Through the Fray: A Tale of the Luddite Riots by G. A. Henty (best novels to read for beginners .TXT) 📗

hard he looked as the postchaise drove through the streets of Marsden. People glanced at it curiously, and as they saw Ned sitting by the side of the men who were known as his champions they hurried away to spread the news that young Sankey had been acquitted.

The hard look died out of Ned's face as the door opened, and Lucy sprang out and threw her arms round his neck and cried with delight at seeing him; and Abijah, crying too, greeted him inside with a motherly welcome. A feeling of relief came across his mind as he entered the sitting room. Dr. Green, who was one of the trustees in the marriage settlement, had, in the inability of Mrs. Mulready to give any orders, taken upon himself to dispose of much of the furniture, and to replace it with some of an entirely different fashion and appearance. The parlor was snug and cosy; a bright fire blazed on the hearth; a comfortable armchair stood beside it; the room looked warm and homely. Ned's two friends had followed him in, and tears stood in both their eyes.

“Welcome back, dear boy!” Mr. Porson said, grasping his hand. “God grant that better times are in store for you, and that you may outlive this trial which has at present darkened your life. Now we will leave you to your brother and sister. I am sure you will be glad to be alone with them.”

And so Ned took to the life he had marked out for himself. In two months he seemed to have aged years. The careless look of boyhood had altogether disappeared from his face. Except from his two friends he rejected all sympathy. When he walked through the streets of Marsden it was with a cold, stony face, as if he were wholly unaware of the existence of passersby. The thought that as he went along men drew aside to let him pass and whispered after he had gone, “That is the fellow who murdered his stepfather, but escaped because they could not bring it home to him,” was ever in his mind. His friends in vain argued with him against his thus shutting himself off from the world. They assured him that there were very many who, like themselves, were perfectly convinced of his innocence, and who would rally round him and support him if he would give them the least encouragement, but Ned shook his head.

“I dare say what you say is true,” he would reply; “but I could not do it—I must go on alone. It is as much as I can bear now.”

And his friends saw that it was useless to urge him further.

On the day after his return to Marsden Luke Marner and Bill Swinton came back on the coach from York, and after it was dark Ned walked up to Varley and knocked at Bill's door.

On hearing who it was Bill threw on his cap and came out to him. For a minute the lads stood with their hands clasped firmly in each other's without a word being spoken.

“Thank God, Maister Ned,” Bill said at last, “we ha' got thee again!”

“Thank God too!” Ned said; “though I think I would rather that it had gone the other way.”

They walked along for some time without speaking again, and then Ned said suddenly:

“Now, Bill, who is the real murderer?”

Bill stopped his walk in astonishment.

“The real murderer!” he repeated; “how ever should oi know, Maister Ned?”

“I know that you know, Bill. It was you who wrote that letter to Mr. Wakefield saying that the man who did it would be at the trial, and that if I were found guilty he would give himself up. It's no use your denying it, for I knew your handwriting at once.”

Bill was silent for some time, It had never occurred to him that this letter would be brought home to him.

“Come, Bill, you must tell me,” Ned said. “Do not be afraid. I promise you that I will not use it against him. Mind, if I can bring it home to him in any other way I shall do so; but I promise you that no word shall ever pass my lips about the letter. I want to know who is the man of whose crime the world believes me guilty. The secret shall, as far as he is concerned, be just as much a secret as it was before.”

“But oi dunno who is the man, Maister Ned. If oi did oi would ha' gone into the court and said so, even though oi had been sure they would ha' killed me for peaching when oi came back. Oi dunno no more than a child.”

“Then you only wrote that letter to throw them on to a false scent, Bill? Who put you up to that, for I am sure it would never have occurred to you?”

“No,” Bill said slowly, “oi should never ha' thought of it myself; Luke told oi what to wroit, and I wroited it.”

“Oh, it was Luke! was it?” Ned said sharply. “Then the man who did it must have told him.”

“Oi didn't mean to let out as it waar Luke,” Bill said in confusion; “and oi promised him solemn to say nowt about it.”

“Well,” Ned said, turning sharp round and starting on his way back to the village, “I must see Luke himself.”

Bill in great perplexity followed Ned, muttering: “Oh, Lor'! what ull Luke say to oi? What a fellow oi be to talk, to be sure!”

Nothing further was said until they reached Luke's cottage. Ned knocked and entered at once, followed sheepishly by Bill.

“Maister Ned, oi be main glad to see thee,” Luke said as he rose from his place by the fire; while Polly with a little cry, “Welcome!” dropped her work.

“Thanks, Luke—thanks for coming over to York to give evidence. How are you, Polly? There! don't cry—I ain't worth crying over. At any rate, it is a satisfaction to be with three people who don't regard me as a murderer. Now, Polly, I want you to go into the other room, for I have a question which I must ask Luke, and I don't want even you to hear the answer.”

Polly gathered her work together and went out. Then Ned went over to Luke, who was looking at him with surprise, and laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Luke,” he said, “I want you to tell me exactly how it was that you came to tell Bill to write that letter to Mr. Wakefield?”

Luke started and then looked savagely over at Bill, who stood twirling his cap in his hand.

“Oi couldn't help it, Luke,” he said humbly. “Oi didn't mean vor to say it, but he got it out of me somehow. He knowed my fist on the paper, and, says he, sudden loike, 'Who war the man as murdered Foxey?' What was oi vor to say? He says at once as he knowed the idea of writing that letter would never ha' coom into my head; and so the long and short of it be, as your name slipped owt somehow, and there you be.”

“Now, Luke,” Ned said soothingly, “I want