We must pass over the painful and dreadful particulars of that night, and of a long time to come; the maniacal rage of the father, the shattered heart and feelings of the mother, the dreadful state of the two remaining children, to whom their brother was one of the most precious objects in a world which, like theirs, contained so few. One moment to have seen him full of life, and fun, and bravado, and almost the next a lifeless and battered corpse, was something too strange and terrible to be soon surmounted. But this was wofully aggravated by the cruel anger of their father, who continued to regard them as guilty of the death of his favorite boy. He seemed to take no pleasure in them. He never spoke to them but to scold them. He drank more deeply than ever, and came home later; and when there was sullen and morose. When their mother, who suffered severely, but still plodded on with all her duties, said, “David, they are thy children too;” he would reply savagely, “Hod thy tongue! What’s a pack o’ wenches to my lad?”

What tended to render the miner more hard towards the two girls was a circumstance which would have awakened a better feeling in a softer father’s heart. Nancy, the younger girl, since the dreadful catastrophe, had seemed to grow gradually dull and defective in her intellect, she had a slow and somewhat idiotic air and manner. Her mother perceived it, and was struck with consternation by it. She tried to rouse her, but in vain. She could not perform her ordinary reading and spelling lessons. She seemed to have forgotten what was already learned. She appeared to have a difficulty in moving her legs, and carried her hands as if she had suffered a partial paralysis. Jane, her sister, was dreadfully distressed at it, and she and her mother wept many bitter tears over her. One day, in the following spring, they took her with them to Ashford, and consulted the doctor there. On examining her, and hearing fully what had taken place at the time of the brother’s death – the fact of which he well knew, for it, of course, was known to the whole country round – he shook his head, and said he was afraid they must make up their minds to a sad case; that the terrors of that night had affected her brain, and that, through it, the whole nervous system had suffered, and was continuing to suffer the most melancholy effects. The only thing, he thought, in her favor, was her youth; and added, that it might have a good effect if they could leave the place where she had undergone such a terrible shock. But whether they did or not, kindness and soothing attentions to her would do more than anything else.

Mrs. Dunster and little Jane returned home with heavy hearts. The doctor’s opinion had only confirmed their fears; for Jane, though but a child, had quickness and affection for her sister enough to make her comprehend the awful nature of poor Nancy’s condition. Mrs. Dunster had told her husband the doctor’s words, for she thought they would awaken some tenderness in him towards the unfortunate child. But he said, “That’s just what I expected. Hou’ll grow soft, and then who’s to maintain her? Hou mun goo to th’ workhouse.”

With that he took his maundrel and went off to his work. Instead of softening his nature, this intelligence seemed only to harden and brutalize it. He drank now more and more. But all that summer the mother and Jane did all they could think of to restore the health and mind of poor Nancy. Every morning, when the father was gone to work, Jane went to a spring up in the opposite wood, famed for the coolness and sweetness of its waters. On this account the proprietors of the mills at Cressbrook had put down a large trough there under the spreading trees, and the people fetched the water even from the village. Hence Jane brought, at many journeys, this cold, delicious water to bathe her sister in; they then rubbed her warm with cloths, and gave her new milk for her breakfast. Her lessons were not left off, lest the mind should sink into fatuity, but were made as easy as possible. Jane continued to talk to her, and laugh with her, as if nothing was amiss, though she did it with a heavy heart, and she engaged her to weed and hoe with her in their little garden. She did not dare to lead her far out into the valley, lest it might excite her memory of the past fearful time, but she gathered her flowers, and continued to play with her at all their accustomed sports, of building houses with pieces of pots and stones, and imagining gardens and parks. The anxious mother, when some weeks were gone by, fancied that there was really some improvement. The cold-bathing seemed to have strengthened the system: the poor child walked, and bore herself with more freedom and firmness. She became ardently fond of being with her sister, and attentive to her directions. But there was a dull cloud over her intellect, and a vacancy in her eyes and features. She was quiet, easily pleased, but seemed to have little volition of her own. Mrs. Dunster thought if they could but get her away from that spot, it might rouse her mind from its sleep. But perhaps the sleep was better than the awakening might be; however, the removal came, though in a more awful way than was looked for. The miner, who had continued to drink more and more, and seemed to have almost estranged himself from his home, staying away in his drinking bouts for a week or more together, was one day blasting a rock in the mine, and being half-stupefied with beer, did not take care to get out of the way of the explosion, was struck with a piece of the flying stone, and killed on the spot.

The poor widow and her children were now obliged to remove from under Wardlow-Cop. The place had been a sad one to her; the death of her husband, though he had been latterly far from a good one, and had left her with the children in deep poverty, was a fresh source of severe grief to her. Her religious mind was struck down with a weight of melancholy by the reflection of the life he had led, and the sudden way in which he had been summoned into eternity. When she looked forward, what a prospect was there for her children! it was impossible for her to maintain them from her small earnings, and as to Nancy, would she ever be able to earn her own bread, and protect herself in the world?

It was amid such reflections that Mrs. Dunster quitted this deep, solitary, and, to her, fatal valley, and took up her abode in the village of Cressbrook. Here she had one small room, and by her own labors, and some aid from the parish, she managed to support herself and the children. For seven years she continued her laborious life, assisted by the labor of the two daughters, who also seamed stockings, and in the evenings were instructed by her. Her girls were now thirteen and fifteen years of age; Jane was a tall and very pretty girl of her years; she was active, industrious, and sweet-tempered: her constant affection for poor Nancy was something as admirable as it was singular. Nancy had now confirmed good health, but it had affected her mother to perceive that, since the catastrophe of her brother’s death, and the cruel treatment of her father at that time, she had never grown in any degree as she ought; she was short, stout, and of a pale and very plain countenance. It could not be now said that she was deficient in mind, but she was slow in its operations. She displayed, indeed, a more than ordinary depth of reflection, and a shrewdness of observation, but the evidences of this came forth in a very quiet way, and were observable only to her mother and sister. To all besides she was extremely reserved: she was timid to excess, and shrunk from public notice into the society of her mother and sister. There was a feeling abroad in the neighborhood that she was “not quite right,” but the few who were more discerning, shook their heads, and observed, “Right she was not, poor thing, but it was not want of sense; she had more of that than most.”

And such was the opinion of her mother and sister. They perceived that Nancy had received a shock of which she must bear the effects through life. Circumstances might bring her feeble but sensitive nerves much misery. She required to be guarded and sheltered from the rudeness of the world, and the mother trembled to think how much she might be exposed to them. But in everything that related to sound judgment, they knew that she surpassed not only them, but any of their acquaintance. If any difficulty had to be decided, it was Nancy who pondered on it, and perhaps at some moment when least expected, pronounced an opinion that might be taken as confidently as an oracle.

The affection of the two sisters was something beyond the ties of this world. Jane had watched and attended to her from the time of her constitutional injury with a love that never seemed to know a moment’s weariness or change; and the affection which Nancy evinced for her was equally intense and affecting. She seemed to hang on her society for her very life. Jane felt this, and vowed that they would never quit one another. The mother sighed. How many things, she thought, might tear asunder that beautiful resolve.

But now they were of an age to obtain work in the mill. Indeed, Jane could have had employment there long before, but she would not quit her sister till she could go with her, – and now there they went. The proprietor, who knew the case familiarly, so ordered it that the two sisters should work near each other; and that poor Nancy should be as little exposed to the rudeness of the work-people as possible. But at first so slow and awkward were Nancy’s endeavors, and such an effect had it on her frame, that it was feared she must give it up. This would have been a terrible calamity; and the tears of the two sisters, and the benevolence of the employer, enabled Nancy to pass through this severe ordeal. In a while she acquired sufficient dexterity, and thenceforward went through her work with great accuracy and perseverance. As far as any intercourse with the work-people was concerned, she might be said to be dumb. Scarcely ever did she exchange a word with any one, but she returned kind nods and smiles; and every morning and evening, and at dinner-time, the two sisters might be seen going to and fro, side by side, – Jane often talking with some of them; the little, odd-looking sister walking silent and listening.

Five more years and Jane was a young woman. Amid her companions, who were few of them above the middle size, she had a tall and striking appearance. Her father had been a remarkably tall and strong man, and she possessed something of his stature, though none of his irritable disposition. She was extremely pretty, of a blooming fresh complexion, and graceful form. She was remarkable for the sweetness of her expression, which was the index of her disposition. By her side still went that odd, broad-built, but still pale and little sister. Jane was extremely admired by the young men of the neighborhood, and had already many offers, but she listened to none. “Where I go must Nancy go,” she said to herself, “and of whom can I be sure?”

Of Nancy no one took notice. Her pale, somewhat large features, her thoughtful silent look, and her short, stout figure, gave you an idea of a dwarf, though she could not strictly be called one. No one would think of Nancy as a wife, – where Jane went she must go; the two clung together with one heart and soul. The blow which deprived them of their brother seemed to bind them inseparably together.

Mrs. Dunster, besides her seaming, at which, in truth, she earned a miserable sum, had now for some years been the post-woman from the village to the Bull’s Head, where the mail, going on to Tideswell, left the letter-bag. Thither and back, wet or dry, summer or winter, she went every day, the year round. With her earnings and those of the girls’, she kept a neat, small cottage; and the world went as well with them as the world goes on the average with the poor. Cramps and rheumatisms she began to feel sensibly from so much exposure to rain and cold; but the never-varying and firm affection of her two children was a balm in her cup, which made her contented with everything else.

When Jane was about two-and-twenty, poor Mrs. Dunster, seized with rheumatic fever, died. On her death-bed she said to Jane, “Thou wilt never desert poor Nancy; and that’s my comfort. God has been good to me. After all my trouble, he has given me this faith, that come weal come woe, so long as thou has a home, Nancy will never want one. God bless thee for it! God bless you both; and he will bless you!” So saying, Betty Dunster breathed her last.

The events immediately following her death did not seem to bear out her dying faith; for the two poor girls were obliged to give up their cottage. There was a want of cottages. Not half of the working people could be entertained in this village; they went to and fro for many miles. Jane and Nancy were now obliged to do the same. Their cottage was wanted for an overlooker, – and they removed to Tideswell, three miles off. They had thus six miles a day to walk, besides standing at their work; but they were young, and had companions. In Tideswell they were more cheerful. They had a snug little cottage; were near a Meeting; and found friends. They did not complain. Here, again, Jane Dunster attracted great attention, and a young, thriving grocer paid his addresses to her. It was an offer that made Jane take time to reflect. Every one said it was an opportunity not to be neglected; but Jane weighed in her mind, “Will he keep faith in my compact with Nancy?” Though her admirer made every vow on the subject, Jane paused and determined to take the opinion of Nancy. Nancy thought for a day, and then said, “Dearest sister, I don’t feel easy; I fear that from some cause it would not do in the end.”

Jane from that moment gave up the idea of the connection. There might be those who would suspect Nancy of a selfish bias in the advice she gave; but Jane knew that no such feeling influenced her pure soul. For one long year the two sisters traversed the hills between Cressbrook and Tideswell. But they had companions, and it was pleasant in the summer months. But winter came, and then it was a severe trial. To rise in the dark, and traverse those wild and bleak hills; to go through snow and drizzle, and face the sharpest winds in winter, was no trifling matter. Before winter was over, the two young women began seriously to revolve the chances of a nearer residence, or a change of employ. There were no few who blamed Jane excessively for the folly of refusing the last good offer. There were even more than one who, in the hearing of Nancy, blamed her. Nancy was thoughtful, agitated, and wept. “If I can, dear sister,” she said, “have advised you to your injury, how shall I forgive myself? What shall become of me?”

But Jane clasped her sister to her heart, and said, “No! no! dearest sister, you are not to blame. I feel you are right; let us wait, and we shall see!”

III. – THE COURTSHIP AND ANOTHER SHIP

One evening, as the two sisters were hastening along the road through the woods on their way homewards, a young farmer drove up in his spring-cart, cast a look at them, stopped, and said: “Young women, if you are going my way, I shall be glad of your company. You are quite welcome to ride.”

The sisters looked at each other. “Dunna be afreed,” said the young farmer; “my name’s James Cheshire. I’m well known in these parts; you may trust yersens wi’ me, if it’s agreeable.”

To James’ surprise, Nancy said, “No, sir, we are not afraid; we are much obliged to you.”

The young farmer helped them up into the cart, and away they drove.

“I’m afraid we shall crowd you,” said Jane.

“Not a bit of it,” replied the young farmer. “There’s room for three bigger nor us in this seat, and I’m no ways tedious.”

The sisters saw nothing odd in his use of the word “tedious,” as strangers would have done; they knew it merely meant “not at all particular.” They were soon in active talk. As he had told them who he was, he asked them in their turn if they worked at the mills there. They replied in the affirmative, and the young man said: —

“I thought so. I’ve seen you sometimes going along together. I noticed you because you seemed so sisterly like, and you are sisters, I reckon.”

They said “Yes.”

“I’ve a good spanking horse, you see,” said James Cheshire. “I shall get over th’ ground rayther faster than you done a-foot, eh? My word, though, it must be nation cold on these bleak hills i’ winter.”

The sisters assented, and thanked the young farmer for taking them up.

“We are rather late,” said they, “for we looked in on a friend, and the rest of the mill-hands were gone on.”

“Well,” said the young farmer, “never mind that. I fancy Bess, my mare here, can go a little faster nor they can. We shall very likely be at Tidser as soon as they are.”

“But you are not going to Tidser,” said Jane, “your farm is just before us there.”

“Yay, I’m going to Tidser though. I’ve a bit of business to do there before I go hom.”

On drove the farmer at what he called a spanking rate; presently they saw the young mill-people on the road before them.

“There are your companions,” said James Cheshire, “we shall cut past them like a flash of lightning.

“Oh,” exclaimed Jane Dunster, “what will they say at seeing us riding here?” and she blushed brightly.

“Say!” said the young farmer, smiling, “never mind what they’ll say; depend upon it, they’d like to be here theirsens.”

James Cheshire cracked his whip. The horse flew along. The party of the young mill-hands turned round, and on seeing Jane and Nancy in the cart, uttered exclamations of surprise.

“My word, though!” said Mary Smedley, a fresh buxom lass, somewhat inclined to stoutness.

“Well, if ever!” cried smart little Hannah Bowyer.

“Nay, then, what next!” said Tetty Wilson, a tall, thin girl, of very good looks.

The two sisters nodded and smiled to their companions; Jane still blushing rosily, but Nancy sitting as pale and as gravely as if they were going on some solemn business.

The only notice the farmer took was to turn with a broad smiling face, and shout to them, “Wouldn’t you like to be here too?”

“Ay, take us up,” shouted a number of voices together; but the farmer cracked his whip, and giving them a nod and a dozen smiles in one, said, “I can’t stay. Ask the next farmer that comes up.”

With this they drove on; the young farmer very merry and full of talk. They were soon by the side of his farm. “There’s a flock of sheep on the turnips there,” he said, proudly; “they’re not to be beaten on this side Ashbourne. And there are some black oxen going for the night to the straw-yard. Jolly fellows, those – eh? But I reckon you don’t understand much of farming stock?”

“No,” said Jane, and was again surprised at Nancy adding, “I wish we did. I think a farmer’s life must be the very happiest of any.”

“You think so?” said the farmer, turning and looking at her earnestly, and evidently with some wonder. “You are right,” said he. “You little ones are knowing ones. You are right; it’s the life for a king.”

They were at the village. “Pray stop,” said Jane, “and let us go down. I would not for the world go up the village thus. It would make such a talk!”

“Talk, who cares for talk?” said the farmer; “won’t the youngsters we left on the road talk?”

“Quite enough,” said Jane.

“And are you afraid of talk?” said the farmer to Nancy.

“I’m not afraid of it when I don’t provoke it wilfully,” said Nancy; “but we are poor girls, and can’t afford to lose even the good word of our acquaintance. You’ve been very kind in taking us up on the road, but to drive us to our door would cause such wonder as would perhaps make us wish we had not been obliged to you.”

“Blame me, if you arn’t right again!” said the young farmer, thoughtfully. “These are scandal-loving times, and th’ neebors might plague you. That’s a deep head of yourn, though, – Nancy, I think your sister caw’d you. Well, here I stop then.”

He jumped down and helped them out.

“If you will drive on first,” said Jane, “we will walk on after, and we’re greatly obliged to you.”

“Nay,” said the young man, “I shall turn again here.”

“But you’ve business.”

“Oh! my business was to drive you here – that’s all.”

James Cheshere was mounting his cart, when Nancy stepped up, and said: “Excuse me, Sir, but you’ll meet the mill-people on your return, and it will make them talk all the more as you have driven us past your farm. Have you no business that you can do in Tidser, Sir?”

“Gad! but thou’rt right again! Ay, I’ll go on!” and with a crack of his whip, and a “Good night!” he whirled into the village before them.

No sooner was he gone than Nancy, pressing her sister’s arm to her side, said: “There’s the right man at last, dear Jane.”

“What!” said Jane, yet blushing deeply at the same time, and her heart beating quicker against her side. “Whatever are you talking of, Nancy? That young farmer fall in love with a mill-girl?”

“He’s done it,” said Nancy; “I see it in him. I feel it in him. And I feel, too, that he is true and staunch as steel.”

Jane was silent. They walked on in silence. Jane’s own heart responded to what Nancy had said; she thought again and again on what he said. “I have seen you sometimes;” “I noticed you because you seemed so sisterly.” “He must have a good heart,” thought Jane; “but then he can never think of a poor mill-girl like me.”

The next morning they had to undergo plenty of raillery from their companions. We will pass that over. For several days, as they passed to and fro, they saw nothing of the young farmer. But one evening, as they were again alone, having staid at the same acquaintance’s as before, the young farmer popped his head over a stone wall, and said, “Good evening to you, young women,” He was soon over the wall, and walked on with them to the end of the town. On the Sunday at the chapel Jane saw Nancy’s grave face fixed on some object steadily, and, looking in the same direction, was startled to see James Cheshire. Again her heart beat pit-a-pat, and she thought “Can he really be thinking of me?”

The moment chapel was over, James Cheshire was gone, stopping to speak to no one. Nancy again pressed the arm of Jane to her side as they walked home, and said – “I was not wrong.” Jane only replied by returning her affectionate pressure.

Some days after, as Nancy Dunster was coming out of a shop in the evening after their return home from the mill, James Cheshire suddenly put his hand on her shoulder, and, on her turning, shook her hand cordially, and said, “Come along with me a bit. I must have a little talk with you.”

Nancy consented without remark or hesitation. James Cheshire walked on quickly till they came near the fine old church which strikes travellers as so superior to the place in which it is located; when he slackened his pace, and taking Nancy’s hand, began in a most friendly manner to tell her how much he liked her and her sister. That, to make a short matter of it, as was his way, he had made up his mind that the woman of all others in the world that would suit him for a wife was her sister. “But, before I said so to her, I thought I would say so to you, Nancy, for you are so sensible, I’m sure you will say what is best for us all.”

Nancy manifested no surprise, but said, calmly: “You are a well-to-do farmer, Mr. Cheshire. You have friends of property; my sister, and – ”

“Ay, and a mill-girl; I know all that. I’ve thought it all over, and so far you are right again, my little one. But just hear what I’ve got to say. I’m no fool, though I say it. I’ve an eye in my head and a head on my shoulders, eh?”

Nancy smiled.

“Well now, it’s not any mill-girl; mind you, it’s not any mill-girl; no, nor perhaps another in the kingdom, that would do for me. I don’t think mill-girls are in the main cut out for farmers’ wives, any more than farmers’ wives are fit for mill-girls; but you see, I’ve got a notion that your sister is not only a very farrantly lass, but that she’s one that has particular good sense, though not so deep as you, Nancy, neither. Well, I’ve a notion she can turn her hand to anything, and that she’s a heart to do it, when it’s a duty. Isn’t that so, eh? And if it is so, then Jane Dunster’s the lass for me; that is, if it’s quite agreeable.”

Nancy pressed James Cheshire’s hand, and said, “You are very kind.”

“Not a bit of it,” said James.

“Well,” continued Nancy; “but I would have you to consider what your friends will say; and whether you will not be made unhappy by them.”

“Why, as to that,” said James Cheshire, interrupting her, “mark me, Miss Dunster. I don’t ask my friends for anything. I can farm my own farm; buy my own cattle; drive my spring-cart, without any advice or assistance of theirs; and therefore I don’t think I shall ask their advice in the matter of a wife, eh? No, no, on that score I’m made up. My name’s Independent, and, at a word, the only living thing I mean to ask advice of is yourself. If you, Miss Dunster, approve of the match, it’s settled, as far I’m concerned.”

“Then so far,” said Nancy, “as you and my sister are concerned, without reference to worldly circumstances – I approve it with all my heart. I believe you to be as good and honest as I know my sister to be. Oh! Mr. Cheshire! she is one of ten thousand.”

“Well, I was sure of it;” said the young farmer; “and so now you must tell your sister all about it; and if all’s right, chalk me a white chalk inside of my gate as you go past i’ th’ morning, and to-morrow evening I’ll come up and see you.”

Here the two parted with a cordial shake of the hand. The novel signal of an accepted love was duly discovered by James Cheshire on his gate-post, when he issued forth at daybreak, and that evening he was sitting at tea with Jane and Nancy in the little cottage, having brought in his cart a basket of eggs, apples, fresh butter, and a pile of the richest pikelets (crumpets), country pikelets, very different to town-made ones, for tea.

We need not follow out the courtship of James Cheshire and Jane Dunster. It was cordial and happy. James insisted that both the sisters should give immediate notice to quit the mill-work, to spare themselves the cold and severe walks which the winter now occasioned them. The sisters had improved their education in their evenings. They were far better read and informed than most farmers’ daughters. They had been, since they came to Tideswell, teachers in the Sunday-school. There was comparatively little to be learned in a farm-house for the wife in winter, and James Cheshire therefore proposed to the sisters to go for three months to Manchester into a wholesale house, to learn as much as they could of the plain sewing and cutting out of household linen. The person in question made up all sorts of household linen, sheets, pillow-cases, shirts, and other things; in fact, a great variety of articles. Through an old acquaintance he got them introduced there, avowedly to prepare them for house-keeping. It was a sensible step, and answered well. At spring, to cut short opposition from his own relatives, which began to show itself, for these things did not fail to be talked of, James Cheshire got a license, and proceeding to Manchester, was then and there married, and came home with his wife and sister.

The talk and gossip which this wedding made all round the country, was no little; but the parties themselves were well satisfied with their mutual choice, and were happy. As the spring advanced, the duties of the household grew upon Mrs. Cheshire. She had to learn the art of cheese-making, butter-making, of all that relates to poultry, calves, and household management. But in these matters she had the aid of an old servant who had done all this for Mr. Cheshire, since he began farming. She took a great liking to her mistress, and showed her with hearty good-will how everything was done; and as Jane took a deep interest in it, she rapidly made herself mistress of the management of the house, as well as of the house itself. She did not disdain, herself, to take a hand at the churn, that she might be familiar with the whole process of butter-making, and all the signs by which the process is conducted to a successful issue. It was soon seen that no farmer’s wife could produce a firmer, fresher, sweeter pound of butter. It was neither swelted by too hasty churning, nor spoiled, as is too often the case, by the buttermilk or by water being left in it, for want of well kneading and pressing. It was deliciously sweet, because the cream was carefully put up in the cleanest vessels and well attended to. Mrs. Cheshire, too, might daily be seen kneeling by the side of the cheese-pan, separating the curd, taking off the whey, filling the cheese-vat with the curd, and putting the cheese herself into press. Her cheese-chamber displayed as fine a set of well-salted, well-colored, well-turned and regular cheeses as ever issued from that or any other farm-house.

James Cheshire was proud of his wife; and Jane herself found a most excellent helper in Nancy. Nancy took particularly to housekeeping; saw that all the rooms were exquisitely clean; that everything was in nice repair; that not only the master and mistress, but the servants had their food prepared in a wholesome and attractive manner. The eggs she stored up; and as fruit came into season, had it collected for market, and for a judicious household use. She made the tea and coffee morning and evening, and did everything but preside at the table. There was not a farm-house for twenty miles round, that wore an air of so much brightness and evident good management as that of James Cheshire. For Nancy, from the first moment of their acquaintance, he had conceived a most profound respect. In all cases that required counsel, though he consulted freely with his wife, he would never decide till they had had Nancy’s opinion and sanction.