Varley was a scattered village lying at the very edge of the moor. The houses were built just where the valley began to dip down from the uplands, the depression being deep enough to shelter them from the winds which swept across the moor. Some of those which stood lowest were surrounded by a few stumpy fruit trees in the gardens, but the majority stood bleak and bare. From most of the houses the sound of the shuttle told that hand weaving was carried on within, and when the weather was warm women sat at the doors with their spinning wheels. The younger men for the most part worked as croppers in the factories in Marsden.
In good times Varley had been a flourishing village, that is to say its inhabitants had earned good wages; but no one passing through the bare and dreary village would have imagined that it had ever seen good days, for the greater proportion of the earnings had gone in drink, and the Varley men had a bad name even in a country and at a time when heavy drinking was the rule rather than the exception. But whatever good times it may have had they were gone now. Wages had fallen greatly and the prices of food risen enormously, and the wolf was at the door of every cottage. No wonder the men became desperate, and believing that all their sufferings arose from the introduction of the new machinery, had bound themselves to destroy it whatever happened.
A woman of whom he inquired for John Swintons cottage told him that it was the last on the left. Although he told himself that he had nothing to be afraid of, it needed all Neds determination to nerve himself to tap at the door of the low thatched cottage. A young woman opened it.
If you please, Ned said, I have come to see Bill; the doctor said he would see me. It was I who hurt him, but indeed I didnt mean to do it.
A noice bizness yoive made of it atween ee, the woman said, but in a not unkind voice. Whod ha thought as Bill would ha got hurted by such a little un as thou best; but coom in, he will be main glad to see ee, and thy feyther ha been very good in sending up all sorts o things for him. Hes been very nigh agooing whoam, but I believe them things kept un from it.
The cottage contained but two rooms. In a corner of the living room, into which Ned followed the woman, Bill Swinton lay upon a bed which Captain Sankey had sent up. Ned would not have known him again, and could scarce believe that the thin, feeble figure was the sturdy, strong built boy with whom he had struggled on the moor. His eyes filled with tears as he went up to the bedside.
I am so sorry! he said; I have grieved so all the time you have been ill.
Its all roight, young un, the boy said in a low voice, thars no call vor to fret. It warnt thy fault; thou couldnt not tell why oi would not let ee pass, and ye were roight enough to foight rather than to toorn back. I doant blame ee nohow, and thou stoodst up well agin me. Oi doant bear no malice vor a fair foight, not loikely. Thy feyther has been roight good to oi, and the things he sends oi up has done oi a power o good. Oi hoap as how they will let oi eat afore long; oi feels as if oi could hearty, but the doctor he woint let oi.
I hope in a few days he will let you, Ned said, and then I am sure father will send you up some nice things. I have brought you up some of my books for you to look at the pictures.
The boy looked pleased.
Oi shall like that, Bill said; but oi shant know what they be about.
But I will come up every Saturday if you will let me, and tell you the stories all about them.
Willee now? That will be main koinde o ye.
I dont think you are strong enough to listen today, Ned said, seeing how feebly the boy spoke; but I hope by next Saturday you will be much stronger. And now I will say goodby, for the doctor said that I must not talk too long.
So saying Ned left the cottage and made his way back to Marsden in better spirits than he had been for the last three weeks.
From that time Ned went up regularly for some weeks every Saturday to see Bill Swinton, to the great disgust of his schoolfellows, who could not imagine why he refused to join in their walks or games on those days; but he was well repaid by the pleasure which his visits afforded. The days passed very drearily to the sick boy, accustomed as he was to a life spent entirely in the open air, and he looked forward with eager longing to Neds visits.
On the occasion of the second visit he was strong enough to sit up in bed, and Ned was pleased to hear that his voice was heartier and stronger. He listened with delight as Ned read through the books he had brought him from end to end, often stopping him to ask questions as to the many matters beyond his understanding, and the conversations on these points were often so long that the continuance of the reading had to be postponed until the next visit. To Bill everything he heard was wonderful. Hitherto his world had ended at Marsden, and the accounts of voyages and travels in strange lands were full of surprise and interest to him. Especially he loved to talk to Ned of India, where the boy had lived up to the time when his father had received his wound, and Neds account of the appearance and manners of the people there were even more interesting to him than books.
At the end of two months after Neds first visit Bill was able to walk about with a stick, and Ned now discontinued his regular visits; but whenever he had a Saturday on which there was no particular engagement he would go for a chat with Bill, for a strong friendship had now sprung up between the lads.
On Neds side the feeling consisted partly of regret for the pain and injury he had inflicted upon his companion, partly in real liking for the honesty and fearlessness which marked the boys character. On Bills side the feeling was one of intense gratitude for the kindness and attention which Ned had paid him, for his giving up his play hours to his amusement, and the pains which he had taken to lighten the dreary time of his confinement. Added to this there was a deep admiration for the superior knowledge of his friend.
There was nothing, he often said to himself, as oi wouldnt do for that young un.
CHAPTER III: A CROPPER VILLAGE
Bad as were times in Varley, the two public houses, one of which stood at either end of the village, were for the most part well filled of an evening; but this, as the landlords knew to their cost, was the result rather of habit than of thirst. The orders given were few and far between, and the mugs stood empty on the table for a long time before being refilled. In point of numbers the patrons of the Brown Cow and the Spotted Dog were not unequal; but the Dog did a larger trade than its rival, for it was the resort of the younger men, while the Cow was the meeting place of the elders. A man who had neither wife nor child to support could manage even in these hard times to pay for his quart or two of liquor of an evening; but a pint mug was the utmost that those who had other mouths than their own to fill could afford.
Fortunately tobacco, although dear enough if purchased in the towns, cost comparatively little upon the moors, for scarce a week passed but some lugger ran in at night to some little bay among the cliffs on the eastern shore, and for the most part landed her bales and kegs in spite of the vigilance of the coast guard. So there were plenty of places scattered all over the moorland where tobacco could be bought cheap, and where when the right signal was given a noggin of spirits could be had from the keg which was lying concealed in the wood stack or rubbish heap. What drunkenness there was on the moors profited his majestys excise but little.