“Aw’st go to that prayer meeting,” said Jim, “if aw nevver go to another. The Lord send we aren’t Matthy Haley’d to death, that’s all. But aw’m thinking th’ prayers ’ll be fro’ Mrs. Wrigley an’ th’ brass fro’ Mr. Wrigley, an’ wi’ all respec’ for th’ fair sex, gi’ me th’ brass.”
In this innuendo, however, it turned out that Jim did less than justice to the mistress of Holly Grove; for not to be outdone in magnanimity by her lord and master she invited my father, and Ruth, and Miriam—I can imagine with some misgivings in her case—and Mother Haigh, and Jim, and myself to high tea at Holly Grove. She accompanied the invitation to my reverend sire by an intimation that she would be much obliged if he would conduct a service in Wrigley Mill itself, for she was of opinion, she added, that, though tea drinkings and such like festivities might occasionally be conceded to the frailties of the flesh, such a crisis as had now been reached in the fortunes of Jim and myself were better marked by prayer if not by fasting. In this observation I can imagine my father wholeheartedly concurring, though I doubt his acquiescence when Mrs. Wrigley went on to deplore that the pastor of Pole Moor had wedded himself to the tenets of hyper-Calvinism, she herself finding, she averred, that doctrine but as dry ashes compared with the comforting and inspiring teaching of the sainted John Wesley.
The invitations to Mary Haigh, and Jim, and myself were not conveyed by word of mouth, as they might easily and at no cost have been, but reached us on separate and individual missives, at Mary’s house in Wrigley Mill Fold, by the Royal Mail. Never before in our lives had any one of us three residents in Mary’s humble cottage received a letter so transmitted, and each one of us twisted and turned the document about before mustering courage to break the wafers securing the letters.
“Whativver in the name o’ goodness is this?” exclaimed Mary. “Here, Abe, this’ll be for yo’, though, to be sewer, th’ postman swore it were for me. Aw weren’t for takkin’ it, but he’d noan tak’ it back. Aw’n noan oppened it, catch me at it. Aw’n more sense nor that. Aw nivver knew anyone ’at aw knew ha’ a letter bi post but Jane Stewart, an’ that wer’ to say their Moll ’ud run away wi’ a sojer. There’s bad luck i’ them innercent looikin’ bits o’ papper. Aw feel it i’ mi bones. When folk han onny gooid news to tell they bring it theirsen.”
“Weel, here goes,” said Jim, opening his letter with the air of one leading’ a forlorn hope, “let’s be knowing th’ warst on it. Read it out, Abe, unless bi onny chance it’s fro’ your Ruth, i’ which case aw’ll just off to Pole Moor an’ ax her to read it for me hersen.”
When Jim and his good mother realised that Mr. and Mrs. Wrigley desired the pleasure of their company to tea at ‘Holly Grove I doubt whether their pleasure and pride were equal to their consternation. To be sure, they had sat at table with the master and mistress of Holly Grove at Sunday school treats. That was one thing, but it was quite another to be specially invited as guests to Holly Grove; just as, I suppose, it is one thing to sit at one end of the table at a public banquet and see a Royal Prince, with a powdered flunkey at his back, and quite another to receive a pressing invitation to dine at Buckingham Palace: though, I suppose, even in the former case, as in the latter, you can go about for the rest of your life bragging that you’ve dined with Royalty. I knew a man that did. But that’ not to my story.
“Weel! aw nivver did!” gasped Mary. “Oh! my poor heart, it’s all o’ a quivver. Aw knew that dratted letter ’ud upset me for th’ rest o’ th’ week.
“Weel, there’s one gooid thing aw’n that silk gown mi aunt left me ’at aw’n had laid by i’ th’ prass these twenty year i’ lavender, an’ wi’ camphor to keep th’ moths off. There’ll be a seet o’ seams to be let out, to be sewer, for mi naunts were one o’ th’ lean kine, not to speak disrespectful o’ one ’at’s dead an’ gone, but truth’s truth an’ ’ll allus go farthest, choose what yo’ say. An’ even then aw’m feart aw’st ha’ to be poo’d into th’ frock bi horsepower, an’ it’ll give all ovver. But aw’ll n’er heed if it’ll last this do an’ yo’r two weddin’s. Aw’m noan likely to want it again. Aw’d aimed to leave it to Ruth after aw deed. But nah, aw’st wear it at th’ Holly Greave if it strangles me. Out o’ mi seet, yo’ grinnin’ lads, and mind how yo’ speik to me till this thing’s off mi mind.” And Mary went upstairs to the sacred press in a highly perturbed state of mind.
“We’re coming up i’ th’ world mighty quick,” quoth Jim, shaking his head very solemnly. “Aw’n heered abaat a chap ’at went up like a rocket an’ cum dahn like a stick, an’ aw’m feart this may be just such another do. Aw’n a gooid mind just to step ovver to th’ Pole an’ talk it ovver wi’ yo’r Ruth. Aw’n two neck-cloths, one’s a breet green an’ t’ other’s a mottled ’un, an’ aw wonder which oo’d like me to wear at th’ Holly Greave,” he concluded somewhat lamely.
“Yo’ll do nothing of the sort,” I said with emphasis. “Our Ruth will tie you to her apron strings fast enough, I can tell you, without your trapezing off to Pole Moor every five minutes to ask her to do it. You’ll just off with me to Mitchell Mill and set to work on that water-wheel. It will take us all our time to get things ship-shape by the day we’ve fixed for getting th’ looms in.