It was therefore without any
feeling of trepidation as to his reception that Ned on the Saturday
afternoon entered Varley.
Varley was a scattered village lying at the very edge of the moor.
The houses were built just where the valley began to dip down from
the uplands, the depression being deep enough to shelter them from
the winds which swept across the moor. Some of those which stood
lowest were surrounded by a few stumpy fruit trees in the gardens,
but the majority stood bleak and bare. From most of the houses the
sound of the shuttle told that hand weaving was carried on within,
and when the weather was warm women sat at the doors with their
spinning wheels. The younger men for the most part worked as croppers
in the factories in Marsden.
In good times Varley had been a flourishing village, that is to say
its inhabitants had earned good wages; but no one passing through
the bare and dreary village would have imagined that it had ever
seen good days, for the greater proportion of the earnings had gone
in drink, and the Varley men had a bad name even in a country and
at a time when heavy drinking was the rule rather than the exception.
But whatever good times it may have had they were gone now. Wages
had fallen greatly and the prices of food risen enormously, and
the wolf was at the door of every cottage. No wonder the men became
desperate, and believing that all their sufferings arose from the
introduction of the new machinery, had bound themselves to destroy
it whatever happened.
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