The Master of Liversedge

by Ley, Alice Chetwynd

  It was after three o’clock when they heard a knock on the back door. They looked at each other in silent apprehension for a moment and made no attempt to answer it.

  The knock was repeated, though not loudly. Mrs. Duckworth rose reluctantly to her feet, and, seizing the poker from the hearth, went over to the door. White-faced, Mary picked up the shovel and followed at her heels.

  The housekeeper shot back the bolts, turned the key in the lock, and slowly opened the door.

  ‘Don’t be afraid.’ It was Arkwright, and he stepped at once into the room, closing the door after him. ‘I saw a chink of light under the door, and guessed someone was astir.’

  Standing in the full light of the lamp, he startled them by his dishevelled appearance. His clothes were dirty and tom, his hands smeared with grease and grime, and there was a small jagged cut on his cheek on which the blood had dried.

  ‘You’re in a right pickle,’ said Mrs. Duckworth, surveying him. ‘Come in and sit you down, sir, and I’ll get you a drop o’ summat. You look as if you could do wi’ it, an’ all.’

  ‘Thank you, no time for that,’ replied Arkwright. He looked quickly from one to the other of them, inwardly dreading to break the news he brought, but giving no sign beyond a more than usual sternness of countenance. ‘I’ve bad news for you,’ he continued, abruptly. ‘Prepare yourselves for an unpleasant shock.’

  ‘It’s John,’ said Mary, putting her hand to her mouth. ‘He’s — he’s — dead?’

  The words tailed away.

  ‘Dying,’ answered Arkwright. ‘He can’t last the night. That’s why I’ve come for you. You must rouse your uncle, and break the news to him. There isn’t much time, if he would see the lad before he goes.’

  ‘Oh, my lamb, my lamb, my baby!’ Mrs. Duckworth was beside herself with grief. ‘How could the Lord let a sweet innocent like him suffer for the misdeeds of others? Oh, my little lad — so gentle, so kind!’

  ‘Hush, dear,’ soothed Mary, putting her arms about the motherly form, while the tears dropped unheeded from her own eyes. ‘There, hush now.’

  ‘The Luddites made an attack on my mill tonight,’ explained Arkwright, averting his eyes from their distress. ‘He was with them, and was wounded — shot in the leg. It’s had to be amputated — he’s under arrest, of course, but I persuaded them to get a surgeon to him. He’s at the inn at Robertown. Colonel Grey’s agreed for his father to see him — and you, if you desire it, ma’am’ his eyes turned to Mary for a brief moment — ‘no one else, I’m afraid.’

  Mrs. Duckworth dropped into a chair, and began to sob unrestrainedly.

  ‘I’ll go to my uncle at once,’ said Mary, white to the lips, but quite controlled. ‘I’ll get him ready as soon as possible.’

  She lit a candle at the fire, and, leaving them together in the kitchen, groped her way, blind with tears, to the stairs. She must not break down now: later, perhaps, when all the sorry tale of the day was told — but not now. Her uncle and Mrs. Duckworth needed her support.

  Sometimes, in later years, she would wake in the night crying out in torment at the memory of that next ten minutes when she was forced to give her uncle the news that broke his heart. In those days yet to come, there was one close by to comfort her on such occasions with loving words, and to remind her not to rouse the child who slumbered peacefully in the adjacent cot, and who bore her cousin’s name. Somehow, she managed to accomplish the dreaded task. After the first anguished incredulity, her uncle found much that required an explanation, for he had been entirely ignorant of his son’s activities. Her answers brought added grief, as he realized how far apart their ways had lain through the years since John had lost his mother.

  ‘Mea culpa,’ he said, in deep sorrow. ‘I should have shared my son’s life, but I left him to manage it alone. The blame is mine, but the punishment is heavy.’

  He bent his head for a moment in prayer; then, having flung on some clothes, went downstairs with Mary to join Arkwright.

  In the small room at the inn to which the mill-owner presently brought them, John Booth was lying inert on a truckle bed, his face totally drained of colour and his eyes closed. There was an odour of medicaments in the room, heavily overlaid by the stench of blood. A wave of nausea hit Mary’s stomach as she entered; but she fought it down, advancing to the bed alongside her uncle.

  ‘I’ll do my best to see that you’re left alone with him,’ said Arkwright, placing chairs for them at the bedside. ‘But he’s under arrest, of course, and the Colonel keeps trying to get out of him the names of those who were with him in the attack — so far, without success.’

  ‘How can he?’ asked Mary, with tearful indignation. ‘How can he bring himself to pester a dying man?’

  He looked at her compassionately. ‘I’ll try my best to prevent any more of it. But you must realize how it is — Colonel Grey’s in command, here.’

  He left them. They sat there in silence for some time, watching the white face with its deep lines of suffering, listening to the laboured breathing.

  At last, John opened his eyes, and stared at them for a moment without recognition. Then he looked straight at his father with awareness, and spoke in a faint, breathless voice that — strangely — never once held any suggestion of a stutter.

  ‘Father.’ He put out his hand, and the Vicar clasped it firmly between his own trembling fingers. ‘Can you — forgive — me?’

  ‘It is I who need forgiveness, my son. How could I have neglected you so — failed to gain your confidence? I have not done my duty as a parent.’

  ‘They’re too close, father — parents and children — too close, yet too far apart — ’

  The old man shook his head, unable to speak.

  ‘Don’t grieve, father. There must be — some purpose — ’

  His voice tailed away, and for several moments he said nothing more. Then he looked at Mary.

  ‘Sam Hartley, too — they’ve got him in the next room — he’ll — he’ll not last long — ’ He took a deep, gasping breath, and continued, ‘You’ll not forget his children? And — Arkwright’ — his eyes watched her face as though he would penetrate her thoughts — ‘don’t let — this — stand between you, Mary. I know you — love him — he — did the best he could — for me — even getting Colonel Grey — to let you both come — ’

  ‘Don’t try to talk any more, love,’ said Mary, gently. ‘Save your strength. I’ll see that Sam’s children are all right — don’t worry about anything, just now.’

  He managed a brief, twisted smile. ‘Remember — the meadow where we played — when we were children? One day, early — the sun was just rising — a lark sang — ’

  She bent her head to hide the swift rush of tears. Just then, the door opened, and Colonel Grey came abruptly into the room, with Arkwright hard on his heels, looking like thunder.

  ‘Ah, he seems to be talking now, right enough,’ said the Colonel, by way of greeting. ‘Well, Booth, do you mean to tell me who was with you in the raid? It will ease your conscience, y’ know — I’m sure you’ll bear me out there, Vicar?’

  John’s father turned a look of reproachful misery on the Colonel. ‘Let my son die in peace, sir.’

  John spoke up from the bed, faintly but audibly. ‘Can you — keep a secret, Colonel?’

  Colonel Grey assented eagerly, and drew nearer to the bed in case he should miss what followed.

  John raised himself a little way on one elbow, and spoke in a stronger voice than he had so far used. ‘Well, so can I.’

  He relapsed exhausted on the pillow; his lips were blue, but they moved for a moment. Colonel Grey turned away angrily, but Mary and her uncle bent forward to catch the faint words.

  ‘I can still hear the lark singing — ’

  The voice stopped abruptly. His head lolled sideways, like a broken doll’s; a lock of fair hair fell across his brow.

  The Vicar bent forward to kiss the lifeless face, and gently close the staring eyes. Then he drop
ped to his knees, to pray for the boy whose only crime had been a deep concern in the welfare of others.

  *

  They buried Sam Hartley at Halifax on the following Wednesday. Much to the surprise and concern of the authorities, a great concourse of people attended the funeral. Ugly rumours ran round the crowd; it was whispered that the two men had been tortured at Robertown in an abortive attempt to force them to betray their companions in the attack. Soldiers rode up and down to see that order was maintained, but there were no incidents.

  It was clear, however, that hundreds of people could be expected again at John Booth’s funeral, which was due to take place the next day. To avoid the undesirable publicity, with its attendant risks, the authorities insisted that the time of the funeral should be changed. Accordingly, it was held at first light: apart from John’s own household and the military, only Arkwright and Nick Bradley stood bareheaded at the graveside.

  ‘There’s summat I must tell thee, Maister,’ said Nick, as they walked together through the dewy grass to the churchyard. ‘I can’t keep it no longer to mysen, though happen tha’lt turn me off when tha knows all. I did it for t’ poor lad’s sake, but t’ weren’t no manner o’ good, for he’s dead now, just t’ same.’

  ‘What are you speaking of?’ asked Arkwright, coming out of his gloomy abstraction. ‘What did you do?’

  Somewhat shamefacedly, Nick explained how he had gone to the Vicarage to try and prevent John from attending the meeting at the St. Crispin, and what had followed when he had told Mary of the impending raid on the inn.

  ‘I know what tha’s thinking,’ concluded Nick. ‘And happen I’d think same, in thy place. But yon poor lass had enough to bear, then, wi’out finding her cousin in trouble, too. But if tha feels, Maister Will’ — his voice shook a little — ‘that tha’s no use for a man who’d turn traitor after all these years, well — ’

  ‘So that’s what happened,’ said Arkwright. ‘I knew there must be somebody; but I never thought of you, of course.’

  The overseer winced. ‘Dost want me to go, lad? I don’t blame thee — ’

  Arkwright’s mouth twisted as though in pain. ‘No, Nick. I would have saved the boy, too, if I could have done — for his own sake, partly, but much more for her sake. I don’t blame you — who knows? I might have done the same thing, had I been you.’

  They said no more then, for they had arrived at the spot where the other mourners stood. Arkwright glanced covertly at Mary, a small, grey figure merging mournfully into the grey of the early morning light. A deep black band encircled her arm to speak of her loss. Only once did their eyes meet; on that occasion, it was as though she looked straight through him.

  ‘ — In Whom whosoever believeth shall live, though he die — ’

  The words floated tremulously across the new-dug grave. Far above the bowed heads gathered round it, the first red streaks of the rising sun broke the dullness of the sky; and a lark’s song was clearly heard.

  TWENTY: TO BUILD JERUSALEM

  In the days that followed, Mary forgot her own sorrow in trying to bring comfort to her uncle and Mrs. Duckworth. She knew that presently they would recover their tranquillity in finding something to do for others; but for the moment she abandoned all idea of returning to her own home.

  She had not forgotten her promise to John, and at the first opportunity visited the Hartleys’ cottage. A neighbour told her that the children had been taken in by Jack Hartley’s wife, who lived some distance away.

  ‘ ’Twill mean short commons, I reckon, ma’am, especially now poor Jack’s been taken afore t’ military on account o’ not firin’ on his own brother in t’ riot. They say Maister Arkwright’s to give evidence agin him at t’ trial — no wonder folks call him Bloodhound.’

  A spasm of pain crossed Mary’s face. She asked to be directed to Jack Hartley’s dwelling, and found it was too far away for her to visit at that time. When she returned home, she settled with Mrs. Duckworth that they should both go there on the following afternoon.

  ‘Though I don’t quite know how I can help,’ she said, unhappily. ‘It’s money they need, and there I am powerless to assist. By the way, the woman told me that Sally — the eldest girl — has found a situation with the doctor’s wife.’

  ‘That will be one less mouth to feed,’ said the housekeeper. ‘I wonder who spoke for the lass?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But it seems hard for a child of ten to be slaving away in someone’s kitchen — she should be in the schoolroom — ’

  ‘Labourers’ children lead different lives from them as you teach, Miss Mary. But he would’ve thought like that — ’ Her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘If I could find another post hereabouts,’ said Mary slowly, ‘I might perhaps be able to start a Sunday school, and teach some of the labouring children to read. He would have wanted that — ’

  ‘I thought you’d decided to go away? Not that your uncle and me wouldn’t bless the day, if you stayed on — ’

  Mary coloured. ‘When I said that, I was only thinking of myself. I wanted to put as much distance as possible between myself and — and — ’

  ‘And Mr. Arkwright?’ hazarded the housekeeper shrewdly.

  Mary nodded. ‘But now I wonder if there isn’t work for me to do here. John’s life must not have been in vain. The things he believed in — he said there was a purpose. Perhaps this is it.’

  ‘Happen you’d find something in Halifax. But you’d need a reference from your last post. I suppose Mr. Arkwright — ’

  ‘I shall ask no favours of him.’

  On the following morning, Mrs. Arkwright called at the Vicarage, accompanied by Caroline. While her mother talked gently to the Vicar of his dead son, Caroline plied Mary with eager questions.

  ‘Why would you not return to us, Miss Lister? Will says he begged you to come back, but you would not.’

  ‘He did not exactly beg,’ answered Mary dryly.

  ‘Oh, that is just his manner! But I know he wanted you to, and so do I. I miss you dreadfully.’

  ‘I miss you, too, Caroline. But it would not answer — I seem to have a particular knack of annoying your brother.’

  ‘You don’t understand, ma’am — it’s because he likes you so much. I know he does sometimes fly into a passion, but he is the dearest, kindest creature at heart!’

  Mary abruptly changed the subject by asking how Caroline was getting on with her music. The girl shook her head, and said it was difficult to make any progress without a teacher’s guiding hand.

  ‘I suppose you couldn’t — but no, of course I must not ask!’ she finished, with a guilty expression.

  Mary pressed her to explain.

  ‘I was wondering if you could come and hear me play sometimes. Just now and then, you know — when Will isn’t there, of course — ’

  Mary hesitated. She could never again enter Arkwright’s employment, but was there any reason why she should not visit his house as Caroline’s friend? The child had real musical talent, and it was a pity to neglect it.

  In the end, she agreed, and found herself bound to an engagement for the very next morning.

  As they were leaving, Mrs. Arkwright, with some evident embarrassment, pressed a package into Mary’s hand. Once they had gone, she opened it.

  She found banknotes to the value of ten pounds, and a curt note from Arkwright indicating that this was six months’ salary in lieu of notice.

  Her cheeks flamed. For a moment, she determined to return it all with a disdainful reply. Then she realized that she could not do this: she must give Mrs. Duckworth something for her board, and her own mother needed help, too. Besides, some of it at least had already been earned. Mature consideration decided her to keep this amount, and to give the balance to Sam Hartley’s family, whom she was visiting that afternoon.

  She and Mrs. Duckworth found the cottage without difficulty, and were invited into a room crammed with children, many of them busy about simple househo
ld tasks. Mrs. Hartley seemed a sensible woman, but she was evidently in some distress at present. She explained that this was because her husband’s court martial had taken place today, and she was anxiously awaiting the result.

  ‘Maister Arkwright’s to bring word on his way back home, ma’am. He called in early this mornin’ afore he went, to tell me as he meant to put in a strong plea for mercy, things bein’ as they was, wi’ Sam Jack’s brother, an’ all.’

  ‘A plea for mercy?’ asked Mary. ‘That isn’t what we were told.’

  ‘There’s not many knows it; an’ I don’t mind tellin’ thee, ma’am, as it come as a surprise to me, too. My Jack won’t hear a word agin Maister Arkwright, but I’ve always reckoned ’im a ’ard man, an’ I made sure he’d stand out for Jack bein’ punished. But no — he said this mornin’ as Jack’s a loyal worker — which is no more’n t’ truth — so he meant to stand by him. Please God they’ll hearken to him, or what’ll become on us?’

  This led Mary on to speak of the money. Mrs. Hartley said little, but the tears ran down her face as she accepted it. Mrs. Duckworth cautioned her to make it last, and congratulated her on Sally’s having found work.

  ‘Ay. ’Twas Maister Arkwright as spoke up for her there.’ said the woman, wiping her eyes.

  ‘He’s got a finger in most pies, seemingly,’ replied the housekeeper. ‘I hear they’re calling him Bloodhound roundabout.’

  ‘Ay — since t’ funeral. Poor young John Booth, ma’am — ’ she turned to Mary. ‘We were all very sorry — he was thought a deal of. But we don’t know what to mak’ on Maister Arkwright lately, an’ that’s a fact. Reckon he’s changed.’

  There seemed nothing more to say, so they prepared to take their leave. As they stood at the door, they were startled by the sound of firing close at hand, and a moment later, a rider came at full gallop round the bend. He drew up at the cottage door, and slid from his sweating horse. They saw it was Arkwright.

  ‘Maister Arkwright! For Lord’s sake, what’s amiss?’ cried Mrs. Hartley.