But of her errand to Huddersfield I could get no inkling, and off she set in the forenoon through the snow with warm hood over her head and thick Paisley shawl and mittens, and pattens to her feet, as sweet a picture as ever went down that hill before or since.
It was night, eight o’clock, when she came home, and many a time I’d gone into the lane and strained my eyes across the valley to watch the road from Kitchen Fold. The snow was falling thick, and when Mary entered her shawl was covered with the flakes and little feathery sprays were on the curls that twined and twisted from beneath the hood. Her cheeks that had grown so pale were a rosy flush with the keen frosty air, her eyes were bright and glad and there was the first smile upon her lips had played there for many a doleful day. She shook her shawl at the house door, whilst Vixen yapped and gambolled about her and Faith made haste to remove her pattens and knock the clogged snow from the irons while Mary smoothed her hair before the little glass by the window.
“An’ how’s thi Aunt Matty?” asked my mother; “an dun yo’ want owt to eit? Yo’ll be ready for yo’r porridge aw sud judge. Is ’oo bearin’ up pretty well, an’ did ta see John Wood, an’ is he lookin’ as ill favored as ivver?”
“Let th’ lass get her breath,” pleaded my father.
“Has ta met a fairy?” went on my mother. “For a month an’ more tha’s been mopin’ an’ turnin’ thi nose up at good victuals an’ comin’ dalin o’ a mornin’ lookin’ as if thi bed wer’ made o’ nettles i’stead o’ honest feathers, as well aw know ’at plucked ’em, an’ nivver a word nor a look for anyb’dy, an’ wouldn’t see th’ doctor nor tak’ th’ herb–tea aw brewed thee, an’ me thinkin’ all th’ time it wer’ a tiff atween thee an’ Ben, an’ him lookin’ waur nor a whipped cur, which it’s to be hoped yo’ll both learn more sense when yo’r well wed, for it’ll be as th’ man said ‘Bear an’ forbear’ then or yo’ll ha’ a sorry time on it; an’ now yo’ set off wi’out a wi’ yo’r leave or by yo’r leave an’ come back fra goodness knows where lookin’ as if yo’d been proved next o’ kin to a fortin’, which it’s enough to make anyone think it wor all make believe, tho’ me that anxious as aw sud be fit to shake yo’ if so aw thowt.”
My mother paused to get breath.
“I’ve summat to make me look cheerful,” said Mary. “Yo’ little know wheer I’n been this afternoon, an’ who I’ve talked to and had a cup o’ tea into th’ bargain. Aw don’t feel it’s real yet. Nip me, Faith, to let me know if I’m dreamin!”
“It’s a dream we should like to share in,” said Faith in her quiet way, taking my mother’s hard, thin hand, much worn by work, and soothing it caressingly, a way she had that always ended by bringing a reposeful look upon that eager nervous face and made my mother declare Faith was as good as hops in your pillow for restfulness.
“Well aw suppose I’st ha’ to begin at th’ beginnin’,” said Mary, settling herself for a long talk and smiling into the fire. My father filled another pipe, and my mother let her ball of wool roll upon the floor so as to have a long reach of work before her.
“Yo’ maybe hannot guessed at Ben Walker wanted me to wed him.”