“Weel, weren’t aw tellin’ yo’? Weel, at first when he come he wer’ a bit shy, like, o’ Lucy, an’ her o’ ’im; bud one day, a Sunday afternooin it wer, an’ th’ sun shinin’, an’ th’ sky as blue as weshin’-powder, Tom says it wer’ a shame o’ Lucy to be cooped up i’ th’ haase an’ ne’er taste th’ taste o’ fresh air; an’ he just up wi’ her in his arms, same as yo’d lift a babby, an’ carried her aat into garden, an’ th’ hedge wer’ all thick wi’ May-blossom, both white and red, an’ he gate a lot, an’ made a posy for her; an’ after that it wer’ a regular outin’ for her as long as th’ weather held, an’ after he’d come fro’ th’ mill, fit to drop, so to speik, he wer’ nivver too tired to gi’ Lucy her outin’. And then it wer’ Tom ’at put into yar Ben’s yed to ha’ a cheer on wheels, an’ he poo’d it hissen up an’ daan th’ loin, though lads and lasses, shameless hussies some on ’em, made nowt bud fun on ’im an’ ca’d him dree-nurse. Bud he sooin garr’d th’ lasses howd their tongues an’ keep aat o’ th’ loin—trust Tom for that—an’ when th’ lads went th’ lasses followed, trust them for that.”
“And how did he make them?” asked Dorothy, laughing.
“Oh! weel, he ca’s it moral suasion; but it looked uncommon like feightin th’ time aw’ see’d it. Ben says it wer’ effectual callin’.”
“H’m, I don’t think I shall like this same Master Tom of yours. He’s a paragon, and I don’t think paragons and I quite hit it.”
“Aw dooan’t know what yo’ meean bi a Paragon, miss, but there’s a Paragon what’s a public-haase i’ Westgate i’ Huddersfielt, an’ yo’ nivver wer’ further off yo’r horse, Miss Dorothy, though aw mak’ bold to say so. Why, yar Tom nivver touches a drop stronger nor teea, an’s awmost ’verted yar Ben, leastwise he tak’s nowt no stronger nor whom-brew’d an’ aw see that’ll nooan hurt ’im.”
“Aye, aye, I see, a paragon, a saint. Oh! I can picture him. Tall, you say? Yes, tall and thin and hollow-chested, stooping, pale, with long black hair as straight as a yard of pump-water; and he turns his eyes up and his toes in, and groans dismally, and his clothes don’t fit him, and he wears black cotton gloves on Sundays, an inch too long in the fingers, and he goes to temperance meetings and prayer meetings, and regularly to chapel twice on Sundays, and attends experience meetings and turns his soul inside out for the world—of Aenon Chapel—to gaze at. Oh! I think I see him now, that quite too precious Tom!”
“Weel, so yo’ may, Miss Dorothy,” said Hannah with a quiet smile. “He’s had his bath upstairs—nivver such a one there wer’ sin Adam for weshin’ hissen all ovver once a week whether he wants it or not—an’ nah, aw’ll be bun he’s mankin’ i’ th’ garden.”
And Hannah went into the back kitchen or scullery at the back of the “house” and, still smiling, beckoned to Dorothy. “Aye, he’s theer, sure enough.”
And this is what Dorothy saw: a young Hercules, stripped, save his vest, to the belted waist, his heels together, his toes out-turned, his knees braced, his breast expanded, his chin in air, and in his outstretched brawny arms whirled about his head a mighty pair of clubs—“it’s a windmill,” whispered Dorothy—“Oh! but he’s a proper man.”
“As ever yo’d see in a day’s walk,” chuckled Hannah,—“more o’ a Samson nor a saint, accordin’ to my readin’ o’ th’ Scriptur’s,—but ther’s neer a Dalilah o’ ’em all ’ll ha’ to cut Tom’s hair for ’im, trust owd Hannah for that.”