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

“Bill, I should like to see Polly again. Dost think as she will come and say goodby?”

“Oi am sure as she will,” Bill said steadily. “Shall oi go and fetch her?”

“It's a wild night to ask a gal to come out on such an errand,” Stukeley said doubtfully.

“Polly won't mind that,” Bill replied confidently. “She will just wrap her shawl round her head and come over. Oi will run across and fetch her. Oi will not be gone three minutes.”

In little more than that time Bill returned with Mary Powlett.

“I am awfully sorry to hear you are so bad, John,” the girl said frankly.

“I am dying, Polly; I know that, or I wouldn't have sent for ye. It was a good day for you when you said no to what I asked you.”

“Never mind that now, John; that's all past and gone.”

“Ay, that's all past and gone. I only wanted to say as I wish you well, Polly, and I hope you will be happy, and I am pretty nigh sure of it. Bill here tells me that you set your heart on having young Sankey cleared of that business as was against him. Is that so?”

“That is so, John; he has been very kind to us all, to feyther and all of us. He is a good master to his men, and has kept many a mouth full this winter as would have been short of food without him; but why do you ask me?”

“Just a fancy of mine, gal, such a fancy as comes into the head of a man at the last. When you get back send Luke here. It is late and maybe he has gone to bed, but tell him I must speak to him. And now, goodby, Polly. God bless you! I don't know as I hasn't been wrong about all this business, but it didn't seem so to me afore. Just try and think that, will you, when you hear about it. I thought as I was a-acting for the good of the men.”

“I will always remember that,” Polly said gently.

Then she took the thin hand of the man in hers, glanced at Bill as if she would ask his approval, and reading acquiescence in his eyes she stooped over the bed and kissed Stukeley's forehead. Then without a word she left the cottage and hurried away through the darkness.

A few minutes later Luke Marner came in, and to Bill's surprise Stukeley asked him to leave the room. In five minutes Luke came out again.

“Go in to him, Bill,” he said hoarsely. “Oi think he be a-sinking. For God's sake keep him up. Give him that wine and broath stuff as thou canst. Keep him going till oi coom back again; thou doan't know what depends on it.”

Hurrying back to his cottage Luke threw on a thick coat, and to the astonishment of Polly announced that he was going down into Marsden.

“What! on such a night as this, feyther?”

“Ay, lass, and would if it were ten toimes wurse. Get ye into thy room, and go down on thy knees, and pray God to keep John Stukeley alive and clear headed till oi coomes back again.”

It was many years since Luke Marner's legs had carried him so fast as they now did into Marsden. The driving rain and hail which beat against him seemed unheeded as he ran down the hill at the top of his speed. He stopped at the doctor's and went in. Two or three minutes after the arrival of this late visitor Dr. Green's housekeeper was astonished at hearing the bell ring violently. On answering the bell she was ordered to arouse John, who had already gone to bed, and to tell him to put the horse into the gig instantly.

“Not on such a night as this, doctor! sureley you are not a-going out on such a night as this!”

“Hold your tongue, woman, and do as you are told instantly,” the doctor said with far greater spirit than usual, for his housekeeper was, as a general thing, mistress of the establishment.

With an air of greatly offended dignity she retired to carry out his orders. Three minutes later the doctor ran out of his room as he heard the man servant descending the stairs.

“John,” he said, “I am going on at once to Mr. Thompson's; bring the gig round there. I shan't want you to go further with me. Hurry up, man, and don't lose a moment—it is a matter of life and death.”

A quarter of an hour later Dr. Green, with Mr. Thompson by his side, drove off through the tempest toward Varley.

The next morning, as Ned was at breakfast, the doctor was announced.

“What a pestilently early hour you breakfast at, Ned! I was not in bed till three o'clock, and I scarcely seemed to have been asleep an hour when I was obliged to get up to be in time to catch you before you were off.”

“That is hard on you indeed, doctor,” Ned said, smiling; “but why this haste? Have you got some patient for whom you want my help? You need not have got up so early for that, you know. You could have ordered anything you wanted for him in my name. You might have been sure I should have honored the bill. But what made you so late last night? You were surely never out in such a gale!”

“I was, Ned, and strange as it seems I never went in answer to a call which gave me so much satisfaction. My dear lad, I hardly know how to tell you. I have a piece of news for you; the greatest, the best news that man could have to tell you.”

Ned drew a long breath and the color left his cheeks.

“You don't mean, doctor, you can't mean”—and he paused.

“That you are cleared, my boy. Yes; that is my news. Thank God, Ned, your innocence is proved.”

Ned could not speak. For a minute he sat silent and motionless. Then he bent forward and covered his face with his hands, and his lips moved as he murmured a deep thanksgiving to God for this mercy, while Lucy and Charlie, with cries of surprise and delight, leaped from the table, and when Ned rose to his feet, threw their arms round his neck with enthusiastic delight; while the doctor wrung his hand, and then, taking out his pocket handkerchief, wiped his eyes, violently declaring, as he did so, that he was an old fool.

“Tell me all about it, doctor. How has it happened? What has brought it about?”

“Luke Marner came down to me at ten o'clock last night to tell me that John Stukeley was dying, which I knew very well, for when I saw him in the afternoon I saw he was sinking fast; but he told me, too, that the man was anxious to sign a declaration before a magistrate to the effect that it was he who killed your stepfather. I had my gig got out and hurried away to Thompson's. The old fellow was rather crusty at being called