More Tales of the Ridings Part 6

A frightened look came into Mary's eyes as she answered: "But that'll be thy bed."

"Nay," replied the weaver, "it'll be thy bed so lang as thou bides wi'

me. I'll mak up a bed for misen i' t' kitchen on t' lang-settle."

A grateful expression came over the girl's face, but she made no move in the direction of the inner room. Silence prevailed for some time until the weaver asked: "Is there owt I can do for thee, or owt that thou's gotten to tell me, la.s.s? It's been a dree day for thee, to-day; ay, an'

mony a day afore to-day, I reckon."

This reference to the happenings of the morning brought tears to the girl's eyes, and it was some time before she could summon up courage to speak.

"Don't mind me," she said at last; "I'll be better to-morn. But he didn't ought to hae browt shame on me i' t' way he's done. It wasn't my fault mother left him. I'd allus been a gooid la.s.s to him, choose what fowks say."

Step by step the weaver led her on to tell him the story of what had led up to the shameful transaction in the market-place. It was no mere curiosity that moved him, but a realisation that there could be no peace of mind for Mary Whittaker until she had found relief by unburdening her tortured soul. The weaver's gentle ways and tactful bearing were slowly winning her heart, and, painful though the recital of her past history was for her, Parfitt knew that it would bring relief. It was a long story that Mary had to tell. She had little art of narrative, and her endeavours to s.h.i.+eld both her mother and stepfather as far as possible from blame impeded the flow of her words. Reduced to plain terms, her story ran as follows:--

Mary Whittaker was a girl of fourteen when her mother had married Samuel Learoyd. Of her father she knew nothing. He had died when she was a baby. From the first the Learoyds had proved an ill-matched pair. Anne Learoyd, her mother, had been brought up in Leeds, and having been used to all the excitements of life in a big town, found the solitary farm lonesome. Samuel Learoyd, though genial enough at times in the society of his male friends, was capricious. His temper was often sullen, and when in one of his gloomy moods he would spend the whole evening in his farm kitchen in morose silence. This state of mind was in part due to physical infirmity. As a child he had been subject to epileptic fits, and though these grew less frequent as he advanced to manhood, he never entirely shook them off, and during his married life a long spell of gloomy misanthropy would sometimes end in the return of one of these attacks. He was, too, a proud man, and his pride bred in him a morbid sensibility towards any slight, real or fanciful, that was practised on him. He treated his stepdaughter not unkindly, but never accepted any parental responsibility towards her.

Meanwhile Anne Learoyd, finding no congenial society in her own home, spent much of her time in neighbours' houses. Her chief friend was the landlady of the Woolpack Inn, a public-house situated midway between the farm-house and Holmton. Here whole afternoons and evenings were spent, and the work of the farm-house was left in the hands of Mary Whittaker, towards whom her mother had never shown any real affection. Years pa.s.sed away and the relations between husband and wife grew steadily worse, till at length the crisis came. A new barman was appointed at the Woolpack, a man whom Anne Learoyd had known during her early life in Leeds. Rumour was soon busy with the relations which existed between the barman and the farmer's wife, and after a time suspicious stories reached the ears of Samuel Learoyd. A violent scene between husband and wife took place in the farm kitchen, but, in spite of this, Anne's visits to the public-house continued as before. One afternoon, when her husband was attending a cattle-mart in a neighbouring town, Anne Learoyd, without saying a word to her daughter, left the house and was still absent when her husband returned for supper. Mary Whittaker was at once dispatched to the Woolpack Inn, and, after an hour, returned with the news that her mother was not there and that the barman was also missing. With an oath, Learoyd saddled his mare and rode in all haste to Holmton. Finding no news of the missing couple in the town he made his way to the nearest station, where he found that a man and woman answering to his description had left by train for Liverpool four hours before. Learoyd, his heart raging with fury and wounded pride, followed in pursuit. He arrived at Liverpool in the early hours of the next morning, and, making his way to the docks, discovered that the fugitives had sailed at midnight for America. Further pursuit was impossible. He returned home, and late that same evening was found lying dead drunk on the road-side within a hundred yards of the local railway station. He was brought home and put to bed, and next day was seized with a severe fit of epilepsy. For weeks his life was in danger, and when at last he recovered strength of body, his mind remained in a state of moroseness that at times bordered on insanity. He became a fierce hater of women, and the chief victim of his frenzy was his stepdaughter, Mary Whittaker.

She bore his harshness with a Griselda patience, but this seemed only to add provocation to his anger. In her he saw the daughter of the woman who had trodden his pride in the dust, and he marked her out as the object of his vengeance. Finding that bitter words and deeds of cruelty left her seemingly unmoved, his morose and wounded spirit devised other and darker plans of revenge. At first he conceived the idea of driving her penniless from his doors, but, realising that the girl would find no difficulty in obtaining a place as servant on one of the neighbouring farms, he abandoned it as furnis.h.i.+ng insufficient satisfaction for his tortured heart. One day he heard how a farmer had some years before ignominiously sold by public auction the wife of whom he had grown tired, and Learoyd gloated over the story with malicious glee. Here was a means of satisfying his vengeance to the full. To his warped imagination it mattered little that Mary Whittaker was entirely innocent of her mother's desertion of him, or that Anne Learoyd, far away in America, would probably never hear of her daughter's shame. Inasmuch as the guilty wife was out of his clutch, he was content with the vicarious sacrifice that he could demand from her daughter.

For some days he brooded over his cruel purpose, and it found ever more favour in his eyes. Market day came and the time was ripe for action.

Roughly informing his stepdaughter that she must go with him to market, he left the house with her on foot, carrying a halter in his hand. On the road he brutally informed her of his purpose. A chill of horror seized the girl when she heard the news, but her tears and entreaties, so far from melting his heart, filled him with an unholy joy. As they pa.s.sed a farm-house on the road Mary screamed out for help, but Learoyd silenced her with a blow on the mouth, and then, leaving the high road, took the path through the fields in order to avoid company. Arriving at the outskirts of the town, he slipped the halter over her head and dragged her through the by-streets to the market-place.

Such was Mary's story as told to the weaver that evening in his cottage.

Tom Parfitt was a man of few words, but the tears that rolled down his cheek showed his sympathy. "Poor la.s.s, poor la.s.s" was his frequent comment as he listened to the harrowing details and thought of the agony of the market-place; and when she had ended her tale his voice was broken with sobs.

"Thou sal niver want for a home, la.s.s, so lang as I can addle a bite an'

a sup wi' my weyvin'."

"Happen Learoyd will be wantin' me back agean when he's gotten ower things a bit."

"Then he'll noan get thee," and the weaver struck his fist on the table with unusual vehemence. "A wilful man mun have his way, fowks say; an' I reckon Sam Learoyd has had it; but he'll noan have it twice ower, if I know owt about justice."

"But he's bin sadly tewed wi' mother leavin' him an' all," replied Mary, "and there's them fits that he has to contend wi'. If he wants me I mun go. There's n.o.body left on t' farm to fend for him."

"If he cooms here he'll find t' door sparred agean him," exclaimed Parfitt, in his indignation.

Mary shook her head sadly, but made no reply.

They sat awhile in silence, gazing into the dying fire, and then the girl, with a timid "I thank thee for what thou's done for me," withdrew to the inner room and cried herself to sleep. The weaver lit his clay pipe and, bending forwards over the grey ashes of his peat-fire, buried himself in his thoughts till the clock, striking eleven, roused him from his reverie. He slowly rose, placed a cus.h.i.+on on the settle, and without undressing, flung himself on the hard boards and fell asleep.

Days and weeks pa.s.sed and Mary Whittaker still remained in the weaver's cottage. The cowed look in her eyes pa.s.sed gradually away, though it would come back whenever a man's footfall was heard in the street outside, and a cold fear seized her at the thought that Learoyd was at hand to demand her return to the farm. But he never came, and Mary grew more and more at ease in her new surroundings. The change from the roomy farmstead, with its wide horizons of moors and woods, to the narrow cottage in the sunless back street was a strange one for her. She missed, too, the farm work: the churning of the b.u.t.ter and the feeding of the calves and poultry. But youth was on her side and she soon learnt to adapt herself to her new life. Soon after six in the morning she would mount with Parfitt to the upper room and spin the wool, which he would then weave into cloth. The work was hard, and some of the processes of cleaning the wool were repulsive to her nature at first, but in time she accustomed herself to this as to so much else. It was easy for her gentle nature to win the hearts of the three children; she quickly learnt the duties of a mother, nursed them in their childish ailments, and when the loom was still, joined with them in their games.

Six months Tom Parfitt waited to see whether Learoyd would make any attempt to recover the stepdaughter whom he had wronged, and then, as the farmer made no move, he quietly married Mary Whittaker at the Primitive Methodist Chapel.

II

Years pa.s.sed away and a gradual change came over the character of the social and economic life of Holmton. The town became linked up by rail with Leeds and Bradford, and in this way it lost its isolation and caught an echo of the ideas and views of life of the people in the big towns. Elementary education was introduced, and the printed book slowly found its way into the weavers' cottages. Most important change of all, the hand-loom gave place to the power-loom. Factories were built by the side of the beck, and while a certain amount of weaving continued to be done by the old people in their cottages, the younger generation sought employment in the mills, and payment for piecework gave way to time-wages. Most of the younger weavers welcomed this change when it was fully understood. They found that the hours of work, though still terribly long, were shorter than those spent by their parents over their hand-looms, and the social intercourse of the mill, where the youths and girls met their equals in age, was deemed preferable to the family labours in the upper story of the cottages. Moreover, if the overseers and foremen in the mills were often brutal, the workers could, at any rate, get away from the atmosphere of the weaving-shed when the hooters sounded at six o'clock in the evening.

When this revolution in industrial life took place Tom Parfitt found himself too old to adapt himself to the change.

"T' hand-loom's gooid enough for me," were his words. "If I went to work i' t' mill I'd feel like givin' up an owd friend, just because he'd grown owd-fes.h.i.+oned. I'll stick to cottage wark, choose-what other fowks may do."

Hearing this decision, his wife at once decided to remain with him; but the three children of Parfitt's former marriage, the youngest of whom was now seventeen, determined to seek work in the factories. The family was thus split up, and the younger generation brought back into the house at night new ideas gained amid the social intercourse of the mill.

Mary Whittaker's position in the town after her marriage to Parfitt was quietly accepted by the community of weavers. They still called her by her maiden name, but there was nothing unusual in that. Often, too, she was referred to as "Mary that was selled for sixpence," but here again, at least as far as the older generation was concerned, no stigma was implied. It was simply a frank statement of fact. With the younger generation, however, who were quicker than their elders in absorbing new ideas and new codes of social convention, "Mary that was selled for sixpence" was a name that aroused curiosity, and sometimes derision.

Occasionally Mary's stepdaughters would be twitted about the name at the mill, and their faces would burn as they realised that a dark shadow hung over the woman whom they had been taught to call mother, and who had won their hearts from the day on which she first set foot in their father's house. Once they spoke of the matter to their father, anxious to learn the exact truth from his lips.

"Aye, I bowt her for sixpence afore I wed her," he said, looking them steadily in the face, "an' t' man that selled her to me said I'd gotten her muck-cheap. Them was t' truest words he iver spak, an' shoo would hae been muck-cheap if I'd gien a million pund for her."

During all the years that Mary Whittaker had spent at Holmton she had not once caught sight of Samuel Learoyd. Fieldhead Farm was only four miles away, but she had never had the courage to go near it. The farmer visited Holmton only on market days, and notlung could ever induce his stepdaughter to go near the scene of her deep humiliation. But though she did not see Learoyd he was never long out of her mind, and through her husband and children she kept herself informed of what was going on at the farm.

After his shameless traffic in the Holmton market-place Learoyd had for some months lived alone. Never a sociable man, he shunned the society of the neighbouring farmers, and they, on their side, resenting his outrageous conduct to his stepdaughter, studiously kept out of his way.

Doggedly he set himself to do both the labours of the house and farm, and sought to stifle in hard work the memory of his wife's desertion of him, together with whatever twinges of remorse may have come to him when he thought of the revenge which he had taken upon her daughter. But as time went on he found it impossible to attend to all his duties. Nothing could induce him to enlist the services of a housekeeper, but he engaged a man, who occupied a two-roomed cottage a hundred yards away from the farm, and helped him in stable and field. But the sullen humour of Learoyd was hard to put up with, and the men who came to him soon sought employment elsewhere. He would engage a servant for the year at the Martinmas hiring, but as soon as the year was up the man would leave, and it became increasingly difficult for the farmer to find a subst.i.tute.

"What mak o' a gaffer is Learoyd?" one labourer would ask of another as they stood together in the Holmton market-place waiting to be hired.

"A dowly, harden-faced mon, an' gey hard to bide wi', accordin' to what all t' day-tale men is sayin'," replied the other.

"He looks it," answered the first. "He's gotten a face that's like beer when t' thunder has turned it to allicker. If I was to live wi' him I'd want a clothes-horse set betwix' me an' him at dinner, or he'd turn my vittles sour i' my belly."

"He twilted his wife, did Learoyd, while she ran away wi' Sam Woodhead at t' Woolpack, an' then he selled his dowter for sixpence. He can't bide women-fowks i' t' house."

"Then he'll not git me to coom an' live wi' him. I've swallowed t'

church i' my last place, but I'm noan baan to swallow t' steeple at efter."

Such were the opinions pa.s.sed on Learoyd by the farm labourers round about Holmton, and it was little wonder that, as the years went by, the condition of his farm grew steadily worse.

When the Parfitts had been married fifteen years, a strange rumour reached their cottage of a spiritual change that had been wrought in the soul of Samuel Learoyd. It was reported that the farmer had been attending the revival services held in the little Primitive Methodist chapel about a mile away from his farm, that his flinty heart had been melted, and that he had "found the Lord." The weaver's family was slow to credit this change, though Mary prayed fervently night and morning that it might be true. Their doubts, however, were set at rest by the circuit steward of the Holmton chapel where they attended service. He had taken part in the revival meetings and related what he had seen.

"Aye, it's true, sure enough," he said. "Sam Learoyd's a changed man. It were t' local preacher that done it. He gat him on to his knees anent t'

penitential forms at after t' sarvice, an' there were a two-three more wi' him; an' t' preacher an' me wrastled wi' t' devil for their souls.

I've niver seen sich tewin' o' t' spirit sin I becom a Methody. 'Twere a hot neight, and what wi' t' heat an' t' spiritual exercises, t'

penitents were fair reekin' an' sweatin'. We went thro' one to t' other and kept pleadin' wi' 'em. 'Tread t' owd devil under fooit,' says we; 'think on t' blooid o' t' Lamb that weshes us thro' all sin.' An' t'

penitents would holla out: 'I can't, I can't: he's ower strang for me; I'm baan to smoor i' h.e.l.l fires.' But t' local were stranger nor t'

devil for all that, an' first one an' then another on 'em would shout out: 'I'm saved; I've fun' Him, I've fun' the Lord!' Then they'd git up an' walk out o' t' room that weak you could hae knocked 'em down wi' a feather.

"At lang length there was n.o.bbut Sam Learoyd left. He was quieter nor t'

others, but t' load o' sins about his heart was as tough as Whangby cheese. So me an' t' preacher gat on either side o' him an' we prayed an' better prayed, but all for nowt. So at last Sam got up off his knees, an' wi' a despert look on his face, says: 'Let me be. If I'm baan to find salvation I'll find it misen.'

"At that we gav ower prayin', but kept kneelin' by his side an' waited for the Lord to sattle t' job. An' outside t' wind were yowlin' as if it would blow down t' walls and chimleys. But warr nor t' yowlin' o' t'

wind were t' groans o' Sam Learoyd.

"After a while t' groans gat easier, and then t' local started singin'

in a low voice, 'Rock of Ages.' But Sam would have noan o' his singin'.

So we just waited to see what would happen. Well, after a while t'

groans stopped, an' Sam lifted up his heead an' looked round. 'Arta saved?' asked t' local, and Sam answered: 'I'm convicted o' sin.'

'Praise be to G.o.d,' sang out t' local, and we gat Sam off his knees and out o' t' chapil an' away home. An' ivver sin that time Sam's coom reg'lar to chapil twice on Sundays an' to t' weeknight sarvice too."