The Adventures of Tom Leigh (20 page)

“You had better leave the court, Meg,” said Mr. Sykes. “This is too much for you.”

“I prefer to remain, Father,” said Mrs. Firth faintly.

“You were splendid, Tom,” said Harry in my ear, leaning forward from the bench behind us.

“We had better await the verdict before distributing commendations,” said Mr. Sykes.

“Why should we?” objected Harry. “I think Tom was splendid.”

“Harry,” said Sir Henry warningly.

Mr. Sykes flipped his thumbnails in a huff. I felt a warm little hand in mine; it was Grade's. She had too much sense to contradict her grandfather in words, but her eyes spoke her agreement with Harry silently.

At last, in about half an hour, the jury returned, and the judge was once again installed, looking cooler, more elegant and more sardonic than ever. The accused were brought up from below and placed at the bar; Hollas was white as a sheet and trembling, Jeremy was so collapsed in face and form that he was hardly recognisable, the pedlar held himself upright and looked jolly. The suspense was hardly to be borne as the clerk called out the jury's names, each answering “Here” and standing.

“Gentlemen, are you agreed upon your verdict?” said the clerk.

They all said: “Yes.”

“Who shall speak for you?”

“Our foreman,” they said, and they all sat down save one very respectable-looking middle-aged man in a bag wig.

“Jeremy Oldfield,” said the clerk, “hold up your hand.”

Jeremy gazed at him vacantly, and there was an awkward pause, till the pedlar suddenly seized his arm and held it aloft.

“Look upon the prisoner,” chanted the clerk. “How say you? Is Jeremy Oldfield guilty of the felony of which he stands indicted, or not guilty?”

“Guilty,” said the foreman.

“And so say you all?”

“Yes.”

A murmur of satisfaction ran through the court, and the same murmur arose when George Hollas, too, was pronounced guilty. For myself I waited with almost unbearable longing to hear the verdict on the pedlar, for it seemed to me that he was the originator of it all, the killing and robbing of my father, the stealing and selling of the cloth.

“Anthony Dyce, hold up your hand.”

The pedlar shot up his hand, and looked around him smiling as if to receive applause. The court fell very silent.

“Look upon the prisoner. How say you? Is Anthony Dyce guilty of the felony of which he stands indicted, or not guilty?”

“Guilty!” cried the foreman.

There was vehemence in his tone, and the sudden great roar of the spectators showed how cordially they agreed with him. It was some minutes before the clerk and the officers could restore order. For myself, meanwhile, I was so carried away by rejoicing and relief, that I did not take note of the proceedings until suddenly there was a great hush, and in the midst the judge's clear cool voice saying:

“The judgment of the law is this: that you, and each of you, go from hence to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, where you shall be severally hanged by the neck till you be severally and respectively dead: and the Lord have mercy on your souls.”

Then the trial was over. The judge went out, officers took the prisoners below, and everybody seemed to rush upon me, shake my hand, pat my shoulder, shout congratulations in my face, till I was quite pushed about and hot and breathless, and my new necktie torn. But in spite of all the smiling faces about me I was not happy. Jeremy and Hollas were
low, mean, cruel fellows, and the pedlar was a calculating villain; yet that they should die because of my evidence was a trouble to me.

“Must they be hanged, sir?” I gasped out to the serjeant across the hurly-burly.

“Are you in any doubt that they are guilty?” said he with a sharp look.

“No. I saw Jeremy and the pedlar taking the cloth off the tenters.”

“Those who do not wish to be hanged should not commit felonies,” said he. “It is the law.”

With this I tried to be content. And so, all of us from Barseland except myself talking at the top of our voices, we came out of the castle into the cold November air. It was dark, but the torches at the door flared brightly. We all paused a moment to collect ourselves, and Mrs. Firth made Gracie put on her cloak.

“Now, my boy,” said Mr. Sykes to me in a surprisingly affable tone: “If I had not hired your father to come and weave for me, he would not have come to Yorkshire, and might be alive today. Is not that so?”

“That is so, sir,” said I.

“Therefore, I feel a certain responsibility for you,” said he.

This comes a little late, thought I bitterly, but I said nothing.

“So I am quite willing to take you into Clough End as an apprentice,” said Mr. Sykes in his stateliest, most condescending tone.

I was so struck with consternation at the thought that I could only falter pleadingly: “Mr. Firth!” At the same moment Gracie said: “Father!” and Harry cried: “He only wants you because you are famous now!” “Harry,” said Sir Henry warningly.

“Well, Stephen?” said Mr. Sykes. (He managed to sound pompous and overbearing in these two words alone.)

Mr. Firth cleared his throat.

“With all respect, sir,” he said in a firm, plain tone: “That cannot be. Tom is my apprentice, indentured to me for seven years.”

“The indentures could be broken. Meg, you may perhaps change your husband's mind for me,” said Mr. Sykes.

It was a command, though indirectly expressed, and my heart sank low.

“Father,” said Mrs. Firth in a trembling tone: “We cannot part with Tom. He has become like a son to us, and Upper High Royd is his home.”

I stooped and kissed her hand.

Yesterday, it being Saturday, I was in Halifax with Mr. Firth—I always go to market with him nowadays. We had sold our two pieces well in the Cloth Hall—for the Upper High Royd blue had gained some celebrity from the trial—and felt free to stroll around the town and see anything which might be going on. So when we saw something of a crowd at the door of an inn, and folk running in that direction, we, too, walked over.

A coach stood there with its shafts down, and an officer of the law waited impatiently by the door while the ostler brought out a relay of horses. Somebody cried out: “Tom Leigh!” We pushed nearer, and to my surprise there in the coach were the three prisoners, Jeremy, Hollas and the pedlar. It was the pedlar—of course, thought I—that had called me. He was leaning his hands on the window-ledge: his wrists were in chains, but he was smiling.

“Good morning, Tom Leigh,” said he. “I see your arm is whole again.”

“I thought you were dead a week since,” said Mr. Firth bluntly.

“Our sentences were commuted. We were recommended as fit objects for the royal mercy, and His Majesty graciously extended it to us.”

“Upon condition of transportation,” said Hollas, putting out his head.

“Are you to be transported, then?” asked my master.

“Aye, to Maryland in America. We are on our way to Liverpool now to board ship.”

“Your wife, Hollas, is to remain mistress of Barseland poorhouse,” Mr. Firth told him. “And Mr. Gledhill has
arranged with your cousin to send regular supplies of mutton. Why did you ever take to selling stolen goods, you silly fellow?”

Hollas growled, and withdrew his head. Maryland would be the loser by his sullen presence, I thought.

“Why are you not wearing your father's watch, Tom?” minced the pedlar. “I am sure that admirable Sir Henry returned it to you.”

“I leave it safe at home when I come to market for fear of pickpockets,” said I.

“Wise, very wise. Hearkee, Tom,” went on the pedlar quickly, as the fresh horses were backed into the shafts; “I have wished to see thee and tell thee the tale straight. It was I, as thou thought, who called out to thy father, and who took his watch and guineas, but believe me, Tom, I did not mean to kill him.”

“Only to stun and rob him,” said I.

“That is so,” said the pedlar calmly. “I am a scoundrel, Tom, as thou hast well perceived. But an entertaining scoundrel. Is it not so?”

“I do not find scoundrels entertaining,” I said. “They cause too much grief.”

“I pulled thee and thy father out of the beck, both. It was Jeremy who struck you on the head.”

“I give you thanks for that,” I said. “But to speak truth, I do not know which of you I dislike most, though I think it is you.”

“Jeremy,” cried the pedlar with a grin, “come speak to your old friend Tom Leigh.”

There was a clanking of chains, and a heavy rumbling as of an iron ball attached to his ankle, and Jeremy appeared at the window. He looked pale, thin and wretched.

“What cheer, Jeremy!” said Mr. Firth kindly. “Take heart, man! They will need good weavers in Maryland, choose how. Keep away from Dyce here and you may yet do well.”

“Aye, keep away from Dyce,” I said.

“Wish us luck, Tom,” said the pedlar with a look of mischief.

“Well—I wish you luck,” I said.

The driver mounted the box, the law officer climbed in beside his prisoners, and amid the hootings and execrations of the crowd, the coach drove away out of my life.

Phyllis Bentley was born in 1894 in Halifax, West Yorkshire, where she was educated until she attended Cheltenham Ladies College, Gloucestershire.

In 1932 her best-known work,
Inheritance
, was published to widespread critical acclaim and commercial success. This was in contrast to her previous efforts, a collection of short stories entitled
The World's Bane
and several poor-selling novels. The triumph of
Inheritance
made her the most successful English regional novelist since Thomas Hardy, and she produced two more novels to create a trilogy;
The Rise of Henry Morcar and A Man of His Time
. This accomplishment made her a much demanded speaker and she became an expert on the Brontë family.

Over her career Bentley garnered many awards; an honorary DLitt from Leeds University (1949); a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature (1958); awarded an OBE (1970). She died in 1977.

Discover books by Phyllis Bentley published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/PhyllisBentley

A Man of His Time

A Modern Tragedy

Crescendo

Gold Pieces

Inheritance

Love and Money

Noble in Reason

Ring in the New

Sleep in Peace

Tales of the West Riding

Take Courage

The Adventures of Tom Leigh

The Rise of Henry Morcar

For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.

This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

First published in Great Britain 1964 by MacDonald

Copyright © 1964 Phyllis Bentley

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The moral right of the author is asserted.

eISBN: 9781448211111

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