“Well, then,” argued Mellor.
“But you can’t make it run back uphill,” persisted Joe.
“Eh, get on wi’ thee! Don’t be so clever! Tha knows nowt about it!” growled the men, not ill-humouredly, but as to a child.
“Well, do you like this better, then?” said Joe, vexed. “Th’ mester cloth-dressers is Ire Valley men same as you are, and they’re not easily put off once they’ve made up their minds.”
This made some impression, and there was an uneasy pause, which was broken by a thick jeering titter from Joe’s side. “Aye! It’s all very well for thee, lad,” cried Walker sneeringly: “in good work and not going to lose it. Tha can’t be expected to feel it same as us.”
“That’s not true!” cried Joe in a fury, springing to his feet. “How dare tha say that, Ben Walker?”
“What isn’t true?” demanded Walker, looking insolently up at him. “It’s true tha’rt not going to lose thy work at Oldroyds’ when frames come, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” said Joe hotly. “But——”
A chorus of howls and jeers greeted this admission. “Tha’s hit it, Walker!” cried someone, and knees were slapped in appreciation of Walker’s having got at the truth of the matter so smartly; Mellor said nothing, but looked as though he were ashamed of his neighbour.
“Hearken!” shouted Joe above the uproar, trembling with fury. “I’ll show you all whether it’s my own interest I’m out for! I’m not, I’m not! I’m not!” he repeated passionately, almost screaming his denial of an accusation which above all others was hateful to him. That he should be charged with favouring himself at the expense of others! Of thinking only of his own skin! It was unbearable; he could not live another minute under it. “I’ll take the oath,” he cried out pantingly, “And if there’s owt I can do for any of you, I’ll do it—to my last ha’penny and my last drop of blood.”
“That’s the way to talk,” said Thorpe with approval.
“Will tha really take the oath, Joe?” asked Mellor in a pleased tone.
“Aye!” said Joe firmly. He knew now why he had been so wretched these last few weeks, why he had avoided Mellor and been unable to whistle any but melancholy tunes. He had been, at the bottom of his heart, trying to decide whether he ought to stand in with the croppers or no; he had been trying to persuade himself that he need not, ought not to, take the Luddite oath; he had been so racked by indecision that he had hated the very sight of a cropper because they made a question to which he was not ready to return an answer. Now that he had made his decision, answered his question, he felt an immense relief; a weight seemed to roll off his shoulders, a cloud to clear from his eyes; his weariness was gone, he felt ready to whistle the night through. “I’ll take it,” he repeated.
“Step forward, then,” said Thorpe, pushing him towards the hearth.
Joe stepped forward, and Mellor took hold of his right hand. A hush fell on the room, and Joe, giving a quick look round to see if any others beside Mellor were to take part in the ceremony, saw rows of gleaming eyeballs turned towards him. Mellor cleared his throat, and said:
“What is thy name?”
“N. or M.,” observed Thorpe in his shrill twitter.
“Shut up, Tom!” said Mellor crossly. “This is a serious job. What is thy name?” he repeated, giving Joe’s hand a tug to recall his attention.
“Jonathan Bamforth,” replied Joe. His thin frame shivered and his teeth chattered with the solemnity of the moment, but he tried to speak in the steady, manly tone which would express what he felt, and his voice quite rang in the crowded room.
“Art thou willing to become a member of our society and submit without demur or question to the commands of General Ludd?” demanded Mellor glibly.
He slurred his words like one who has learned a piece by heart without altogether understanding it, and this irritated Joe and made him feel less submissive to the influence of the ceremony, but he replied firmly: “Aye.”
“Tha mun say: ‘I am,’ ” objected Thorpe.
Mellor made an angry clicking noise with his tongue. “Am I giving this oath or art thou, Tom Thorpe?” he cried.
“Oh, thou,” replied Thorpe. “Thou, George Mellor. Only see thou do it right.”
“Thee howd thy gab, then,” commanded Mellor. There was a laugh at this, in which Thorpe joined. “Come on, Joe,” said Mellor. “We’ll start again. What is thy name?”
“Jonathan Bamforth.”
“Art thou willing to become a member of our society and submit without demur or question to the commands of General Ludd?”
“I am.”
“Then say after me :—I, Jonathan Bamforth, of my own voluntary will, do declare and solemnly swear.”
Joe repeated this.
“Never to reveal,” continued Mellor.
“Never to reveal,” said Joe earnestly, meaning every word he said.
Mellor faltered, released Joe’s hand, and fumbling in the breast of his coat drew out a folded paper. “It’s long, the oath,” he apologised. “I can’t rightly think on what comes next.” He unfolded the paper, and putting both candles together held it beneath their flames, which were almost choked out of existence by lumps of tallow. “I can’t see to read by this light,” he complained testily, colouring.
Joe, who knew that Mellor could barely read a word of three letters in good print, felt uncomfortable for him.
“Send for another candle,” called out Walker.
“Give him the short oath,” piped Thorpe.
Mellor’s face cleared. “Aye, that’ll do,” he said. “Say this, Joe: In the name of God Almighty, anyone that enters into this society, and declares anything, shall be put to death by the first brother.”
“In the name of God Almighty,” repeated Joe sternly and solemnly, thinking of God, of Marthwaite Church and the high clear note of the church clock striking the hour, of the Ire Valley and of how all the men in it were his brothers: “In the name of God Almighty, anyone that enters into this society, and declares anything, shall be put to death by the first brother.”
His voice so throbbed with feeling that for a moment after it had ceased there was an impressed silence; then someone exclaimed involuntarily: “Well done!” and there was a chorus of approving shouts.
“Now tha’s twissed in,” said Mellor, wringing Joe’s hand heartily. “And I’m right down glad of it. Lads, we’ve done a good night’s work.”
“I’d sooner have done one wi’ Enoch,” objected Thorpe, nevertheless shaking Joe cordially by the hand.
There were laughing shouts of agreement at this, and one of the men brought out from a corner of the room a huge hammer, its wooden handle a yard in length, its great head a lump of solid iron. Mellor picked it up and swung it, his pale eyes glittering fanatically.
“Mind thy toes, George,” urged Thorpe. “Enoch’ll break ’em as soon as look at ’em.”
“Is Enoch thy name for the maul?” said Joe to Thorpe.
“Aye! Enoch Smith makes frames and our Enoch breaks frames,” replied Thorpe. “He scrunches frames champion, does our Enoch.”
Joe looked at the great weapon uneasily. Smashing things was not in his line; deft-handed and light-footed, he had never broken anything, voluntarily or otherwise, in his life. Moreover, though the hammer was a big one, it seemed a small thing to pit against a regiment of soldiers. Joe had learned some history, and read the newspapers, and he felt he knew more about the powers of governments than these other sturdy Ire Valley croppers, who saw no reason why their wish not to use the frames should be less valid than the masters’ wish to use them. And indeed why should it be, mused Joe. The frames would improve the manufacture; but then was the manufacture more important than the men? Joe thought not, but felt vaguely that he was wrong somewhere, he had missed part of the argument out. “At any rate, I’m in it now,” he thought. “I’ve sworn; I’m twissed in; I can’t draw back now.”
Now that Joe was bound to them by oath, the croppers spoke more freely; th
e talk was all of drillings on the moor by night, of a grand meeting of Luddites from all parts of the Riding to be held this week, of weapons and money, of letters sent to cloth-dressers threatening them if they took to frames. The men were eager, the details of surpassing interest; it was long after midnight when the gathering at length broke up, and Mellor and Joe took their way home.
Joe was so tired with the long day, the rough walk, and the excitement, that he could hardly put one foot in front of the other; he dragged wearily after Mellor across the moor. For his part Mellor seemed to grow gloomier with every step he took, and when they had struck into the lane above Scape Scar he began to mumble out his miseries in a hoarse uneven tone. It didn’t feel so bad when you were up at the Moorcock, he said; it didn’t seem so hopeless like, you felt you were doing something; but when you got home you remembered there wasn’t a bite to eat in the house, and not likely to be much either the way things were going; his step-father would have to close down altogether if things didn’t mend; he was in debt already; George himself lay awake at nights thinking and thinking what would become of them all if the frames went on. The men might be jolly enough at the Moorcock, but they were wretched enough when they got home; they might be jolly at the Moorcock, he repeated, but they meant what they said; Joe need make no mistake about that—“Oldroyds need make no mistake about that!” he shouted suddenly.
“Don’t wake the women-kind, George,” urged Joe mechanically—he was so tired that he hardly took in what Mellor was saying—for they were now beneath the windows of their home.
Mellor sighed. “See thee, Joe,” he went on in a soberer tone, “Take this.” He felt for Joe’s hand and pressed into it a folded paper. “It’s t’Luddite oath,” he explained. “T’long one. Every twissed man is supposed to have a copy, so’s they can pass it on to other men, but some on us haven’t got one. Will tha write some copies out for me?”
“Aye, gladly,” said Joe, feeling, as far as he could feel anything through his weariness, proud of being able to aid his sworn brothers with his scholarly skill.
He lifted the sneck of his latch and went in.
The door swung to behind him. The fire of course was long since out, and Mary abed upstairs; but all the familiar objects of his home seemed to rise up and claim him for their own. Mellor’s influence rolled from him like a loosened pack; he remembered Mary and her warning, and the newspaper which Will Oldroyd had brought for him and the books which Mrs. Oldroyd had lent him before, and that he had worked for Mr. Oldroyd since he was a lad, and his father before him, and that he was now bound by oath to men who had sworn to destroy the Oldroyds’ frames. The whole complex situation seemed to flow in great waves over his tired brain, and he felt an immense discouragement. “But I’ve taken the oath,” he told himself again firmly: “It’s too late to change my mind now.” The thought of the oath reminded him of the paper he held in his hand, and he felt a sharp curiosity to know its terms. He hesitated on Mary’s account, lest he should disturb her, but could not forbear lighting the candle and reading. The oath was well written, in a clerkly pointed script; Joe wondered whose hand it was, and whether it had come from Nottingham. I, A.B., of my own voluntary will, he read, do declare, and solemnly swear, that I never will reveal to any person or persons, under the canopy of heaven, the names of the persons who compose this secret committee, their proceedings, meetings, places of abode, dress, features, complexion, or anything else that might lead to a discovery of the same, either by word, deed or sign, under the penalty of being sent out of the world by the first brother who shall meet me, and my name and character blotted out of existence, and never to be remembered but with contempt and abhorrence; and I further now do swear, that I will use my best endeavours to punish by death any traitor or traitors, should any rise up amongst us, wherever I can find him or them, and though he should fly to the verge of nature, I will pursue him with unceasing vengeance. So help me God, and bless me to keep this my oath inviolable.
“‘Punish by death!’” mused Joe. “That’s strong! ‘Unceasing vengeance!’ I don’t know that I should have sworn if it had been this oath George’d given me.”
There was a light noise behind him; he started round to find Mary standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m sorry I wakened thee, lass,” said Joe, looking at her with commiseration, for in this half light she had a wearied and troubled air, and her rosy cheeks looked pale.
Mary came towards him at the table, picked up the candle and held it to his face. After a moment she set it down again. “Tha’s sworn, Joe,” she said, her lovely voice sad and low. “I knew tha would.”
“I were that sorry for t’croppers I couldn’t help it,” said Joe wretchedly.
“Oh, Joe!” Mary softly reproached him: “What will the Oldroyds say when they know?”
“They won’t know,” said Joe, startled. “They mustn’t know.”
Mary’s dark eyes widened in a look of fear. “Is it as bad as that?” she murmured.
“I’m fleyd it is,” said Joe soberly.
“Oh, Joe!” breathed his sister.
They stared at each other in dumb misery.
“Well, come on, lass, let’s get to sleep,” said Joe at length, blowing out the candle. “Or I shall be late at mill in t’morning.”
Chapter III
Crime
1
Not more than an hour or two after Joe had left for the mill next morning there came a knock at the Scape Scar cottage door, and there stood Will again. He was on foot this time, and flushed and hot with the walk up the hill—Will was always too hot, always had been from a boy; it had probably something to do with his red hair, reflected Mary, loving him for it as she loved him for all his traits, good or bad. His blue eyes were eager and glowing, his fair skin slightly moist; energy seemed to beam from him as he stood there in the spring sunshine. With a smile, Mary stood back for him to enter the house, but he shook his head vehemently. “I won’t come in,” he said, and blushed. Mary understood that he did not intend there should be a repetition of yesterday morning’s incident; “he’s a decent lad,” she thought tenderly, but mocked him a little in the loving smile with which she regarded him, her head on one side. Will blushed deeper, seemed inclined to resent her smile, then suddenly laughed and looked down, kicking idly at a loose stone which had rolled by the doorstep—one of Charley Mellor’s playthings, no doubt. He looked up again and met Mary’s eyes. What he saw there must have contented him, for he stretched out his left hand and gently took her wrist between his strong broad fingers. He wedged himself comfortably against the left door-post, Mary leant against the other; they exchanged a look, a long sweet look, of love. The sun shone, the wind gently rolled curly white clouds across a blue sky, the Ire Valley lay spread before them green and clear and lovely, the mating birds twittered; Mary felt her whole body melt in happiness and love. She had always loved Will since he was a romping wilful boy, shouting masterfully about the moor, honest and gentle in the house; he seemed to her such a clean proud lad, his fair colouring was wonderful to her, he never told lies, he was always wanting to climb about or do something new and dangerous, so that one’s heart almost turned to water with ecstasy and fear when watching him. As for yesterday, it was a young man’s hot sin which Mary could easily forgive him; after all it was but out of love for her, and she doubted no more than he doubted himself his intention to make her his wife. She loved him, and she felt near to him; no longer was there the sweet anguish of wondering whether he loved her or not; they were already one, he was part of her, they were man and wife. She forgot Joe and her night of wretched watchfulness; everything but Will and their love went out of her head. They leaned there looking at each other in a silent ecstasy.
“Listen, lass,” said Will at length in a quiet tone, so as not to break the spell of their happiness: “My father says we can get wed as soon as our new frames are safely in.”
Mr. Oldroyd had not quite said that, and Will blushed a lit
tle at this turning of the words towards his inclination—but still he was not ashamed of it, for after all that was what it would amount to, he thought, his face hardening as he mused on his own determination. He was startled to see the blood drain from his love’s cheeks, and horror dilate her eyes.
“What!” cried Mary in anguish. She stepped back from him and withdrew her hand. “Will! Then we shall never be wed.”
“Of course we shall,” said Will consolingly. “Don’t fret, Mary; they’ll be in in a week or two, and then I’ll put up the banns.”
“We shall never be wed,” murmured Mary. “You’ll never work frames in the Ire Valley.”
“Why not?” demanded Will, leaning his head contentedly against the door-post and smiling down at her.
“Luddites,” breathed Mary, with a quick look round.
“The Luddites,” said Will with a superior air, unconscious that he was quoting his father, “are nothing but a few silly lads who don’t know what’s good for them.”
“Tha’s wrong, Will,” said Mary. “Everyone’s against the frames—every man in the Ire Valley’s against them.”
She spoke softly, for she was sorry to have to ruffle Will’s air of calm assurance, but Joe’s look when he came back from the Moorcock was very present to her, and her low sad tone throbbed with the emphasis of truth. Will’s jaw dropped; indeed he looked so utterly disconcerted and taken aback that even in her deep distress Mary felt for him a kind of fond maternal mockery, as she would for a child.
“Do you mean to tell me,” demanded Will, his voice rising incredulously: “That even some of our own men at Syke Mill may be Luddites?”
“Nay, I didn’t say that, Will!” cried Mary in a panic, fearful lest she had directed him to Joe.
But her fright betrayed her. It never occurred to Will, indeed, to think of Joe, for he could not have imagined Joe having other than Oldroyd interests, but he perceived that Mary had certain knowledge of the presence of Luddites in Syke Mill. “You didn’t say it but you meant it,” he observed thoughtfully, giving her a shrewd glance.
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