“Well, John lad, what is it. Tha’ looks as if tha’d seen a boggard.” The pale light from the moon had fallen full on his face as we stood against the wall of Kirklees Park, a two or three hundred yards away from where the moving mass bulked large about the Steeple.
“Don’t jest to–night, Ben. I cannot bear it. My heart is heavy with forebodings. I cannot, cannot shake them off, try as I will. This is my last venture, Ben.”
“Aye and mine by moonlight, John Daylight or nowt, say I.”
“It is my last, Ben. There will be sharp work at Rawfolds. The mill is well garrisoned, Cartwright is a bold, a resolute man. He will defend his machines at any hazard and at any cost. Still you need not despair. If you can but win your way in, you may overpower him and the men he has with him. But, Ben, have you thought of it? There will be bloodshed. There must be bloodshed. Cartwright will not ask quarter, nor will he give it. My father knows him well. If you break down gate and door, you will find him there, pistol in hand, and he will not scruple to shoot his assailant down.”
“Tha’rt none feart, are ta, John. Tha can slip off, if tha likes. Aw’ll ma’e some mak’ o’ a story to quieten George. Tha looks poorly enough for owt.”
“Quit yo’r talking, Ben. I would not turn back if I could. But, Ben, this night’s work will be my last. Something tells me my days are numbered I do not know I need greet for that. It’s a weary world, and I’st be well out on it.”
“Yo’re just talking daft,” I said, but I felt somehow that he was telling truth. I could not make light of what he said, though I tried.
“If I don’t go back to Huddersfield with you, Ben, you’ll find a paper at Mrs. Wight’s, telling yo’ what to do with my bits o’ things. There’s Hume’s History of England. Yo’ve always said yo’d like to read it. Mi Bible’s for Faith, and this ring for Mary, wi my love, an’ give George th’ silver buckles off my Sunday shoon. It’ll be for you to tell my father and Faith. No one else must do it. Promise me that.”
“Do ho’d thi talkin, John, an’ dall thee, dunnot look so solemn. I’st be angered wi’ thee in a bit.” I wanted to feel angry, to work myself into wrath, for I knew if this talk went on, I should soon be fit for nowt myself.
“Nay, Ben, bear with me. Faith will be a lone lass, when I am gone. She loves me, Ben, with more than a sister’s love. You see my mother died when I were born. I wish she were well wed, George. I should not fear leaving her if I knew she were plighted to a good man.”