Tales of the West Riding by Phyllis Bentley

hair. She was a fine upright warm-hearted girl, kind and honest and as good as gold. She taught the Senior Young Ladies’ Class in the Resmond Street Chapel Sunday School, and they thought the world of her. James Butterfield taught there too—people did teach in Sunday Schools in those days, you know. He was a very nice young man, earnest but not silly about it, fond of long walks over the moors and music and that sort of thing. Fair and good-looking and not at all conceited; spirited of course but then Eliza was spirited. They had a quarrel about some music for the Sunday School or the way it was played, or something; James Butterfield played the harmonium, you know. Some people said it was this quarrel brought them together. As to that I don’t know, but of course a good rousing quarrel can draw young people together sometimes,”said my mother, her eyes sparkling as she remembered, no doubt, her own lively bouts with my father during their courtship, all those years ago.
    The sparkle died as she went on seriously: “But other people thought otherwise. They were almost engaged, at any rate, that I do know. Everyone thought it was just a matter of time before the engagement was announced. He was a stranger in the town, but he had a good position with Egmont’s,” said my mother, naming with awe in her tone the great Annotsfield textile firm. “Eliza’s parents were dead and she had a little useful income of her own and she lived with her married brother. So there was nothing really for them to wait for. But probably he was waiting for a rise in salary, we thought. In those days people didn’t rush off and get married and expect other people to keep them,” concluded my mother with severity. “That’s how it was between Eliza and James when it began to happen.”
    It began to happen by one of those coincidences which so often set the pattern of human destiny. It just so happened—how many life stories begin with these words—that Eliza, on her way back from visiting at the Superintendent’s request a child from the Sunday School who had recently lost her parents and gone to live on the other side of the town, passed through a certain street at a certain hour and saw a certain person. The visit had gone well and Eliza was feeling happy, for the grandparents had promised to let the child continue her Resmond Street attendance. Smiling to herself therefore, and thinking how kind and good people really were when you really got to know them, she must tell James about it tonight at the Penny Reading, he would be pleased—her warm heart, in a word, open to every generous impulse, Eliza walked briskly along this street dreaming happy dreams, and was woken to reality by the sound of weeping.
    One of the row of neat respectable houses had a doctor’s lamp at its gate, and by this gate stood a girl, holding to the railings and sobbing hysterically. Eliza in a rush of pity hurried to her side, put her arm round the girl’s shoulder and drew her to her breast.
    â€œYou are in trouble?” she said in a warm loving tone. “Can I help you?”
    â€œMy father,” sobbed the girl. “So angry.”
    Eliza, naturally enough assuming that the house where they stood was the girl’s home, gave an indignant glance towards the windows and said:
    â€œWalk with me a little way till you feel less agitated.”
    The girl acquiesced; they walked on together, presently found themselves at one entrance of Egmont Park, entered—it was a sunny September afternoon—and sat down on a terrace bench together. Esther—that, it appeared, was her name—had now regained some control of her emotions, but still seemed greatly depressed, sitting humped and with head down, occasionally shaken by a sob.
    â€œWould you care to tell me what distresses you?” said Eliza.
    Esther turned to her and for the first time Eliza had a full view of that