‘Aye, two thousand p’un’ does mak’ a differ,’ says th’ owd hag.
“And then aw remembered about th’ notice in th’ paper.
‘It’ll do him no good,’ aw says. ‘It’s blood money. There’ll be a curse on it.’
‘It’s good gold, lass!’ ’oo says. ‘Good gold, leastways it will be when th’ ’sizes is ovver. An then yar Ben’s off to ‘Meriky, an’ nowt ’ll suit him but yo’ mun go wi’ him.’
‘Then he’ll noan be suited,’ aw says.
‘Hoity–toity, mi fine wench,’ ’oo cries. ‘Don’t thee be too sure o’ that. Yo’r happen thinkin’ o’ ta’in up wi’ Ben Bamforth. Leastways that’s what yar Ben heerd just afore he wer’ off to Chester. That’s what aw’ve sent for yo’ for.’
‘What’s it to him, who aw wed?’ I asked, but aw wer’ all of a tremble.
‘It’s this. It’ll be yar Ben or nobody sin he’s set on it. ‘See her yoursen, mother,’ he said, an’ these were awmost his last words afore he set off wi’ Justice Radcliffe, two gentlemen together. ‘See her yo’rsen, an’ tell her that th’ same tongue ’at’s teed a rope round George Mellor’s neck can tee’ one round Ben Bamforth’s, an’ will too, unless she speaks the word that’ll stop my mouth.’ Now, what’s ta say, mi fine lass?’
“And what could I say, Ben,” sobbed Mary, hiding her face on my shoulder. “Aw saw she meant it. She gay’ me a month to think on it, an’ if aw don’t say yes ’oo swears Ben Walker ’ll give thee up to th’ law, an’ it’s a hangin’ job, sure an’ certain.”
“What did yo’ say, Mary?”