“As if aw’d link wi’ sich as thee,” said Mary, bridling again.
“An all at onst, about half–way up th’ broo’ a felly lope ovver th’ wall. He wer’ a big un, aw tell yo’, an’ ther’ wer’ more behind, aw heard ’em eggin’ ’im on. If he’d been by hissen aw’d ha stood up to him if he’d been as big as a steeple. He said nowt to me, but he gate hold o’ Mary an ’oo started to scream an’ struggle, an’ aw heerd him say he’d have a kiss if he died for it. Aw wer’ for parting on ’em, but he gav’ me such a look, an’ aw thowt aw heerd others comin, so aw just made off across th’ fields. Tha’ knows, George, duty afore everything, an’ if th’ soldiers is about they’re happen comin’ here an’ tha’ knows best whether tha’ wants to see ’em.”
“A soldier was it,” I cried. “What mak’ o’ man wor he?”
“Aw tell thee bigger nor thissen, wi’ a black poll an’ a eye like a dagger blade for keen, an’ ther’ were a scar across his face.”
“It were one o’ them chaps ’at’s stayin’ at John Race’s at th’ Red Lion i’ Marsden,” said Mary. “He stopped me once afore a week back, when aw wer’ walkin’ out that way on. But he spoke me civil then, an’ aw thowt nowt on it. But he’s been drinkin’ to–neet an’ used me rough an’ fleyed me. But aw reckon he’ll keep his distance another time. It’ll be a lesson to him.”
“How does ta mean, Mary?” said my mother. “Aw got one o’ his fingers between my teeth an’ aw bit him, an’ bit him, an’ bit him, an’ he had hard to do to throw me off. Then he called me a vicious little devil, an’ aw tucked up my skirts an’ ran for it. Aw wer’ more fleyed nor hurt. But thee! Ben Walker, thee!” and she turned from him, with a look of such contempt and scorn that Ben hung his head with a hang–dog look and mumbling something about outstaying his welcome and making his way shorter, he slunk off, no one staying him.
And thus was my birthday party dashed. We could settle down to nought after that. Mary was feverish, and laughed over much. My father talked of going down on the morrow to Milnsbridge and laying complaint to Justice Radcliffe. Little Mr. Webster said something, in a very half–hearted way, about praying for those that despitefully use us, and my mother flighted Mary, most unjustly I thought, for having ever spoken to the man at all, and so encouraged him. Soldier Jack said little, but I know he resented the outrage, for it is one thing for soldiers to make light with other folks’ women–kind and another guess sort of thing to have your own friends fall into their clutches. But George was warmest of all. He made us a grand speech agen the army and officers and men, which Soldier Jack swallowed with an ill grace. Hetty listened to him with all her ears, and you could see she liked to hear him rave on. And Mary, too, when first he began, harkened keen enough, but soon she turned away impatiently and busied herself with setting the supper, and I thought she had looked for something from George which did not come.
For me, I am slow of speech, stupid, Mary ever said. But I thought to myself: “A long, tall man, as big as a steeple, with a black poll, and a scar on his cheek,” and long after George and John Booth and pretty prim Faith had started for Huddersfield, and Soldier Jack and Mr. Webster had gone Powle way, I lay awake in bed thinking of a thing. The next morning I was up betimes. My father was away after the forenoon drinking, to try to sell a piece or two, a thing that every week became more difficult. There was no work to be done after the cattle had been foddered. We had almost given up work at our trade. We bad as many pieces in stock as we had room for it had gone hard with us to stop the output of country work, but what would you with the best mind in the world, you cannot go on forever making to stock. So our looms were still and time hung heavy on our bands. In the shippon I had had a word with ’Siah and when, dressed in my Sunday best, I struck off towards Marsden. I found him waiting for me on the road. “Yo’ mun keep’ yo’re head, Ben,” he said, “Watch his een. Face him square an’ watch his een. He’s a big ’un wi’ a long reach. He’ll likely come: at thee like a mad bull. Keep out on his way when he rushes. Let him tire hissen. Keep thi’ wind. Dunnot let him blow thee, let him blow hissen. He’ll be in bad fettle, wi’ no stay in him. Th’ way these sogers ha’ been living lately, he’ll ha’ more water nor wind in him, an’ more ale nor water. Then, when he shows signals o’ distress, work slowly in, and when tha’ gets a fair chance, hug him, break his ribs, squeeze th’ guts out on him. Glory hallelujah, he’ll gasp like a cod!” Then would ’Siah, after looking carefully round to see we were not observed, stop in his walk and feel my arms and legs as if I were a horse he wished to buy; then at it again with more advice. Once, with a wistful air, he surmised it might be better to fight by proxy, to let him pick a quarrel with Long Tom, as he said they called the soldier who had misused our Mary so. But he did not try long on that tack and had to content himself with hoping that some day or night, one of the red coats would try his game on with Martha and then—Glory Hallelujah! I smiled and ’Siah read my thoughts but he only said: “Oh! them sort’s noan particular. An’ there’s points about Martha, mind you, there’s points about Martha.”
At the Red Lion we found John Race, the little, round, red faced landlord in no very good humour. It was early in the day for drinking, to my taste, but ’Siah having a nice sense of honour in these matters, declared we must have some thing for the good of the house and offered, if I could not stomach a pint myself, to drink my share. So I called for a quart for ’Siah. Race handled my money very lovingly and then spit over it for luck.
“It’s little of the ready comes my way now, Ben,” he said.