“It’s George,” she said, very softly, “George Mellor, fra’ th’ Brigg.”
And then came a thundering knock at the door, and my father rose to open it right heartily, and in came my cousin, George Mellor, with a great red muffler round his neck, and his coat all flaked with snow, and his short brown beard and moustache wet with half–melted flakes; now stamping his feet and now kicking them against the door–post, and bringing with him a gust of cold air and a sprinkling of tiny feathery sprays that whisked in at his back.
“A merry Christmas to you, Uncle William, and a happy New Year.” “And to you, aunt, with my mother’s love.” This with a hearty smacking kiss. “And to you, Mary, and here’s a Christmas Box for you,” and I thought George would have kissed Mary too, but she was away to the other side of the table.
And so all round, with a noble smack at Martha’s lips, Martha being nothing loth, and giving kiss for kiss with a good will that set us all laughing. “A right proper lad is George Mellor, and knows how to win a lass,” I heard Martha tell ’Siah afterwards, when she was rating him by way of curing his aching head.
And a right proper man George Mellor was. Six feet by the stick, and with shoulders well back, and strong, firm, warm hands that gripped you to make you tingle. His eyes were brown and full of fire, and dark auburn hair curled close upon a rounded head. He had a temper, if you like, but he never bore malice, and I never knew him do or say a mean thing, and if he was at times unjust he was quick to make amends. He was a prime favourite of my mother. Her own sister was George Mellor’s mother. His father was dead, and my Aunt Mellor, to my mother’s surprise and indignation, had married John Wood, of Longroyd Bridge, a cloth finisher, in middle life, somewhat younger than my aunt, and a man it was hard to like. Whatever could have possessed my aunt capped us all. She had a bit of money of her own, and could have pulled along in a middling way without a second marriage. But my father said, “You mun wait till yo’re a widow yoursen, if yo want to know what makes a widdow get wed again.” Anyhow Aunt Matty had a hard time of it, for John Wood was a hard man, cold–blooded and spiteful. He soon found out that he could hurt his wife through George, and he always seemed to rub George the wrong way. The lad ran away once, and none of us knew what became of him till long afterwards, not even his own mother, who nigh fretted herself into her grave over him. But he turned up again as suddenly as he had vanished, taller, stouter, firmer set, quieter. John Wood thought his spirit was broken, made him so quiet. But he found out his mistake when he began to slur at him.
“See here, John Wood,” George had said, for he would never call him father, “I have come back home for my mother’s sake, because it was made clear to me my place was by her side. I will work for you, and do my duty by you, and I will pay you fair for my board and ask no favour of you as man or lodger. But you must speak me fair, and treat my mother kindly, or you’ll rue the day you ever crossed George Mellor.” He had a quiet way with him when he was most roused, a sort of cold heat, had George; though over what you would have thought concerned him least, he would flare up and flush, and his eye would blaze and out his words would come like a pent–up torrent. I never feared George when he was in a temper, but it was dangerous to cross him when his cheek and lips paled and his words came soft and slow.
“Aw walked up th’ cut side,” he explained. “It seemed an age since aw saw yo’ all; an’ our house’s none too cheerful just now. Trade’s fearful bad, an’ John Wood’s as sore as a boil—an’ I bowt this sprig o’ mistletoe of a hawker for yo’ to hang on th’ bowk, an’ who’ should let you Christmas in if not your own nevvy, Aunt Bamforth.”
“Sakes alive, aw nivvir thowt on it,” cried my mother all of a sudden. “Ben, whip outside this minnit—doesn’t ta see George’s hair is awmost red an’ it’s black for luck—whatever could’st ta be thinking’ on, George?” And so nothing must do but I must step outside and enter with due Christmas greetings, to cross the luck, and the waits from Powle Moor arriving at the very nick of time, we all went in together; and Mary and George and myself were soon busy enough handing round the cheese and cake and ale.
George and I slept together that night, and next morning, we all, save my mother and Martha, who must stop at home to cook the dinner, went to church, for we wouldn’t for anything have missed hearing the Christmas hymn; and near all Slaithwaite was there, Methodie and Baptists and all; and even folk that went nowhere, Owenwites they called them, made a point of going to church that one morning of the year. They said it was to give them an appetite for the beef and plum pudding; but I think it was more by way of keeping up a sort of nodding acquaintance with what they felt they might have to fall back on after all, for you may ever notice that the parson treads very close on the heels of the doctor.
Now after dinner my father must needs have a glass of hot spirits and water, and presently was fast asleep in his chair, and I would have been glad to have done likewise, for I was not used to sitting up half the night, and had dozed off more than once in church, only to be roused with a start by a nudge from Mary. But George was all for a walk over Stanedge to stretch his legs and get a mouthful of home–fed air after the foul smells of the town. I thought Mary pouted a bit, and asked her to go with us, but she said two were company and three were none, and George maybe was too fine to walk out with a country lass. I expected George to disclaim any such slanderous thoughts, but he only laughed and said something about the wind being too nipping for the roses on Mary’s cheeks. So off we two set towards Marsden at a good swinging pace. When we had dropped down into the village, and were thinking of calling at the Red Lion to get a glass of ale and a snack, whom should we come on but Mr. Horsfall, of Marsden.