“Have you seen any suspicious characters on the road, my good man, higher up the hill?” asked their leader.
“Nay, nowt out o’ th’ common,” said ’Siah, “a tramp or two, an’ a chap ’at looked as if he’d been feightin’.”
“Ah! where was that?”
“T’other side o’ Lindley; he wor makin’ fra Grimscar.”
“Forward, men!”
“Good luck,” said ’Siah. “Ger on, Bess.” And my heart began to beat again.
How my mother met us at the door, how my father stood aloof and would not speak one word, how ’Siah undressed me and put me into my own bed, what need to tell; nor yet set forth in detail how it came about that as I sank down into the cool, clean sheets, and laid my head upon the grateful feather pillow, stuffed with feathers plucked by Mary’s own fingers, I heard the kitchen door open and a quick step ascend the stairs.
“Now Mrs. Bamforth, well Mary, where is he? let’s have a look at him. Off with you now, all but ’Siah. ’Siah, you cut–throat rebel, shut the door and hold the candle for me.”
It was Dr. Dean from Slaithwaite, hearty, hale and cheery, who had ushered me into the world and given me powders and pills in the little ailments of childhood. He took command of the whole house as by divine right. Even my mother recognised his prerogative and resigned her supremacy, and Mary was his willing and adoring slave. Before you could say “Jack Robinson” he had slit my sleeve with his scissors, lifted the rude bandages, now sodden and stiff with blood, and was handling my arm deftly and tenderly as a woman.
“H’m, bullet in biceps, hoemorrhage of the artery, acute inflammation, temperature equatorial, fever, ravings, pandemonium generally!” All the while probing for the bullet as if he were picking a periwinkle.