Read Ebook: Tales of the Ridings by Moorman F W Frederic William Vaughan Charles Edwyn Commentator

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Ebook has 123 lines and 8843 words, and 3 pages

Browning was, perhaps, somewhat beyond the comprehension of Job Hesketh, but he liked to hear me reading poetry aloud.

"Whativer it is," he said, "Abe Verity knows all about it. He were allus a better scholar nor me, were Abe, sin first we went to schooil together; but I reckon I'll know all about it, too, when I've slipped t' leash an' started work at Heaven Steel Works."

It was evident that a great change had come over Job's mind, and that the wonderful vision of a future life that had been granted to him during that second immersion beneath the waves of the North Sea had wholly taken away from him his old fear of death. But I wanted to hear the conclusion of the story, and pressed him to continue.

"Nay," he said, "there's noan so mich more to tell. There was summat i' Abe that made me a bit flaid o' axin' him ower mony questions. He were drissed like a plain vesselman, sure enif; but he talked as if he were a far-learnt man, an' his own maister. I axed him how lang t' shifts lasted i' heaven, an' he said: 'We work as lang as t' inner voice tells us to.' You see 'twere allus t' inner voice, an' I couldn't hardlins mak out what he meant by that.

"Then a thowt com into my heead, but I didn't fairly like to out wi' it, for fear T' Man Aboon were somewheer about an' sud hear me. So I just leaned ovver and whispered i' Abe's lug:

"'Doesta tak a day off nows an' thens an' run wi' t' hounds or t' harriers?'

"Abe laughed as if he were fit to brust hissen, an' then, afore he'd time to answer, iverything went as dark as a booit. I saw no more o' Abe, nor o' t' lake, nor o' t' birk-trees; an' t' next time I oppened my een there were a doctor chap stannin' ower me wi' a belly-pump in his hand, an' I were liggin' on a bed as weak as a kitlin."

Job was silent for a while, after finishing his story and relighting his pipe, and his silence gave me a chance of looking at him closely. Physically he was none the worse for his adventure; mentally, spiritually, he was a new man. The fear of death had gone from his eyes, and in its place was the joy of life, together with a sure faith in the triumph of personality when, to use his own coursing phrase, he had slipped the leash. His vision of heaven was somewhat too material to satisfy me, but there could be no doubt that it had brought to his terror-swept soul the peace of mind which passeth all understanding.

After a while Job rose, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and took his leave. I accompanied him to the door and watched him as he walked down the street. There was something buoyant in his tread, and his gigantic shoulders rolled from side to side like a seaman's on the quarter-deck. Soon he started whistling, and I smiled as I caught the tune. It was one of his chapel hymns, and there was a note of exultation in the closing bars:

"O grave! where is thy victory? O death! where is thy sting?"

My mind was full of Job's story all that day. I somehow refused to believe that what he had related was mere imagination, and it was evident that he could not have invented the story of the inner voice, for this remained a mystery to him. The inner voice haunted me all the time, and, as I lay in bed that night, I asked myself again and again the question: Why must we wait for a future life to hear this inner voice?

B.A.

They met at the smithy, waiting for "The Crooked Billet" to open for the evening. There was Joe Stackhouse the besom-maker, familiarly known as Besom-Joe, William Throup the postman, Tommy Thwaite the "Colonel," so called for his willingness to place his advice at the service of any of the Allied Commanders-in-Chief, and Owd Jerry the smith, who knew how to keep silent, but whose opinion, when given, fell with the weight of his hammer on the anvil. He refuted his opponents by asking them questions, after the manner of Socrates. The subject of conversation was the village school-mistress, who had recently been placed in charge of some thirty children, and was winning golden opinions on all sides.

"Shoo's a gooid 'un, is schooil-missus, for all shoo's nobbut fower foot eleven," began Stackhouse; "knows how to keep t' barns i' their places wi'out gettin' crabby or usin' ower mich stick."

"Aye, and shoo's gotten a vast o' book-larnin' intul her heead," said Throup. "I reckon shoo's a marrow for t' parson, ony day."

"Nay, shoo'll noan best t' parson," objected Stackhouse who, as "church-warner" for the year, looked upon himself as the defender of the faith, the clergy, and all their works. "Parson's written books abaat t' owd churches i' t' district, who's bin wedded in 'em, and who's liggin' i' t' vaults."

"Well," rejoined the Colonel, "and didn't Mary Crabtree, wheer shoo lodges, insense us that t' schooil-missus had gotten well-nigh a dozen books in her kist, and read 'em ivery eemin?"

"Aye, but shoo's noan written 'em same as t' parson has," retorted Stackhouse.

"I reckon it's just as hard to read a book thro' cover to cover as to write one," retorted the Colonel.

"An' shoo can write too," the postman joined in, "better nor t' parson. I've seen her letters, them shoo writes and them shoo gets sent her. An' there's a queer thing abaat some o' t' letters at fowks writes to her; they put B.A. at after her name."

"Happen them'll be her Christian names," suggested Stackhouse. "There's a mak o' fowks nowadays that gets more nor one name when they're kessened."

"Nay," replied Throup, "her name's Mary, and what fowks puts on t' envelope is Miss Mary Taylor, B.A."

"Thou's sure it's 'B.A.,' and not 'A.B.,'" said Stackhouse. "I've a nevvy on one o' them big ships, and they tell me he's registered 'A.B.,' meaning able-bodied, so as t' Admirals can tell he hasn't lossen a limb."

"Nay, it's 'B.A.,' and fowks wodn't call a lass like Mary Taylor able-bodied; shoo's no more strength in her nor a kitlin."

"I reckon it's nowt to do wi' her body, isn't 'B.A.,'" interposed the Colonel. "Shoo'll be one o' yon college lasses, an' they tell me they're all foorced to put 'B.A.' at after their names."

"What for?" asked the smith, who was always suspicious of information coming from the Colonel.

"Happen it'll be so as you can tell 'em thro' other fowks. It'll be same as a farmer tar-marks his yowes wi' t' letters o' his name."

"Doesta mean that they tar-mark lasses like sheep?" asked William Throup, his mouth agape with wonder.

"Nay, blether-heead," replied Stackhouse, "they'll be like t' specials, and have t' letters on one o' them armlets. But doesta reckon, Colonel, that B.A. stands for t' name o' t' chap that owns t' college?"

"Nay, they tell me that it stands for Bachelor of Arts, choose-what that means."

The smith had listened to the Colonel's explanation of the mysterious letters with growing scepticism. He had scarcely spoken, but an attentive observer could have divined his state of mind by the short, petulant blows he gave to the glowing horseshoe on the anvil. Now he stopped in his work, rested his arms on his hammer-shaft, and proceeded, after his fashion, to test the Colonel by questions.

"Doesta reckon, Colonel," he began, "that t' schooil-missus is a he-male or a she-male?"

"Her's a she-male, o' course. What maks thee axe that?"

The smith brushed the query aside as though it had been a cinder, and proceeded with his own cross-examination.

"An' doesta think that far-learnt fowks i' colleges can't tell a he-male thro' a she-male as well as thee?"

"An' hasta niver bin i' church, Colonel," the smith continued, unperturbed, "when t' parson has put spurrins up? Why, 'twere nobbut a week last Sunday sin he axed if onybody knew just cause or 'pediment why Tom Pounder sudn't wed Anne Coates."

"I mind it, sure enough," interjected Stackhouse, "and fowks began to girn, for they knew there was ivery cause an' 'pediment why he sud wed her."

"Hod thy din! Besom-Joe, while I ve sattled wi' t' Colonel" said the smith, and he turned once more on his man. "What I want to know is if parson didn't say: 'I publish t' banns o' marriage between Tom Pounder, bachelor, and Anne Coates, spinster, both o' this parish.'"

"Aye, that's reight," said the Colonel, "an' I see what thou's drivin' at. Thou means Mary Taylor ought to be called spinster. Well, for sure, I niver thowt o' that."

"It's not likely thou would; thou's noan what I sud call a thinkin' man. Thy tongue is ower fast for thy mind to keep up wi' it."

"Then what doesta reckon they letters stand for?" asked Besom-Joe.

"There's nowt sae difficult wi' t' letters when you give your mind to 'em," the smith replied. "What I want to know is, if Mary Taylor came here of her own accord, or if her was putten into t' job by other fowks."

"I reckon shoo was appointed by t' Eddication Committee."

The smith's solution of the problem was received with silence, but the silence implied approval. The Colonel, it is true, smarting under a sense of defeat, would have liked to press the argument further; but just then the front door of "The Crooked Billet" was thrown open by the landlord, and the smithy was speedily emptied of its occupants.

CORN-FEVER

"Sithee, lass, oppen t' windey a minute, there's a love."

"What do you want t' windey openin' for, mother? You'll give me my death o' cowd."

"I thowt I heerd t' soond o' t' reaper."

"Sound o' t' reaper! Nay, 'twere nobbut t' tram coomin' down t' road. What makes you think o' reapers? You don't live i' t' country any longer."

"Happen I were wrang, but they'll be cuttin' corn noan sae far away, I reckon."

"What have you got to do wi' corn, I'd like to know? If you wanted to bide i' t' country when father deed, you sud hae said so. I gave you your choice, sure enough. 'Coom an' live wi' me i' Hustler's Court,' I said, 'an' help me wi' t' ready-made work, or else you can find a place for yourself 'i Thirsk Workhouse.'"

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