THROUGH THE FRAY

A TALE OF THE LUDDITE RIOTS

By G. A. Henty

CONTENTS

PREFACE


CHAPTER I.   A FISHING EXPEDITION


CHAPTER II.   THE
FIGHT ON THE MOOR

CHAPTER III.   A
CROPPER VILLAGE

CHAPTER IV.   THE
WORMS TURN

CHAPTER V.   THE
NEW MASTER

CHAPTER VI.   THE
THIEF DETECTED

CHAPTER VII.   A
TERRIBLE SHOCK

CHAPTER VIII.   NED
IS SORELY TRIED

CHAPTER IX.   A
PAINFUL TIME

CHAPTER X.   TROUBLES
AT HOME

CHAPTER XI.   THE
NEW MACHINERY

CHAPTER XII.   MURDERED!


CHAPTER XIII.   COMMITTED
FOR TRIAL

CHAPTER XIV.   COMMITTED
FOR TRIAL

CHAPTER XV.   NOT
GUILTY

CHAPTER XVI.   LUKE
MARNER'S SACRIFICE

CHAPTER XVII.
  A LONELY LIFE


CHAPTER XVIII.     NED IS ATTACKED

CHAPTER XIX.   THE ATTACK ON
CARTWRIGHT'S MILL

CHAPTER XX.   CLEARED
AT LAST

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, do both, for it
was from him he had learned how hated the mill owner was among his people.

But at present he could not speak. He gave a short wave of his hand to
show that he heard, but could not answer yet, and with his head bent down
made his way out through the end of the village on to the moor—Bill
following him, wondering and sympathetic, unable to conjecture what had
happened.

Presently, when they had left the houses far behind them, Ned stopped.

“What be't, Maister Ned?” Bill again asked, laying his strong hand upon
Ned's shoulder; “tell oi what it be. Hast got in another row with t'
maister? If there be owt as oi can do, thou knowest well as Bill Swinton
be with thee heart and soul.”

“I know, Bill—I know,” Ned said in a broken voice, “but you can do
nothing; I can do nothing; no one can. But it's dreadful to think of. It's
worse than if I had killed twenty masters. Only think—only think,
Bill, my mother's going to marry Mulready!”

“Thou doesn't say so, lad! What! thy mother marry Foxey! Oi never heer'd
o' such a thing. Well, that be bad news, surely! Well, well, only to
think, now! Poor lad! Well, that beats all!”

The calamity appeared so great to Bill that for some time no idea occurred
to him which could, under the circumstances, be considered as consolatory.
But Ned felt the sympathy conveyed in the strong grasp of his shoulder,
and in the muttered “Well, well, now!” to which Bill gave vent at
intervals.

“What bee'st going to do vor to stop it?” he asked at last.

“What can I do, Bill? She won't listen to me—she never does.
Anything I say always makes her go the other way. She wouldn't believe
anything I said against him. It would only make her stick to him all the
more.

“Dost think,” Bill suggested after another long pause, “that if we got up
a sort of depitation—Luke Marner and four or five other steady chaps
as knows him; yes, and Polly Powlett, she could do the talking—to go
to her and tell her what a thundering dad un he is—dost think it
would do any good?”

Even in his bitter grief Ned could hardly help smiling at the thought of
such a deputation waiting upon his mother.

“No, it wouldn't do, Bill.”

Bill was silent again for some time.

“Dost want un killed, Maister Ned?” he said in a low voice at last;
“'cause if ye do oi would do it for ye. Oi would lay down my life for ye
willing, as thou knowst; and hanging ain't much, arter all. They say 'tis
soon over. Anyhow oi would chance it, and perhaps they wouldn't find me
out.”

Ned grasped his friend's hand.

“I could kill him myself!” he exclaimed passionately. “I have been
thinking of it; but what would be the good? I know what my mother is—when
once she has made up her mind there's no turning her; and if this fellow
were out of the way, likely enough she would take up with another in no
time.”

“But it couldn't been as bad as if wur Foxey,” Bill urged, “he be the very
worsest lot about Marsden.”

“I would do it,” Ned said passionately; “I would do it over and over
again, but for the disgrace it would bring on Charlie and Lucy.”

“But there would be no disgrace if oi was to do it, Maister Ned.”

“Yes, there would, Bill—a worse disgrace than if I did it myself. It
would be a nice thing to let you get hanged for my affairs; but let him
look out—let him try to ill treat Charlie and Lucy, and he will see
if I don't get even with him. I am not so much afraid of that—it's
the shame of the thing. Only to think that all Marsden should know my
mother is going to be married again within a year of my father's death,
and that after being his wife she was going to take such a man as this!
It's awful, downright awful, Bill!”

“Then what art thou going to do, Maister Ned—run away and 'list for
a soldier, or go to sea?”

“I wish I could,” Ned exclaimed. “I would turn my back on Marsden and
never come back again, were it not for the little ones. Besides,” he added
after a pause, “father's last words were, 'Be kind to mother;' and she
will want it more than he ever dreamed of.”

“She will that,” Bill agreed; “leastways unless oi be mistaken. And what
be'st going to do now, lad? Be'st agoing whoam?”

“No, I won't go home tonight,” Ned replied. “I must think it over quietly,
and it would be worse to bear there than anywhere else. No, I shall just
walk about.”

“Thou canst not walk abowt all night, Maister Ned,” Bill said positively;
“it bain't to be thowt of. If thou don't mind thou canst have moi bed and
oi can sleep on t' floor.”

“No, I couldn't do that,” Ned said, “though I do feel awfully tired and
done up; but your brothers would be asking me questions and wondering why
I didn't go home. I could not stand that.”

“No, Maister Ned, oi can see that wouldn't do; but if we walk about for an
hour or two, or—no, I know of a better plan. We can get in at t'
window of the school; it bain't never fastened, and bain't been for years,
seeing as thar bain't been neither school nor schoolers since auld Mother
Brown died. Oi will make a shift to light a fire there. There be shutters,
so no one will see the light. Then oi will bring ee up some blankets from
our house, and if there bain't enough Polly will lend me some when oi tell
her who they are for. She bain't a one to blab. What dost thou say?”

Ned, who felt utterly worn out, assented gladly to the proposal, and an
entrance was easily effected into the desolate cottage formerly used as a
day school. Bill went off at once and soon returned with a load of
firewood; the shutters were then carefully closed, and a fire quickly
blazed brightly on the hearth. Bill then went away again, and in a quarter
of an hour returned with Mary Powlett. He carried a bundle of rugs and
blankets, while she had a kettle in one hand and a large basket in the
other.

“Good evening! Master Sankey,” she said as she entered. “Bill has told me
all about it, and I am sorry indeed for you and for your mother. It is
worse for her, poor lady, than for you. You will soon be old enough to go
out into the world if you don't like things at home; but she will have to
bear what trouble comes to her. And now I thought you would like a cup of
tea, so I have brought the kettle and things up. I haven't had tea yet,
and they don't have tea at Bill's; but I like it, though feyther grumbles
sometimes, and says it's too expensive for the likes of us in sich times
as these; but he knows I would rather go without meat than without tea, so
he lets me have it. Bill comes in for a cup sometimes, for he likes it
better than beer, and it's a deal better for him to be sitting taking a
cup of tea with me than getting into the way of going down to the 'Spotted
Dog,' and drinking beer there. So we will all have a cup together. No one
will disturb us. Feyther is down at the 'Brown Cow,' and when I told the
children I had to go out on special business they all promised to be good,
and Jarge said he would see them all safely into bed. I told him I should
be back in an hour.”

While Polly was speaking she was bustling about the room, putting things
straight; with a wisp of heather she swept up the dust which had
accumulated on the floor, in a semicircle in front of the fire, and laid
down the rugs and blankets to form seats. Three cups and saucers, a little
jag of milk, a teapot, and basin of sugar were placed in the center, and a
pile of slices of bread and butter beside them, while from a paper bag she
produced a cake which she had bought at the village shop on her way up.

Ned watched her preparations listlessly.

“You are very good, Polly,” he said, “and I shall be very glad of the cup
of tea, but I cannot eat anything.”

“Never mind,” she said cheerfully. “Bill and I can do the eating, and
perhaps after you have had a cup of tea you will be able to, for Bill
tells me you have had nothing to eat since breakfast.”

Ned felt cheered by the warm blaze of the fire and by the cheerful sound
of the kettle, and after taking a cup of tea found that his appetite was
coming, and was soon able to eat his share. Mary Powlett kept up a
cheerful talk while the meal was going on, and no allusion was made to the
circumstances which had brought Ned there. After it was done she sat and
chatted for an hour. Then she said:

“I must be off now, and I think, Bill, you'd best be going soon too, and
let Maister Ned have a good night of it. I will make him up his bed on the
rugs; and I will warrant, after all the trouble he has gone through, he
will sleep like a top.”

CHAPTER IX: A PAINFUL TIME

When Ned was left alone he rolled himself up in the blankets, placed a
pillow which Polly had brought him under his head, and lay and looked at
the fire; but it was not until the flames had died down, and the last red
glow had faded into blackness that he fell off to sleep.

His thoughts were bitter in the extreme. He pictured to himself the change
which would take place in his home life with Mulready the manufacturer,
the tyrant of the workmen, ruling over it. For himself he doubted not that
he would be able to hold his own.

“He had better not try on his games with me,” he muttered savagely.
“Though I am only sixteen he won't find it easy to bully me; but of course
Charlie and Lucy can't defend themselves. However, I will take care of
them. Just let him be unkind to them, and see what comes of it! As to
mother, she must take what she gets, at least she deserves to. Only to
think of it! only to think of it! Oh, how bitterly she will come to
repent! How could she do it!

“And with father only dead a year! But I must stand by her, too. I
promised father to be kind to her, though he could never have guessed how
she would need it. He meant that I would only put up, without losing my
temper, with her way of always pretending to be ill, and never doing
anything but lie on the sofa and read poetry. Still, of course, it meant I
was to be kind anyhow, whatever happened, and I will try to be so, though
it is hard when she has brought such trouble upon us all.

“As for Mulready I should like to burn his mill down, or to break his
neck. I hate him: it's bad enough to be a tyrant; but to be a tyrant and a
hypocrite, too, is horrible. Well, at any rate he shan't lord it over me;”
and so at last Ned dropped off to sleep.

He was still soundly asleep when Bill Swinton came in to wake him. It was
half past six, a dull October morning, with a dreary drizzling rain. Bill
brought with him a mug of hot tea and some thick slices of bread and
butter. Ned got up and shook himself.

“What o'clock is it, Bill?”

“Half past six—the chaps went off to t' mill an hour gone; oi've
kept some tea hot for ee.”

“Thank you, Bill, my head aches, and so do all my bones, and I feel as if
I hadn't been asleep all night, although, indeed, I must have slept quite
as long as usual. Can't I have a wash?”

“Yes,” Bill said, “thou canst come to our place; but thou had best take
thy breakfast whilst it be hot. It will waken thee up like.”

Ned drank the tea and ate a slice of bread and butter, and felt refreshed
thereat. Then he ran with Bill to his cottage and had a wash, and then
started for the town. It was eight o'clock when he reached home. Abijah
was at the door, looking down the road as he came up.

“Oh! Master Ned, how can you go on so? Not a bit of sleep have I had this
blessed night, and the mistress in strong hystrikes all the evening. Where
have you been?”

Ned gave a grunt at the news of his mother's hysterics—a grunt which
clearly expressed “served her right,” but he only answered the last part
of the question.

“I have been up at Varley, and slept at the schoolhouse. Bill Swinn and
Polly Powlett made me up a bed and got me tea and breakfast. I am right
enough.”

“But you shouldn't have gone away, Master Ned, in that style, leaving us
to wait and worry ourselves out of our senses.”

“Do you know what she told me, Abijah? Wasn't it enough to make any fellow
mad?”

“Ay, ay,” the nurse said. “I know. I have seen it coming months ago; but
it wasn't no good for me to speak. Ay, lad, it's a sore trouble for you,
surely a sore trouble for you, and for us all; but it ain't no manner of
use for you to set yourself agin it. Least said sooner mended, Master Ned;
in a case like this it ain't no good your setting yourself up agin the
missis. She ain't strong in some things, but she's strong enough in her
will, and you ought to know by this time that what she sets her mind on
she gets. It were so allus in the captain's time, and if he couldn't
change her, poor patient lamb—for if ever there were a saint on arth
he was that—you may be sure that you can't. So try and take it
quietly, dearie. It be main hard for ye, and it ain't for me to say as it
isn't; but for the sake of peace and quiet, and for the sake of the little
ones, Master Ned, it's better for you to take it quiet. If I thought as it
would do any good for you to make a fuss I wouldn't be agin it: but it
ain't, you know, and it will be worse for you all if you sets him agin you
to begin with. Now go up and see your mother, dearie, afore you goes off
to school. I have just taken her up her tea.”

“I have got nothing to say to her,” Ned growled.

“Yes, you have, Master Ned; you have got to tell her you hopes she will be
happy. You can do that, you know, with a clear heart, for you do hope so.
Fortunately she didn't see him yesterday; for when he called I told him
she was too ill to see him, and a nice taking she was in when I told her
he had been and gone; but I didn't mind that, you know, and it was better
she shouldn't see him when she was so sore about the words you had said to
her. It ain't no use making trouble aforehand, or setting him agin you. He
knows, I reckon, as he won't be welcomed here by you. The way he has
always come when you would be out showed that clear enough. But it ain't
no use making matters worse. It's a pretty kettle of fish as it stands.
Now, go up, dearie, like a good boy, and make things roight.”

Ned lingered irresolute for a little time in the hall, and then his
father's words, “Be kind to her,” came strongly in his mind, and he slowly
went upstairs and knocked at his mother's door.

“Oh! here you are again!” she said in querulous tones as he entered,
“after being nearly the death of me with your wicked goings on! I don't
know what you will come to, speaking to me as you did yesterday, and then
running away and stopping out all night.”

“It was wrong, mother,” Ned said quietly, “and I have come to tell you I
am sorry; but you see the news was very sudden, and I wasn't prepared for
it. I did not know that he had been coming here, and the news took me
quite by surprise. I suppose fellows never do like their mothers marrying
again. It stands to reason they wouldn't; but, now I have thought it over,
I am sorry I spoke as I did, and I do hope, mother, you will be happy with
him.”

Mrs. Sankey felt mollified. She had indeed all along dreaded Ned's hearing
the news, and had felt certain it would produce a desperate outbreak on
his part. Now that it was over she was relieved. The storm had been no
worse than she expected, and now that Ned had so speedily come round, and
was submissive, she felt a load off her mind.

“Very well, Ned,” she said more graciously than usual, “I am glad that you
have seen the wickedness of your conduct. I am sure that I am acting for
the best, and that it will be a great advantage to you and your brother
and sister having a man like Mr. Mulready to help you push your way in
life. I am sure I am thinking of your interest as much as my own; and I
have spoken to him over and over again about you, and he has promised
dozens of times to do his best to be like a father to you all.”

Ned winced perceptibly.

“All right, mother! I do hope you will be happy; but, please, don't let us
talk about it again till—till it comes off; and, please, don't let
him come here in the evening. I will try and get accustomed to it in time;
but you see it's rather hard at first, and you know I didn't expect it.”

So saying Ned left the room, and collecting his books made his way off to
school, leaving his mother highly satisfied with the interview.

His absence from afternoon school had, of course, been noticed, and
Smithers had told his friends how Ned had flown at him on his speaking to
him about the talk of his mother and Mulready. Of course before afternoon
school broke up every boy knew that Ned Sankey had cut up rough about the
report; and although the great majority of the boys did not know Mr.
Mulready by name there was a general feeling of sympathy with Ned, The
circumstances of his father's death had, of course, exalted him greatly in
the eyes of his schoolfellows, and it was the unanimous opinion, that
after having had a hero for his father, a fellow would naturally object to
having a stepfather put over him.

Ned's absence was naturally associated with the news, and caused much
comment and even excitement. His attack upon Mr. Hathorn had become a sort
of historical incident in the school, and the younger boys looked up with
a sort of respectful awe upon the boy who had defied a headmaster. There
were all sorts of speculations rife among them as to what Ned had done,
there being a general opinion that he had probably killed Mr. Mulready,
and the debate turning principally upon the manner in which this act of
righteous vengeance had been performed.

There was, then, a feeling almost of disappointment when Ned walked into
the playground looking much as usual, except that his face was pale and
his eyes looked heavy and dull. No one asked him any questions; for
although Ned was a general favorite, it was generally understood that he
was not the sort of fellow to be asked questions that might put him out.
When they went in school, and the first class was called up, Ned, who was
always at its head, took his place at the bottom of the class, saying
quietly to the master:

“I have not prepared my lesson today, sir, and I have not done the
exercises.”

Mr. Porson made no remark; he saw at once by Ned's face that something was
wrong with him. When several questions went round, which Ned could easily
have answered without preparation, the master said:

“You had better go to your desk, Sankey; I see you are not well. I will
speak to you after school is over.”

Ned sat down and opened a book, but he did not turn a page until school
was over; then he followed his master to the study.

“Well, my boy,” he asked kindly, “what is it?”

“My mother is going to marry Mr. Mulready,” Ned said shortly. The words
seemed to come with difficulty from his lips.

“Ah! it is true, then. I heard the report some weeks ago, but hoped that
it was not true. I am sorry for you, Ned. I know it must be a sore trial
for you; it is always so when any one steps into the place of one we have
loved and lost.”

“I shouldn't care so much if it wasn't him,” Ned said in a dull voice.

“But there's nothing against the man, is there?” Mr. Porson asked. “I own
I do not like him myself; but I believe he stands well in the town.”

“Only with those who don't know him,” Ned replied; “his workpeople say he
is the worst master and the biggest tyrant in the district.”

“We must hope it's not so bad as that, Ned; still, I am sorry—very
sorry, at what you tell me; but, my boy, you must not take it to heart.
You see you will be going out into the world before long. Your brother
will be following you in a few years. It is surely better that your mother
should marry again and have some one to take care of her.”

“Nice care of her he is likely to take!” Ned laughed bitterly. “You might
as well put a fox to take care of a goose.”

“You are severe on both parties,” Mr. Porson said with a slight smile;
“but I can hardly blame you, my boy, for feeling somewhat bitter at first;
but I hope that, for your own sake and your mother's, you will try and
conquer this feeling and will make the best of the circumstances. It is
worse than useless to kick against the pricks. Any show of hostility on
your part will only cause unhappiness, perhaps between your mother' and
him—almost certainly between you and her. In this world, my boy, we
have all our trials. Some are very heavy ones. This is yours. Happily, so
far as you are concerned, you need only look forward to its lasting
eighteen months or so. In that time you may hope to get your commission;
and as the marriage can hardly take place for some little time to come,
you will have but a year or so to bear it.”

“I don't know, sir,” Ned said gloomily; “everything seems upset now. I
don't seem to know what I had best do.”

“I am sure at present, Ned,” Mr. Porson said kindly—for he saw that
the boy was just now in no mood for argument—“the best is to try and
think as little of it as possible. Make every allowance for your mother;
as you know, my boy, I would not speak disrespectfully to you of her on
any account; but she is not strong minded. She has always been accustomed
to lean upon some one, and the need of some one to lean on is imperative
with her. Had you been a few years older, and had you been staying at
home, it is probable that you might have taken your place as her support
and strength. As it is, it was almost inevitable that something of this
sort would happen.

“But you know, Ned, where to look for strength and support. You have
fought one hard battle, my boy, and have well nigh conquered; now you have
another before you. Seek for strength, my boy, where you will assuredly
find it, and remember that this discipline is doubtless sent you for your
good, and that it will be a preparation for you for the struggle in after
life. I don't want you to be a thoughtless, careless young officer, but a
man earnest in doing his duty, and you cannot but see that these two
trials must have a great effect in forming your character. Remember, Ned,
that if the effect be not for good, it will certainly be for evil.”

“I will try, sir,” Ned said; “but I know it is easy to make good
resolutions, and how it will be when he is in the house as master I can't
trust myself even to think.”

“Well, let us hope the best, Ned,” Mr. Porson said kindly; “things may
turn out better than you fear.”

Then seeing that further talking would be useless now, he shook Ned's hand
and let him go.

The next three or four months passed slowly and heavily. Ned went about
his work again quietly and doggedly; but his high spirits seemed gone. His
mother's engagement with Mr. Mulready had been openly announced, directly
after he had first heard of it. Charlie had, to Ned's secret indignation,
taken it quietly. He knew little of Mr. Mulready, who had, whenever he saw
him, spoken kindly to him, and who now made him frequent presents of books
and other things dear to schoolboys. Little Lucy's liking he had, however,
failed to gain, although in his frequent visits he had spared no pains to
do so, seldom coming without bringing with him cakes or papers of sweets.
Lucy accepted the presents, but did not love the donor, and confided to
Abijah that his teeth were exactly like those of the wolf who ate Little
Red Riding Hood.

Ned found much more comfort in her society during those dull days than in
Charlie's. He had the good sense, however, never to encourage her in her
expressions of dislike to Mr. Mulready, and even did his best to combat
her impression, knowing how essential it was for her to get on well with
him. Ned himself did not often see Mr. Mulready during that time. The
first time that they met, Ned had, on his return from school, gone
straight up into the drawing room, not knowing that Mr. Mulready was
there. On opening the door and seeing him he paused suddenly for a moment
and then advanced. For a moment neither of them spoke, then Mr. Mulready
said in his frankest manner:

“Ned, you have heard I am going to marry your mother. I don't suppose you
quite like it; it wouldn't be natural if you did; I know I shouldn't if I
were in your place. Still you know your disliking it won't alter it, and I
hope we shall get on well together. Give me your hand, my lad, you won't
find me a bad sort of fellow.”

“I hope not,” Ned said quietly, taking Mr. Mulready's hand and continuing
to hold it while he went on: “I don't pretend I like it, and I know it
makes no difference whether I do or not; the principal point is, that my
mother should be happy, and if you make her happy I have no doubt we
shall, as you say, get on well together; if you don't, we shan't.”

There was no mistaking the threat conveyed in Ned's steady tones, and Mr.
Mulready, as Ned dropped his hand, felt that he should have more trouble
with the boy than he had expected. He gave a forced laugh.

“One would think, Ned, that you thought it likely I was going to be unkind
to your mother.”

“No,” Ned said quietly, “I don't want to think about it one way or the
other, only I promised my father I would be kind to my mother; that means
that I would look after her, and I mean to.

“Well, mother,” he said in his usual tone, turning to Mrs. Sankey, “and
how are you this morning?”

“I was feeling better, Ned,” she said sharply; “but your unpleasant way of
talking, and your nonsense about taking care of me, have made me feel
quite ill again. Somehow you always seem to shake my nerves. You never
seem to me like other boys. One would think I was a child instead of being
your mother. I thought after what you said to me that you were going to
behave nicely.”

“I am trying to behave nicely,” Ned said. “I am sure I meant quite nicely,
just as Mr. Mulready does; I think he understands me.”

“I don't understand that boy,” Mrs. Sankey said plaintively when Ned had
left the room, “and I never have understood him. He was dreadfully spoiled
when he was in India, as I have often told you; for in my weak state of
health I was not equal to looking after him, and his poor father was sadly
overindulgent. But he has certainly been much better as to his temper
lately, and I do hope, William, that he is not going to cause trouble.”

“Oh, no!” Mr. Mulready said lightly, “he will not cause trouble; I have no
doubt we shall get on well together. Boys will be boys, you know; I have
been one myself, and of course they look upon stepfathers as natural
enemies; but in this case, you see, we shall not have to put up with each
other long, as he will be getting his commission in a year or so. Don't
trouble yourself about it, love; in your state of health you ought really
not to worry yourself, and worry, you know, spoils the eyes and the
complexion, and I cannot allow that, for you will soon be my property
now.”

The wedding was fixed for March. It was to be perfectly quiet, as Mrs.
Sankey would, up to the day, be still in mourning. A month before the time
Ned noticed that his mother was more uncertain in her temper than usual,
and Abijah confided to him in secret that she thought things were not
going on smoothly between the engaged couple.

Nor were they. Mr. Mulready had discovered, to his surprise, that,
indolent and silly as Mrs. Sankey was in many respects, she was not
altogether a fool, and was keen enough where her own interests were
concerned. He had suggested something about settlements, hoping that she
would at once say that these were wholly unnecessary; but to his surprise
she replied in a manner which showed that she had already thought the
matter over, and had very fixed ideas on the subject.

“Of course,” she said, “that will be necessary. I know nothing about
business, but it was done before, and my poor husband insisted that my
little fortune should be settled so as to be entirely at my own disposal.”

But this by no means suited Mr. Mulready's views. Hitherto want of capital
had prevented his introducing the new machinery into his mills, and the
competition with the firms which had already adopted it was injuring him
seriously, and he had reckoned confidently upon the use of Mrs. Sankey's
four thousand pounds. Although he kept his temper admirably under the
circumstances, he gave her distinctly to understand, in the pleasantest
way, that an arrangement which was most admirably suitable in every
respect in the case of a lady marrying an officer in the army, to whom her
capital could be of no possible advantage, was altogether unsuitable in
the case of a manufacturer.

“You see, my love,” he argued, “that it is for your benefit as well as
mine that the business should grow and flourish by the addition of the new
machinery which this little fortune of yours could purchase. The profits
could be doubled and trebled, and we could look forward ere long to
holding our heads as high as the richest manufacturers at Leeds and
Bradford—while the mere interest in this money invested in consols
as at present would be absolutely useless to us.”

Mrs. Sankey acknowledged the force of his argument, but was firm in her
determination to retain her hold of her money, and so they parted, not in
anger, for Mr. Mulready altogether disclaimed the possibility of his being
vexed, but with the sense that something like a barrier had sprung up
between them.

This went on for a few days, and although the subject was not mooted, Mrs.
Sankey felt that unless some concession on her part was made it was likely
that the match would fall through. This she had not the slightest idea of
permitting, and rather than it should happen she would have married
without any settlement at all, for she really loved, in her weak way, the
man who had been so attentive and deferential to her.

So one day the subject was renewed, and at last an understanding was
arrived at. Mrs. Sankey's money was to be put into the business in her own
name. Should she not survive her husband, he was to have the option of
paying the money to her children or of allowing them the sum of eighty
pounds a year each from the business. Should he not survive her the mill
was to be settled upon any children she might have after her marriage;
should there be no children it was to be hers absolutely.

All this was only arrived at after several long discussions, in all of
which Mrs. Sankey protested that she knew nothing of business, that it was
most painful to her to be thus discussing money matters, and that it would
be far better to leave it in the hands of a solicitor to arrange in a
friendly manner with him. She nevertheless stuck to her views, and drove a
bargain as keenly and shrewdly as any solicitor could have done for her,
to the surprise and exasperation of Mr. Mulready. Had he known that she
really loved him, and would, if she had been driven to it, have sacrificed
everything rather than lose him, he could have obtained very different
terms; but having no heart to speak of, himself, he was ignorant of the
power he possessed over her.

Bankruptcy stared him in the face unless he could obtain this increase of
capital, and he dared not, by pressing the point, risk its loss. The
terms, he told himself, were not altogether unsatisfactory; it was not
likely that she would survive him. They were of about the same age; he had
never known what it was to be ill, and she, although not such an invalid
as she fancied herself, was still not strong. If she did not survive him
he would have the whole business, subject only to the paltry annuity of
two hundred and forty pounds a year to the three children. If, the most
unlikely thing in the world, she did survive him—well, it mattered
not a jot in that case who the mill went to.

So the terms were settled, the necessary deeds were drawn up by a
solicitor, and signed by both parties. Mrs. Sankey recovered her spirits,
and the preparations for the wedding went on.

Ned had intended to absent himself from the ceremony, but Mr. Porson,
guessing that such might be his intention, had talked the matter gravely
over with him. He had pointed out to Ned that his absence would in the
first place be an act of great disrespect to his mother; that in the
second place it would cause general comment, and would add to the
unfavorable impression which his mother's early remarriage had undoubtedly
created; and that, lastly, it would justify Mr. Mulready in regarding him
as hostile to the marriage, and, should trouble subsequently arise, he
would be able to point to it in self justification, and as a proof that
Ned had from the first determined to treat him as an enemy.

So Ned was present at his mother's marriage. Quiet as the wedding was, for
only two or three acquaintances were asked to be present, the greater part
of Marsden were assembled in the church.

The marriage had created considerable comment. The death of Captain Sankey
in saving a child's life had rendered his widow an object of general
sympathy, and people felt that not only was this marriage within eighteen
months of Captain Sankey's death almost indecent, but that it was somehow
a personal wrong to them, and that they had been defrauded in their
sympathy.

Therefore the numerous spectators of the marriage were critical rather
than approving. They could find nothing to find fault with, however, in
the bride's appearance. She was dressed in a dove colored silk, and with
her fair hair and pale complexion looked quite young, and, as every one
admitted, pretty. Mr. Mulready, as usual, was smiling, and seemed to
convey by the looks which he cast round that he regarded the assemblage as
a personal compliment to himself.

Lucy and Charlie betrayed no emotion either way; they were not pleased,
but the excitement of the affair amused and interested them, and they
might be said to be passive spectators. Ned, however, although he had
brought himself to be present, could not bring himself to look as if the
ceremony had his approval or sanction. He just glared, as Abijah, who was
present, afterward confided to some of her friends, as if he could have
killed the man as he stood. His look of undisguised hostility was indeed
noticed by all who were in church, and counted heavily against him in the
days which were to come.

CHAPTER X: TROUBLES AT HOME

It was not one of the least griefs of the young Sankeys connected with
their mother's wedding that Abijah was to leave them. It was she herself
who had given notice to Mrs. Sankey, saying that she would no longer be
required. The first time that she had spoken of her intentions, Mrs.
Sankey vehemently combated the idea, saying that neither she nor Lucy
could spare her; but she did not afterward return to the subject, and
seemed to consider it a settled thing that Abijah intended to leave. Mrs.
Sankey had, in fact, spoken to Mr. Mulready on the subject, but instead of
taking the view she had expected, he had said cheerfully:

“I am glad that she has given notice. I know that she is a valuable woman
and much attached to you. At the same time these old servants always turn
out a mistake under changed circumstances. She would never have been
comfortable or contented. She has, my dear if I may say so, been mistress
too long, and as I intend you to be mistress of my house, it is much
better that she should go.”

As Mrs. Sankey had certain doubts herself as to whether Abijah would be a
success in the new home, the subject was dropped, and it became an
understood thing that Abijah would leave after the wedding.

The newly married couple were absent for three weeks. Until two days
before their return Abijah remained in the old house with the young
Sankeys; then they moved into their new home, and she went off to her
native village ten miles distant away on the moors. The next day there was
a sale at the old house. A few, a very few, of the things had been moved.
Everything else was sold, to the deep indignation of Ned, who was at once
grieved and angry that all the articles of furniture which he associated
with his father should be parted with. Abijah shared the boy's feelings in
this respect, and at the sale all the furniture and fittings of Captain
Sankey's study were bought by a friendly grocer on her behalf, and the
morning after the sale a badly written letter, for Abijah's education had
been neglected, was placed in Ned's hand.

“MY DEAR MASTER NED: Knowing as it cut you to the heart that everything
should go away into the hands of strangers, I have made so bold as to ask
Mr. Willcox for to buy all the furniter and books in maister's study. He
is a-going to stow them away in a dry loft, and when so bee as you gets a
home of your own there they is for you; they are sure not to fetch much,
and when you gets a rich man you can pay me for them; not as that matters
at all one way or the other. I have been a-saving up pretty nigh all my
wages from the day as you was born, and is quite comfortable off. Write me
a letter soon, dearie, to tell me as how things is going on. Your
affectionate nurse, ABIJAH WOLF.”

Although Ned was a lad of sixteen, he had a great cry over this letter,
but it did him good, and it was with a softer heart that he prepared to
receive his mother and her husband that evening. The meeting passed off
better than he had anticipated. Mrs. Mulready was really affected at
seeing her children again, and embraced them, Ned thought, with more
fondness than she had done when they went away. Mr. Mulready spoke
genially and kindly, and Ned began to hope that things would not be so bad
after all.

The next morning, to his surprise, his mother appeared at breakfast, a
thing which he could not remember that she had ever done before, and yet
the hour was an early one, as her husband wanted to be off to the mill.
During the meal Mr. Mulready spoke sharply two or three times, and it
seemed to Ned that his mother was nervously anxious to please him.

“Things are not going on so well after all,” he said to himself as he
walked with his brother to school. “Mother has changed already; I can see
that she isn't a bit like herself. There she was fussing over whether he
had enough sugar with his tea, and whether the kidneys were done enough
for him; then her coming down to breakfast was wonderful. I expect she has
found already that somebody else's will besides her own has got to be
consulted; it's pretty soon for her to have begun to learn the lesson.”

It was very soon manifest that Mr. Mulready was master in his own house.
He still looked pleasant and smiled, for his smile was a habitual one; but
there was a sharpness in the ring of his voice, an impatience if
everything was not exactly as he wished. He roughly silenced Charlie and
Lucy if they spoke when he was reading his paper at breakfast, and he
spoke snappishly to his wife when she asked him a question on such
occasions. Ned felt his face burn, as with his eyes on his plate he
continued his meal. To him Mr. Mulready seldom spoke unless it was
absolutely necessary.

Ned often caught himself wondering over the change which had taken place
in his mother. All the ways and habits of an invalid had disappeared. She
not only gave directions for the management of the house, but looked after
everything herself, and was forever going upstairs and down, seeing that
everything was properly done. However sharply Mr. Mulready spoke she never
replied in the same tone. A little flush of color would come into her
cheek, but she would pass it off lightly, and at all times she appeared
nervously anxious to please him. Ned wondered much over the change.

“He is a tyrant,” he said, “and she has learned it already; but I do think
she loves him. Fancy my mother coming to be the slave of a man like this!
I suppose,” he laughed bitterly, “it's the story of 'a woman, a dog, and a
walnut tree, the more you thrash them the better they will be.' My father
spent his whole life in making hers easy, and in sparing her from every
care and trouble, and I don't believe she cared half as much for him as
she does for this man who is her master.”

For some months Mr. Mulready was very busy at his mill. A steam engine was
being erected, new machinery brought in, and he was away the greater part
of his time superintending it.

One day at breakfast, a short time before all was in readiness for a start
with the new plant, Mr. Mulready opened a letter directed in a sprawling
and ill written hand which lay at the top of the pile by his plate. Ned
happened to notice his face, and saw the color fade out from it as he
glanced at the contents. The mouth remained as usual, set in a smile, but
the rest of the face expressed agitation and fear. The hand which held the
letter shook. Mrs. Mulready, whose eyes seldom left her husband's face
when he was in the room, also noticed the change.

“Is anything the matter, William?”

“Oh! nothing,” he said with an unnatural laugh, “only a little attempt to
frighten me.”

“An attempt which has succeeded,” Ned said to himself, “whatever it is.”

Mr. Mulready passed the letter over to his wife. It was a rough piece of
paper; at the top was scrawled the outline of a coffin underneath which
was written:

“MR. MULREADY: Sir, this is to give you warning that if you uses the new
machinery you are a dead man. You have been a marked man for a long time
for your tyrannical ways, but as long as you didn't get the new machinery
we let you live; but we has come to the end of it now; the day as you
turns on steam we burns your mill to the ground and shoots you, so now you
knows it.”

At the bottom of this was signed the words “Captain Lud.”

“Oh! William,” Mrs. Mulready cried, “you will never do it! You will never
risk your life at the hands of these terrible people!”

All the thin veneer of politeness was cracked by this blow, and Mr.
Mulready said sullenly:

“Nice thing indeed; after I have married to get this money, and then not
to be able to use it!”

His wife gave a little cry.

“It's a shame to say so,” Charlie burst out sturdily.

Mr. Mulready's passion found a vent. He leaped up and seized the boy by
the collar and boxed his ears with all his force.

In an instant the fury which had been smoldering in Ned's breast for
months found a vent. He leaped to his feet and struck Mr. Mulready a blow
between the eyes which sent him staggering back against the wall; then he
caught up the poker. The manufacturer with a snarl like that of an angry
wild beast was about to rush at him, but Ned's attitude as he stood, poker
in hand, checked him.

“Stand back,” Ned said threateningly, “or I will strike you. You coward
and bully; for months I have put up with your tyrannizing over Charlie and
Lucy, but touch either of them again if you dare. You think that you are
stronger than I am—so you are ever so much; but you lay a finger on
them or on me, and I warn you, if I wait a month for an opportunity I will
pay you for it, if you kill me afterward.”

Mrs. Mulready's screams had by this time brought the servants into the
room, and they stood astonished at the spectacle.

Lucy crying bitterly had run to Ned and thrown her arms round him, begging
him to be quiet. Charlie, hardly recovered from the heavy blows he had
received, was crying too. Mr. Mulready as pale as death was glaring at
Ned, while his wife had thrown herself between them. Mr. Mulready was the
first to recover himself.

“This is a nice spectacle,” he said to the servants. “You see that boy has
attacked me with the poker and might have murdered me. However, you can go
now, and mind, no chattering about what you have seen.

“And now,” he continued to Ned as the door closed behind the servants,
“out of this house you go this day.”

“You don't suppose I want to stay in your house,” Ned said passionately.
“You don't suppose that it's any pleasure to me to stop here, seeing you
play the tyrant over my mother.”

“Oh, Ned, Ned,” Mrs. Mulready broke in, “how can you talk so!”

“It is true, mother, he is a tyrant to you as well as to every one else;
but I don't mean to go, I mean to stop here to protect you and the
children. He daren't turn me out; if he did, I would go and work in one of
the mills, and what would the people of Marsden say then? What would they
think of this popular, pleasant gentleman then, who has told his wife
before her children that he married her for her money? They shall all know
it, never fear, if I leave this house. I would have gone to Mr. Simmonds
and asked him to apply for a commission for me before now, for other
fellows get it as young as I am; but I have made up my mind that it's my
duty not to do so.

“I know he has been looking forward to my being out of the way, and his
being able to do just what he likes with the others, but I ain't going to
gratify him. It's plain to me that my duty at present is to take care of
you all, and though God knows how I set my mind upon going into the army
and being a soldier like my father, I will give it up if it means leaving
Charlie here under him.”

“And do you suppose, sir,” Mr. Mulready asked with intense bitterness,
“that I am going to keep you here doing nothing all your life, while you
are pleased to watch me?”

“No, I don't,” Ned replied. “I shall get a clerkship or something in one
of the mills, and I shall have Charlie to live with me until he is old
enough to leave school, and then I will go away with him to America or
somewhere. As to mother, I can do nothing for her. I think my being here
makes it worse for her, for I believe you tyrannize over her all the more
because you think it hurts me. I know you hated me from the first just as
I hated you. As for Lucy, mother must do the best she can for her. Even
you daren't hit a girl.”

“Oh, Ned, how can you go on so?” Mrs. Mulready wailed. “You are a wicked
boy to talk so.”

“All right, mother,” Ned replied recklessly; “if I am, I suppose I am. I
know in your eyes he can do no wrong. And I believe if he beat you, you
would think that you deserved it.”

So he flung himself down in his chair and continued his breakfast.

Mr. Mulready drank off his tea without sitting down, and then left the
room without another word; in fact, as yet he did not know what to say.

Almost speechless with passion as he was, he restrained himself from
carrying out his threat and turning Ned at once from the house. Above all
things he prized his position and popularity, and he felt that, as Ned had
said, he would indeed incur a heavy odium by turning his wife's son from
his doors. Captain Sankey's death had thrown almost a halo over his
children. Mr. Mulready knew that he was already intensely unpopular among
the operative class, but he despised this so long as he stood well with
the rest of the townsmen; but he dared not risk Ned's going to work as an
ordinary hand in one of the factories; public opinion is always against
stepfathers, and assuredly this would be no exception. Hating him as he
did, he dared not get rid of this insolent boy, who had struck and defied
him. He cursed himself now with his rashness in letting his temper get the
best of him and telling his wife openly that he had married her for her
money; for this in Ned's hands would be a serious weapon against him.

That his wife's feelings were hurt he cared not a jot, but it would be an
awkward thing to have it repeated in the town. Then there was this
threatening letter; what was he to do about that? Other men had had
similar warnings. Some had defied Captain Lud, and fortified their mills
and held them. Many had had their property burned to the ground; some had
been murdered. It wouldn't be a pleasant thing to drive about in the
country knowing that at any moment he might be shot dead. His mill was
some little distance out of the town; the road was dark and lonely. He
dared not risk it.

Mr. Mulready was, like all tyrants, a coward at heart, and his face grew
white again as he thought of the letter in his pocket. In the meantime
Mrs. Mulready was alternately sobbing and upbraiding Ned as he quietly
finished his breakfast. The boy did not answer, but continued his meal in
dogged silence, and when it was over collected his books and without a
word went off to school.

Weeks went on, and no outward change took place. Ned continued to live at
home. Mr. Mulready never addressed him, and beyond helping him to food
entirely ignored his presence. At mealtimes when he opened his lips it was
either to snap at Charlie or Lucy, or to snarl at his wife, whose patience
astonished Ned, and who never answered except by a smile or murmured
excuse. The lad was almost as far separated from her now as from his
stepfather. She treated him as if he only were to blame for the quarrel
which had arisen. They had never understood each other, and while she was
never weary of making excuses for her husband, she could make none for her
son. In the knowledge that the former had much to vex him she made excuses
for him even in his worst moods. His new machinery was standing idle, his
business was getting worse and worse, he was greatly pressed and worried,
and it was monstrous, she told herself, that at such a time he should be
troubled with Ned's defiant behavior.

A short time before the school Christmas holidays Ned knocked at the door
of Mr. Porson's study. Since the conversation which they had had when
first Ned heard of his mother's engagement Mr. Porson had seen in the
lad's altered manner, his gloomy looks, and a hardness of expression which
became more and more marked every week, that things were going on badly.
Ned no longer evinced the same interest in his work, and frequently
neglected it altogether; the master, however, had kept silence, preferring
to wait until Ned should himself broach the subject.

“Well, Sankey, what is it?” he asked kindly as the boy entered.

“I don't think it's any use my going on any longer, Mr. Porson.”

“Well, Sankey, you have not been doing yourself much good this half,
certainly. I have not said much to you about it, for it is entirely your
own business: you know more than nineteen out of twenty of the young
fellows who get commissions, so that if you choose to give up work it is
your own affair.”

“I have made up my mind not to go into the army,” Ned said quietly.

Mr. Porson was silent a minute.

“I hope, my dear lad,” he said, “you will do nothing hastily about this.
Here is a profession open to you which is your own choice and that of your
father, and it should need some very strong and good reason for you to
abandon it. Come let us talk the matter over together, my boy, not as a
master and his pupil, but as two friends.

“You know, my boy, how thoroughly I have your interest at heart. If you
had other friends whom you could consult I would rather have given you no
advice, for there is no more serious matter than to say anything which
might influence the career of a young fellow just starting in life.
Terrible harm often results from well intentioned advice or opinions
carelessly expressed to young men by their elders; it is a matter which
few men are sufficiently careful about; but as I know that you have no
friends to consult, Ned, and as I regard you with more than interest, I
may say with affection, I think it would be well for you to tell me all
that there is in your mind before you take a step which may wreck your
whole life.

“I have been waiting for some months in hopes that you would open your
mind to me, for I have seen that you were unhappy; but it was not for me
to force your confidence.”

“I don't know that there's much to tell,” Ned said wearily. “Everything
has happened just as it was certain it would do. Mulready is a brute; he
ill treats my mother, he ill treats Charlie and Lucy, and he would ill
treat me if he dared.”

“All this is bad, Ned,” Mr. Porson said gravely; “but of course much
depends upon the amount of his ill treatment. I assume that he does not
actively ill treat your mother.”

“No,” Ned said with an angry look in his face; “and he'd better not.”

“Yes, Ned, he had better not, no doubt,” Mr. Porson said soothingly; “but
what I want to know, what it is essential I should know if I am to give
you any advice worth having, is what you mean by ill treatment—is he
rough and violent in his way with her? does he threaten her with violence?
is he coarse and brutal?”

“No,” Ned said somewhat reluctantly; “he is not that, sir; he is always
snapping and snarling and finding fault.”

“That is bad, Ned, but it does not amount to ill treatment. When a man is
put out in business and things go wrong with him it is unhappily too often
his custom to vent his ill temper upon innocent persons; and I fancy from
what I hear—you know in a little place like this every one's
business is more or less known—Mr. Mulready has a good deal to put
him out. He has erected new machinery and dare not put it to work, owing
as I hear—for he has lain the documents before the magistrates—for
his having received threatening letters warning him against doing so. This
is very trying to the man. Then, Ned, you will excuse my saying that
perhaps he is somewhat tried at home. It is no pleasant thing for a man to
have a young fellow like yourself in the house taking up an attitude of
constant hostility. I do not say that his conduct may or may not justify
it; but you will not deny that from the first you were prepared to receive
him as an enemy rather than as a friend. I heard a story some weeks ago in
the town, which emanated no doubt from the servants, that you had actually
struck him.”

“He hit Charlie, sir,” Ned exclaimed.

“That may be,” Mr. Porson went on gravely; “and I have no doubt, Ned, that
you considered then, and that you consider now, that you were acting
rightly in interfering on behalf of your brother. But I should question
much whether in such a matter you are the best judge. You unfortunately
began with a very strong prejudice against this man; you took up the
strongest attitude of hostility to him; you were prepared to find fault
with everything he said and did; you put yourself in the position of the
champion of your mother, brother, and sister against him. Under such
circumstances it was hardly possible that things could go on well. Now I
suppose, Ned, that the idea which you have in your mind in deciding to
give up the profession you have chosen, is that you may remain as their
champion and protector here.”

“Yes, sir,” Ned said. “Father told me to be kind to mother, whatever
happened.”

“Quite so, my boy; but the question is, Are you being kind?”

Ned looked surprised.

“That you intend to be so, Ned, I am sure. The question is, Are you going
the right way to work? Is this championship that you have taken upon
yourself increasing her happiness, or is it not?”

Ned was silent.

“I do not think that it is, Ned. Your mother must be really fond of this
man or she would not have married him. Do you think that it conduces to
the comfort of her home to see the constant antagonism which prevails
between you and him? Is it not the fact that this ill temper under which
she suffers is the result of the irritation caused to him by your
attitude? Do you not add to her burden rather than relieve it?”

Ned was still silent. He had so thoroughly persuaded himself that he was
protecting his mother, his brother, and sister from Mr. Mulready that he
had never considered the matter in this light.

“Does your mother take his part or yours in these quarrels, Ned?”

“She takes his part, sir,” said Ned indignantly.

“Very well, Ned; that shows in itself that she does not wish for your
championship, that in her eyes the trouble in the house is in fact caused
by you. You must remember that when a woman loves a man she makes excuses
for his faults of temper; his irritable moods, sharp expressions, and what
you call snapping and snarling do not seem half so bad to her as they do
to a third person, especially when that third person is her partisan.
Instead of your adding to her happiness by renouncing your idea of going
into the army, and of deciding to remain here in some position or other to
take care of her, as, I suppose, is your intention, the result will be
just the contrary. As to your sister, I think the same thing would happen.

“Your mother is certainly greatly attached to her and owing to her changed
habits—for I understand that she is now a far more active, and I may
say, Ned, a more sensible woman than before her marriage—I see no
reason why Lucy should not be happy with her, especially if the element of
discord—I mean yourself—were out of the way. As to Charlie, at
the worst I don't think that he would suffer from your absence. His
stepfather's temper will be less irritable; and as Charlie is away at
school all day, and has to prepare his lessons in the evening, there is
really but slight opportunity for his stepfather treating him with any
active unkindness, even should he be disposed to do so.

“Did I think, my boy, that your presence here would be likely to benefit
your family I should be the last person to advise you to avoid making a
sacrifice of your private wishes to what you consider your duty; but upon
the contrary I am convinced that the line which you have, with the best
intention, taken up has been altogether a mistake, that your stay at home
does vastly more harm than good, and that things would go on very much
better in your absence.”

This was a bitter mortification for Ned, who had hitherto nursed the idea
that he was performing rather a heroic part, and was sacrificing himself
for the sake of his mother.

“You don't know the fellow as I do,” he said sullenly at last.

“I do not, Ned; but I know human nature, and I know that any man would
show himself at his worst under such circumstances as those in which you
hare placed him. It is painful to have to say, but I am sure that you have
done harm rather than good, and that things will get on much better in
your absence.”

“I believe he is quite capable of killing her,” Ned said passionately, “if
he wanted her out of the way.”

“That is a hard thing to say, Ned; but even were it so, we have no reason
for supposing that he does want her out of the way. Come, Sankey, I am
sure you have plenty of good sense. Hitherto you have been acting rather
blindly in this matter. You have viewed it from one side only, and with
the very best intentions in the world have done harm rather than good.

“I am convinced that when you come to think it over you will see that, in
following out your own and your father's intentions and wishes as to your
future career, you will really best fulfil his last injunctions and will
show the truest kindness to your mother. Don't give me your answer now,
but take time to think it over. Try and see the case from every point of
view, and I think you will come to the conclusion that what I have been
saying, although it may seem rather hard to you at first, is true, and
that you had best go into the army, as you had intended. I am sure in any
case you will know that what I have said, even if it seems unkind, has
been for your good.”

“Thank you, Mr. Porson,” Ned replied; “I am quite sure of that. Perhaps
you are right, and I have been making a fool of myself all along. But
anyhow I will think it over.”

CHAPTER XI: THE NEW MACHINERY

It is rather hard for a lad who thinks that he has been behaving somewhat
as a hero to come to the conclusion that he has been making a fool of
himself; but this was the result of Ned Sankey's cogitation over what Mr.
Porson had said to him. Perhaps he arrived more easily at that conclusion
because he was not altogether unwilling to do so. It was very mortifying
to allow that he had been altogether wrong; but, on the other hand, there
was a feeling of deep pleasure at the thought that he could, in Mr.
Porson's deliberate opinion, go into the army and carry out all his
original hopes and plans. His heart had been set upon this as long as he
could remember, and it had been a bitter disappointment to him when he had
arrived at the conclusion that it was his duty to abandon the idea. He did
not now come to the conclusion hastily that Mr. Porson's view of the case
was the correct one; but after a fortnight's consideration he went down on
New Year's Day to the school, and told his master that he had made up his
mind.

“I see, sir,” he said, “now that I have thought it all over, that you are
quite right, and that I have been behaving like an ass, so I shall set to
work again and try and make up the lost time. I have only six months
longer, for Easter is the time when Mr. Simmonds said that I should be old
enough, and he will write to the lord lieutenant, and I suppose that in
three months after that I should get my commission.”

“That is right, Ned. I am exceedingly glad you have been able to take my
view of the matter. I was afraid you were bent upon spoiling your life,
and I am heartily glad that you have been able to see the matter in a
different light.”

A day or two afterward Ned took an opportunity of telling his mother that
he intended at Easter to remind Mr. Simmonds of his promise to apply for a
commission for him; and had he before had any lingering doubt that the
decision was a wise one it would have been dissipated by the evident
satisfaction and relief with which the news was received; nevertheless, he
could not help a feeling of mortification at seeing in his mother's face
the gladness which the prospect of his leaving occasioned her.

It was some time since Ned had seen his friend Bill Swinton, for Bill was
now regularly at work in Mr. Mulready's factory and was only to be found
at home in the evening, and Ned had been in no humor for going out. He
now, however, felt inclined for a friendly talk again, and the next Sunday
afternoon he started for Varley.

“Well, Maister Ned,” Bill said as he hurried to the door in answer to his
knock, “it be a long time surely sin oi saw thee last—well nigh six
months, I should say.”

“It is a long time, Bill, but I haven't been up to anything, even to
coming up here. Put on your cap and we will go for a walk across the moors
together.”

In a few seconds Bill joined him, and they soon left the village behind.

“Oi thought as how thou didn't feel oop to talking loike, Moister Ned. Oi
heared tell as how thou did'st not get on well wi' Foxey; he be a roight
down bad un, he be; it were the talk of the place as how you gived him a
clout atween t' eyes, and oi laughed rarely to myself when oi seed him
come through t' mill wi' black and blue all round 'em. There warn't a hand
there but would have given a week's pay to have seen it done.”

“I am afraid I was wrong, Bill,” Ned said, feeling ashamed rather then
triumphant at the thought. “I oughtn't to have done it, but my beastly
temper got the best of it.”

“Doan't say that Maister Ned; he deserves ten toimes worse nor ye gived
him, and he will get it some time if he doan't mind. Oi tell ee there be
lots of talk of him, and Captain Lud's gang be a getting stronger and
stronger. Oi tell ye, t' maisters be agoing to have a bad time on it afore
long, and Foxey be sure to be one of the first served out.”

“Well, don't you have anything to do with it, Bill. You know I have told
you over and over again that no good can come of such bad doings, and that
the men will only make matters much worse for themselves. My father used
to say that no good ever came of mob violence. They may do some harm for a
time, but it is sure to recoil on their own heads.”

“Oi doan't ha' nowt to do wi' it,” Bill replied, “cause oi told yer oi
wouldn't; but oi've some trouble to keep oot o't. Ye see oi am nointeen
now, and most o' t' chaps of moi age they be in 't; they meet at the 'Dog'
nigh every noight, and they drills regular out on t' moor here, and it
doan't seem natural for oi not to be in it, especial as moi brothers be in
it. They makes it rough for me in t' village, and says as how I ain't got
no spirit, and even t' girls laughs at me.”

“Not Polly Powlett, I am sure, Bill.”

“No, not Polly,” Bill replied. “She be a different sort. A' together it be
a bit hard, and it be well for me as oi 'm main strong and tough, for oi
ha' to fight pretty nigh every Saturday. However, oi ha thrashed pretty
nigh every young chap in Varley, and they be beginning now to leave oi
alone.”

“That's right, Bill; I am sure I have no right to preach to you when I am
always doing wrong myself; still I am quite sure you will be glad in the
long run that you had nothing to do with King Lud. I know the times are
very hard, but burning mills and murdering masters are not the way to make
them better; you take my word for that. And now how are things going on in
Varley?”

“No great change here,” Bill replied. “Polly Powlett bain't made up her
moind yet atween t' chaps as is arter her. They say as she sent John
Stukeley, the smith, to the roight about last Sunday; he ha' been arter
her vor the last year. Some thowt she would have him, some didn't. He ha'
larning, you see, can read and wroite foine, and ha' got a smooth tongue,
and knows how to talk to gals, so some thought she would take him; oi knew
well enough she wouldn't do nowt of the koind, for oi ha' heard her say he
were a mischievous chap, and a cuss to Varley. Thou know'st, Maister Ned,
they do say, but in course oi knows nowt about it, as he be the head of
the Luddites in this part of Yorkshire.

“Luke Marner he be dead against King Lud, he be, and so be many of the
older men here; it's most the young uns as takes to them ways; and
nateral, Polly she thinks as Luke does, or perhaps,” and Bill laughed,
“it's Polly as thowt that way first, and Luke as thinks as she does.
However it be, she be dead set agin them, and she's said to me jest the
same thing as thou'st been a-saying; anyhow, it be sartain as Polly ha'
said no to John Stukeley, not as she said nowt about it, and no one would
ha' known aboot it ef he hadn't gone cussing and swearing down at the
'Dog.'

“I thinks. Maister Ned, as we shall ha' trouble afore long. The men ha
been drilling four or five years now, and oi know as they ha' been saying,
What be the good of it when nowt is done and the wages gets lower and
lower? They have preachments now out on t' moor on Sunday, and the men
comes from miles round, and they tells me as Stukeley and others, but him
chiefly, goes on awful agin t' maisters, and says, There's Scripture vor
it as they owt to smite 'em, and as how tyrants owt vor to be hewed in
pieces.”

“The hewing would not be all on one side, Bill, you will see, if they
begin it. You know how easily the soldiers have put down riots in other
places.”

“That be true,” Bill said; “but they doan't seem vor to see it. Oi don't
say nowt one way or t' other, and oi have had more nor half a mind to quit
and go away till it's over. What wi' my brothers and all t' other young
chaps here being in it, it makes it moighty hard vor oi to stand off; only
as oi doan't know what else vor to do, oi would go. Oi ha' been a-thinking
that when thou get'st to be an officer oi'll list in the same regiment and
go to the wars wi' thee. Oi am sick of this loife here.”

“Well, Bill, there will be no difficulty about that if you really make up
your mind to it when the time comes. Of course I should like to have you
very much. I have heard my father say that each officer has a soldier as
his special servant; and if you would like that, you see, when we were
alone together we should be able to talk about Varley and everything here
just as we do now. Then I suppose I could help you on and get you made
first corporal and then a sergeant.”

“Very well, Maister Ned, then we will look on that as being as good as
settled, and as soon as thou gets to be an officer oi will go as one of
your soldiers.”

For an hour they walked across the moor, talking about a soldier's life,
Ned telling of the various parts of the world in which England was at that
time engaged in war, and wondering in which of them they would first see
service. Then they came back to the village and there parted, and Ned,
feeling in better spirits than he had been from the day when he first
heard of his mother's engagement to Mr. Mulready, walked briskly down to
Marsden.

For a time matters went on quietly. Few words were exchanged between Ned
and Mr. Mulready; and although the latter could not but have noticed that
Ned was brighter and more cheerful in his talk, he was brooding over his
own trouble, and paid but little heed to it.

The time was fast approaching when he could no longer go on as at present.
The competition with the mills using the new machinery was gradually
crushing him, and it was necessary for him to come to a determination
either to pluck up heart and to use his new machines, or to close his
mill.

At last he determined to take the former course and to defy King Lud.
Other manufacturers used steam, and why should not he? It was annoying to
him in the extreme that his friends and acquaintances, knowing that he had
fitted the mill with the new plant, were always asking him why he did not
use it.

A sort of uneasy consciousness that he was regarded by his townsmen as a
coward was constantly haunting him. He knew in his heart that his danger
was greater than that of others, because he could not rely on his men.
Other masters had armed their hands, and had turned their factories into
strong places, some of them even getting down cannon for their defense:
for, as a rule, the hands employed with the new machinery had no objection
to it, for they were able to earn larger wages with less bodily toil than
before.

The hostility was among the hands thrown out of employment, or who found
that they could now no longer make a living by the looms which they worked
in their own homes. Hitherto Mr. Mulready had cared nothing for the
goodwill of his hands. He had simply regarded them as machines from whom
the greatest amount of work was to be obtained at the lowest possible
price. They might grumble and curse him beneath their breaths; they might
call him a tyrant behind his back, for this he cared nothing: but he felt
now that it would have been better had their relations been different: for
then he could have trusted them to do their best in defense of the mill.

Having once determined upon defying King Lud, Mr. Mulready went before the
magistrates, and laying before them the threatening letters he had
received, for the first had been followed by many others, he asked them to
send for a company of infantry, as he was going to set his mill to work.
The magistrates after some deliberation agreed to do so, and wrote to the
commanding officer of the troops at Huddersfield asking him to station a
detachment at Marsden for a time.

The request was complied with. A company of infantry marched in and were
billeted upon the town. A room was fitted up at the mill, and ten of them
were quartered here, and upon the day after their arrival the new
machinery started.

Now that the step was taken, Mr. Mulready's spirits rose. He believed that
the presence of the soldiers was ample protection for the mill, and he
hoped that ere they left the town the first excitement would have cooled
down, and the Luddites have turned their attention to other quarters.

Ned met Bill on the following Sunday.

“I suppose, Bill,” he said, “there is a rare stir about Foxey using his
new machinery?”

“Ay, that there be, and no wonder,” Bill said angrily, “there be twenty
hands turned adrift. Oi bee one of them myself.”

“You, Bill! I had no idea you had been discharged.”

“Ay; oi have got the sack, and so ha' my brother and young Jarge Marner,
and most o' t' young chaps in the mill. Oi suppose as how Foxey thinks as
the old hands will stick to t' place, and is more afeerd as the young uns
might belong to King Lud, and do him a bad turn with the machinery. Oi
tell ye, Maister Ned, that the sooner as you goes as an officer the
better, vor oi caan't bide here now and hold off from the others, Oi have
had a dog's loife for some time, and it ull be worse now. It would look as
if oi hadn't no spirit in the world, to stand being put upon and not join
the others. T' other chaps scarce speak to me, and the gals turn their
backs as oi pass them. Oi be willing vor to be guided by you as far as oi
can; but it bain't in nature to stand this. Oi'd as lief go and hang
myself. Oi would go and list tomorrow, only oi don't know what regiment
you are going to.”

“Well, Bill, it is hard,” Ned said, “and I am not surprised that you feel
that you cannot stand it; but it won't be for long now. Easter will be
here in a fortnight, and then I shall see Mr. Simmonds and get him to
apply at once. I met him in the street only last week, and he was talking
about it then. He thinks that it will not be long after he sends in an
application before I get my commission. He says he has got interest in
London at the Horse Guards, and will get the application of the lord
lieutenant backed up there; so I hope that in a couple of months at latest
it will all be settled.”

“Oi hope so, oi am sure, vor oi be main sick of this. However, oi can hold
on for another couple of months; they know anyhow as it ain't from
cowardice as I doan't join them. I fowt Jack Standfort yesterday and
licked un; though, as you see, oi 'ave got a rare pair of black eyes
today. If oi takes one every Saturday it's only eight more to lick, and oi
reckon oi can do that.”

“I wish I could help you, Bill,” Ned said: “if father had been alive I am
sure he would have let you have a little money to take you away from here
and keep you somewhere until it is time for you to enlist; but you see I
can do nothing now.”

“Doan't you go vor to trouble yourself aboot me, Maister Ned. Oi shall
hold on roight enow. The thought as it is for two months longer will keep
me up. Oi can spend moi evenings in at Luke's. He goes off to the 'Coo,'
but Polly doan't moind moi sitting there and smoking moi pipe, though it
bain't every one as she would let do that.”

Ned laughed. “It's a pity, Bill, you are not two or three years older,
then perhaps Polly mightn't give you the same answer she gave to the
smith.”

“Lor' bless ee,” Bill said seriously, “Polly wouldn't think nowt of oi,
not if oi was ten years older. Oi bee about the same age as she; but she
treats me as if I was no older nor her Jarge. No, when Polly marries it
won't be in Varley. She be a good many cuts above us, she be. Oi looks
upon her jest as an elder sister, and oi doan't moind how much she blows
me up—and she does it pretty hot sometimes, oi can tell ee; but oi
should just loike to hear any one say a word agin her; but there be no one
in Varley would do that. Every one has a good word for Polly; for when
there's sickness in the house, or owt be wrong, Polly's always ready to
help. Oi do believe that there never was such a gal. If it hadn't been for
her oi would ha' cut it long ago. Oi wouldn't go agin what ye said,
Maister Ned; but oi am danged if oi could ha' stood it ef it hadn't been
for Polly.”

“I suppose,” Ned said, “that now they have got the soldiers down in
Marsden it will be all right about the mill.”

“Oi caan't say,” Bill replied; “nateral they doan't say nowt to me; but oi
be sure that some'ats oop. They be a-drilling every night, and there will
be trouble avore long. Oi doan't believe as they will venture to attack
the mill as long as the sojers be in Marsden; but oi wouldn't give the
price of a pint of ale for Foxey's loife ef they could lay their hands on
him. He'd best not come up this way arter dark.”

“He's not likely to do that,” Ned said. “I am sure he is a coward or he
would have put the mill to work weeks ago.”

Secure in the protection of the troops, and proud of the new machinery
which was at work in his mill, Mr. Mulready was now himself again. His
smile had returned. He carried himself jauntily, and talked lightly and
contemptuously of the threats of King Lud. Ned disliked him more in this
mood than in the state of depression and irritation which had preceded it.
The tones of hatred and contempt in which he spoke of the starving workmen
jarred upon him greatly, and it needed all his determination and self
command to keep him from expressing his feelings. Mr. Mulready was quick
in perceiving, from the expression of Ned's face, the annoyance which his
remarks caused him, and reverted to the subject all the more frequently.
With this exception the home life was more pleasant than it had been
before.

Mr. Mulready, in his satisfaction at the prospect of a new prosperity, was
far more tolerant with his wife, and her spirits naturally rose with his.
She had fully shared his fears as to the threats by the Luddites, and now
agreed cordially with his diatribes against the workpeople, adopting all
his opinions as her own.

Ned's acquaintance with Bill Swinton had long been a grievance to her, and
her constant complainings as to his love for low company had been one of
the afflictions to which Ned had long been accustomed. Now, having her
husband by her side, it was a subject to which she frequently reverted.

“Why can't you leave me alone, mother?” Ned burst out one day when Mr.
Mulready had left the room. “Can't you leave me in quiet as to my friends,
when in two or three months I shall be going away? Bill Swinton is going
to enlist in the same regiment in which I am, so as to follow me all over
the world.

“Would any of the fine friends you would like me to make do that? I like
all the fellows at school well enough, but there is not one of them would
do a fiftieth part as much for me as Bill would. Even you, mother, with
all your prejudices; must allow that it will be a good thing for me to
have some one with me who will really care for me, who will nurse me if I
am sick or wounded, who would lay down his life for mine if necessary. I
tell you there isn't a finer fellow than Bill living. Of course he's
rough, and he's had no education, I know that; but it's not his fault. But
a truer or warmer hearted fellow never lived. He is a grand fellow. I wish
I was only half as true and as honest and manly as he is. I am proud to
have Bill as a friend. It won't be long before I have gone, mother. I have
been fighting hard with myself so that there shall be peace and quietness
in the house for the little time I have got to be here, and you make it
harder for me.”

“It's ridiculous your talking so,” Mrs. Mulready said peevishly, “and
about a common young fellow like this. I don't pretend to understand you,
Ned. I never have and never shall do. But I am sure the house will be much
more comfortable when you have gone. Whatever trouble there is with my
husband is entirely your making. I only wonder that he puts up with your
ways as he does. If his temper was not as good as yours is bad he would
not be able to do so.”

“All right, mother,” Ned said. “He is an angel, he is, we all know, and I
am the other thing. Well, if you are contented, that's the great thing,
isn't it? I only hope you will always be so; but there,” he said, calming
himself with a great effort as his father's last words again came into his
mind, “don't let's quarrel, mother. I am sorry for what I have said. It's
quite right that you should stick up for your husband, and I do hope that
when I go you will, as you say, be more comfortable and happy. Perhaps you
will. I am sure I hope so. Well, I know I am not nice with him. I can't
help it. It's my beastly temper, I suppose. That's an old story. Come,
mother, I have only a short time to be at home now. Let us both try and
make it as pleasant as we can, so that when I am thousands of miles away,
perhaps in India, we may have it to look back upon. You try and leave my
friends alone and I will try and be as pleasant as I can with your
husband.”

Mrs. Mulready was crying now.

“You know, Ned, I would love you if you would let me, only you are so set
against my husband. I am sure he always means kindly. Look how he takes to
little Lucy, who is getting quite fond of him.”

“Yes, I am very glad to think that he is, mother,” Ned said earnestly.
“You see Lucy is much younger, and naturally remembers comparatively
little about her father, and has been able to take to Mr. Mulready without
our prejudices. I am very glad to see that he really does like her—in
fact I do think he is getting quite fond of her. I shall go away feeling
quite easy about her. I wish I could say as much about Charlie. He is not
strong, like other boys, and feels unkindness very sharply. I can see him
shrink and shiver when your husband speaks to him, and am afraid he will
have a very bad time of it when I am gone.”

“I am sure, Ned, he will get on very well,” Mrs. Mulready said. “I have no
doubt that when he gets rid of the example you set him—I don't want
to begin to quarrel again—but of the example you set him of dislike
and disrespect to Mr. Mulready, that he will soon be quite different. He
will naturally turn to me again instead of looking to you for all his
opinions, and things will go on smoothly and well.”

“I am sure I hope so, mother. Perhaps I have done wrong in helping to set
Charlie against Mulready. Perhaps when I have gone, too, things will be
easier for him. If I could only think so I should go away with a lighter
heart. Well, anyhow, mother, I am glad we have had this talk. It is not
often we get a quiet talk together now.”

“I am sure it is not my fault,” Mrs. Mulready said in a slightly injured
tone.

“Perhaps not, mother,” Ned said kindly. “With the best intentions, I know
I am always doing things wrong. It's my way, I suppose. Anyhow, mother, I
really have meant well, and I hope you will think of me kindly after I
have gone.”

“You may be sure I shall do that, Ned,” his mother said, weeping again. “I
have no doubt the fault has been partly mine too, but you see women don't
understand boys, and can't make allowances for them.”

And so Ned kissed his mother for the first time since the day when she had
returned home from her wedding tour, and mother and son parted on better
terms than they had done for very many months, and Ned went with a
lightened heart to prepare his lessons for the next day.

CHAPTER XII: MURDERED!

In spite of Ned's resolutions that he would do nothing to mar the
tranquillity of the last few weeks of his being at home, he had difficulty
in restraining his temper the following day at tea. Never had he seen his
stepfather in so bad a humor. Had he known that things had gone wrong at
the mill that day, that the new machine had broken one of its working
parts and had brought everything to a standstill till it could be
repaired, he would have been able to make allowances for Mr. Mulready's
ill humor.

Not knowing this he grew pale with the efforts which he made to restrain
himself as his stepfather snarled at his wife, snapped at Lucy and
Charlie, and grumbled and growled at everything throughout the meal.
Everything that was said was wrong, and at last, having silenced his wife
and her children, the meal was completed in gloomy silence.

The two boys went into the little room off the hall which they used of an
evening to prepare their lessons for next day. Charlie, who came in last,
did not abut the door behind him.

“That is a nice man, our stepfather,” Ned said in a cold fury. “His ways
get more and more pleasant every day; such an amiable, popular man, so
smiling and pleasant!”

“Oh! it's no use saying anything,” Charlie said in an imploring voice, “it
only makes things worse.”

“Worse!” Ned exclaimed indignantly; “how could they be worse? Well may
they call him Foxey, for foxey he is, a double faced snarling brute.”

As the last word issued from Ned's lips he reeled under a tremendous box
on the ear from behind. Mr. Mulready was passing through the hall—for
his gig was waiting at the door to take him back to the mill, where some
fitters would be at work till late, repairing the damages to the machine—when
he had caught Ned's words, which were spoken at the top of his voice.

The smoldering anger of months burst at once into a flame heightened by
the ill humor which the day's events had caused, and he burst into the
room and almost felled Ned to the ground with his swinging blow.
Recovering himself, Ned flew at him, but the boy was no match for the man,
and Mr. Mulready's passion was as fierce as his own; seizing his throat
with his left hand and forcing him back into a corner of the room, his
stepfather struck him again and again with all his force with his right.

Charlie had run at once from the room to fetch his mother, and it was
scarcely a minute after the commencement of the outbreak that she rushed
into the room, and with a scream threw her arms round her husband.

“The young scoundrel!” Mr. Mulready exclaimed, panting, as he released his
hold of Ned; “he has been wanting a lesson for a long time, and I have
given him one at last. He called me Foxey, the young villain, and said I
was a double faced snarling brute; let him say so again and I will knock
his head off.”

But Ned just at present was not in a condition to repeat his words;
breathless and half stunned he leaned in the corner, his breath came in
gasps, his face was as pale as death, his cheek was cut, there were red
marks on the forehead which would speedily become black, and the blood was
flowing from a cut on his lip, his eyes had a dazed and half stupid look.

“Oh! William!” Mrs. Mulready said as she looked at her son, “how could you
hurt him so!”

“Hurt him, the young reptile!” Mr. Mulready said savagely. “I meant to
hurt him. I will hurt him more next time.”

Mrs. Mulready paid no attention to his words, but went up to Ned.

“Ned, my boy,” she said tenderly, “what is it? Don't look like that, Ned;
speak to me.”

His mother's voice seemed to rouse Ned into consciousness. He drew a long
breath, then slowly passed his hand across his eyes, and lips, and mouth.
He looked at his mother and seemed about to speak, but no sound came from
his lips. Then his eye fell on his stepfather, who, rather alarmed at the
boy's appearance, was standing near the door. The expression of Ned's face
changed, his mouth became set and rigid, his eyes dilated, and Mr.
Mulready, believing that he was about to spring upon him, drew back
hastily half a step and threw up his hands to defend himself. Mrs.
Mulready threw herself in Ned's way; the boy made no effort to put her
aside, but kept his eyes fixed over her shoulder at his stepfather.

“Take care!” he said hoarsely, “it will be my turn next time, and when it
comes I will kill you, you brute.”

“Oh, go away, William!” Mrs. Mulready cried; “oh! do go away, or there
will be more mischief. Oh! Ned, do sit down, and don't look so dreadful;
he is going now.”

Mr. Mulready turned and went with a laugh which he intended to be
scornful, but in which there was a strong tinge of uneasiness. He had
always in his heart been afraid of this boy with his wild and reckless
temper, and felt that in his present mood Ned was capable of anything.
Still as Mr. Mulready took his seat in his gig his predominant feeling was
satisfaction.

“I am glad I have given him a lesson,” he muttered to himself, “and have
paid him off for months of insolence. He won't try it on again, and as for
his threats, pooh! he'll be gone in a few weeks, and there will be an end
of it.”

After he had gone Mrs. Mulready tried to soothe Ned, but the boy would not
listen to her, and in fact did not seem to hear her.

“Don't you mind, mother,” he said in a strange, quiet voice, “I will pay
him off;” and muttering these words over and over again he went out into
the hall, took down his cap in a quiet, mechanical sort of way, put it on,
opened the door, and went out.

“Oh! Charlie,” Mrs. Mulready said to her second son, who, sobbing
bitterly, had thrown himself down in a chair by the table, and was sitting
with his head on his hands, “there will be something terrible come of
this! Ned's temper is so dreadful, and my husband was wrong, too. He
should never have beaten him so, though Ned did say such things to him.
What shall I do? these quarrels will be the death of me. I suppose Ned
will be wandering about all night again. Do put on your cap, Charlie, and
go out and see if you can find him, and persuade him to come home and go
to bed; perhaps he will listen to you.”

Charlie was absent an hour, and returned saying that he could not find his
brother.

“Perhaps he's gone up to Varley as he did last time,” Mrs. Mulready said.
“I am sure I hope he has, else he will be wandering about all night, and
he had such a strange lock in his face that there's no saying where he
might go to, or what he might do.”

Charlie was almost heartbroken, and sat up till long past his usual time,
waiting for his brother's return. At last his eyes would no longer keep
open, and he stumbled upstairs to bed, where he fell asleep almost as his
head touched the pillow, in spite of his resolution to be awake until Ned
returned.

Downstairs Mrs. Mulready kept watch. She did not expect Ned to return, but
she was listening for the wheels of her husband's gig. It was uncertain at
what time he would return; for when he rose from the tea table she had
asked him what time he expected to be back, and he had replied that he
could not say; he should stop until the repairs were finished, and she was
to go to bed and not bother.

So at eleven o'clock she went upstairs, for once before when he had been
out late and she had sat up he had been much annoyed; but after she got in
bed she lay for hours listening for the sound of the wheels. At last she
fell asleep and dreamed that Ned and her husband were standing at the end
of a precipice grappling fiercely together in a life and death struggle.
She was awaked at last by a knocking at the door; she glanced at her
watch, which hung above her head; it was but half past six.

“What is it, Mary?”

“Please, mum, there's a constable below, and he wants to speak to you
immediate.”

Mrs. Mulready sprang from the bed and began to dress herself hurriedly.
All sorts of mischief that might have come to Ned passed rapidly through
her mind; her husband had not returned, but no doubt he had stopped at the
mill all night watching the men at work. His absence scarcely occasioned
her a moment's thought. In a very few minutes she was downstairs in the
kitchen, where the constable was standing waiting for her. She knew him by
sight, for Marsden possessed but four constables, and they were all well
known characters.

“What is it?” she asked; “has anything happened to my son?”

“No, mum,” the constable said in a tone of surprise, “I didn't know as he
wasn't in bed and asleep, but I have some bad news for you, mum; it's a
bad job altogether.”

“What is it?” she asked again; “is it my husband?”

“Well, mum, I am sorry to say as it be. A chap came in early this morning
and told me as summat had happened, so I goes out, and half a mile from
the town I finds it just as he says.”

“But what is it?” Mrs. Mulready gasped.

“Well, mum, I am sorry to have to tell you, but there was the gig all
smashed to atoms, and there was the little black mare lying all in a heap
with her neck broke, and there was—” and he stopped.

“My husband!” Mrs. Mulready gasped.

“Yes, marm, I be main sorry to say it were. There, yards in front of them,
were Mr. Mulready just stiff and cold. He'd been flung right out over the
hoss' head. I expect he had fallen on his head and must have been killed
roight out; and the worst of it be, marm, as it warn't an accident, for
there, tight across the road, about eighteen inches above the ground, was
a rope stretched tight atween a gate on either side. It was plain enough
to see what had happened. The mare had come tearing along as usual at
twelve mile an hour in the dark, and she had caught the rope, and in
course there had been a regular smash.”

The pretty color had all gone from Mrs. Mulready's face as he began his
story, but a ghastly pallor spread over her face, and a look of deadly
horror came into her eyes as he continued.

“Oh, Ned, Ned,” she wailed, “how could you!” and then she fell senseless
to the ground.

The constable raised her and placed her in a chair.

“Are you sure the master's dead?” the servant asked, wiping her eyes.

“Sure enough,” the constable said. “I have sent the doctor off already,
but it's no good, he's been dead hours and hours. But,” he continued, his
professional instincts coming to the surface, “what did she mean by
saying, 'Oh, Ned, how could you!' She asked me, too, first about him;
ain't he at home?”

“No, he ain't,” the servant said, “and ain't been at home all night; there
were a row between him and maister last even; they had a fight. Maister
Charlie he ran into the parlor as I was a clearing away the' tea things,
hallowing out as maister was a-killing Ned. Missis she ran in and I heard
a scream, then maister he drove off, and a minute or two later Maister Ned
he went out, and he ain't come back again. When I went in with the candles
I could see missis had been a crying. That's all I know about it.”

“And enough too,” the constable said grimly. “This here be a pretty
business. Well, you had best get your missis round and see about getting
the place ready for the corpse. They have gone up with a stretcher to
bring him back. They will be here afore long. I must go to Justice
Thompson's and tell him all about it. This be a pretty kittle of fish,
surely. I be main sorry, but I have got my duty to do.”

An hour later Williams the constable with a companion started out in
search of Ned Sankey, having a warrant in his pocket for his arrest on the
charge of willful murder.

The excitement in Marsden when it became known that Mr. Mulready had been
killed was intense, and it was immensely heightened when it was rumored
that a warrant had been issued for the arrest of his stepson on the charge
of murder. Quite a little crowd hung all day round the house with closed
blinds, within which their so lately active and bustling townsman was
lying.

All sorts of conjectures were rife, and there were many who said that they
had all along expected harm would come of the marriage which had followed
so soon after the death of Captain Sankey. The majority were loud in
expression of their sympathy with the dead mill owner, recalling his
cheery talk and general good temper. Others were disposed to think that
Ned had been driven to the act; but among very few was there any doubt as
to his guilt. It was recalled against him that he had before been in the
dock for his assault upon Mr. Hathorn, and that it had been proved that he
had threatened to kill his master. His sullen and moody demeanor at the
marriage of his mother told terribly against him, and the rumors of the
previous quarrel when Ned had assaulted his stepfather, and which, related
with many exaggerations, had at the time furnished a subject of gossip in
the town, also told heavily to his disadvantage.

Williams having learned from the servant that Ned was in the habit of
going up to Varley had first made his inquiries there; but neither Bill
nor Luke Marner, who were, the constable speedily learned, his principal
friends there, had seen him. Varley was greatly excited over the news of
the murder. Many of the men worked at Mulready's mill, and had brought
back the news at an early hour, as all work was of course suspended.

There was no grief expressed in Varley at Mr. Mulready's death, indeed the
news was received with jubilant exultation.

“A good job too,” was the general verdict; and the constable felt that
were Ned in the village he would be screened by the whole population. He
was convinced, however, that both Bill Swinton and Luke Marner were
ignorant of his whereabouts, so genuine had been their astonishment at his
questions, and so deep their indignation when they learned his errand.

“Thou duss'n't believe it, Luke?” Bill Swinton said as he entered the
latter's cottage.

“No, lad, oi duss'n't,” Luke said; “no more does Polly here, but it looks
main awkward,” he said slowly stroking his chin, “if as how what the
constable said is right, and there was a fight atween them that evening.”

“Maister Ned were a hot 'un,” Bill said; “he allus said as how he had a
dreadful temper, though oi never seed nowt of it in him, and he hated
Foxey like poison; that oi allows; but unless he tells me hisself as he
killed him nowt will make me believe it. He might ha' picked up summat
handy when Foxey hit him and smashed him, but oi don't believe it of
Maister Ned as he would ha done it arterward.”

“He war a downright bad 'un war Foxey,” Luke said, “vor sure. No worse in
the district, and there's many a one as would rejoice as he's gone to his
account, and oi believe as whoever's done it has saved Captain Lud from a
job; but there, it's no use a talking of that now. Now, look here, Bill,
what thou hast got to do be this. Thou hast got to find the boy; oi expect
he be hiding somewheres up on t' moors. Thou knowst better nor oi wheere
he be likely vor to be. Voind him out, lad, and tell him as they be arter
him. Here be ten punds as oi ha had laying by me for years ready in case
of illness; do thou give it to him and tell him he be heartily welcome to
it, and can pay me back agin when it suits him. Tell him as he'd best make
straight for Liverpool and git aboard a ship there for 'Merikee—never
moind whether he did the job or whether he didn't. Things looks agin him
now, and he best be on his way.”

“Oi'll do't,” Bill said, “and oi'll bid thee goodby, Luke, and thee too,
Polly, for ye won't see me back agin. Of course I shall go wi' him. He
haven't got man's strength yet, and oi can work for us both. I bain't
a-going to let him go by hisself, not loikely.”

“Thou art roight, lad,” Luke said heartily. “Dang it all, lad, thou
speak'st loike a man. Oi be sorry thou art going, Bill, for oi loike thee;
but thou be right to go wi' this poor lad. Goodby, lad, and luck be wi'
ye;” and Luke wrung Bill's hand heartily.

“I shan't say goodby, Bill,” Mary Powlett said quietly. “I don't think Ned
Sankey can have done this thing, and if he hasn't you will find that he
will not run away, but will stay here and face it out.”

“Then he will be a fool,” Luke Marner said. “I tell ee the evidence be
main strong agin him, and whether he be innocent or not he will find it
hard to clear hisself. Oi don't think much the worst of him myself if he
done it, and most in Varley will be o' my way o' thinking. Foxey war a
tyrant if ever there war one, and the man what was so hard a maister to
his hands would be loike to be hard to his wife's children.”

“Don't speak like that, feyther,” Polly said; “murder is murder, you
know.”

“Ay, lass, and human natur be human natur, and it be no use your going
agin it. If he ha been and ill treated the boy, and I don't doubt as he
has, thou may'st argue all noight, but thou won't get me to say as oi
blames him much if he has done it. Oi don't suppose as he meant to kill
him—not vor a moment. I should think hard of him if oi thowt as how
he did. He meant, oi reckon, vor to throw his horse down and cut his
knees, knowing, as every one did, as Mulready were moighty proud of his
horse, and he may have reckoned as Foxey would git a good shake, and some
bruises as well, as a scare, but oi doan't believe, not vor a moment, as
he meant vor to kill him. That's how oi reads it, lass.”

“Well, it may be so,” Mary assented. “It is possible he may have done it,
meaning really only to give him a fright and a shake; but I hope he
didn't. Still if that was how it happened I will shake hands, Bill, and
wish you goodby and good luck, for it would be best for him to get away,
for I am afraid that the excuse that he only meant to frighten and not to
kill him will not save him. I am sorry you are going, Bill, very sorry;
but if you were my own brother I would not say a word to stop you. Didn't
his feyther give up his life to save little Janey? and I would give mine
to save his. But I do think it will be good for you, Bill; times are bad,
and it has been very hard for you lately in Varley. I know all about it,
and you will do better across the seas. You will write, won't you,
sometimes?”

“Never fear,” Bill said huskily, “oi will wroite, Polly; goodby, and God
bless you all; but it mayn't be goodby, for oi mayn't foind him;” and,
wringing the hands of Luke and Polly, Bill returned to his cottage,
hastily packed up a few things in a kit, slung it over his shoulder on a
stick, and started out in search of Ned.

Late that evening there came a knock at the door of Luke's cottage. On
opening it he found Bill standing there.

“Back again, Bill!—then thou hasn't found him?”

“No,” Bill replied in a dejected voice. “Oi ha' hoonted high and low vor
him; oi ha' been to every place on the moor wheer we ha' been together,
and wheer oi thowt as he might be a-waiting knowing as oi should set out
to look for him as soon as oi heard the news. Oi don't think he be nowhere
on the moor. Oi have been a-tramping ever sin' oi started this mourning.
Twice oi ha' been down Maarsten to see if so be as they've took him, but
nowt ain't been seen of him. Oi had just coom from there now. Thou'st
heerd, oi suppose, as the crowner's jury ha found as Foxey wer murdered by
him; but it bain't true, you know, Luke—be it?”

Bill made the assertions stoutly, but there was a tremulous eagerness in
the question which followed it; He was fagged and exhausted. His faith in
Ned was strong, but he had found the opinion in the town so unanimous
against him that he longed for an assurance that some one beside himself
believed in Ned's innocence.

“Oi doan't know, Bill,” Luke Marner said, stroking his chin as he always
did when he was thinking; “oi doan't know, Bill—oi hoape he didn't
do it, wi' all my heart. But oi doan't know aboot it. He war sorely tried—that
be sartain. But if he did it, he did it; it makes no difference to me. It
doan't matter to me one snap ov the finger whether the lad killed Foxey or
whether he didn't—that bain't my business or yours. What consarns me
is, as the son of the man as saved my child's loife at t' cost of his own
be hunted by the constables and be in risk of his loife. That's t'
question as comes home to me—oi've had nowt else ringing in my ears
all day. Oi ha' been oot to a searching high and low. Oi ain't a found
him, but oi ha made oop moi moind whaat I be agoing to do.”

They had moved a little away from the cottage now, but Luke lowered his
voice:

“Oi be agoing down to t' town in the morning to give moiself oop vor the
murder of Foxey.”

Bill gave an exclamation of astonishment:

“But thou didn'st do it, Luke?”

“I moight ha' done it for owt thou know'st, Bill. He wer the worst of
maisters, and, as thou know'st, Bill, oi hated him joost as all the
countryside did. He's been warned by King Lud and ha' been obliged to get
the sojers at his factory. Well, thou knowest it was nateral as he would
drive down last noight to see how t' chaps at t' engine was a-getting on,
and it coomed across my moind as it wer a good opportunity vor to finish
un; so ther thou hast it.”