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Updated: June 15, 2025
There are worse hangmen than ever stood on the gallows." "Ay, but he's shappin' to hang hissel'," muttered Matthew Branthwaite. And there was some inaudible muttering among the others. "I know what you mean," Ralph continued. "That the guilty man whom the law cannot touch is rightly brought under the ban of his fellows. Yes, it is Heaven's justice."
"None," answered Ralph. "Let me carry him in." When the door of the inn had closed behind Ralph as he went out with Rotha, old Matthew Branthwaite, who had recovered his composure after Monsey's song, and who had sat for a moment with his elbow on his knee, his pipe in his hand and his mouth still open, from which the shaft had just been drawn, gave a knowing twitch to his wrinkled face as he said,
There were Thomas Fell and Adam Rutledge, Job Leathes and Luke Cockrigg, John Jackson of Armboth, and little Reuben Thwaite. His reverence cut up the ham into slices as formal as his creed, while old Matthew poured out the contents of two huge black jacks. Robbie Anderson carried the plates to and fro; Mrs. Branthwaite and Liza served out the barley and oaten bread.
According to ancient custom, the "maister men" of the dale were to assemble at nine o'clock on the morning following the winding, and it was to meet their needs that old Mrs. Branthwaite and her daughter had walked over to assist Rotha. The long oak table had to be removed from the wall before the window, and made to stand down the middle of the floor.
"Why, theer's Liza," said Matthew, turning his head into the house to speak to his wife, who sat within; "flying ower the road like a mad greyhound." Mrs. Branthwaite had been peeling apples towards the family's one great dinner in the week. Putting down the bowl which contained them, she stepped to the door and looked after her daughter's vanishing figure. "Sure enough, it is," she said.
Many came on foot, and of these by much the larger part meant to accompany the cortège only to the top of the Armboth Fell, and, having "sett" it so far, to face no more of the more than twenty miles of rough country that lay between the valley and the churchyard on the plains by the sea. Matthew Branthwaite was among the first to arrive.
Ralph is among the mountains yet, take my word for it, father." "It's bad weather to trapes the fells, Rotha. The ground is all slush and sladderment." "So it is, so it is; and you're grown weak, father. I'll go myself. Liza Branthwaite will come here and fill my place." "No, no, I'll go; yes, that I will," said Sim. Rotha's ardor of soul had conquered her father's apprehension of failure.
She had assisted the young couple, in their later days, with purse and kind offices; had been present at the birth of the infant the death of the mother; and had promised Arthur Branthwaite that she would take care of his child, until she could safely convey it to his wife's relations, while he wept to own that they, poor as himself, must regard such a charge as a burthen.
When the nosegay was yielded up to the lover on his knees, it was found to be about three times as big as Juliet's head. The play came to an abrupt conclusion; the spinning-wheels were pushed aside, a fiddle was brought out, and then followed a dance. "Iverything has a stopping spot but time," said Mattha Branthwaite, coming in, his hat and cloak on. The night was spent. The party must break up.
Robbie Anderson, who has just escaped from a rebellious gang of lads who have been climbing on his shoulders and clinging to his legs, is trying to persuade Liza Branthwaite that there is something curious and wonderful lying hidden within this flowery ambush. "It's terrible nice," he says, rather indefinitely. "Come, lass, come and see." Liza refuses plump.
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