“Well, then, that sattles it,” said Hannah. “We’ll all go, an’ th’ haase mun tak’ care on itsen. Awst put mi silver spooins i’ mi pocket, an’ there’s nowt else ’at means owt. Nah! Ben, stir thee, mon, an’ dunnot stan’ theer like a stuck sheep.”
“Aw’m ready,” said Ben, “Aw’n nowt to do but don mi cap an’ that won’t tak me as long as it’ll tak’ thee to don thi bonnet. Tom an’ me could go to the field an’ be back afore yo’ an’ Lucy ’ll be ready.”
“Aw said stir thee. Put th’ kettle on. What’s th’ use o’ goin’ to th’ field an hour afore there’ll be ony theer. Tha doesn’t want a whole field to thissen, does ta? We’ll ha’ us baggin afore we start, an’ then we’st ha’ th’ day i’ front on us.”
“But aw could put mi finger dahn mi throit an’ feel mi dinner yet,” demurred Ben. “It’s nooan three o’clock bi th’ Church.”
“That’s noah odds. Aw’m nooan baan to ha’ thee worritin’ me all th’ afternooin becos yo’n nooan had thi baggin, an happen sneakin’ off into th’ village to get a pint becos tha’s a sinkin’ i’ thi’ stomach, an’ me lookin’ for thi all ovver th’ field, wanderin’ abaat gawpin’ as if aw’d just bin let loise aat o’th ’sylum, an’ thee stuck at th’ Cropper’s Arms as large as life, makkin’ a beeast on thisen becos it’s Whissunday. Nooah! if yo’ dunnot want yo’r baggin nah, yo’ mun ha’ it agen yo’ do want it.”
Hannah’s feet and hands had been as busy as her tongue. She had turned up the skirt of her gown and put an apron over all, spread the cloth, fetched up the bread and the butter, cut and spread thick slices for herself and the men, and thin ones for Lucy, washed the lettuce, radishes, and shallots, smoothed the top of the salt-cellar, set Tom to toasting a couple of currant teacakes, produced a jar of raspberry jam and mashed the tea before you could say Jack Robinson.
“Aw’ve getten a caa-heel for thi supper, an’ tha can bring thisen a pint o’ Timmy (best ale) for supper as it’s holiday time,” she conceded to Ben, evidently in great good humour with herself at the prospect of their outing.
And so as the large field near Mr. Tinker’s house—there was but a privet hedge separating it from the house garden—began to fill, as the boys and girls gathered from their respective school-rooms, flushed from their hasty tea-drinking, the lads not without a guilty consciousness of a filched bun bulging their trousers pocket, as the brass band played their final tune before withdrawing to the nearest inn to partake of something better than “spotted Dick an’ washin’-up watter,” as a member irreverently styled the scholars’ repast, Ben Garside sauntered into the field trying to look as if Sunday School treats were an every-day occurrence of his life, Hannah sailed behind, whilst Tom with Lucy brought up the rear. There grew a large beech tree on the slope of the ground, and under its full-leaved branches Tom drew the chair in which Lucy sat, her cheeks faintly tinged with a delicate bloom and her eyes sparkling with the unwonted excitement. Her mother raised her to a sitting posture and settled the cushions and wraps as only she could, and “theer yo’ are, lass,” she concluded, with a fond look at her darling child, “theer yo’ are as right as ninepence.” But the mother’s heart was full as she remembered the day, but as yesterday, when Lucy’s little feet would have skimmed the greensward light as a fairy’s dance.
But Hannah was not long suffered to indulge in reflections sad or otherwise she was a popular character in the village, and everyone knew that Hannah’s bark was worse than her bite. Soon the good wives of the village began to stroll about the field, scanning each others’ dresses, and exchanging kindly greetings, whilst their good men sought secluded corners where they might enjoy a furtive pipe, and talk over the topics of the day; the serious minded discussing the last sermon, the pugnacious revelling in the shortcomings of Parliament and the misdeeds of ministers. A small group gathered round Lucy’s chair, some of them rosy-cheeked young lasses, who had worked with Lucy in the mill, and who now brought up their young men to be exhibited with all the pride of conquest. And Lucy had a smile and pleasant word for all, and many a strapping swain, as he lounged past the nook where Lucy held her little Court and let his glance dwell upon the delicate face with its refined and chastened beauty, knew rebellious thoughts against the fate that had put the crippled girl beyond the sighs and vows of man; and grey-headed grandsires, bent with age and toil, recalled the former days when they had suffered and striven for the easier lot their children owned.
“Eh! but it’s gran’ to see yo’, Hannah,” one would say, “Why aw declare aw hannot seen yo’ donned up an’ aat sin’ we put owd Susan o’ ’Lijah’s under th’ graand. An’ yo’ do looik weel to be sure, an’ aw will say ’at if theer’s a woman i’ th’ village ’at does her clo’es credit it’s yo’, Hannah. And your Lucy, too, aw declare oo’s quite a colour. Yo’re lookin’ mony a pund better nor th’ last time aw seed thi, Lucy, an’ tha mun keep thi heart up, lass, theer’s no tellin’ yet. See yo’ Hannah, theer’s yar Jud (George) an’ yo’r Ben t’other side o’th’ field, an’ Jud’s shakkin’ his fist i’ Ben’s face, an’ Ben’s dancin’ like peeas on a bake-ston’. It’s them plaguing politics, but they’re enjoyin’ theirsen. An’ theer’s yar ’Tilda yonder i’th’ kiss-i’th-ring an Jim Sykes after her. Run, lass, run—eh! he’s caught her. Th’ clumsy felly, he’ll rive all th’ clo’es off her back. Gi’ ’im one an’ get it ovver. Eh! it fair ma’es one young agin to see th’ young folk enjoy theirsen.”