“Yo’ll happen ask her first,” I said, nettled.
“P’raps tha’s axed her already?”
“Tha’ knows very well aw hannot, Ben. It only came into my head last neet when ’oo were singing ‘Wild Shepherds.’ ’Oo’s a sweet voice, an’ th’ way she looks when ’oo sings makes yo’ think a bit o’ heaven’s opened up, an’ th’ light inside is shinin’ right down on her face—hasn’t ta’ noticed it, Ben?”
“Mary’s ower young for courtin’,” I said.
“But tha’ hasn’t told me, Ben, is there owt between yo’ and her? But there cannot be. Tha’d ha’ told me if there wor. Besides she’s too near o’ kin to thee an’ browt up i’ th’ same house too. She’ll be more sister like to thee, Ben, aw reckon. But is there owt?”
“Nay there’s nowt, George. She’s thine to win an’ to wear for me. But ’oo’s ovver young for courtin’, George. An’ if yo’r for our Mary, tha’ mun put all thowts out o’ thi yed but stickin’ to work an’ makin’ her a good home. And that reminds me. It ’ad welly slipt mi mind. Soldier Jack was hinting summat t’other day. Tha’ are’nt keeping owt back fra’ me, are ta, George?”
“Can aw trust thee, Ben?”
“Tha’ knows that best thissen, George.” We had reached the very crest of Stanedge, and were looking down upon the Diggle side and over towards Pots an’ Pans an’ where the road leads to St. Chad’s and winds round towards what is now called Bills o’ Jack’s. We came to a stand by common impulse. George stood right anent me.
“Can aw trust thee, Ben,” he asked again, and looked at me as though he would search my very heart.
“Tha’ knows best thissen,” I replied once more; for I should have thought to lower myself by protesting to him who had been my dearest, almost my only friend, since we were boys together.