival he pronounced the scald to be a serious one,
and Dick, who had been found sobbing outside the cottage, and had been
cuffed by his father, was sent down with the doctor into the town to
bring up some lint to envelop the leg. The doctor had already paid
his visit to Nance Wilson, and had rated her father soundly for not
procuring better food for her.

“It's all nonsense your saying the times are bad,” he said in reply to
the man's excuses. “I know the times are bad; but you know as well as I
do that half your wages go to the public house; your family are starving
while you are squandering money in drink. That child is sinking from
pure want of food, and I doubt if she would not be gone now if it hadn't
have been for that soup your wife tells me Bill Swinton sent in to her.
I tell you, if she dies you will be as much her murderer as if you had
chopped her down with a hatchet.”

The plain speaking of the doctor was the terror of his parish patients,
who nevertheless respected him for the honest truths he told them.
He himself used to say that his plain speaking saved him a world of
trouble, for that his patients took good care never to send for him
except when he was really wanted.

The next day Mary Powlett was unable to go off as usual to Marsden
as George was in great pain from his scald. She went down to church,
however, in the evening with her father, Bill Swinton taking her place
by the bedside of the boy.

“Thou hast been a-sitting by moi bedside hours every day, Polly,” he
said, “and it's moi turn now to take thy place here. Jack ha' brought
over all moi books, for oi couldn't make shift to carry them and use moi
crutches, and oi'll explain all the pictures to Jarge jest as Maister
Ned explained 'em to oi.”

The sight of the pictures reconciled George to Polly's departure, and
seeing the lad was amused and comfortable, she started with Luke, Dick
taking his place near the bed, where he could also enjoy a look at the
pictures.

“Did you notice that pretty girl with the sweet voice in the aisle in
a line with us, father,” Ned asked that evening, “with a great, strong,
quiet looking man by the side of her?”

“Yes, lad, the sweetness of her singing attracted my attention, and I
thought what a bright, pretty face it was!”

“That's Mary Powlett and her uncle. You have heard me speak of her as
the girl who was so kind in nursing Bill.”

“Indeed, Ned! I should scarcely have expected to find so quiet and tidy
looking a girl at Varley, still less to meet her with a male relation in
church.”

“She lives at Varley, but she can hardly be called a Varley girl,” Ned
said. “Bill was telling me about her. Her uncle had her brought up down
here. She used to go back to sleep at night, but otherwise all her time
was spent here. It seems her mother never liked the place, and married
away from it, and when she and her husband died and the child came back
to live with her uncle he seemed to think he would be best carrying out
his dead sister's wishes by having her brought up in a different way to
the girls at Varley. He has lost his wife now, and she keeps house for
him, and Bill says all the young men in Varley are mad about her, but
she won't have anything to say to them.”

“She is right enough there,” Captain Sankey said smilingly. “They are
mostly croppers, and rightly or wrongly--rightly, I am afraid--they
have the reputation of being the most drunken and quarrelsome lot in
Yorkshire. Do you know the story that is current among the country
people here about them?”

“No, father, what is it?”

“Well, they say that no cropper is in the place of punishment. It was
crowded with them at one time, but they were so noisy and troublesome
that his infernal majesty was driven to his wits' end by their disputes.
He offered to let them all go. They refused. So one day he struck upon
a plan to get rid of them. Going outside the gates he shouted at the top
of his voice, 'Beer, beer, who wants beer?' every cropper in the place
rushed out, and he then slipped in again and shut the gates, and has
taken good care ever since never to admit a cropper into his territory.”

Ned laughed at the story.

“It shows at any rate, father, what people think of them here; but I
don't think they are as bad as that, though Bill did say that there are
awful fights and rows going on there of an evening, and even down here
if there is a row there is sure to be a cropper in it. Still you see
there are some good ones; look at Luke Marner, that's the man we saw in
church, see how kind he has been to his niece.”

“There are good men of all sorts, and though the croppers may be rough
and given to drink, we must not blame them too severely; they are wholly
uneducated men, they work hard, and their sole pleasure is in the
beer shop. At bottom they are no doubt the same as the rest of their
countrymen, and the Yorkshire men, though a hard headed, are a soft
hearted race; the doctor tells me that except that their constitutions
are ruined by habitual drinking he has no better patients; they bear
pain unflinchingly, and are patient and even tempered. I know he loves
them with all their faults, and I consider him to be a good judge of
character.”




CHAPTER IV: THE WORMS TURN


“I say, it's a shame, a beastly shame!” Ned Sankey exclaimed
passionately as the boys came out from school one day.

Generally they poured out in a confused mass, eager for the fresh air
and anxious to forget in play the remembrance of the painful hours in
school; but today they came out slowly and quietly, each with a book in
his hand, for they had tasks set them which would occupy every moment
till the bell sounded again.

“Every one says they know nothing about the cat. I don't know whether
it's true or not, for I am sorry to say some of the fellows will tell
lies to escape the cane, but whether it is so or not he's no right to
punish us all for what can only be the fault of one or two.”

That morning the cat, which was the pet of Mr. Hathorn and his wife,
had been found dead near the door of the schoolhouse. It had been most
brutally knocked about. One of its eyes had been destroyed, its soft fur
was matted with blood, and it had evidently been beaten to death. That
the cat was no favorite with the boys was certain. The door between the
schoolroom and the house was unfastened at night, and the cat in her
pursuit of mice not unfrequently knocked over inkstands, and the ink,
penetrating into the desks, stained books and papers, and more than one
boy had been caned severely for damage due to the night prowlings of the
cat.

Threats of vengeance against her had often been uttered, and when the
cat was found dead it was the general opinion in the school that one or
other of their comrades had carried out his threats, but no suspicion
fell upon any one in particular. The boys who were most likely to have
done such a thing declared their innocence stoutly.

Mr. Hathorn had no doubt on the subject. The cane had been going all
the morning, and he had told them that extra tasks would be given which
would occupy all their playtime until the offender was given up to
judgment.

In point of fact the boys were altogether innocent of the deed. Pussy
was a noted marauder, and having been caught the evening before in a
larder, from which she had more than once stolen titbits, she had
been attacked by an enraged cook with a broomstick, and blows had been
showered upon her until the woman, believing that life was extinct, had
thrown her outside into the road; but the cat was not quite dead, and
had, after a time, revived sufficiently to drag her way home, only,
however, to die.

“I call it a shame!” Ned repeated. “Mind, I say it's a brutal thing
to ill treat a cat like that. If she did knock down inkstands and get
fellows into rows it was not her fault. It's natural cats should run
after mice, and the wainscoting of the schoolroom swarmed with them. One
can hear them chasing each other about and squeaking all day. If I knew
any of the fellows had killed the cat I should go straight to Hathorn
and tell him.

“You might call it sneaking if you like, but I would do it, for I hate
such brutal cruelty. I don't see how it could have been any of the
fellows, for they would have had to get out of the bedroom and into it
again; besides, I don't see how they could have caught the cat if they
did get out; but whether it was one of the fellows or not makes no
difference. I say it's injustice to punish every one for the fault of
one or two fellows.

“I suppose he thinks that in time we shall give up the names of the
fellows who did it. As far as I am concerned, it will be just the other
way. If I had known who had done it this morning, when he accused us, I
should have got up and said so, because I think fellows who treat dumb
animals like that are brutes that ought to be punished, but I certainly
would not sneak because Hathorn punished me unjustly. I vote we all
refuse to do the work he has set us.”

This bold proposition was received with blank astonishment.

“But he would thrash us all fearfully,” Tompkins said.

“He daren't if we only stuck together. Why, he wouldn't have a chance
with us if we showed fight. If we were to say to him, 'We won't do these
extra tasks; and if you touch one of us the whole lot will pitch into
you,' what could he do then?”

“I will tell you what he could do, Sankey,” Tom Room, a quiet, sensible
boy, replied. “If we were in a desert island it would be all well
enough, he could not tyrannize over us then: but here it is different.
He would just put on his hat and go into the town, and in ten minutes he
would be back again with the six constables, and if that wasn't enough
he could get plenty of other men, and where would our fighting be then?
We should all get the most tremendous licking we have ever had, and get
laughed at besides through the town for a pack of young fools.”

Ned broke into a good tempered laugh.

“Of course you are right, Room. I only thought about Hathorn himself.
Still, it is horribly unfair. I will do it today. But if he goes on with
it, as he threatens, I won't do it, let him do what he likes.”

For some days this state of things continued. There was no longer any
sound of shouting and laughter in the playground. The boys walked about
moody and sullen, working at their lessons. They were fast becoming
desperate. No clue had been obtained as to the destroyer of the cat,
and the schoolmaster declared that if it took him months to break their
spirits he would do it.

Ned Sankey had said nothing at home as to his troubles. His father
noticed that he ran off again as soon as his dinner was over, and that
he no longer said anything as to the sports in which he was engaged in
playtime; also, that his lessons occupied him from tea time until he
went up to bed.

“Anything is better than this,” Ned said one day to some of the boys of
his own age. “In my opinion it's better to have a regular row. What Room
said was quite true; we shall get the worst of it; but the story will
then come out, and it will be seen what a beastly tyranny we have been
undergoing. I tell you, I for one will not stand it any longer, so
here goes,” and he threw his book up into a tree, in whose branches it
securely lodged.

His comrades followed his example, and the news that Sankey and some
of the other fellows were determined to put up with it no longer soon
spread, and in five minutes not a book was to be seen in the playground.
The spirit of resistance became strong and general, and when the bell
rang the boys walked into the schoolroom silent and determined, but
looking far less moody and downcast than usual. Mr. Hathorn took his
seat at his desk.

“The first class will come up and say their tasks.”

Not a boy moved in his seat.

“The first class will come up and say their tasks,” the master repeated,
bringing his cane down with angry emphasis on the desk.

Still no one moved.

“What does this mean?” he shouted, rising from his seat.

“It means, sir,” Ned Sankey said, rising also, “that we are determined,
all of us, that we will learn no more extra tasks. None of us, so far
as we know, ever touched your cat, and we are not going to submit to be
punished any longer for a fault which none of us have committed.”

“No, no,” rose in a general chorus through the schoolroom, “we will do
no more tasks.”

Mr. Hathorn stood petrified with astonishment and white with anger.

“So you are at the bottom of this, Sankey. I will make an example of
you.”

So saying, he took a stride forward toward Ned. In an instant a shower
of books flew at him from all parts of the room. Infuriated by the
attack, he rushed forward with his cane raised. Ned caught up a heavy
inkstand.

“If you touch me,” he shouted, “I will fling this at your head.”

Mr. Hathorn hesitated. The shower of books had not affected him, but the
heavy missile in Ned's hand was a serious weapon. In another moment he
sprang forward and brought his cane down with all his force upon Ned's
back.

Ned at once hurled the heavy inkstand at him. The schoolmaster sprang on
one side, but it struck him on the shoulder, and he staggered back.

“You have broken my shoulder, you young scoundrel!” he exclaimed.

“I shouldn't care if I had broken your head,” Ned retorted, white
with passion; “it would have served you right if I had killed you, you
tyrant.”

“One of you go and fetch a constable,” Mr. Hathorn said to the boys.

“Let him send his servant. He will find me at home. Mr. Hathorn, I am
not going to run away, you need not think it. Give me in charge if you
dare; I don't care what they do to me, but the whole country shall know
what a tyrant you are.”

So saying, he collected his books, put his cap on his head, and walked
from the schoolroom, the boys cheering him loudly as he went. On
reaching home he went at once to his father's study.

“I am sorry to say, sir, that there has been a row in the school, and
Hathorn has threatened to send a constable here after me for throwing an
inkstand at him.”

“Throwing an inkstand!” Captain Sankey exclaimed. “Is it possible?”

“It is quite possible and quite true; he has been treating us shamefully
for the last ten days; he has been always a cruel brute all along,
though I never wanted to make a fuss about it, but it has been getting
worse and worse. Ten days ago some one killed his cat, and I am almost
sure it was none of the boys, but he chose to believe it was, and
because he couldn't find out who, he has punished the whole school, and
all our play hours have been taken up with lessons ever since, and he
said he would keep on so till he found out who did it, if it was months.

“So at last we could not stand it any longer, and we all agreed that we
wouldn't do the extra tasks, and that we would stick together when we
told him so. He rushed at me with his cane, and gave me one with all
his might, and I threw an inkstand at him, and it caught him on the
shoulder, and he says it has broken it, and that he would send for a
constable. So I told him to do so if he dared, and here I am.”

“This is a very serious business, Ned,” his father said gravely. “In
the first place, there is something like a rebellion in the school,
of which, I suppose, you were one of the leaders or he would not have
singled you out. In the second place, you threw a missile at him, which
has broken his shoulder, and might have killed him had it struck him on
the head. I have warned you, my boy, over and over again against giving
way to that passionate temper of yours, and have told you that it would
lead you into serious trouble.”

“I can't help it, sir,” Ned said doggedly. “I've put up with a
tremendous lot there, and have said nothing about it, because I did not
wish to give you trouble; but when it came to downright tyranny like
this I would rather be killed than put up with it. I warned him fairly
that if he struck me I would throw the inkstand at him, and he brought
it on himself.”

Captain Sankey seeing that in his son's present state of mind talking
would be useless to him, ordered him to remain in his study till his
return, and putting on his hat went toward the school. Ned's temper
had always been a source of anxiety to him. The boy was, no doubt, of a
passionate nature, but had he had the advantage of a proper supervision
and care when he was a child the tendency might have been overcome.
Unfortunately this had not been the case. His mother had left the
children entirely to the care of ayahs, he himself had been far too
occupied with his regimental duties to be able to superintend their
training, while Abijah's hands had been too full with the management
of the house, which entirely devolved upon her, and with the
constant attention demanded by Mrs. Sankey, to give them any close
superintendence. Thus like most children born in India and left entirely
in the charge of colored nurses, Ned had acquired the habit of giving
way to bursts of ungovernable passion; for the black nurses have no
authority over their young charges, unless seconded and supported by
the firmness of their mothers. In this case no such support had been
forthcoming.

Mrs. Sankey hated being troubled, and the ayahs always found that any
complaints to her recoiled upon themselves, for she always took the
part of her children, and insisted that the fault lay on the side of the
nurses and not on them. The natural result was, that the ayahs ceased
to trouble her, and found it easier to allow the children to do as they
chose, and to give way quietly to Ned's outbursts of passion.

Captain Sankey knew nothing of all this. Ned was very fond of him, and
was always bright and good tempered when with his father, and it was
not until he left India and was thrown more with him that Captain Sankey
discovered how grievously Ned's disposition, which was in other respects
a fine one, was marred by the habit which had been encouraged by
indulgence and want of control. Then he set to work earnestly to remedy
the mischief, but the growth of years is hard to eradicate, and although
under the influence of the affection for his father and his own good
sense Ned had so far conquered himself that his fits of passion were few
and far between, the evil still existed, and might yet, as his father
felt, lead to consequences which would mar his whole life.

Thinking the matter sadly over, Captain Sankey was proceeding toward the
school when he met one of the constables. The man touched his hat and
stopped.

“This be a moighty oonpleasant business, captain,” he said; “your boy,
he ha' been and battered schoolmaister; and t' doctor says he ha' broke
his collarbone. Oi ha' got to take him afore t' magistrate.”

“Very well, Harper,” Captain Sankey said quietly; “of course you must
do your duty. It is a sad business, and I was on my way to the school to
see if the matter could not be arranged; however, as it has been put in
your hands it is now too late, and things must take their course; the
magistrates are not sitting today. I will guarantee that my son shall be
present at the sitting on Thursday, I suppose that will be sufficient?”

“Yes, oi supposes if you promises to produce him, that will do,” the
constable said. “Oi doan't suppose as nought will come o't; these
schoolmaister chaps does thrash t' boys cruel, and oi ain't surprised as
t' little chaps roises ag'in it soometoimes. T'others all seem moighty
glad o' it: oi heard 'em shouting and, cheering in t' yard as if they
was all mad.”

Captain Sankey shook his head. “I'm afraid the magistrates won't see it
in that light, Harper; discipline is discipline. However, we must hope
for the best.”

The story that there had been a rebellion among the boys at Hathorn's,
that the schoolmaster had his shoulder broken, and that Captain Sankey's
son was to go before the magistrates, spread rapidly through Marsden,
and the courthouse was crowded at the sitting of the magistrates on
Thursday.

There were two magistrates on the bench. Mr. Thompson the local banker,
and Squire Simmonds of Lathorpe Hall, three miles from the town. Several
minor cases were first disposed of, and then Ned's name was called.
Captain Sankey had been accommodated with a seat near the magistrates,
with both of whom he had some personal acquaintance. Ned was sitting by
the side of the lawyer whom his father had retained to defend him; he
now moved quietly into the dock, while Mr. Hathorn, with his arm in a
sling, took his place in the witness box.

Ned had recovered now from his fit of passion, and looked amused rather
than concerned as the schoolmaster gave his evidence as to the fray in
the schoolroom.

“I have a few questions to ask you, Mr. Hathorn,” Mr. Wakefield, Ned's
lawyer, said. “Had you any reason for expecting any outbreak of this
kind among your boys?”

“None whatever,” Mr. Hathorn said.

“You use the cane pretty freely, I believe, sir.”

“I use it when it is necessary,” Mr. Hathorn replied.

“Ah, and how often do you consider it necessary?”

“That must depend upon circumstances.”

“You have about thirty boys, I think?”

“About thirty.”

“And you consider it necessary that at least fifteen out of that thirty
should be caned every day. You must have got a very bad lot of boys, Mr.
Hathorn?”

“Not so many as that,” the schoolmaster said, flushing.

“I shall be prepared to prove to your worships,” the lawyer said, “that
for the last six months the average of boys severely caned by this man
has exceeded sixteen a day, putting aside such minor matters as one,
two, or three vicious cuts with the cane given at random. It fortunately
happened, as I find from my young friend in the dock, that one of the
boys has, from motives of curiosity, kept an account for the last six
months of the number of boys thrashed every day. I have sent round for
him, and he is at present in court.”

Mr. Hathorn turned pale, and he began to think that it would have been
wiser for him to have followed Ned's advice, and not to have brought the
matter into court.

“Your worships,” the lawyer said, “you have been boys, as I have, and
you can form your own ideas as to the wretchedness that must prevail
among a body of lads of whom more than half are caned daily. This,
your worships, is a state of tyranny which might well drive any boys to
desperation. But I have not done with Mr. Hathorn yet.

“During the ten days previous to this affair things wore even more
unpleasant than usual in your establishment, were they not, sir?
I understand that the whole of the boys were deprived of all play
whatever, and that every minute was occupied by extra tasks, and
moreover the prospect was held out to them that this sort of thing would
continue for months.”

There had already been several demonstrations of feeling in court,
but at this statement by the lawyer there was a general hiss. The
schoolmaster hesitated before replying.

“Now, Mr. Hathorn,” the lawyer said briskly, “we want neither hesitation
nor equivocation. We may as well have it from you, because if you don't
like telling the truth I can put the thirty miserable lads under your
charge into the box one after the other.”

“They have had extra tasks to do during their play time,” Mr. Hathorn
said, “because they refused to reveal which among them brutally murdered
my cat.”

“And how do you know they murdered your cat?”

“I am sure they did,” the schoolmaster said shortly.

“Oh! you are sure they did! And why are you so sure? Had they any grudge
against your cat?”

“They pretended they had a grudge.”

“What for, Mr. Hathorn?”

“They used to accuse her of upsetting the ink bottles when they did it
themselves.”

“You did not believe their statements, I suppose?”

“Not at all.”

“You caned them just the same as if they had done it themselves. At
least I am told so.”

“Of course I caned them, especially as I knew that they were telling a
lie.”

“But if it was a lie, Mr. Hathorn, if this cat did not upset their ink,
why on earth should these boys have a grudge against her and murder
her?”

The schoolmaster was silent.

“Now I want an answer, sir. You are punishing thirty boys in addition to
the sixteen daily canings divided among them; you have cut off all their
play time, and kept them at work from the time they rise to the time
they go to bed. As you see, according to your own statement, they could
have had no grudge against the cat, how are you sure they murdered her?”

“I am quite sure.” Mr. Hathorn said doggedly. “Boys have always a spite
against cats.”

“Now, your honors, you hear this,” Mr. Wakefield said. “Now I am about
to place in the witness box a very respectable woman, one Jane Tytler,
who is cook to our esteemed fellow townsman, Mr. Samuel Hawkins, whose
residence is, as you know, not far from this school. She will tell you
that, having for some time been plagued by a thieving cat which was in
the habit of getting into her larder and carrying off portions of food,
she, finding it one day there in the act of stealing a half chicken,
fell upon it with a broomstick and killed it, or as she thought killed
it, and I imagine most cooks would have acted the same under the
circumstances.

“She thought no more about it until she heard the reports in the town
about this business at the school, and then she told her master. The
dates have been compared, and it is found that she battered this cat
on the evening before the Hathorn cat was found dead in the yard.
Furthermore, the cat she battered was a white cat with a black spot
on one side, and this is the exact description of the Hathorn cat;
therefore, your honors, you will see that the assumption, or pretense,
or excuse, call it what you will, by which this man justifies his
tyrannical treatment of these unfortunate boys has no base or foundation
whatever. You can go now, Mr. Hathorn; I have nothing further to say to
you.”

A loud hiss rose again from the crowded court as the schoolmaster
stepped down from the witness box, and Jane Tytler took his place.
After giving her evidence she was succeeded by Dick Tompkins in much
trepidation. Dick was a most unwilling witness, but he produced the
notebook in which he had daily jotted down the number of boys caned, and
swore to the general accuracy of the figures.

Mr. Wakefield then asked the magistrates if they would like to hear any
further witnesses as to the state of things in the schoolroom. They said
that what they had heard was quite sufficient. He then addressed them on
the merits of the case, pointing out that although in this case one of
the parties was a master and the other a pupil this in no way removed it
in the eye of the law from the category of other assaults.

“In this case,” he said, “your worships, the affair has arisen out of
a long course of tyranny and provocation on the part of one of the
parties, and you will observe that this is the party who first commits
the assault, while my client was acting solely in self defense.

“It is he who ought to stand in the witness box; and the complainant
in the dock, for he is at once the aggressor and the assailant. The law
admits any man who is assaulted to defend himself, and there is, so far
as I am aware, no enactment whatever to be found in the statute book
placing boys in a different category to grownup persons. When your
worships have discharged my client, as I have no doubt you will do at
once, I shall advise him to apply for a summons for assault against this
man Hathorn.”

The magistrates consulted together for some time, then the squire, who
was the senior, said:

“We are of opinion that Master Sankey, by aiding this rebellion
against his master, has done wrongly, and that he erred grievously in
discharging a heavy missile at his master; at the same time we think
that the provocation that he received by the tyranny which has been
proved to have been exercised by Mr. Hathorn toward the boys under his
charge, and especially by their unjust punishment for an offense which
the complainant conceived without sufficient warrant, or indeed without
any warrant at all, that they had committed, to a great extent justifies
and excuses the conduct of Master Sankey. Therefore, with a reprimand as
to his behavior, and a caution as to the consequences which might have
arisen from his allowing his temper to go beyond bounds, we discharge
him.

“As to you, sir,” he said to the schoolmaster, “we wish to express our
opinion that your conduct has been cruel and tyrannical in the extreme,
and we pity the unfortunate boys who are under the care of a man who
treats them with such cruel harshness as you are proved to have done.”

The magistrates now rose, and the court broke up. Many of those present
crowded round Ned and shook his hand, congratulating him on the issue;
but at a sign from his father the boy drew himself away from them, and
joining Captain Sankey, walked home with him.

“The matter has ended better than I expected, Ned,” he said gravely;
“but pray, my boy, do not let yourself think that there is any reason
for triumph. You have been gravely reprimanded, and had the missile you
used struck the schoolmaster on the head, you would now be in prison
awaiting your trial for a far graver offense, and that before judges
who would not make the allowances for you that the magistrates here have
done.

“Beware of your temper, Ned, for unless you overcome it, be assured that
sooner or later it may lead to terrible consequences.”

Ned, who had in fact been inclined to feel triumphant over his success,
was sobered by his father's grave words and manner; and resolved that
he would try hard to conquer his fault; but evil habits are hard to
overcome, and the full force of his father's words was still to come
home to him.

He did not, of course, return to Mr. Hathorn's, and indeed the
disclosures of the master's severity made at the examination before
the magistrates obtained such publicity that several of his pupils were
removed at once, and notices were given that so many more would not
return after the next holidays that no one was surprised to hear that
the schoolmaster had arranged with a successor in the school, and that
he himself was about to go to America.

The result was that after the holidays his successor took his place,
and many of the fathers who had intended to remove their sons decided
to give the newcomer a trial. The school opened with nearly the usual
number of pupils. Ned was one of those who went back. Captain Sankey had
called on the new master, and had told him frankly the circumstances of
the fracas between Ned and Mr. Hathorn.

“I will try your son at any rate, Mr. Sankey,” the master said. “I have
a strong opinion that boys can be managed without such use of the cane
as is generally adopted; that, in my opinion, should be the last resort.
Boys are like other people, and will do more for kindness than for
blows. By what you tell me, the circumstances of your son's bringing
up in India among native servants have encouraged the growth of a
passionate temper, but I trust that we may be able to overcome that; at
any rate I will give him a trial.”

And so it was settled that Ned should return to Porson's, for so the
establishment was henceforth to be known.




CHAPTER V: THE NEW MASTER


It was with much excitement and interest that the boys gathered in their
places for the first time under the new master. The boarders had not
seen him upon their arrival on the previous evening, but had been
received by an old housekeeper, who told them Mr. Porson would not
return until the coach came in from York that night.

All eyes were turned to the door as the master entered. The first
impression was that he was a younger man than they had expected. Mr.
Hathorn had been some forty-five years old; the newcomer was not
over thirty. He was a tall, loosely made man, with somewhat stooping
shoulders; he had heavy eyebrows, gray eyes, and a firm mouth. He did
not look round as he walked straight to his desk; then he turned, and
his eyes traveled quietly and steadily round the room as if scanning
each of the faces directed toward him.

“Now, boys,” he said in a quiet voice, “a few words before we begin.
I am here to teach, and you are here to learn. As your master I expect
prompt obedience. I shall look to see each of you do your best to
acquire the knowledge which your parents have sent you here to obtain.
Above all, I shall expect that every boy here will be straightforward,
honorable, and truthful. I shall not expect to find that all are capable
of making equal progress; there are clever boys and stupid boys, just
as there are clever men and stupid men, and it would be unjust to expect
that one can keep up to the other; but I do look to each doing his best
according to his ability. On my part I shall do my best to advance you
in your studies, to correct your faults, and to make useful men of you.

“One word as to punishments. I do not believe that knowledge is to be
thrashed into boys, or that fear is the best teacher. I shall expect you
to learn, partly because you feel that as your parents have paid for you
to learn it is your duty to learn, partly because you wish to please me.
I hope that the cane will seldom be used in this school. It will be used
if any boy tells me a lie, if any boy does anything which is mean and
dishonorable, if any boy is obstinately idle, and when it is used it
will be used to a purpose, but I trust that the occasion for it will be
rare.

“I shall treat you as friends whom it is my duty to instruct. You will
treat me, I hope, as a friend whose duty it is to instruct you, and who
has a warm interest in your welfare; if we really bear these relations
to each other there should be seldom any occasion for punishment. And
now as a beginning today, boys, let each come up to my desk, one at a
time, with his books. I shall examine you separately, and see what each
knows and is capable of doing. I see by the report here that there are
six boys in the first class. As these will occupy me all the morning
the rest can go into the playground. The second class will be taken this
afternoon.”

The boys had listened with astonished silence to this address, and so
completely taken aback were they that all save those ordered to remain
rose from their seats and went out in a quiet and orderly way, very
different from the wild rush which generally terminated school time.

Ned being in the second class was one of those who went out. Instead of
scattering into groups, the boys gathered in a body outside.

“What do you think of that, Sankey?” Tompkins said. “It seems almost
too good to be true. Only fancy, no more thrashing except for lying and
things of that sort, and treating us like friends! and he talked as if
he meant it too.”

“That he did,” Ned said gravely; “and I tell you, fellows, we shall have
to work now, and no mistake. A fellow who will not work for such a man
as that deserves to be skinned.”

“I expect,” said James Mather, who was one of the biggest boys in the
school though still in the third class, “that it's all gammon, just to
give himself a good name, and to do away with the bad repute the school
has got into for Hathorn's flogging. You will see how long it will last!
I ain't going to swallow all that soft soap.”

Ned, who had been much touched at the master's address, at once fired
up:

“Oh! we all know how clever you are, Mather--quite a shining genius, one
of the sort who can see through a stone wall. If you say it's gammon, of
course it must be so.”

There was a laugh among the boys.

“I will punch your head if you don't shut up, Sankey,” Mather said
angrily; “there's no ink bottle for you to shy here.”

Ned turned very white, but he checked himself with an effort.

“I don't want to fight today--it's the first day of the half year, and
after such a speech as we've heard I don't want to have a row on this
first morning. But you had better look out; another time you won't find
me so patient. Punch my head, indeed! Why, you daren't try it.”

But Mather would have tried it, for he had for the last year been
regarded as the cock of the school. However, several of the boys
interfered.

“Sankey is right, Mather; it would be a beastly shame to be fighting
this morning. After what Porson said there oughtn't to be any rows
today. We shall soon see whether he means it.”

Mather suffered himself to be dissuaded from carrying his threat into
execution, the rather that in his heart of hearts he was not assured
that the course would have been a wise one. Ned had never fought in
the school, but Tompkins' account of his fight on the moor with Bill
Swinton, and the courage he had shown in taking upon himself the office
of spokesman in the rebellion against Hathorn, had given him a very
high reputation among the boys; and in spite of Mather's greater age and
weight there were many who thought that Ned Sankey would make a tough
fight of it with the cock of the school.

So the gathering broke up and the boys set to at their games, which were
played with a heartiness and zest all the greater that none of them were
in pain from recent punishment, and that they could look forward to the
afternoon without fear and trembling.

When at twelve o'clock the boys of the first class came out from school
the others crowded round to hear the result of the morning's lessons.
They looked bright and pleased.

“I think he is going to turn out a brick,” Ripon, the head of the first
class, said. “Of course one can't tell yet. He was very quiet with us
and had a regular examination of each of us. I don't think he was at
all satisfied, though we all did our best, but there was no shouting or
scolding. We are to go in again this afternoon with the rest. He says
there's something which he forgot to mention to us this morning.”

“More speeches!” Mather grumbled. “I hate all this jaw.”

“Yes,” Ripon said sharply; “a cane is the thing which suits your
understanding best. Well, perhaps he will indulge you; obstinate
idleness is one of the things he mentioned in the address.”

When afternoon school began Mr. Porson again rose.

“There is one thing I forgot to mention this morning. I understand that
you have hitherto passed your play time entirely in the playground,
except on Saturday afternoons, when you have been allowed to go where
you like between dinner and tea time. With the latter regulation I do
not intend to interfere, or at any rate I shall not do so so long as
I see that no bad effects come of it; but I shall do so only with this
proviso: I do not think it good for you to be going about the town. I
shall therefore put Marsden out of bounds. You will be free to ramble
where you like in the country, but any boy who enters the town will
be severely punished. I am not yet sufficiently acquainted with the
neighborhood to draw the exact line beyond which you are not to go, but
I shall do so as soon as I have ascertained the boundaries of the town.

“I understand that you look forward to Saturday for making such
purchases as you require. Therefore each Saturday four boys, selected by
yourselves, one from each class, will be allowed to go into the town to
make purchases for the rest, but they are not to be absent more than an
hour.

“In the second place, I do not think that the playground affords a
sufficient space for exercise, and being graveled, it is unsuitable for
many games. Therefore I have hired a field, which I dare say you all
know; it is called 'The Four Acre Field,' about a hundred yards down the
road on the left hand side. This you will use as your playground during
the six summer months. I have brought with me from York a box which I
shall place under the charge of Ripon and the two next senior to him.
It contains bats, wickets, and a ball for cricket; a set of quoits; trap
bat and ball for the younger boys; leaping bars and some other things.
These will give you a start. As they become used up or broken they
must be replaced by yourselves; and I hope you will obtain plenty of
enjoyment from them. I shall come and play a game of cricket with you
myself sometimes.

“You will bear in mind that it is my wish that you should be happy. I
expect you to work hard, but I wish you to play hard too. Unless the
body works the brain will suffer, and a happy and contented boy will
learn as easily again as a discontented, and miserable one. I will give
you the box after tea, so that you can all examine them together. The
second and third classes will now stay in; the fourth class can go out
in the playground with the first. I shall have time to examine them
while the others are doing their work tomorrow.”

There was a suppressed cheer among the boys and Ripon, as the senior,
said:

“I am sure, sir, we are all very much obliged to you for your kindness,
and we will do our best to deserve it.”

There was a chorus of assent, and then the elder and younger boys went
out into the playground while the work of examination of the second and
third classes began.

On the following day lessons began in earnest, and the boys found their
first impressions of the new master more than justified. A new era
had commenced. The sound of the cane was no longer heard, and yet the
lessons were far better done than had been the case before. Then the
whole work had fallen on the boys; the principal part of the day's
lessens had been the repeating of tasks learned by heart, and the master
simply heard them and punished the boys who were not perfect.

There was comparatively little of this mechanical work now; it was the
sense and not the wording which had to be mastered. Thus geography was
studied from an atlas and not by the mere parrot-like learning of the
names of towns and rivers. In grammar the boys had to show that they
understood a rule by citing examples other than those given in their
books. History was rather a lecture from the master than a repetition of
dry facts and dates by the boys. Latin and mathematics were made clear
in a similar way.

“It was almost too good to last,” the boys said after the first
day's experience of this new method of teaching; but it did last.
A considerable portion of the work out of school was devoted to the
keeping up the facts they had learned, for Mr. Porson was constantly
going back and seeing that their memories retained the facts they had
acquired, and what they called examinations were a part of the daily
routine.

In some points upon which Mr. Hathorn had laid the greatest stress Mr.
Porson was indifferent--dates, which had been the bane of many a boy's
life and an unceasing source of punishment, he regarded but little,
insisting only that the general period should be known, and his
questions generally took the form of, “In the beginning or at the end of
such and such a century, what was the state of things in England or in
Rome?” A few dates of special events, the landmarks of history, were
required to be learned accurately, all others were passed over as
unimportant.

It was not that the boys worked fewer hours than before, but that they
worked more intelligently, and therefore more pleasantly to themselves.
The boys--and there were some--who imagined that under this new method
of teaching they could be idle, very soon found out their mistake,
and discovered that in his way Mr. Porson was just as strict as his
predecessor. He never lost his temper; but his cold displeasure was
harder to bear than Mr. Hathorn's wrath; nor were punishments wanting.
Although the cane was idle, those who would not work were kept in the
schoolroom during play hours; and in cases where this was found to be
ineffectual Mr. Porson coldly said:

“Your parents pay me to teach you, and if you do not choose to be taught
I have only to write home to them and request them to take you away. If
you are one of those boys who will only learn from fear of the cane you
had better go to some school where the cane is used.”

This threat, which would have been ineffective in Mr. Hathorn's time
never failed to have an effect now; for even Mather, the idlest and
worst boy there, was able to appreciate the difference between the
present regime and the last. In a marvelously short time Mr. Porson
seemed to have gauged the abilities of each of the boys, and while he
expected much from those who were able' to master easily their tasks,
he was content with less from the duller intellects, providing they had
done their best.

After a week's experience of Mr. Porson, Ned gave so glowing an account
to his father of the new master and his methods that Captain Sankey went
down to the school and arranged that Charlie, now ten years old, should
accompany his brother. There were several boys no older than he; but
Charlie differed widely from his elder brother, being a timid and
delicate child, and ill fitted to take care of himself. Captain Sankey
felt, however, after what Ned had told him of Mr. Porson, that he
could trust to him during the school hours, and Ned would be an active
protector in the playground.

It was not until a fortnight after the school began that the Four Acre
Field was ready. By that time a flock of sheep had been turned into it,
and had eaten the grass smooth, and a heavy horse roller had been at
work for a day making a level pitch in the center.

It was a Saturday afternoon when the boys took possession of it for the
first time. As they were about to start in the highest glee, Mr. Porson
joined them. Some of their faces fell a little; but he said cheerfully:

“Now, boys, I am going with you; but not, you know, to look after you or
keep you in order. I want you all to enjoy yourselves just in your own
way, and I mean to enjoy myself too. I have been a pretty good cricketer
in my time, and played in the York Eleven against Leeds, so I may be
able to coach you up a little, and I hope after a bit we may be able to
challenge some of the village elevens round here. I am afraid Marsden
will be too good for us for some time; still, we shall see.”

On reaching the field Mr. Porson saw the ground measured and the wickets
erected, and then said:

“Now I propose we begin with a match. There are enough of us to make
more than two elevens; but there are the other games. Would any of the
bigger boys like to play quoits better than cricket?”

Mather, who felt much aggrieved at the master's presence, said he should
prefer quoits; and Williamson, who always followed his lead, agreed to
play with him.

“Now,” Mr. Porson said, “do you, Ripon, choose an eleven. I will take
the ten next best. The little ones who are over can play at trap bat, or
bowls, as they like.”

There was a general approval of the plan. Ripon chose an eleven of the
likeliest boys, selecting the biggest and most active; for as there had
been no room for cricket in the yard their aptitude for the game was a
matter of guesswork, though most of them had played during the holidays.
Mr. Porson chose the next ten and after tossing for innings, which
Ripon won, they set to work. Mr. Porson played for a time as long stop,
putting on two of the strongest of his team as bowlers, and changing
them from time to time to test their capacity. None of them turned out
brilliant, and the runs came fast, and the wickets were taken were few
and far between, until at last Mr. Porson himself took the ball.

“I am not going to bowl fast,” he said, “just straight easy lobs;” but
the boys found that the straight lobs were not so easy after all, and
the wickets of the boys who had made a long score soon fell. Most of
those who followed managed to make a few runs as well off Mr. Porson's
bowling as from that at the other end; for the master did not wish to
discourage them, and for a few overs after each batsman came to the
wicket aimed well off it so as to give them a chance of scoring.

The last wicket fell for the respectable score of fifty-four. The junior
eleven then went in, the master not going in until the last. Only twenty
runs had been made when he took the bat. In the five balls of the over
which were bowled to him he made three fours; but before it came to
his turn again his partner at the other end was out, and his side
were twenty-two behind on the first innings. The other side scored
thirty-three for the first four wickets before he again took the ball,
and the remaining six went down for twelve runs. His own party implored
him to go in first, but he refused.

“No, no, boys,” he said; “you must win the match, if you can, without
much aid from me.”

The juniors made a better defense this time and scored forty before the
ninth wicket fell. Then Mr. Porson went in and ran the score up to sixty
before his partner was out, the seniors winning the match by nine runs.
Both sides were highly pleased with the result of the match. The seniors
had won after a close game. The juniors were well pleased to have run
their elders so hard.

They all gathered round their master and thanked him warmly.

“I am glad you are pleased, my boys,” he said; “I will come down two
or three times a week and bowl to you for an hour, and give you a
few hints, and you will find that you get on fast. There is plenty of
promise among you, and I prophesy that we shall turn out a fair eleven
by the end of the season.”

The younger boys had also enjoyed themselves greatly, and had been
joined by many of the elders while waiting for their turn to go in.
Altogether the opening day of the Four Acre Field had been a great
success.

The old cake woman who had previously supplied the boys still came once
a week, her usual time being Wednesday evening, when, after tea, the
boys played for half an hour in the yard before going in to their usual
lessons. Ned was not usually present, but he one evening went back to
fetch a book which he needed. As he came in at the gate of the yard
Mather was speaking to the woman.

“No, I won't let you have any more, Master Mather. You have broken your
promises to me over and over again. That money you owed me last half
ain't been paid yet. If it had only been the money for the cakes and
sweets I shouldn't ha' minded so much, but it's that ten shillings you
borrowed and promised me solemn you would pay at the end of the week and
ain't never paid yet. I have got to make up my rent, and I tell ye if I
don't get the money by Saturday I shall speak to t' maister about it and
see what he says to such goings on.”

“Don't talk so loud,” Mather said hurriedly, “and I will get you the
money as seen as I can.”

“I don't care who hears me,” the woman replied in a still louder
voice, “and as soon as you can won't do for I. I have got to have it on
Saturday, so that's flat. I will come up to the field, and you'll best
have it ready for me.”

Ned did not hear the last few words, but he had heard enough to know
that Mather owed ten shillings which he had borrowed, besides a bill for
cakes. Mather had not noticed him come into the yard, for his back was
toward the gate, and the noise which the boys made running about and
shouting prevented him hearing the gate open and close.

“It's a beastly shame,” Ned muttered to himself as he went off to
school, “to borrow money from an old woman like that. Mather must have
known he couldn't pay it, for he has only a small allowance, and he is
always short of money, and of course he could not expect a tip before
the holidays. He might have paid her when he came back, but as he didn't
I don't see how he is to do so now, and if the old woman tells Porson
there will be a row. It's just the sort of thing would rile him most.”

On the next Saturday he watched with some curiosity the entry of the
old woman into the field. Several of the boys went up and bought sweets.
When she was standing alone Mather strolled up to her. After a word or
two he handed her something. She took it, and said a few words. Mather
shook his head positively, and in a minute or two walked away, leaving
her apparently satisfied.

“I suppose he has given her something on account,” Ned said to himself.
“I wonder where he got it. When Ripon asked him last Monday for a
subscription to buy another set of bats and wickets, so that two lots
could practise at once, he said he had only sixpence left, and Mather
would not like to seem mean now, for he knows he doesn't stand well with
any one except two or three of his own set, because he is always running
out against everything that Porson does.”

A week later Mr. Porson said, at the end of school:

“By the way, boys, have any of you seen that illustrated classical
dictionary of mine? I had it in school about ten days ago when I was
showing you the prints of the dress and armor of the Romans, and I have
not seen it since. I fancy I must have left it on my table, but I cannot
be sure. I looked everywhere in my library for it last night and cannot
find it. Perhaps if I left it on the desk one of you has taken it to
look at the pictures.”

There was a general silence.

“I think it must be so,” Mr. Porson went on more gravely. “If the boy
who has it will give it up I shall not be angry, as, if I left it on the
desk, there would be no harm in taking it to look at the pictures.”

Still there was silence.

“I value the book,” Mr. Porson went on, “not only because it is an
expensive work, but because it is a prize which I won at Durham.”

He paused a moment, and then said in a stern voice: “Let every boy open
his desk.”

The desks were opened, and Mr. Porson walked round and glanced at each.

“This is a serious matter now,” he said. “Ripon, will you come to the
study with me and help me to search again. It is possible it may still
be there and I may have overlooked it. The rest will remain in their
places till I return.”

There was a buzz of conversation while the master was absent. On his
return he said:

“The book is certainly not there. The bookshelves are all so full that
it could only have been put in its own place or laid upon the table.
Ripon and I have searched the room thoroughly and it is certainly not
there. Now, boys, this is a serious business. In the first place, I will
give a last chance to whoever may have taken it to rise in his place and
confess it.”

He paused, and still all were silent.

“Now mind,” he said, “I do not say that any of you have taken it--I have
no grounds for such an accusation. It may have been taken by a servant.
A tramp may have come in at the back gate when you were all away and
have carried it off. These things are possible. And even were I sure
that it had been done by one of you I should not dream of punishing all;
therefore for the present we will say no more about it. But in order
to assure myself and you I must ask you for the keys of your boxes. The
servants' boxes will also be searched, as well as every nook and corner
of the house; and then, when we have ascertained for a certainty that
the book is not within these four walls, I shall go on with a lighter
heart.”

The boys all eagerly opened their trunks and play boxes, searched under
the beds, in the cupboards, and in every nook and corner of their part
of the house, and an equally minute search was afterward made in the
other apartments; but no trace of the book was discovered. For days the
matter was a subject of conversation among the boys, and endless were
the conjectures as to what could have become of the dictionary. Their
respect and affection for their master were greatly heightened by
the fact that his behavior toward them was in no way altered by the
circumstances. His temper was as patient and equable as before in the
schoolroom; he was as cheerful and friendly in the cricket field, They
could see, however, that he was worried and depressed, though he strove
to appear the same as usual. Often did they discuss among themselves how
different the state of things would have been had the loss happened
to Mr. Hathorn, and what a life they would have led under those
circumstances.

At the end of a week the happy thought struck Ripon that a subscription
should be made to buy a new dictionary. The amount was a serious one, as
they found that the book could not be purchased under two guineas; but
every boy subscribed to his last farthing. Some promised their pocket
money for weeks in advance; others wrote home to their parents to ask
for money, and in ten days the boys had the satisfaction of seeing Ripon
at the commencement of school walk up to Mr. Porson's desk and present
him with the handsome volume in the name of all the boys. Ripon had
taken some pains in getting up an appropriate speech, and it was voted a
great success.

“Mr. Porson,” he said, “in the name of all the boys in the school I beg
to ask your acceptance of this volume. It cannot have the value to you
of that which you have lost, as that was a prize; but we hope, that as
a proof of the respect and affection which we all have for you, and as
a token of our appreciation of your very great kindness toward us, you
will accept it in place of the other.”

Mr. Porson's face lit up with pleasure.

“My boys,” he said, “I am very highly gratified at this proof that I
have succeeded in my endeavors to make you feel that I am your friend as
well as your master, and I shall value your gift far more highly than
my college prize. That was simply the result of my own labor; this is
a proof of kindness and affection on your parts. I shall value it very
greatly all my life. And now, as I don't think you will be able to pay
much attention to your work this morning, and as I have been for some
days awaiting an opportunity to go over to York, where I have some
pressing business, I shall start at once, and can just catch the stage,
and shall get back in time for school tomorrow morning, so you will have
the day to yourselves.”

With a shout of pleasure the boys started off for a long day in the
cricket field, while Mr. Porson hurried away to catch the stagecoach for
York.




CHAPTER VI: THE THIEF DETECTED


Mr. Porson was in his place next morning, having returned only half
an hour before school began; he looked fagged, and he was scarcely so
attentive as usual to the lessons, his thoughts seeming to be elsewhere.

“He seems regularly done up with his journey,” Ripon said as the boys
came out of school.

“I think he is upset about something,” Ned remarked. “Sometimes he
hardly seemed paying attention to what was going on, and he did not
speak as cheerfully as usual. I noticed a sort of change in his voice
directly he began. I hope nothing wrong has occurred, we were getting on
so jollily.”

When afternoon school began Mr. Porson placed on the desk before him a
packet done up in brown paper.

“Boys,” he said, “I have got my book again.”

An exclamation of surprise and pleasure burst from the boys. The mystery
had weighed heavily on the school, and a look of eager curiosity came
over every face to hear how the book had been recovered.

“It was found in a bookseller's shop in York,” Mr. Porson went on. “I
myself had inquired at Leighton's here, but with little hope of finding
it, for no one who stole it would have disposed of it so near home. I
then wrote to several friends in the large towns, and one of them, a
clergyman at York, wrote to me two days ago to say that just such a book
as I had described was on sale in the window of one of the booksellers
there. It was a second hand copy, but in excellent preservation. The
flyleaf was missing. On going over yesterday I found that it was
my book, and was able to prove it by several marginal notes in my
handwriting.

“The bookseller said at once that it was sent him by a general dealer
at Marsden who was in the habit of picking up books at sales in the
neighborhood and sending them to him; he had given eighteen shillings
for it. This morning I have called upon the man, whose name is White,
accompanied by a constable. He admitted at once that he had sent the
book to York, and said that he bought it from some one about a month
ago. His customer came late, and as White is short sighted, and there
was only a tallow candle burning in the shop, he said that he should not
know him again, and could say nothing about his age; however, I shall
call him in; he is now outside with the constable. I am sure that for
your own sakes you will not object to his taking a look at you.”

Mr. Porson went to the door, and the constable and White entered. The
chief constable, when Mr. Porson had called upon him to ask for one of
his men to accompany him to the dealer's, had told him that White bore
a very bad reputation. He was suspected of being the medium through
whom stolen goods in that part of Yorkshire were sent up to London for
disposal. A highwayman who had been caught and executed at York, had in
his confession stated that this man had acted as his go between for the
disposal of the watches and other articles he took from travelers, and
White's premises had then been thoroughly searched by the constables;
but as nothing suspicious was found, and there was only the unsupported
confession of the highwayman against him, he had got off scot free.

“I don't think you will get anything out of him, Mr. Porson,” the
constable said. “The fact that he has been trusted by these fellows
shows that he is not a man to peach upon those with whom he deals;
and in the next place he would know well enough that if any one were
convicted of stealing this book he would be liable to a prosecution as
receiver; and though we could scarcely get a conviction against him, as
we could not prove that he knew that it was stolen, it would do him no
good.”

The boys all stood up in a line. “I will look at 'em, sir,” White said;
“but, as I have told you, I should not know the man as I bought that
book from, from Adam. Anyhow none of these little ones couldn't be
he. If it weren't a man, he were as big as a man. You don't suppose an
honest tradesman would buy an expensive book like that from a kid.”

So saying he placed a pair of horn spectacles on his nose and walked
round the line.

“I don't see any one here whose face I ever see before as far as I
knows; but bless you, the man as I bought it of might have had hair
all over his face, and I be none the wiser looking at him across that
counter of mine in the dark.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Porson said; “then it is of no use troubling you
further. I have got my book back; but I confess that this affords me but
small gratification in comparison to that which I should feel if I could
unravel this mystery.”

The discovery of the book reopened the interest in the matter, and
nothing else was talked of that evening in the playground.

“Ripon,” Ned said, putting his arm in that of the head boy, “I want
to tell you a thing that has been in my mind for the last three weeks;
mind, I don't say that there's anything in it, and I hate to think harm
of any one. There is another thing; he and I ain't good friends. If
it hadn't been for that I should have spoken to you before; but I was
afraid that it would look like a piece of dirty spite on my part; but I
do think now that as head boy you ought to know, and I want your advice
whether I ought to say anything about it or not.”

“What a long winded chap you are, Sankey! What is it all about?”

“Well, you know, Ripon, when we got up that subscription for the cricket
things, Mather didn't give anything. He said he had no money.”

“No; and he hadn't any,” Ripon said, “for I had only the day before
lent him twopence to buy some string, and he paid me when he got his
allowance on Saturday.”

“Well, a day or two after that I came back after tea for a book that
I had left behind me, and as I came in at the gate there Mather was
standing at the corner talking to Mother Brown. He had his back to
the door, and they didn't see me. She was talking loud and angry and I
couldn't help hearing what she said.”

“Well, what did she say?” Ripon said rather impatiently.

“She said, 'You have disappointed me over and over again, and if you
don't pay me that ten shillings you borrowed of me last half, and the
bill for the cakes, by Saturday, I will see the master and tell him all
about it.' I didn't hear any more; but on the Saturday I saw him go up
to her in the field and pay her something. Of course I don't know what
it was; not all, I think, by the manner in which she took it; still, I
suppose it was enough to content her. About ten days afterward we heard
the book was missing. It didn't strike me at the time; but afterward,
when I thought of it, I remembered that the last time Porson brought
it out was on the Thursday, which was the day after Mather had been
speaking to Mother Brown. Now, of course, Ripon, I don't actually
suspect Mather of taking the book; still it is curious its being missing
just at the time he wanted money so badly. He may have got the money
from home, or he may have borrowed it from some other fellow.”

“No,” Ripon said positively, “I am sure Mather has had no letter,
because I always distribute the letters, and Mather's people never write
to him; and I am sure there was no fellow in the school had more than
a shilling or two at the outside at that time. Why didn't you tell me
before, Sankey?”

“I didn't like to, because every one knows Mather and I are not good
friends; then I thought perhaps Mather might be able to explain it all
right, and I should have cut a nice figure if he could; then at the time
when I thought of it, and had got the dates right, the first excitement
had died out and I thought we might hear no more of it and it would be
forgotten; but now that the book has been found and the whole thing has
come up fresh again I thought it better to tell you all about it and ask
you what you would advise me to do.”

Ripon did not answer for some time; then he said:

“I am sure I don't know, Ned; I will think it over till tomorrow. You
have not said anything about it to any one else?”

“Not to a soul. I hesitated whether I should tell you or father, but he
wouldn't understand how boys think of these things so well as you do; so
I thought as you were head of the school it was best you should know.”

“I wish you hadn't told me,” Ripon grumbled. “I am sure I don't know
what's best to do;” and he turned away and began to pace the yard
moodily up and down.

“The only thing I have decided,” he said to Ned the next day, “is to ask
Mother Brown myself how much Mather paid her. We may as well settle that
question first.”

As this was Wednesday and the cake woman was coming that evening there
was not long to wait. Ripon chose a time when most of the boys had made
their purchases and the old woman was alone.

“Don't you give too much tick to any of the fellows, Mother Brown,” he
began. “You know it isn't always easy to get money that's owing.”

“I should think not, Master Ripon; I wish they would always pay money
down as you do. There's Master Mather, he been owing me money ever since
last half. He borrowed ten shillings of me and promised solemn he would
pay at the end of the week, and he has only paid five shillings yet, a
month ago, and that was only 'cause I told him I would tell the
master about him; there's that five shillings, and seven shillings and
eightpence for cakes and things; but I have been giving him a piece of
my mind this afternoon; and if I don't get that other five shillings by
Saturday, sure enough I will speak to t' maister about it. No one can
say as Mother Brown is hard on boys, and I am always ready to wait
reasonable; but I can't abear lies, and when I lent that ten shillings I
expected it was going to be paid punctual.”

“Then he knows you are going to speak to Mr. Porson on Saturday if he
doesn't pay up another five shillings?”

“He knows it,” the old woman said, nodding. “When I says a thing I mean
it. So he had best pay up.”

When Ripon met Ned next day he said: “I talked to her last night. Mather
paid her five shillings, and she has told him if he doesn't pay her the
other five by Saturday she will speak to Porson; so I think the best
plan is to wait till then and see what comes of it. She will tell the
whole story and Porson will learn it without our interference, and can
think what he likes about it.”

Relieved in mind at finding that there was a prospect of his avoiding
the decision whether or not to inform the master of his suspicions, Ned
went to his desk. When afternoon school began Mr. Porson said gravely:

“Boys, when you came back from the field did you all go straight to the
washing room to wash your hands before dinner?”

There was a chorus of surprised assent.

“I am sorry to tell you that another theft has been committed. A gold
pencil case has disappeared from my study table. I was using it after
school. I left it on the table when I went for a stroll before dinner.
I remember most distinctly laying it down among the pens. I went into my
study ten minutes ago; and wanting to make a note as to this afternoon's
work looked for the pencil and it was gone. The window was open as
usual, and it is possible that tramps passing along the road may have
come into the garden and have got in at the window. As in the case of
the book I suspect no one, but two such occurrences as these are very
uncomfortable for us all. I shall not propose any search this time, for
had any of you taken it, which I cannot for a moment believe, he would
not have been careless enough to put it in his pocket, or conceal it in
his desk or boxes, but would have stowed it away somewhere where there
would be no chance whatever of its being found. Now let us dismiss the
subject and go on with our lessons.”

While the master was speaking Ripon and Sankey had glanced for a moment
at each other; the same thought was in both their minds. After school
was over they joined each other in the yard.

“Was Mather in the washing room with the others?” Sankey asked eagerly.

“He was, but he came up last,” Ripon replied. “You know he generally
saunters along in a lazy way and is the last to get in. So he was today,
but I don't know that he was later than usual.”

“I think, Ripon, we ought to speak to Porson.”

“I think so too,” Ripon rejoined gravely; “it is too serious to keep to
ourselves. Any ordinary thing I would not peach about on any account,
but a disgraceful theft like this, which throws a doubt over us all, is
another thing; the honor of the whole school is at stake. I have been
thinking it over. I don't want Mather to suspect anything, so I will go
out at the back gate with you, as if I was going to walk part of the way
home with you, and then we will go round to the front door and speak to
Porson.”

The master was sitting on a low seat in the window of his study. Hearing
footsteps coming up from the front gate he looked round.

“Do you want to speak to me, boys?” he asked in some surprise through
the open window. “What makes you come round the front way?”

“We want to see you privately, sir,” Ripon said.

“Very well, boys, I will open the door for you.

“Now, what is it?” he asked as the boys followed him into the study.

“Well, sir, it may be nothing, I am sure I hope so,” Ripon said, “but
Sankey and I thought you ought to know and then it will be off our
minds, and you can do as you like about it. Now, Sankey, tell what you
knew first, then I will tell what Mother Brown said to me on Wednesday.”

Ned told the story in the same words in which he had related it to
Ripon; and Ripon then detailed his conversation with the cake woman, and
her threats of reporting Mather on Saturday were the debt not paid. Ned
had already given his reason for keeping silence in the matter hitherto,
and Ripon now explained that they had determined to wait till Saturday
to see what came of it, but that after that new theft they deemed it
their duty to speak at once. Mr. Porson sat with his face half shaded
with his hand and without speaking a single word until the boys had
concluded.

“It is a sad business,” he said in a low tone, “a very sad business. It
is still possible that you may have come to false conclusions; but
the circumstances you have related are terribly strong. I am grieved,
indeed, over the business, and would rather have lost a hundred books
and pencil cases than it should have happened. You have done quite
right, boys; I am greatly obliged to you both, and you have acted very
well. I know how painful it must be to you both to have been obliged to
bring so grave a matter to my ears. Thank you; I will consider what is
the best course to adopt. If it can be avoided, I shall so arrange that
your names do not appear in the matter.”

For some little time after the boys had left him Mr. Porson remained
in deep thought; then he rose, put on his hat, and went out, first
inquiring of the servant if she knew where the woman who sold cakes to
the boys lived.

“Yes, sir; she lives in a little house in Mill Street; it's not a
regular shop, but there are a few cakes in one of the windows; I have
bought things there for the kitchen, knowing that she dealt with the
young gentlemen.”

Mr. Porson made his way to Mill Street and easily found the house he
was in search of. On being questioned the old woman at first showed some
reluctance in answering his questions, but Mr. Porson said sharply:

“Now, dame, I want no nonsense; I am acquainted with the whole affair,
but wish to have it from your own lips. Unless you tell me the whole
truth not a cake will you sell my boys in future.”

Thus pressed Mrs. Brown at once related the story of Mather having
borrowed some money of her; of her threats to report him unless he paid,
and of his having given her five shillings on the following Saturday,
saying that he would give her the rest in a few days, but could pay no
more then; and how, after repeated disappointments, she had now given
him till Saturday to settle the debt.

“If he didn't pay, sir, I meant to have come to ye and telled ye all
about it, for I hate lies, and Master Mather has lied to me over and
over again about it; but seeing that Saturday hasn't come I don't like
telling ye the story, as he may have meant to keep his word to me this
time.”

“Here are the five shillings which he borrowed of you; as to the other
money, you will never get it, and I hope it will be a lesson to you; and
mind, if I find that you ever allow the boys to run an account with you
further than the following Saturday after it is incurred, you will never
come into my field or playground again.”

Mr. Porson then went to the chief constable's, and after a short
conversation with him a constable was told off to accompany him. He and
the master took their station at a short distance from the shop of the
man White and waited quietly. A little after nine a figure was seen
coming down the street from the other end. He passed quickly into the
shop.

“That is the boy,” Mr. Porson said.

“Wouldn't it be better, sir,” the constable asked, “to wait till the
deed is completed, then we can lay our hands on White as a receiver?”

“No,” Mr. Porson replied, “for in that case the boy would have to appear
with him in the dock, and that I wish of all things to avoid.”

So saying he walked quickly on and entered the shop.

Mather was leaning across the counter while the man was examining the
pencil case by the light of the candle.

“Five shillings,” the man said, “and no more. I was nearly getting into
trouble over that last job of yours.”

“But it's worth a great deal more than that,” Mather said. “You might
give me ten.”

“Well, take it back then,” the man said, pushing it across the counter.

“Thank you, I will take it myself,” Mr. Porson said quietly, as he
advanced and stretched out his hand.

Mather turned round with a sudden cry, and then stood the picture of
silent terror.

“As for you,” the master said indignantly to the dealer, “you scoundrel,
if you had your deserts I would hand you over to the constable, who is
outside the door, as a receiver of stolen goods, and for inciting this
boy to theft. I heard you offer him a sum of money for it which shows
that you knew it was stolen; but your time will come, sir, and you will
hang over the gate of York prison as many a poor wretch far less guilty
than yourself has done;” for in those days death was the punishment
of receivers of stolen goods, as well as of these convicted of highway
robbery and burglary.

“Have mercy, sir, oh, spare me!” Mather exclaimed, falling on his knees.
“Don't give me in charge.”

“I am not going to do so,” the master said. “Get up and come with me.”

Not a word was spoken on the way back to the school.

Mr. Porson then took Mather into his study, where they remained for half
an hour. What passed between them was never known. In the morning the
boys who slept in the room with Mather were surprised to find that his
bed was empty and the window open. He had gone to bed at half past eight
as usual, and saying he was sleepy had threatened to punch the head of
any boy who spoke, so that all had gone off to sleep in a very short
time. A stout ivy grew against the wall, and some fallen leaves on the
ground showed them that he had climbed down with the assistance of its
stem. But why he should have gone, and what on earth possessed him to
run away, none could imagine. The news ran rapidly through the other
bedrooms, and brimful of excitement all went down when the bell rang for
prayers before breakfast. The list of names was called out by the master
as usual, and the excitement grew breathless as the roll of the third
class was called; but to the astonishment of all, Mather's name was
omitted. When the list was concluded Mr. Porson said:

“Mather has left; I grieve to say that I have discovered that it was he
who stole the book and pencil case. He has confessed the whole to me,
and he is, I trust, sincerely penitent. He slept last night on the sofa
in my study, and has gone off this morning by the coach. I have written
to his parents stating the whole circumstances under which he was driven
to commit the theft, and that although I could not permit him to remain
here, I trusted and believed that his repentance was sincere, and that
it would be a lesson to him through life, and I urged them to give him a
further trial, and not to drive him to desperation by severity.

“There is a lesson which you may all learn from this. Mather committed
these crimes because he had borrowed money which he could not repay.
Most foolishly and mistakenly the woman who supplies you with cakes had
lent him money and when he could not repay it according to his promise
to her, threatened to report the case to me, and it was to prevent
the matter coming to my ears that he took these things. Let this be a
warning to you, boys, through life. Never borrow money, never spend
more than your means afford. An extravagance may seem to you but a small
fault, but you see crime and disgrace may follow upon it. Think this
well over, and be lenient in your hearts to your late schoolfellow.
He was tempted, you see, and none of us can tell what he may do when
temptation comes, unless we have God's help to enable us to withstand
it, and to do what is right. Now let us fall to at our breakfast.”

It was a strangely silent meal. Scarce a word was spoken, even in a
whisper. It came as a shock to everybody there, that after all the
dictionary should have been taken by one of their number, and that the
master's kindness on that occasion should have been requited by another
robbery seemed a disgrace to the whole school. That Mather, too, always
loud, noisy, and overbearing, should have been the thief was surprising
indeed. Had it been some quiet little boy, the sort of boy others are
given to regard as a sneak, there would have been less surprise, but
that Mather should do such a thing was astounding. These were probably
the first reflections which occurred to every boy as he sat down to
breakfast.

The next impression was how good Mr. Porson had been about it. He might
have given Mother in charge, and had him punished by law. He might have
given him a terrific flogging and a public expulsion before all the
school. Instead of that he had sent him quietly away, and seemed sorry
for rather than angry with him. By the time the meal was finished there
was probably not a boy but had taken an inward resolution that there was
nothing he would not do for his master, and although such resolutions
are generally but transient, Mr. Porson found that the good effect of
his treatment of Mather was considerable and permanent. Lessons were
more carefully learned, obedience was not perhaps more prompt, but
it was more willing, and the boys lost no opportunity of showing how
anxious they were to please in every respect.

Ned and his brother were not present when Mr. Porson explained the cause
of Mather's absence to the others, but they were surrounded by their
schoolfellows, all eager to tell the news upon their arrival in the
playground a few minutes before the school began.

Before breaking up in June, Porson's played their first cricket match
with a strong village team, and beat them handsomely, although, as the
boys said, it was to their master's bowling that their success was due.
Still the eleven all batted fairly, and made so long a score that they
won in one innings; and Mr. Porson promised them that before the season
ended they should have a whole holiday, and play the Marsden eleven.

Ned enjoyed his holiday rambles, taking several long walks across the
moors accompanied by Bill Swinton, who had now perfectly recovered. The
discontent among the croppers, and indeed among the workers in the mills
generally through the country was as great as ever; but the season was a
good one; bread had fallen somewhat in price, and the pinch was a little
less severe than it had been. The majority of the masters had been
intimidated by the action of their hands from introducing the new
machinery, and so far the relations between master and men, in that part
of Yorkshire at any rate, remained unchanged. But although Ned enjoyed
his rambles he was glad when the holidays were over. He had no friends
of his own age in Marsden; his brother was too young to accompany him
in his long walks, and Bill obtained a berth in one of the mills shortly
after the holidays began, and was no longer available. Therefore Ned
looked forward to meeting his schoolfellows again, to the fun of the
cricket field and playground, and even to lessons, for these were no
longer terrible.

The school reopened with largely increased numbers. The reports which
the boys had taken home of the changed conditions of things and of their
master's kindness excited among all their friends an intense longing to
go to a school where the state of things was so different to that which
prevailed elsewhere; and the parents were equally satisfied with the
results of the new master's teaching. Such as took the trouble to ask
their boys questions found that they had acquired a real grasp of the
subjects, and that they were able to answer clearly and intelligently.
The consequence was, the house was filled with its full complement of
fifty boarders, and indeed Mr. Porson was obliged to refuse several
applications for want of room. As he had not the same objection as
his predecessor to receive home boarders, the numbers were swelled by
eighteen boys whose parents resided in Marsden.

To meet the increased demands upon his teaching powers Mr. Porson
engaged two ushers, both of them young men who had just left Durham.
They were both pleasant and gentlemanly young fellows; and as Mr. Porson
insisted that his own mode of teaching should be adopted, the change did
not alter the pleasant state of things which had prevailed during the
past half year. Both the ushers were fond of cricket, and one turned
out to be at least equal to Mr. Porson as a bowler. Therefore the boys
looked forward to their match with Marsden with some confidence.

Captain Sankey saw with great pleasure the steady improvement which was
taking place in Ned's temper. It was not to be expected that the boy
would at once overcome a fault of such long standing, but the outbursts
were far less frequent, and it was evident that he was putting a steady
check upon himself; so that his father looked forward to the time when
he would entirely overcome the evil consequences engendered by his
unchecked and undisciplined childhood.




CHAPTER VII: A TERRIBLE SHOCK


Ned had been looking forward with great anticipations to Michaelmas
day, upon which the great match was to take place; for he was one of
the eleven, being the youngest of the boys included in it. An event,
however, happened which deprived him of his share in the match, and
caused the day to pass almost unnoticed. On the 20th of September the
servant came in to Mr. Porson during morning school to say that he was
wanted. A minute or two later she again re-entered and said that Ned
and his brother were to go to the master's study. Much surprised at this
summons they followed her. Mr. Porson was looking exceedingly grave.

“My dear boys,” he said, “I have bad news for you. Very bad news. You
must bear it bravely, looking for support and consolation to Him who
alone can give it. Dr. Green's boy has just been here. He was sent
down by his master to say that there has been a serious accident in the
town.”

The commencement of the master's speech and the graveness of his tone
sent a serious thrill through the hearts of the boys. Mr. Porson would
never have spoken thus had not the news been serious indeed.

When he paused Ned gave a little gasp and exclaimed, “My father!”

“Yes, Ned, I am grieved to say that it is your brave father who has
suffered from the accident. It seems that as he was walking down the
High Street one of Ramsay's heavy wagons came along. A little girl ran
across the street ahead, but stumbled and fell close to the horses. Your
father, forgetful of the fact of his wooden leg, rushed over to lift
her; but the suddenness of the movement, he being a heavy man, snapped
the wooden leg in sunder, and he fell headlong in the street. He was
within reach of the child, and he caught her by the clothes and jerked
her aside; but before he could, in his crippled condition, regain
his feet, the wheel was upon him, and he has suffered very serious
injuries.”

“He is not dead, sir?” Ned gasped, while his brother began to cry
piteously.

“No, Ned, he is not dead,” Mr. Porson said; “but I fear, my dear boy,
that it would be cruel kindness did I not tell you to prepare yourself
for the worst. I fear from what I hear that he is fatally injured, and
that there is but little hope. Get your hats, my boys, and I will walk
home with you at once.”

There were but few words exchanged during that dismal walk, and these
were addressed by Mr. Porson to Ned.

“Try to calm yourself, my boy,” he said, putting his hand on his
shoulder, which was shaking with the boy's efforts to keep down his
convulsive sobs; “try and nerve yourselves for the sake of your father
himself, of your mother, and the little ones. The greatest kindness you
can show to your father new is by being calm and composed.”

“I will try, sir,” Ned said as steadily as he could; “but you don't know
how I loved him!”

“I can guess it, my boy; for I, too, lost my father when I was just your
age. God's ways are not our ways, Ned; and be sure, although you may not
see it now, that he acts for the best.”

A little crowd stood gathered near the door. They were talking in low
tones of the gallant way in which the crippled officer had sacrificed
himself to save the child. They made way silently for the boys to pass.
Ned opened the door and entered.

Abijah was in the hall. She was tearless, but her face was white and
set.

“My poor boy,” she said to Ned, “he is in the parlor; he has just been
asking for you. I am glad you have come. Your mother is in hysterics in
her bedroom, and is going on like a mad woman. You must be calm, dear,
for your father's sake.”

Ned gave a little nod, and, taking his brother's hand, opened the door
of the parlor.

Captain Sankey was lying on the hearth rug, his head propped up with
pillows from the sofa; his face was an ashen pallor, and his eyes were
closed. The doctor was kneeling beside him, pouring some liquid from a
glass between his lips. A strong friendship had sprung up between
the two men, and tears were running fast down the doctor's cheeks. He
motioned to the boys to approach. They fell on their knees by their
father's side.

“Sankey,” the doctor said in a steady voice, “here are your boys, Ned
and Charlie.”

The eyes of the dying man opened slowly, and he looked at his sons, and
Ned felt a slight pressure of the hand which he had taken in his own.

“God bless you, my boys!” he said, in a faint whisper. “Ned, be kind to
your mother; care for her always. She will need all your kindness.”

“I will, father,” the boy said steadily. “I will take care of mother, I
promise you.”

A faint smile passed over the pale face; then the eyes closed again, and
there was silence for five minutes, broken only by the sobbing of the
younger boy. The doctor, who had his fingers on the pulse of Captain
Sankey, leaned closely over him; then he laid his arm gently down, and
putting his hand on Ned's shoulder said softly:

“Come, my boy, your father is out of pain now.”

Ned gave one loud and bitter cry, and threw himself down by the side of
the corpse, and gave way to his pent up emotion.

The doctor led the younger boy from the room, and gave him into the care
of Abijah. Then he returned and stood for awhile watching Ned's terrible
outburst of grief; then he poured some wine into a glass.

“My boy,” he said tenderly, “you must not give way like this or you will
make yourself ill. Drink this, Ned, and then go up and lie down on your
bed until you feel better. Remember you must be strong for the sake of
the others. You know you will have to bear your mother's burdens as well
as your own.”

He helped Ned to his feet and held the glass to his lips, for the boy's
hand was shaking so that he could not have held it. After drinking it
Ned stumbled upstairs and threw himself on the bed, and there cried
silently for a long time; but the first passion of grief had passed, and
he now struggled with his tears, and in an hour rose, bathed his flushed
and swollen face, and went downstairs.

“Abijah,” he said, in a voice which he struggled in vain to steady,
“what is there for me to do? How is my mother?”

“She has just cried herself off to sleep, Master Ned, and a mercy it is
for her, poor lady, for she has been going on dreadful ever since he was
brought in here; but if you go in to Master Charlie and Miss Lucy and
try and comfort them it would be a blessing. I have not been able
to leave your mother till now, and the poor little things are broken
hearted. I feel dazed myself, sir. Think of the captain, who went out so
strong and well this morning, speaking so kind and bright just as usual,
lying there!” and here Abijah broke down and for the first time since
Captain Sankey was carried into the house tears came to her relief, and
throwing her arms round Ned's neck she wept passionately.

Ned's own tears flowed too fast for him to speak for some time. At last
he said quietly, “Don't cry so, Abijah. It is the death of all others
that was fitted for him, he, so brave and unselfish, to die giving his
life to save a child. You told me to be brave; it is you who must be
brave, for you know that you must be our chief dependence now.”

“I know, Master Ned; I know, sir,” the woman said, choking down her
sobs, and wiping her eyes with her apron, “and I will do my best, never
fear. I feel better now I have had a good cry. Somehow I wasn't able to
cry before. Now, sir, do you go to the children and I will look after
things.”

A fortnight passed. Captain Sankey had been laid in his grave, after
such a funeral as had never been seen in Marsden, the mills being closed
for the day, and all the shutters up throughout the little town, the
greater part of the population attending the funeral as a mark of
respect to the man who, after fighting the battles of his country, had
now given his life for that of a child. The great cricket match did not
come off, it being agreed on all hands that it had better be postponed.
Mr. Porson had called twice to see Ned, and had done much by his
comforting words to enable him to bear up. He came again the day after
the funeral.

“Ned,” he said, “I think that you and Charlie had better come to school
again on Monday. The sooner you fall into your regular groove the
better. It would only do you both harm to mope about the house here; and
although the laughter and noise of your schoolfellows will jar upon you
for awhile, it is better to overcome the feeling at once; and I am sure
that you will best carry out what would have been his wishes by setting
to your work again instead of wasting your time in listless grieving.”

“I think so too, sir,” Ned said, “but it will be awfully hard at first,
and so terrible to come home and have no one to question one on the
day's work, and to take an interest in what we have been doing.”

“Very hard, Ned; I thoroughly agree with you, but it has to be borne,
and remember there is One who will take interest in your work. If I were
you I should take your brother out for walks this week. Get up into the
hills with him, and try and get the color back into his cheeks again.
He is not so strong as you are, and the confinement is telling upon
him--the fresh air will do you good, too.”

Ned promised to take his master's advice, and the next morning started
after breakfast with Charlie. His mother had not yet risen, and indeed
had not been downstairs since the day of the accident, protesting that
she was altogether unequal to any exertion whatever. Ned had sat with
her for many hours each day, but he had indeed found it hard work.
Sometimes she wept, her tears being mingled with self reproaches
that she had not been able to do more to brighten her husband's life.
Sometimes she would break off and reproach the boy bitterly for what she
called his want of feeling. At other times her thoughts seemed directed
solely toward the fashion of her mourning garments, and after the
funeral she drove Ned almost to madness by wanting to knew all the
details of who was there and what was done, and was most indignant with
him because he was able to tell her nothing, the whole scene having been
as a mist to him, absorbed as he was in the thought of his father alone.

But Ned had never showed the least sign of impatience or hastiness,
meeting tears, reproaches, and inquiries with the same stoical calmness
and gentleness. Still it was with a sigh of relief that he took a long
breath of fresh air as he left the house and started for a ramble on the
moor with his brother. He would have avoided Varley, for he shrank even
from the sympathy which Bill Swinton would give; but Bill would be
away, so as it was the shortest way he took that road. As he passed Luke
Marner's cottage the door opened and Mary came down to the gate. One of
the little ones had seen Ned coming along the road and had run off to
tell her. Little Jane Marner trotted along by Polly's side.

“Good morning, Polly!” Ned said, and walked on. He dreaded speech with
any one. Polly saw his intention and hesitated; then she said:

“Good morning, Master Ned! One moment, please, sir.”

Ned paused irresolutely.

“Please don't say anything,” he began.

“No, sir, I am not a-going to--at least--” and then she hesitated, and
lifted up the child, who was about four years old, a soft eyed, brown
haired little maiden.

“It's little Jenny,” she said; “you know sir, you know;” and she looked
meaningly at the child as the tears stood in her eyes.

Ned understood at once.

“What!” he said; “was it her? I did not know; I had not heard.”

“Yes, sir; she and all of us owe her life to him. Feyther wanted to come
down to you, but I said better not yet awhile, you would understand.”

“How did it happen?” Ned said, feeling that here at least his wound
would be touched with no rough hand.

“She went down to the town with Jarge, who was going to fetch some
things I wanted. He left her looking in at a shop window while he went
inside. They were some time serving him as there were other people in
the shop. Jenny got tired, as she says, of waiting, and seeing some
pictures in a window on the other side of the street started to run
across, and her foot slipped, and--and--”

“I know,” Ned said. “I am glad you have told me, Polly. I am glad it
was some one one knows something about. Don't say anything more now, I
cannot bear it.”

“I understand, sir,” the girl said gently. “God bless you!”

Ned nodded. He could not trust himself to speak, and turning he passed
on with Charlie through the village, while Mary Powlett, with the child
still in her arms, stood looking sorrowfully after him as long as he was
in sight.

“So thou'st seen the boy?” Luke said, when on his return from work Polly
told him what had happened. “Thou told's him, oi hope, how we all felt
about it, and how grateful we was?”

“I didn't say much, feyther, he could not bear it; just a word or two;
if I had said more he would have broken out crying, and so should I.”

“Thou hast cried enoo, lass, the last ten days. Thou hast done nowt but
cry,” Luke said kindly, “and oi felt sore inclined to join thee. Oi
ha' had hard work to keep back the tears, old though oi be, and oi a
cropper.”

“You are just as soft hearted as I am, feyther, every bit, so don't
pretend you are not;” and indeed upon the previous day Luke Marner had
broken down even more completely than Mary. He had followed the funeral
at a short distance, keeping with Mary aloof from the crowd; but when
all was over, and the churchyard was left in quiet again, Luke had gone
and stood by the still open grave of the man who had given his life
for his child's, and had stood there with the tears streaming down his
cheeks, and his strong frame so shaken by emotion that Polly had been
forced to dry her own eyes and stifle her sobs, and to lead him quietly
away.

“Strange, bain't it, lass; feyther and son seem mixed up with Varley.
First the lad has a foight wi' Bill Swinton, and braakes the boy's leg;
then t' feyther sends oop all sorts o' things to Bill, and his son comes
up here and gets as friendly with Bill as if he were his brother, and
gets to know you, and many another in the village. Then our Jane goes
down into t' town and would ha' lost her life if captain he hadn't been
passing by and saaved her. Then he gets killed. Just gived his life for
hearn. Looks like a fate aboot it; may be it eel be our toorn next, and
if ever that lad waants a man to stand beside him Luke Marner will be
there. And there's Bill too--oi believe that boy would lay down his life
for him. He's very fond of our Janey--fonder nor her own brothers. He
ain't got no sister of his own, and he's took to t' child wonderful
since he got ill. He thowt a soight o' Ned Sankey afore; I doan't know
what he wouldn't do for him now.”

“I don't suppose, feyther, as any of us will be able to do anything for
him; but we may do, who knows?”

“Ay, who knows, lass? toimes is main bad, and oi doot there will be
trouble, but oi doan't see as that can affect him no ways, being as he
is a lad, and having nowt to do with the mills--but oi do hoape as the
time may come, lass, as we can show un as we knows we owes a loife to
him.”

On the Monday following Ned and Charlie returned to school, and found it
less painful than Ned had expected. Mr. Porson had taken Ripon aside and
had told that the kindest way to treat the boys would be to avoid all
allusion to their loss or anything like a show of open sympathy, but to
let them settle quietly into their places.

“Sankey will know you all feel for him, Ripon, he will need no telling
of that.”

Ripon passed the word round the school, and accordingly when the boys
came into the playground, two or three minutes before the bell rang,
Ned, to his great relief, found that with the exception of a warm silent
wring of the hand from a few of those with whom he was most intimate,
and a kindly nod from others, no allusion was made to his fortnight's
absence or its cause.

For the next month he worked hard and made up the time he had lost,
running straight home when he came out from school, and returning just
in time to go in with the others; but gradually he fell into his former
ways, and by the time the school broke up at Christmas was able to mix
with the boys and take part in their games. At home he did his best to
make things bright, but it was uphill work. Mrs. Sankey was fretful and
complaining. Their income was reduced by the loss of Captain Sankey's
half pay, and they had now only the interest of the fortune of four
thousand pounds which Mrs. Sankey had brought to her husband on her
marriage. This sum had been settled upon her, and was entirely under her
own control. The income was but a small one, but it was sufficient for
the family to live upon with care and prudence.

Captain Sankey had made many friends since the time when he first
settled at Marsden, and all vied with each other in their kindness to
his widow. Presents of game were constantly left for her; baskets of
chickens, eggs, and fresh vegetables were sent down by Squire Simmonds
and other county magnates, and their carriages often stopped at the door
to make inquiries. Many people who had not hitherto called now did so,
and all Marsden seemed anxious to testify its sympathy with the widow of
the brave officer.

Ned was touched with these evidences of respect for his father's memory.
Mrs. Sankey was pleased for herself, and she would of an evening inform
Ned with much gratification of the visits she had received.

Ned was glad that anything should occur which could rouse his mother,
and divert her from her own grievances; but the tone in which she spoke
often jarred painfully upon him, and he wondered how his mother could
find it in her heart to receive these people and to talk over his
father's death.

But Mrs. Sankey liked it. She was conscious she looked well in her
deep mourning, and that even the somber cap was not unbecoming with her
golden hair peeping out beneath it. Tears were always at her command,
and she had ever a few ready to drop upon her dainty embroidered
handkerchief when the occasion commanded it; and her visitors, when they
agreed among themselves, what a soft gentle woman that poor Mrs.
Sankey was, but sadly delicate you know--had no idea of the querulous
complaining and fretfulness whose display was reserved for her own
family only.

To this Ned was so accustomed that it passed ever his head almost
unheeded; not so her constant allusions to his father. Wholly
unconscious of the agony which it inflicted upon the boy, Mrs. Sankey
was incessantly quoting his opinions or utterances.

“Ned, I do wish you would not fidget with your feet. You know your dear
father often told you of it;” or, “As your dear father used to say,
Ned;” until the boy in despair would throw down his book and rush out
of the room to calm himself by a run in the frosty night air; while Mrs.
Sankey would murmur to herself, “That boy's temper gets worse and worse,
and with my poor nerves how am I to control him?”

Mr. Porson was very kind to him in those days. During that summer
holiday he had very frequently spent the evening at Captain Sankey's,
and had formed a pretty correct idea of the character of Ned's mother.
Thus when he saw that Ned, when he entered the school after breakfast or
dinner, had an anxious hunted look, and was clearly in a state of high
tension, he guessed he was having a bad time of it at home.

Charlie had fast got over the shock of his father's death; children
quickly recover from a blow, and, though delicate, Charlie was of a
bright and gentle disposition, ready to be pleased at all times, and not
easily upset.

One morning when Ned came in from school looking pale and white, gave
random answers to questions, and even, to the astonishment of the class,
answered Mr. Porson himself snappishly, the master, when school was over
and the boys were leaving their places, said:

“Sankey, I want to have a few words with you in the study.”

Ned followed his master with an air of indifference. He supposed that
he was going to be lectured for the way he had spoken, but as he said to
himself, “What did it matter! what did anything matter!”

Mr. Porson did not sit down on entering the room, but when Ned had
closed the door after him took a step forward and laid his hand on his
shoulder.

“My boy,” he said, “what is it that is wrong with you? I fear that you
have trouble at home.”

Ned stood silent, but the tears welled up into his eyes.

“It can't be helped, sir,” he said in a choking voice, and then with
an attempt at gayety: “it will be all the same fifty years hence, I
suppose.”

“That is a poor consolation, Ned,” Mr. Porson rejoined. “Fifty years is
a long time to look forward to. Can't we do anything before that?”

Ned was silent.

“I do not want you to tell me, Ned, anything that happens at home--God
forbid that I should pry into matters so sacred as relations between a
boy and a parent!--but I can see, my boy, that something is wrong. You
are not yourself. At first when you came back I thought all was well
with you; you were, as was natural, sad and depressed, but I should
not wish it otherwise. But of late a change has come ever you; you are
nervous and excited; you have gone down in your class, not, I can see,
because you have neglected your work, but because you cannot bring your
mind to bear upon it. Now all this must have a cause. Perhaps a little
advice on my part might help you. We shall break up in a week, Ned, and
I shall be going away for a time. I should like to think before I went
that things were going on better with you.”

“I don't want to say anything against my mother,” Ned said in a low
voice. “She means kindly, sir; but, oh! it is so hard to bear. She is
always talking about father, not as you would talk, sir, but just as if
he were alive and might come in at any moment, and it seems sometimes as
if it would drive me out of my mind.”

“No doubt it is trying, my boy,” Mr. Porson said; “but you see natures
differ, and we must all bear with each other and make allowances. Your
mother's nature, as far as I have seen of her, is not a deep one. She
was very fond of your father, and she is fond of you; but you know,
just as still waters run deep, shallow waters are full of ripples, and
eddies, and currents. She has no idea that what seems natural and
right to her should jar upon you. You upon your part can scarcely make
sufficient allowance for her different treatment of a subject which is
to you sacred. I know how you miss your father, but your mother must
miss him still more. No man ever more lovingly and patiently tended a
woman than he did her so far as lay in his power. She had not a wish
ungratified. You have in your work an employment which occupies your
thoughts and prevents them from turning constantly to one subject; she
has nothing whatever to take her thoughts from the past. It is better
for her to speak of him often than to brood over him in silence. Your
tribute to your father's memory is deep and silent sorrow, hers is
frequent allusions. Doubtless her way jars upon you; but, Ned, you are
younger than she, and it is easier for you to change. Why not try and
accept her method as being a part of her, and try, instead of wincing
every time that she touches the sore, to accustom yourself to it. It may
be hard at first, but it will be far easier in the end.”

Ned stood silent for a minute or two; then he said:

“I will try, sir. My father's last words to me were to be kind to
mother, and I have tried hard, and I will go on trying.”

“That is right, my boy; and ask God to help you. We all have our
trials in this life, and this at present is yours; pray God to give you
strength to bear it.”




CHAPTER VIII: NED IS SORELY TRIED


Among the many who called upon Mrs. Sankey after the death of her
husband was Mr. Mulready, the owner of a mill near Marsden. He was one
of the leading men in the place, although his mill was by no means a
large one. He took rank in the eyes of the little town with men in a
much larger way of business by means of a pushing manner and a fluent
tongue. He had come to be considered an authority upon most subjects.
He paid much attention to his dress, and drove the fastest horse and the
best got up gig in that part of the country; but it was Mr. Mulready's
manner which above all had raised him to his present position in the
esteem of the good people of Marsden. He had the knack of adapting
himself to the vein of those he addressed.

With the farmers who came into market he was bluff and cordial; with the
people in general he was genial and good tempered. At meetings at which
the county gentry were present he was quiet, businesslike, and a trifle
deferential, showing that he recognized the difference between his
position and theirs.

With ladies he was gay when they were gay, sympathetic when sympathy was
expected. With them he was even more popular than with the men, for
the latter, although they admired and somewhat envied his varied
acquirements, were apt in the intimacy of private conversation to speak
of him as a humbug.

There was one exception, however, to his general popularity. There
was no mill owner in the neighborhood more heartily detested by his
workpeople; but as these did not mingle with the genteel classes of
Marsden their opinion of Mr. Mulready went for nothing. The mill owner
was a man of forty-three or forty-four, although when dressed in his
tightly fitting brown coat with its short waist, its brass buttons, and
high collar, and with a low hat with narrow brim worn well forward and
coming down almost to the bridge of his nose, he looked seven or eight
years younger.

His hair was light, his trimly cut muttonchop whiskers were sandy, he
had a bright, fresh complexion, a large mouth, and good teeth, which he
always showed when he smiled, and in public he was always smiling;
his eyes were light in color, very close together, and had a somewhat
peculiar appearance. Indeed there were men who hinted that he had a
slight cast, but these were, no doubt, envious of his popularity.

Mrs. Sankey had been flattered by his visit and manner; indeed it
could hardly have been otherwise, for he had expressed a sympathy and
deference which were very soothing to her.

“It is indeed kind of you to receive me,” he had said. “I know, of
course, that it is not usual for a man who has the misfortune to be
unmarried to make a call upon a lady, but I could not help myself.
William Mulready is not a man to allow his feelings to be sacrificed
to the cold etiquette of the world. I had not the pleasure of the
acquaintance of that most brave and distinguished officer your late
husband. I had hoped that some day circumstances might throw me in
contact with him, but it was not for me, a humble manufacturer, to force
my acquaintance upon one socially my superior; but, my dear madam, when
I heard of that terrible accident, of that noble self devotion, I said
to myself, 'William Mulready, when a proper and decent time elapses you
must call upon the relict of your late noble and distinguished townsman,
and assure her of your sympathy and admiration, even if she spurns you
from the door.'”

“You could not think I should do that, Mr. Mulready,” Mrs. Sankey said.
“It is most gratifying to me to receive this mark of sympathy in my
present sad position;” and she sighed deeply.

“You are good indeed to say so,” Mr. Mulready said in a tone of deep
gratitude; “but I might have been sure that my motives at least would
not be misunderstood by a high bred and delicate lady like yourself. I
will not now trespass on your time, but hope that I may be permitted to
call again. Should there be anything in which so humble an individual
could be in the slightest degree useful to you pray command my services.
I know the responsibility which you must feel at being left in charge of
those two noble boys and your charming little daughter must be well nigh
overwhelming, and if you would not think it presumption I would say that
any poor advice or opinion which I, who call myself in some degree a man
of the world, can give, will be always at your service.”

“You are very good,” Mrs. Sankey murmured. “It is indeed a
responsibility. My younger boy and girl are all that I could wish, but
the elder is already almost beyond me;” and by the shake of her head she
testified that her troubles on that score approached martyrdom.

“Never fear, my dear madam,” Mr. Mulready said heartily. “Boys will be
boys, and I doubt not that he will grow up everything that you could
desire. I may have heard that he was a little passionate. There was a
trifling affair between him and his schoolmaster, was there not? But
these things mend themselves, and doubtless all will come well in time;
and now I have the honor of wishing you good morning.”

“Charming manners!” Mrs. Sankey said to herself when her visitor had
left. “A little old fashioned, perhaps, but so kind and deferential. He
seemed to understand my feelings exactly.”

That evening when they were at tea Mrs. Sankey mentioned the agreeable
visitor who had called in the afternoon.

“What! William Mulready!” Ned exclaimed; “Foxey, as his hands call him.
I have heard Bill speak of him often. His men hate him. They say he is a
regular tyrant. What impudence his coming here!”

“Ned, I am surprised at you,” his mother said angrily. “I am sure Mr.
Mulready is nothing of the sort. He is a most kind and considerate
gentleman, and I will not allow you to repeat these things you hear from
the low companions whom your father permitted you to associate with.”

“Bill is not a low companion, mother,” Ned exclaimed passionately. “A
better fellow never stood, and Foxey is not kind and considerate. He is
a brutal tyrant, and I am sure my father, if you will quote his opinion,
would not have had such a man inside his doors.”

“Leave the room, Ned, this moment,” his mother exclaimed, more angry
than he had ever seen her before. “I am ashamed of you speaking to me in
that way. You would not have dared to do it had your father been alive.”

Ned dashed down his scarcely begun bread and butter and flung himself
out of the room, and then out of the house, and it was some hours before
he returned. Then he went straight up to his mother's room.

“I beg your pardon, mother,” he said quietly. “I am very sorry I spoke
as I did. I ought not to have done so.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Sankey said coldly; “then don't do it again, Ned.”

Without another word Ned went off to his books. He was grieved and sore
at heart. He had during his walk fought a hard battle with himself, and
had conquered. As his temper cooled down he had felt that he had broken
his promise, that he had not been kind to his mother; felt, too, that
her accusation was a true one--he would not have dared to speak so to
her had his father been alive.

“But it was so different then,” he had said to himself as the tears
chased each other down his cheeks. “Father understood me, and cared
for me, and made allowances. It was worth while fighting against one's
temper just to have him put his hand on my shoulder and say, 'Well done,
my boy.' Now it is so different. I will go on trying for his sake; but I
know it's no good. Do what I will, I can't please her. It's my fault, I
dare say, but I do try my best. I do, indeed, father,” he said, speaking
out loud; “if you can hear me, I do, indeed, try to be kind to mother,
but she won't let me. I do try to make allowances, that is, when I am
not in a passion, and then I go and spoil it all, like a beast, just as
I did tonight.

“Anyhow,” he said to himself as he turned his face homeward again, “I
will go and tell her I am sorry, and beg her pardon. I don't suppose she
will be nice, but I can't help that. It's my duty anyhow, and I will try
and not say anything against Foxey next time she speaks of him.”

The latter part of his resolution Ned found it very hard to maintain,
for Mr. Mulready became a not unfrequent visitor. He had always some
excuse for calling, either to bring in a basket of fresh trout, some
game, or hothouse fruit, for, as he said, he knew her appetite was
delicate and needed tempting, or some book newly issued from the London
press which he was sure she would appreciate.

After a short time Mrs. Sankey ceased to speak of these visits, perhaps
because she saw how Ned objected to the introduction of Mr. Mulready's
name, perhaps for some other reason, and a year passed without Ned's
being seriously ruffled on the subject.

Ned was now nearly sixteen. He had worked hard, and was the head boy at
Porson's. It had always been regarded as a fixed thing that he should
go into the army. As the son of an officer who had lost his leg in the
service it was thought that he would be able to obtain a commission
without difficulty, and Squire Simmonds, who had been a kind friend
since his father's death, had promised to ask the lord lieutenant of
the county to interest himself in the matter, and had no doubt that
the circumstances of Captain Sankey's death would be considered as an
addition to the claim of his services in the army.

Captain Sankey had intended that Ned should have gone to a superior
school to finish his education, but the diminished income of the family
had put this out of the question, and the subject had never been
mooted after his death. Ned, however, felt that he was making such good
progress under Mr. Porson that he was well content to remain where he
was.

His struggle with his temper had gone on steadily, and he hoped he
had won a final victory over it. Mr. Porson had been unwearied in his
kindnesses, and often took Ned for an hour in the evening in order to
push him forward, and although he avoided talking about his home life
the boy felt that he could, in case of need, pour out his heart to him;
but, indeed, things had gone better at home. Mrs. Sankey was just
as indisposed as ever to take any share whatever in the trouble of
housekeeping, but as Abijah was perfectly capable of keeping the house
in order without her instructions things went on smoothly and straightly
in this respect.

In other matters home life was more pleasant than it had been. Mrs.
Sankey was less given to querulous complaining, more inclined to see
things in a cheerful light, and Ned especially noticed with satisfaction
that the references to his father which had so tried him had become much
less frequent of late.

One day in September, when his father had been dead just a year, one
of the town boys, a lad of about Ned's age, said to him as they were
walking home from school together:

“Well, Ned, I suppose I ought to congratulate you, although I don't know
whether you will see it in that light.”

“What do you mean?” Ned said. “I don't know that anything has happened
on which I should be particularly congratulated, except on having made
the top score against the town last week.”

“Oh! I don't mean that,” the boy said.. “I mean about Mulready.”

“What do you mean?” Ned said, stopping short and turning very white.

“Why,” the lad said laughing, “all the town says he is going to marry
your mother.”

Ned stood as if stupefied. Then he sprang upon his companion and seized
him by the throat.

“It's a lie,” he shouted, shaking him furiously. “It's a lie I say,
Smithers, and you know it. I will kill you if you don't say it's a lie.”

With a great effort Smithers extricated himself from Ned's grasp.

“Don't choke a fellow,” he said. “It may be a lie if you say it is,
but it is not my lie anyhow. People have been talking about it for some
time. They say he's been down there nearly every day. Didn't you know
it?”

“Know it?” Ned gasped. “I have not heard of his being in the house for
months, but I will soon find out the truth.”

And without another word he dashed off at full speed up the street.
Panting and breathless he rushed into the house, and tore into the room
where his mother was sitting trifling with a piece of fancy work.

“I do wish, Edward, you would not come into the room like a whirlwind.
You know how any sudden noise jars upon my nerves. Why, what is the
matter?” she broke off suddenly, his pale, set face catching her eye,
little accustomed as she was to pay any attention to Ned's varying
moods.

“Mother,” he panted out, “people are saying an awful thing about you, a
wicked, abominable thing. I know, of course, it is not true, but I want
just to hear you say so, so that I can go out and tell people they lie.
How dare they say such things!”

“Why, what do you mean, Edward?” Mrs. Sankey said, almost frightened at
the boy's vehemence.

“Why, they say that you are going to marry that horrible man Mulready.
It is monstrous, isn't it? I think they ought to be prosecuted and
punished for such a wicked thing, and father only a year in his grave.”

Mrs. Sankey was frightened at Ned's passion. Ever since the matter had
first taken shape in her mind she had felt a certain uneasiness as to
what Ned would say of it, and had, since it was decided, been putting
off from day to day the telling of the news to him. She had, in his
absence, told herself over and over again that it was no business of
his, and that a boy had no right to as much as question the actions of
his mother; but somehow when he was present she had always shrank from
telling him. She now took refuge in her usual defense--tears.

“It is shameful,” she said, sobbing, as she held her handkerchief to
her eyes, “that a boy should speak in this way to his mother; it is
downright wicked.”

“But I am not speaking to you, mother; I am speaking of other
people--the people who have invented this horrible lie--for it is a lie,
mother, isn't it? It is not possible it can be true?”

“It is true,” Mrs. Sankey said, gaining courage from her anger; “it is
quite true. And you are a wicked and abominable boy to talk in that way
to me. Why shouldn't I marry again? Other people marry again, and why
shouldn't I? I am sure your poor father would never have wished me to
waste my life by remaining single, with nothing to do but to look after
you children. And it is shameful of you to speak in that way of Mr.
Mulready.”

Ned stopped to hear no more. At her first words he had given a low,
gasping cry, as one who has received a terrible wound. The blood flew
to his head, the room swam round, and he seemed to feel the veins in
his temples swell almost to bursting. The subsequent words of his mother
fell unheeded on his ears, and turning round he went slowly to the door,
groping his way as one half asleep or stupefied by a blow.

Mechanically he opened the door and went out into the street; his cap
was still on his head, but he neither thought of it one way or the
other.

Almost without knowing it he turned from the town and walked toward the
hills. Had any one met him by the way they would assuredly have thought
that the boy had been drinking, so strangely and unevenly did he walk.
His face was flushed almost purple, his eyes were bloodshot; he swayed
to and fro as he walked, sometimes pausing altogether, sometimes
hurrying along for a few steps. Passing a field where the gate stood
open he turned into it, kept on his way for some twenty yards further,
and then fell at full length on the grass. There he lay unconscious for
some hours, and it was not until the evening dews were falling heavily
that he sat up and looked round.

For some time he neither knew where he was nor what had brought him
there. At last the remembrance of what had passed flashed across him,
and with a cry of “Father! father!” he threw himself at full length
again with his head on his arm; but this time tears came to his relief,
and for a long time he cried with a bitterness of grief even greater
than that which he had suffered at his father's death.

The stars were shining brightly when he rose to his feet, his clothes
were soaked with dew, and he trembled with cold and weakness.

“What am I to do?” he said to himself; “what am I to do?”

He made his way back to the gate and leaned against it for some time;
then, having at last made up his mind, he turned his back on the town
and walked toward Varley, moving more slowly and wearily than if he was
at the end of a long and fatiguing day's walk. Slowly he climbed the
hill and made his way through the village till he reached the Swintons'
cottage. He tapped at the door with his hand, and lifting the latch he
opened the door a few inches.

“Bill, are you in?”

There was an exclamation of surprise.

“Why, surely, it's Maister Ned!” and Bill came to the door.

“Come out, Bill, I want to speak to you.”

Much surprised at the low and subdued tone in which Ned spoke, Bill
snatched down his cap from the peg by the door and joined him outside.

“What be't, Maister Ned? what be t' matter with thee? Has owt gone
wrong?”

Ned walked on without speaking. In his yearning for sympathy, in his
intense desire to impart the miserable news to some one who would feel
for him, he had come to his friend Bill. He had thought first of going
to Mr. Porson. But though his master would sympathize with him he would
not be able to feel as he did; he would no doubt be shocked at hearing
that his mother was so soon going to marry again, but he would not
be able to understand the special dislike to Mr. Mulready, still less
likely to encourage his passionate resentment. Bill would, he knew, 

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/8732