Through the Fray: A Tale of the Luddite Riots

The stars were shining brightly when he rose to his feet, his clothes were soaked with dew, and he trembled with cold and weakness.

“What am I to do?” he said to himself; “what am I to do?”

He made his way back to the gate and leaned against it for some time; then, having at last made up his mind, he turned his back on the town and walked toward Varley, moving more slowly and wearily than if he was at the end of a long and fatiguing day’s walk. Slowly he climbed the hill and made his way through the village till he reached the Swintons’ cottage. He tapped at the door with his hand, and lifting the latch he opened the door a few inches.

“Bill, are you in?”

There was an exclamation of surprise.

“Why, surely, it’s Maister Ned!” and Bill came to the door.

“Come out, Bill, I want to speak to you.”

Much surprised at the low and subdued tone in which Ned spoke, Bill snatched down his cap from the peg by the door and joined him outside.

“What be’t, Maister Ned? what be t’ matter with thee? Has owt gone wrong?”

Ned walked on without speaking. In his yearning for sympathy, in his intense desire to impart the miserable news to some one who would feel for him, he had come to his friend Bill. He had thought first of going to Mr. Porson. But though his master would sympathize with him he would not be able to feel as he did; he would no doubt be shocked at hearing that his mother was so soon going to marry again, but he would not be able to understand the special dislike to Mr. Mulready, still less likely to encourage his passionate resentment. Bill would, he knew, do both, for it was from him he had learned how hated the mill owner was among his people.

But at present he could not speak. He gave a short wave of his hand to show that he heard, but could not answer yet, and with his head bent down made his way out through the end of the village on to the moor—Bill following him, wondering and sympathetic, unable to conjecture what had happened.

Presently, when they had left the houses far behind them, Ned stopped.

“What be’t, Maister Ned?” Bill again asked, laying his strong hand upon Ned’s shoulder; “tell oi what it be. Hast got in another row with t’ maister? If there be owt as oi can do, thou knowest well as Bill Swinton be with thee heart and soul.”

“I know, Bill—I know,” Ned said in a broken voice, “but you can do nothing; I can do nothing; no one can. But it’s dreadful to think of. It’s worse than if I had killed twenty masters. Only think—only think, Bill, my mother’s going to marry Mulready!”

“Thou doesn’t say so, lad! What! thy mother marry Foxey! Oi never heer’d o’ such a thing. Well, that be bad news, surely! Well, well, only to think, now! Poor lad! Well, that beats all!”

The calamity appeared so great to Bill that for some time no idea occurred to him which could, under the circumstances, be considered as consolatory. But Ned felt the sympathy conveyed in the strong grasp of his shoulder, and in the muttered “Well, well, now!” to which Bill gave vent at intervals.

“What bee’st going to do vor to stop it?” he asked at last.

“What can I do, Bill? She won’t listen to me—she never does. Anything I say always makes her go the other way. She wouldn’t believe anything I said against him. It would only make her stick to him all the more.

“Dost think,” Bill suggested after another long pause, “that if we got up a sort of depitation—Luke Marner and four or five other steady chaps as knows him; yes, and Polly Powlett, she could do the talking—to go to her and tell her what a thundering dad un he is—dost think it would do any good?”

Even in his bitter grief Ned could hardly help smiling at the thought of such a deputation waiting upon his mother.

“No, it wouldn’t do, Bill.”

Bill was silent again for some time.

“Dost want un killed, Maister Ned?” he said in a low voice at last; “‘cause if ye do oi would do it for ye. Oi would lay down my life for ye willing, as thou knowst; and hanging ain’t much, arter all. They say ‘tis soon over. Anyhow oi would chance it, and perhaps they wouldn’t find me out.”

Ned grasped his friend’s hand.

“I could kill him myself!” he exclaimed passionately. “I have been thinking of it; but what would be the good? I know what my mother is—when once she has made up her mind there’s no turning her; and if this fellow were out of the way, likely enough she would take up with another in no time.”

“But it couldn’t been as bad as if wur Foxey,” Bill urged, “he be the very worsest lot about Marsden.”

“I would do it,” Ned said passionately; “I would do it over and over again, but for the disgrace it would bring on Charlie and Lucy.”

“But there would be no disgrace if oi was to do it, Maister Ned.”

“Yes, there would, Bill—a worse disgrace than if I did it myself. It would be a nice thing to let you get hanged for my affairs; but let him look out—let him try to ill treat Charlie and Lucy, and he will see if I don’t get even with him. I am not so much afraid of that—it’s the shame of the thing. Only to think that all Marsden should know my mother is going to be married again within a year of my father’s death, and that after being his wife she was going to take such a man as this! It’s awful, downright awful, Bill!”

“Then what art thou going to do, Maister Ned—run away and ‘list for a soldier, or go to sea?”

“I wish I could,” Ned exclaimed. “I would turn my back on Marsden and never come back again, were it not for the little ones. Besides,” he added after a pause, “father’s last words were, ‘Be kind to mother;’ and she will want it more than he ever dreamed of.”

“She will that,” Bill agreed; “leastways unless oi be mistaken. And what be’st going to do now, lad? Be’st agoing whoam?”

“No, I won’t go home tonight,” Ned replied. “I must think it over quietly, and it would be worse to bear there than anywhere else. No, I shall just walk about.”

“Thou canst not walk abowt all night, Maister Ned,” Bill said positively; “it bain’t to be thowt of. If thou don’t mind thou canst have moi bed and oi can sleep on t’ floor.”

“No, I couldn’t do that,” Ned said, “though I do feel awfully tired and done up; but your brothers would be asking me questions and wondering why I didn’t go home. I could not stand that.”

“No, Maister Ned, oi can see that wouldn’t do; but if we walk about for an hour or two, or—no, I know of a better plan. We can get in at t’ window of the school; it bain’t never fastened, and bain’t been for years, seeing as thar bain’t been neither school nor schoolers since auld Mother Brown died. Oi will make a shift to light a fire there. There be shutters, so no one will see the light. Then oi will bring ee up some blankets from our house, and if there bain’t enough Polly will lend me some when oi tell her who they are for. She bain’t a one to blab. What dost thou say?”

Ned, who felt utterly worn out, assented gladly to the proposal, and an entrance was easily effected into the desolate cottage formerly used as a day school. Bill went off at once and soon returned with a load of firewood; the shutters were then carefully closed, and a fire quickly blazed brightly on the hearth. Bill then went away again, and in a quarter of an hour returned with Mary Powlett. He carried a bundle of rugs and blankets, while she had a kettle in one hand and a large basket in the other.

“Good evening! Master Sankey,” she said as she entered. “Bill has told me all about it, and I am sorry indeed for you and for your mother. It is worse for her, poor lady, than for you. You will soon be old enough to go out into the world if you don’t like things at home; but she will have to bear what trouble comes to her. And now I thought you would like a cup of tea, so I have brought the kettle and things up. I haven’t had tea yet, and they don’t have tea at Bill’s; but I like it, though feyther grumbles sometimes, and says it’s too expensive for the likes of us in sich times as these; but he knows I would rather go without meat than without tea, so he lets me have it. Bill comes in for a cup sometimes, for he likes it better than beer, and it’s a deal better for him to be sitting taking a cup of tea with me than getting into the way of going down to the ‘Spotted Dog,’ and drinking beer there. So we will all have a cup together. No one will disturb us. Feyther is down at the ‘Brown Cow,’ and when I told the children I had to go out on special business they all promised to be good, and Jarge said he would see them all safely into bed. I told him I should be back in an hour.”

While Polly was speaking she was bustling about the room, putting things straight; with a wisp of heather she swept up the dust which had accumulated on the floor, in a semicircle in front of the fire, and laid down the rugs and blankets to form seats. Three cups and saucers, a little jag of milk, a teapot, and basin of sugar were placed in the center, and a pile of slices of bread and butter beside them, while from a paper bag she produced a cake which she had bought at the village shop on her way up.

Ned watched her preparations listlessly.

“You are very good, Polly,” he said, “and I shall be very glad of the cup of tea, but I cannot eat anything.”

“Never mind,” she said cheerfully. “Bill and I can do the eating, and perhaps after you have had a cup of tea you will be able to, for Bill tells me you have had nothing to eat since breakfast.”

Ned felt cheered by the warm blaze of the fire and by the cheerful sound of the kettle, and after taking a cup of tea found that his appetite was coming, and was soon able to eat his share. Mary Powlett kept up a cheerful talk while the meal was going on, and no allusion was made to the circumstances which had brought Ned there. After it was done she sat and chatted for an hour. Then she said:

“I must be off now, and I think, Bill, you’d best be going soon too, and let Maister Ned have a good night of it. I will make him up his bed on the rugs; and I will warrant, after all the trouble he has gone through, he will sleep like a top.”

CHAPTER IX: A PAINFUL TIME

When Ned was left alone he rolled himself up in the blankets, placed a pillow which Polly had brought him under his head, and lay and looked at the fire; but it was not until the flames had died down, and the last red glow had faded into blackness that he fell off to sleep.

His thoughts were bitter in the extreme. He pictured to himself the change which would take place in his home life with Mulready the manufacturer, the tyrant of the workmen, ruling over it. For himself he doubted not that he would be able to hold his own.

“He had better not try on his games with me,” he muttered savagely. “Though I am only sixteen he won’t find it easy to bully me; but of course Charlie and Lucy can’t defend themselves. However, I will take care of them. Just let him be unkind to them, and see what comes of it! As to mother, she must take what she gets, at least she deserves to. Only to think of it! only to think of it! Oh, how bitterly she will come to repent! How could she do it!

“And with father only dead a year! But I must stand by her, too. I promised father to be kind to her, though he could never have guessed how she would need it. He meant that I would only put up, without losing my temper, with her way of always pretending to be ill, and never doing anything but lie on the sofa and read poetry. Still, of course, it meant I was to be kind anyhow, whatever happened, and I will try to be so, though it is hard when she has brought such trouble upon us all.

“As for Mulready I should like to burn his mill down, or to break his neck. I hate him: it’s bad enough to be a tyrant; but to be a tyrant and a hypocrite, too, is horrible. Well, at any rate he shan’t lord it over me;” and so at last Ned dropped off to sleep.

He was still soundly asleep when Bill Swinton came in to wake him. It was half past six, a dull October morning, with a dreary drizzling rain. Bill brought with him a mug of hot tea and some thick slices of bread and butter. Ned got up and shook himself.

“What o’clock is it, Bill?”

“Half past six—the chaps went off to t’ mill an hour gone; oi’ve kept some tea hot for ee.”

“Thank you, Bill, my head aches, and so do all my bones, and I feel as if I hadn’t been asleep all night, although, indeed, I must have slept quite as long as usual. Can’t I have a wash?”

“Yes,” Bill said, “thou canst come to our place; but thou had best take thy breakfast whilst it be hot. It will waken thee up like.”

Ned drank the tea and ate a slice of bread and butter, and felt refreshed thereat. Then he ran with Bill to his cottage and had a wash, and then started for the town. It was eight o’clock when he reached home. Abijah was at the door, looking down the road as he came up.

“Oh! Master Ned, how can you go on so? Not a bit of sleep have I had this blessed night, and the mistress in strong hystrikes all the evening. Where have you been?”

Ned gave a grunt at the news of his mother’s hysterics—a grunt which clearly expressed “served her right,” but he only answered the last part of the question.

“I have been up at Varley, and slept at the schoolhouse. Bill Swinn and Polly Powlett made me up a bed and got me tea and breakfast. I am right enough.”

“But you shouldn’t have gone away, Master Ned, in that style, leaving us to wait and worry ourselves out of our senses.”

“Do you know what she told me, Abijah? Wasn’t it enough to make any fellow mad?”

“Ay, ay,” the nurse said. “I know. I have seen it coming months ago; but it wasn’t no good for me to speak. Ay, lad, it’s a sore trouble for you, surely a sore trouble for you, and for us all; but it ain’t no manner of use for you to set yourself agin it. Least said sooner mended, Master Ned; in a case like this it ain’t no good your setting yourself up agin the missis. She ain’t strong in some things, but she’s strong enough in her will, and you ought to know by this time that what she sets her mind on she gets. It were so allus in the captain’s time, and if he couldn’t change her, poor patient lamb—for if ever there were a saint on arth he was that—you may be sure that you can’t. So try and take it quietly, dearie. It be main hard for ye, and it ain’t for me to say as it isn’t; but for the sake of peace and quiet, and for the sake of the little ones, Master Ned, it’s better for you to take it quiet. If I thought as it would do any good for you to make a fuss I wouldn’t be agin it: but it ain’t, you know, and it will be worse for you all if you sets him agin you to begin with. Now go up and see your mother, dearie, afore you goes off to school. I have just taken her up her tea.”

“I have got nothing to say to her,” Ned growled.

“Yes, you have, Master Ned; you have got to tell her you hopes she will be happy. You can do that, you know, with a clear heart, for you do hope so. Fortunately she didn’t see him yesterday; for when he called I told him she was too ill to see him, and a nice taking she was in when I told her he had been and gone; but I didn’t mind that, you know, and it was better she shouldn’t see him when she was so sore about the words you had said to her. It ain’t no use making trouble aforehand, or setting him agin you. He knows, I reckon, as he won’t be welcomed here by you. The way he has always come when you would be out showed that clear enough. But it ain’t no use making matters worse. It’s a pretty kettle of fish as it stands. Now, go up, dearie, like a good boy, and make things roight.”

Ned lingered irresolute for a little time in the hall, and then his father’s words, “Be kind to her,” came strongly in his mind, and he slowly went upstairs and knocked at his mother’s door.

“Oh! here you are again!” she said in querulous tones as he entered, “after being nearly the death of me with your wicked goings on! I don’t know what you will come to, speaking to me as you did yesterday, and then running away and stopping out all night.”

“It was wrong, mother,” Ned said quietly, “and I have come to tell you I am sorry; but you see the news was very sudden, and I wasn’t prepared for it. I did not know that he had been coming here, and the news took me quite by surprise. I suppose fellows never do like their mothers marrying again. It stands to reason they wouldn’t; but, now I have thought it over, I am sorry I spoke as I did, and I do hope, mother, you will be happy with him.”

Mrs. Sankey felt mollified. She had indeed all along dreaded Ned’s hearing the news, and had felt certain it would produce a desperate outbreak on his part. Now that it was over she was relieved. The storm had been no worse than she expected, and now that Ned had so speedily come round, and was submissive, she felt a load off her mind.

“Very well, Ned,” she said more graciously than usual, “I am glad that you have seen the wickedness of your conduct. I am sure that I am acting for the best, and that it will be a great advantage to you and your brother and sister having a man like Mr. Mulready to help you push your way in life. I am sure I am thinking of your interest as much as my own; and I have spoken to him over and over again about you, and he has promised dozens of times to do his best to be like a father to you all.”

Ned winced perceptibly.

“All right, mother! I do hope you will be happy; but, please, don’t let us talk about it again till—till it comes off; and, please, don’t let him come here in the evening. I will try and get accustomed to it in time; but you see it’s rather hard at first, and you know I didn’t expect it.”

So saying Ned left the room, and collecting his books made his way off to school, leaving his mother highly satisfied with the interview.

His absence from afternoon school had, of course, been noticed, and Smithers had told his friends how Ned had flown at him on his speaking to him about the talk of his mother and Mulready. Of course before afternoon school broke up every boy knew that Ned Sankey had cut up rough about the report; and although the great majority of the boys did not know Mr. Mulready by name there was a general feeling of sympathy with Ned, The circumstances of his father’s death had, of course, exalted him greatly in the eyes of his schoolfellows, and it was the unanimous opinion, that after having had a hero for his father, a fellow would naturally object to having a stepfather put over him.

Ned’s absence was naturally associated with the news, and caused much comment and even excitement. His attack upon Mr. Hathorn had become a sort of historical incident in the school, and the younger boys looked up with a sort of respectful awe upon the boy who had defied a headmaster. There were all sorts of speculations rife among them as to what Ned had done, there being a general opinion that he had probably killed Mr. Mulready, and the debate turning principally upon the manner in which this act of righteous vengeance had been performed.

There was, then, a feeling almost of disappointment when Ned walked into the playground looking much as usual, except that his face was pale and his eyes looked heavy and dull. No one asked him any questions; for although Ned was a general favorite, it was generally understood that he was not the sort of fellow to be asked questions that might put him out. When they went in school, and the first class was called up, Ned, who was always at its head, took his place at the bottom of the class, saying quietly to the master:

“I have not prepared my lesson today, sir, and I have not done the exercises.”

Mr. Porson made no remark; he saw at once by Ned’s face that something was wrong with him. When several questions went round, which Ned could easily have answered without preparation, the master said:

“You had better go to your desk, Sankey; I see you are not well. I will speak to you after school is over.”

Ned sat down and opened a book, but he did not turn a page until school was over; then he followed his master to the study.

“Well, my boy,” he asked kindly, “what is it?”

“My mother is going to marry Mr. Mulready,” Ned said shortly. The words seemed to come with difficulty from his lips.

“Ah! it is true, then. I heard the report some weeks ago, but hoped that it was not true. I am sorry for you, Ned. I know it must be a sore trial for you; it is always so when any one steps into the place of one we have loved and lost.”

“I shouldn’t care so much if it wasn’t him,” Ned said in a dull voice.

“But there’s nothing against the man, is there?” Mr. Porson asked. “I own I do not like him myself; but I believe he stands well in the town.”

“Only with those who don’t know him,” Ned replied; “his workpeople say he is the worst master and the biggest tyrant in the district.”

“We must hope it’s not so bad as that, Ned; still, I am sorry—very sorry, at what you tell me; but, my boy, you must not take it to heart. You see you will be going out into the world before long. Your brother will be following you in a few years. It is surely better that your mother should marry again and have some one to take care of her.”

“Nice care of her he is likely to take!” Ned laughed bitterly. “You might as well put a fox to take care of a goose.”

“You are severe on both parties,” Mr. Porson said with a slight smile; “but I can hardly blame you, my boy, for feeling somewhat bitter at first; but I hope that, for your own sake and your mother’s, you will try and conquer this feeling and will make the best of the circumstances. It is worse than useless to kick against the pricks. Any show of hostility on your part will only cause unhappiness, perhaps between your mother’ and him—almost certainly between you and her. In this world, my boy, we have all our trials. Some are very heavy ones. This is yours. Happily, so far as you are concerned, you need only look forward to its lasting eighteen months or so. In that time you may hope to get your commission; and as the marriage can hardly take place for some little time to come, you will have but a year or so to bear it.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Ned said gloomily; “everything seems upset now. I don’t seem to know what I had best do.”

“I am sure at present, Ned,” Mr. Porson said kindly—for he saw that the boy was just now in no mood for argument—“the best is to try and think as little of it as possible. Make every allowance for your mother; as you know, my boy, I would not speak disrespectfully to you of her on any account; but she is not strong minded. She has always been accustomed to lean upon some one, and the need of some one to lean on is imperative with her. Had you been a few years older, and had you been staying at home, it is probable that you might have taken your place as her support and strength. As it is, it was almost inevitable that something of this sort would happen.

“But you know, Ned, where to look for strength and support. You have fought one hard battle, my boy, and have well nigh conquered; now you have another before you. Seek for strength, my boy, where you will assuredly find it, and remember that this discipline is doubtless sent you for your good, and that it will be a preparation for you for the struggle in after life. I don’t want you to be a thoughtless, careless young officer, but a man earnest in doing his duty, and you cannot but see that these two trials must have a great effect in forming your character. Remember, Ned, that if the effect be not for good, it will certainly be for evil.”

“I will try, sir,” Ned said; “but I know it is easy to make good resolutions, and how it will be when he is in the house as master I can’t trust myself even to think.”

“Well, let us hope the best, Ned,” Mr. Porson said kindly; “things may turn out better than you fear.”

Then seeing that further talking would be useless now, he shook Ned’s hand and let him go.

The next three or four months passed slowly and heavily. Ned went about his work again quietly and doggedly; but his high spirits seemed gone. His mother’s engagement with Mr. Mulready had been openly announced, directly after he had first heard of it. Charlie had, to Ned’s secret indignation, taken it quietly. He knew little of Mr. Mulready, who had, whenever he saw him, spoken kindly to him, and who now made him frequent presents of books and other things dear to schoolboys. Little Lucy’s liking he had, however, failed to gain, although in his frequent visits he had spared no pains to do so, seldom coming without bringing with him cakes or papers of sweets. Lucy accepted the presents, but did not love the donor, and confided to Abijah that his teeth were exactly like those of the wolf who ate Little Red Riding Hood.