“What give evidence again mi own cousin? I’d be as bad as Ben Walker.”
“Nowt o’ th’ sort. They’n getten witnesses enew baht thee, an’ Mr. Scott ‘s a friend o’ thi father’s, an’ ’ll let thee dahn soft for auld acquaintance sake. It isn’t as if tha wer’ th’ first to split, nor as if owt tha can other say or do ’ud pull George out o’ th’ boil or thrust him further in.”
“I’ll ha none of it, ’Si,” I cried. “And what’s more yo’ an’ me quarrel if yo’ do owt o’ th’ sort thissen. Why man, aw sud nivver sleep another wink nor howd up mi head agen if aw lowered misen to that, an’ whativver tha does, ’Si, keep thissen cleaner nor Ben Walker. Aw’d never speak to thee agen, no more would any on us’. Has ta’ spoke to Martha on it?”
“Well awm not free to say but what aw han.”
“And what does Martha say?”
“Well if aw mun speak th’ truth she says th’ same as thee. All fools in a lump, say I, but gang thi own gate, an’ dunnot fear aw’st cross thi will. But its hard liggin’ for all that.”
So I got no comfort from ’Siah.
Then, as if we hadn’t troubles enough of our own, my Aunt Wood, George’s mother, came from the Brigg to see my father about George’s case. It must not be thought we had not worried about him. We had, and more than a little. Whenever I pictured to myself my cousin and more than friend, eating his heart out in a prison cell, I was near beside myself with grief. As for the end of it all, I dared not think of it. I had parted from George in anger; but I made no account of that. I was safe in Mary’s love, and those who win can afford to be generous. And if these Luddite troubles had blown over, George might have come round, and tho’ our relations might never have been what they had been, still we could have patched up a work–a–day friendship that would have served. But now George was in prison, charged with the most awful of all crimes, and tho’ my gorge rose at the deed, I sorrowed for the man.
It was sad to see the change in my Aunt Wood. She was never a strong woman, least–wise in my knowledge of her; but now she was piteous to look at. She was crushed by the burthen of sorrow and shame. Sorrow’s bad enough: but add shame to it, and it’s more than human soul can bear. My mother fair wept over her.
“Eh, lass,” she said, when she had taken my aunt’s shawl and poke bonnet and got her seated by the fire, whilst Mary busied about boiling the kettle and making some tea. “Eh! lass, that ever we should live to see this day.”