Tales of the West Riding by Phyllis Bentley Page A

exquisitely pretty face. The rosy cupid’s bow mouth, the starry grey eyes, the small uptilted nose, the lovely milk and rose complexion, the dark curls framing all, struck Eliza to the heart by their sweet innocent beauty and aroused in her a protective maternal feeling as if towards a child.
    â€œI would rather not if you don’t mind,” said Esther.
    â€œOf course not, my dear,” said Eliza hurriedly. She was far too honourable and delicate to press for confidences. “But if you need a friend—”
    â€œA friend! I have no friends,” wept Esther.
    â€œMy darling child,” said Esther fondly. “I am your friend.”
    The meeting ended in an invitation to Esther to attend the Penny Reading in the Resmond Street Sunday School that evening.
    â€œWhat were Penny Readings exactly?” I asked.
    â€œThey were entertainments, of course,” said my mother in an insulted tone. “Singing, and piano pieces, and recitations, and sometimes duets and duologues. And the ladies provided a cup of tea.”
    â€œDid Eliza sing?”
    â€œNo. She arranged the programme and helped with the tea. James Butterfield played the piano. And sometimes he gave a reading—Shakespeare or something of that kind, you know.”
    â€œI should think Esther found it tedious,” said I, with a vivid image of that pretty pink mouth, opening in a wide yawn like a cat’s.
    My mother glanced at me shrewdly.
    â€œShe didn’t say so,” was her dry comment.
    â€œIndeed.”
    â€œWell! I expect you have guessed what happened next,” continued my mother.
    â€œI think so. She admired James’s playing.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd began to attend the Resmond Street Chapel, morning and evening, and joined the Senior Young Ladies’ Sunday School Class in the afternoon.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd in a few months’ time—”
    â€œAh! But it wasn’t a few months,” said my mother sadly. “It was only a few weeks.”
    â€œWeeks?”
    Only a week or two later, it appeared, when Eliza was just sitting down to dinner with her brother’s family—“in those days Yorkshire people, ordinary people I mean, had their dinner in the middle of the day,” said my mother severely—there was a ring at the front door bell, and their maid came to tell Miss Eliza that a gentleman had called to see her. Eliza was surprised.
    â€œIt’s Mr. Butterfield and I’ve put him in the drawing-room,” said the maid, who like most maids of the epoch knew all the family affairs. “He seems all excited like, Miss Eliza.”
    Colour flooded Eliza’s cheeks and she hastened to the front room. To call in the middle of the day like this was odd; evening was surely the time for—well, for a proposal. But then, perhaps James had received the rise in salary he hoped for, that very morning, and had come impulsively rushing to her the moment the dinner hour set him free. It was a thought very sweet to her. Smiling, blushing, her heart beating fast with joy, she entered with her usual brisk step, and with her usual honest frankness went straight up to him and offered him her hand. He certainly looked agitated. Quite pale.
    â€œThis is perhaps an awkward time for me to call,” he stammered. (Indeed the scent of the midday hotpot filled the house—Eliza was never to forget it.)
    â€œNot at all. You are welcome at any time. Sit down, James. Be at ease,” said Eliza warmly.
    â€œI wanted you to be the first to know.” (Eliza smiled encouragingly. It was her last moment of happiness.) “We have been such friends.”
    This struck a slightly ambiguous note. “Have been?” But perhaps he referred to a new relation which should transcend friendship. Eliza waited, her joy slightly dimmed. James seemed unable to speak; he panted, almost writhed.
    â€œSomething at the mill, James?” said