“Thy faithful people praise Thee, Lord,For countless gifts received;And pray for grace to keep the Faith,Which saints of old believed.”
“Thy faithful people praise Thee, Lord,For countless gifts received;And pray for grace to keep the Faith,Which saints of old believed.”
“Thy faithful people praise Thee, Lord,
For countless gifts received;
And pray for grace to keep the Faith,
Which saints of old believed.”
And the words found a ready echo in my heart.
“That’s a Church hymn,” remarked Jim, as we waited in the little throng pressing for entry, “that’s noan Methody. We’st ha’ ‘Another rollin’ year, another rollin’ year, has swiftly passed away,’ just when th’ clock’s strucken twelve. That’s th’ tune for me; it goes wi’ a rare swing. That an’ ‘Christians, awake!’ an’ ‘Wild shepherds’“—I suppose Jim referred to the hymn commencing “While shepherds,” but he called it “Wild shepherds”—“is th’ only hymn tunes aw can sing, but th’ worst on it is, if aw start on ‘Christians, awake!’ I’m sure to glide into ‘Wild shepherds,’ an’ go on at th’ top o’ my voice till th’ wench nearest to me gi’es me a dig i’ th’ ribs.”
“And then what?” I asked.
“Aw pom, pom,” said Jim, gravely.
The room was crowded, nay, packed. Mr. and Mrs. Wrigley were there, and, of course, Matthy Haley, and nearly all, old and young, male and female, were “hands” at Wrigley Mill. Mr. Wrigley, a man of some fifty years, tall, broad-shouldered with plain, honest, good-humoured features, a quiet, unassuming man, who liked more to listen than to speak, and generally believed to be much in awe of his wife, was leading the meeting by right of his position as superintendent of the Sunday School. Jim and I found ourselves fain to stand wedged in a corner against the white-washed wall unpleasantly near a little iron stove and flue that grew so hot as almost to stifle us.
“Dear friends and neighbours” Mr. Wrigley was saying, “I hope—me and my wife hope— you’ve all had a Merry Christmas and that you’ll all have a Happy New Year. You know I’m not much of a talker, and—well——yes, I think that’s all. Let us all pray. Those ’at can’t find room to kneel, must stand. Perhaps someone will lead us in prayer.”
“Nah for Matthy,” whispered Jim, and Matthew it was. He managed to kneel down somehow, and I resigned myself to suffer in silence, for when Matthew got under way at a prayer meeting he was good for half an hour, and I often wondered how his poor knees stood it. And this was how he prayed, and as he warmed to his work his voice rose to a shout, and he banged with clenched fist the bench at which he knelt, and the sweat streamed from every pore of his skin:
“Oh Lord, we come to Thee at the close of another rolling year. Yes, Lord, another year has quickly rolled away, an’ we’n rolled wi’ it, an’ we’re still Thy people, aye, Thine, only Thine, thank the Lord. And we feel, O Lord, that it is good for us to be here. It’s only a warping hoil, Lord, as Thou canst see for Thissen, but Thou hast said wherever two or three are gathered together in Thy name there art Thou in their midst, and that to bless. Oh, Lord, we’st pin Thee to that. Bless us Lord. Bless th’ owd uns an’ th’ young uns, th’ rich an’ poor. Bless Mr. Wrigley, Lord. Mak’ him a vessel o’ grace an’ sanctify him to Thy service, so that he may indeed read his title clear to mansions in the skies. And bless Mrs. Wrigley, Lord. Thou knowest she is Thy handmaiden and rich in grace. Oh, Lord, bless her, and that abundantly. And bless their Percy, and their Polly, and their Guster, and their Amy, and their Lizzie and their maid-servants and their manservants, and the stranger that is within their gates and all for whom it’s our duty to pray. And blessus, Lord, and make us feel that it is good for us to be here. Thou knows, Lord, we might ha’ been elsewhere spending our substance in riotous livin’, aye, even at th’ ‘Hanging Gate,’ abusin’ Thy gifts. There’ll be those, Lord, at this minute drinking strong waters”—“Aw could do a quart missen,” said Jim in my ear—“and as like as not takin’ Thy name in vain. Oh, Lord, we thank Thee we are not as them but here upon our knees at the Throne of Grace. And now, Lord, Thou knowest what we need even before we ax it, but there’s no harm in mentionin’ one or two things. There’s bin a shortage o’ water at Wrigley Mill this last summer, an’ we’n had a job to keep th’ wheel turnin’. Oh, Lord, when th’ dog days come round in due season, open Thy heavens and let the waters fall. We know, Lord, they fall upon the just and the unjust alike, but, Lord, if Thou wilt Thou canst lean a bit. Lord, forget not Thy servants at Wrigley Mill, an’ Thine shall be all the glory.….”
Now how long Matthew continued in this strain I cannot tell, for at about this point a stentorian voice from the bottom of the stairs, which were just as packed as the room, shouted:
“Is Abel Holmes theer?”
“Aye, up i’ th’ corner, bi th’ stove,” a young lass at the top of the steps shouted down to the doorway.
“Tell him he’s wanted very pertickler.”
Matthew stopped short, and every eye was turned to the corner where Jim and I were sweltering.
“There’ll be something wrong at home,” I cried in quick alarm.
“Mak’ way, theer,” said Jim. “I’m wi thee, Abe. Yo’ll excuse us, Mr. and Mrs. Wrigley, but we’re feart there’s summat wrong at th’ Poll.”
Standing by the counting house door we found the man who had come in quest of me, assuredly no messenger from my father or Ruth, a man known to me from my earliest days, and once not a little feared, a Burnplatter known through all the countryside as, Daft Billy. He was generally supposed to have what was lightly and unfeelingly spoken of as “half a slate off,” and as such was the butt of all the boys of the valley, whose delight it was to follow him at a safe distance, shouting at him all the silly gibes they could lay their tongues to. Billy usually pursued his way unheeding, only the fierce gleam of his eyes and the malignant scowl on his face betraying that the words had reached his ears. But at rare times an ungovernable fury would seize upon him. His face then was a fearsome thing to look upon; he would bellow like a wounded bull, and rush after the scattering lads, and woe betide the urchin that fell into his hands. He was the terror of the matrons for miles around, and women expecting to become mothers dreaded meeting Daft Billy as they walked abroad. He was counted the cunningest cow doctor anywhere our abouts, and the farmers sent for him when at their own wits’ end. It was generally allowed that Billy could see further into the innards of a horse or “beast” than any vet, in Huddersfield or Oldham, and he made a pretty penny by advising the local gentry in their dealings in horseflesh. But, unlike all other vets I’ve ever come across, he was the most unsociable of human beings. I don’t remember ever to have seen him smile or laugh, and, as Jim complained, good liquor was fair thrown away on him, for the more he drank the more morose he waxed. He had no known kith and kin whose lad he was or whence he came none could tell, and he seemed to have a special aversion for the gentler sex. For all save Miriam. I know not how my dear love had won the heart of this Slaithwaite Caliban, but certain it is he worshipped the ground she trod on. She could say him in his wildest moods with a word, nay, with a look. Yet was not his love, like mine, that of a man for a maid, but rather that of a dog for its master. It was never questioned that Daft Billy would cheerfully give his life for Miriam, if need were, and as I grew to know this my old feelings for the man melted away and I came to have a curious sort of liking for him. How he regarded me I do not know to this day—with a sort of tolerance, belike, when he came to know how matters stood between Miriam and myself.
“Why, Billy, what brings you here at this time of night?” I exclaimed, fears of evil quick besetting me. “Nothing wrong at Burnplatts?”
“Tha’rt wanted—Burnplatts; owd Mother Sykes—’oo’s badly.”
“But what good can I do her? I’m no doctor.”
“Dunnot know. Women’s whimsy, belike. Miriam sent me, an’ tha’s got to go if aw hug thee theer.”
“Oh, if Miriam sent for me I’m with you, Billy. Jim’ll come, too.”
“There were nowt said about that felly. But th’ road’s free fro’ here to th’ Burnplatts. Aw doubt he’ll noan ha’ to see Mother Sykes.” And with that Billy turned his back on us, and set off in a sort of ambling trot in the direction of Burnplatts, Jim and I following at his heels, nor to all the questions that I bawled at Billy’s back could I get a word in answer.
I cudgelled my brain in vain surmises as to the reasons for this sudden summons, and I fear was but an unappreciative listener to the monologue by which Jim who had no gift for silence, sought to beguile the tedium of the tramp across the snow-shrouded moors.
“Dal it all, Abe,” he said, “that’s abaat th’ fiftieth time tha’s axed me what owd Mother Sykes can want wi’ thee. Tha’ll know sooin enough. It’ll be nowt to thi advantage or aw’st be capped. If aw’m ony judge th’ owd witch has no use for nob’dy except for what ’oo can mak’ aat on ’em. Aw dunnut know what sort o’ a mother your Miriam had, but her gran’mother’s a beauty, an’ don’t yo’ forget it. If Miriam’s mother were owt like Miriam hersen ’oo mun ha’ bred back a gooidish bit. It’s weel known a rose ’ll grow on a muck midden, but aw’n ne’er known a rose grow aat o’ a thistle seed, an’ there’s a seet more thistle nor rose abaat owd Mother Sykes.”
“But what in the name of goodness does she want with me at dead of night”
“Theer tha goes again. ’Oo’s ill, didn’t Daft Billy say. Happen ’oo’s bahn to mak’ her will an’ appoint thee her, what do yo’ ca’ it?—exekittor. Aw suddn’t be capped if ’oo’d getten a stockin’ laid by snug an’ safe somewheer. Yo’ nivver can tell bi th’ way fo’k live how they’ll cut up when they dee. Yo’ needn’t go further nor owd Mr. Garside, ’at you’re sort o’ heir to, to prove that. An’ wimmen’s nat’rally of a more savin’ an’ scrattin’ natur’ nor men. When they tak’ that way they can live a week on th’ backbone of a herrin’, an’ if they live long enough it’s surprisin’ how it mounts up. An’ yo’ needn’t ha’ so mich to start on, nother. Aw were at th’ Market Cross i’ Huddersfelt one Tuesday, an’ there were one o’ those teetotal chaps ’at’s just come up a lecturin’. Varry smart at figures he were, to be sewer. He axed ony man i’ th’ crowd to tell him what he spent i’ ale ivery week. Nob’dy seemed anxious to tell him, so just to encourage th’ chap aw said, ‘Two bob, maybe.’ Weel, he had it worked aat in his yead i’ double quicksticks ’at that were more nor five pund a year, an’ he axed me ha’ owd aw were. ‘Four and twenty,’ says I. ‘Put that i’ th’ bank at some mak’ o’ interest’—it were a queerish name, like what th’ doctors say when you’ve brokken yo’r arm i’ two spots”
“Compound interest,” I suggested.
“Tha’s getten it. ‘Put it i’ th’ bank at compound interest, an’ bi’ th’ time yo’r forty yo’ll ha’—aw dunnot gradely remember how mich it were, but he med it aat ivery man i’ th’ country could ha’ a house to live in an’ another to let, an’ if a felly nobbut lived till he were eighty he could buy Buckingham Palace, for owt aw know.”
“Was that how you came to start your stocking?” I asked.
“Weel, in a manner o’ speakin’ yo’ may say it were. That an’ summat else—but that’s up another street. But it’s weary work savin’ brass. Aw’n counted my bit till mi wit’s nearly addled, an’ aw cannot see ’at it gets onny bigger except when aw put summat to it missen. It’s that compound interest lays ovver me; an’ what’s th’ use o’ tellin’ them mak’ o’ fairy tales, when yo’ know varry weel it can’t be done. But here we are at th’ top o’ th’ Ainley Place, an’ a rare poo’ it’s bin up th’ broo, wi’ the’ snow ballin’ i’ yo’r clogs ivery five yard. Yo’ll excuse me, Abe, aw’m noan so set o’ these Burnplatters. Yo’ll find yo’r way whom wi’out me, so aw’st leave yo’ here, an’ if th’ owd haghasowt to fling away, an’s lookin’ for a desarvin’ objec’, just yo’ put a word in for yours truly.” And Jim clapped me heartily on the back, and turned back the way we had come.
Daft Billy led me to the door of Mother Sykes’s cottage. My heart thumped in my breast, not, be sure, because I knew that lowly abode held the old dame, but because there dwelt my Miriam. I knocked the snow off my clogs against the lintel of the door, and, obedient to a motion of my taciturn guide, pulled the string that lifted the sneck, and entered. The low room was dimly lighted by a farthing dip, and the glow from a peat fire. Miriam was seated by the fire on a rude rush-bottomed chair. She rose as I paused just within the chamber, and placed her finger on her lips, glancing towards a pallet on which, as my eyes became accustomed to the dim light, I saw lay the eerie being whose summons had brought me to that uncanny spot at that ghostly hour.
“Come to the fire and warm yourself,” whispered. Miriam
“I’m noan asleep; yo’ needn’t think it,” came in a feeble, gasping voice from the bed. “Don’t come near me till you’re warm, Abel Holmes, I can’t abear cold. Wheer’s Ephraim?”
I jumped in my skin when from the gloom of the remotest corner of the room Ephraim’s voice said surlily, “Aw’m here, trying to get a wink o’ sleep, for aw’n had none this three neets back an more. What do yo’ want nah? Of all the women i’ this world for whimsies, aw’ll back yo’ again creation. There’s no more brandy, if that’s what yo’re hankerin’ for, an’ it’s a sore neet an’ an ungain hour to go seekin’ it.”
“Aw reckon yo’n supped it, then. Yo’n swum i’ liquor sin’ aw were bedridden, yo’ unnat’ral crittor. But tha’rt off thi horse this time. Aw want nother thee nor thi liquor. Aw want to talk to Abel Holmes.”
“Weel, get agate. He’s theer, isn’t he?”
“Aye, but aw want thee aat o’ th’ gate first. Just thee mak’ thissen scarce for th’ neist hour or two.”
“An’ wheer should aw go at this time o’ neet an’ i’ this mak’ o’ weather?”
“Yo’ can go to — for owt aw care,” said the beldam, naming a very warm spot indeed, and displaying a quite remarkable vigour for one whom I had expected to find at death’s door.
Ephraim gave me an evil look that I was by no means conscious of deserving from one I had not so long ago rescued from durance vile, tossed a rat-skin cap on to his head, and flung himself out of the room. The sick woman listened intently to the sound of his footsteps crunching through the snow. Then she roused herself with difficulty upon one poor, withered arm, and groping under her pillow drew thence, to my consternation, the ring I had given to Miriam. I glanced reproachfully at my sweet one, and she hung her head and would not meet my eyes.
“Wheer did yo’ get this trinkum, Abel Holmes th’ parson’s son at Powl Moor. Wheer did your father’s son come by this? Answer me truly, for there’s more hangs by what yo’ tell me nor either yo’ nor that hussy theer know on. Tell me truly, or may the curse o’ the God o’ Abraham an’ Jacob rest on both on yo’, and yo’r leet o’ love.”
“If it’s Miriam you’re talking of, she’s no light of love of mine nor of any other man, Mother Sykes, you shameless old woman, that I should use such a word to one that lies on her death-bed, or so I thought when I was fetched here at dead of night. Miriam’s neither hussy nor light-of-love. She’s my promised wife, and proud I am to say it,” and I put my arm boldly round Miriam’s rounded waist, and drew her to my side, where she seemed to find no small comfort in clinging, as together we gazed down upon the brown, shrunken face and the thin, spare, grizzled wisps of hair that hung about it in wild disorder. “My plighted and ’trothed beloved,” I continued in a firm voice, gaining confidence as I went on, “and I gave her that ring in token of our betrothal. As to where I got it, that’s my business. Tell me first howyougot it, Mother Sykes. I didn’t give it toyou, that’s certain sure.”
“Your promised wife!” sneered that very evil-spoken old woman. “Promises and pie-crusts, we know what they’re made for. Aw’n heerd that tale afore, an’ so in an evil day did my dowter an’ her mother afore her.”
“Miriam’s mother!” I gasped. “Your daughter! Tell me—oh! this is a fearful tangle!”
“Aye, Miriam’s mother. Her ’at that gew-gaw once belonged to, that went the way o’ shame, th’ same Miriam’s like to tread. It’s i’ th’ blood, it’s i’ th’ blood, an’ wi’ a parson’s son, too. It’s time aw deed, but aw’ll put a spoke i’ this wheel afore they put me under th’ sod.”
I stood as in a dream. I am not quick at reading riddles. A straightforward story I think I can grasp with any plain and ordinary man. But through the maze my brain was wrapped in stole at length a slender gleam of light, a sort of inkling, a mere glimpse of what the truth might be.
I seized the thin wrist of the sick Woman more roughly, I fear, than there was warrant for.
“You say this ring once belonged to Miriam’s mother, and that that mother went the way of shame. Then, Mother Sykes, though you were at your last gasp, I tell you, you lie foully in your throat. Her mother was the loved and honoured wife of as good and God-fearing and of as unfortunate and wronged a man as ever trod this earth. I knew him well, and closed his eyes in death, and were it the last word I have to speak, James Garside was no seducer of women. Aye, even a Burnplatter’s daughter would be safe with him, as a Burnplatter’s granddaughter is safe with Abel Holmes. I’m my father’s son in that, if in nothing else,” and I closed my arm about that bonnie waist till I think Miriam must have gasped for breath.
“Garside, James Garside, aye, that were his name, the name of the man who led my Esmeralda astray, and broke her young heart. She died when Miriam were born, heart-broken if ever woman were.”
“But Esmeralda, Mr. Garside’s Esmeralda,” I cried in sore perplexity, “was brought up in his mother’s house, and yet you say she was your daughter. Oh! I remember now—he said the child was left on the doorstep of his mother’s house. And your hands laid her there?”
“Aye, marry, that they did, and oft I’ve rued it. But I did it for the best. I saw no way of rearing the bairn myself, and I’d no mind the bonnie wee thing should lead the life, the only life, I saw before me. Twas bad enough for me to cast in with the Burnplatters, but I thought to find a safe asylum for my bairn.”
“But the child’s father?” I could not help suggesting.
“She had a father, and a lawful father. That’s enough for you, Abel Holmes. Old Mother Sykes was not a Burnplatter born and bred. I’d as fair a beginning as e’er a man need wish. Oh, I can talk fine, like you, when I want, so you needn’t stare as if you’d seen a boggard. Some day, if I live long enough, and if you prove your right to know, I’ll tell you my story. But it boots not to-night. Tell me only one thing, and I think I can die happy. You say that Esmeralda was James Garside’s wedded wife. Can’st prove it?”
“Aye, that I can. My father says—”
“Aye, thi feyther ’ll know,” nodded the sick woman, lapsing again into our common speech.
“My father says these Gretna Green marriages were binding enough, and I’ve the blacksmith’s own certificate safe at home yonder. I’ll bring it to you next time I come. James Garside and Esmeralda—Esmeralda Atkinson, aye, that was the name—were tied as fast as the law of Scotland could tie them.”
“And that villain of a man that went to her from Manchester swore that the wedding was all a sham. Told her her lover had sent him to her to get shut of her. Offered her money, bid her name her own price, only go, go, go, anywhere, so long as she crossed James Garside’s path no more. Said that if she loved, and loved truly, she would best show her love by vanishing from her so-called husband’s life for ever. To cling to him were to ruin him. And she, poor child, believed him. She flung his money in his face, and bid him return to the false coward who had sent him, and say that never more should he look upon her face again. She stripped off the fine clothing and the jewel’s his money had bought, and left them all behind her. That ring was one of them,”
“You knew the ring then, mother?”
“Knew it! In course I knew it. Esmeralda showed it to me before ever she quitted Manchester. Showed me the letters traced on the inner side of it. I’d seen her often after she grew up, unbeknown to old Mrs. Garside, and I’d made myself known to her. At first she was fleyed of me; but blood’s thicker than water. She told me, too, the young master was courting her, but his mother would never consent. There was some talk of another woman they’d planned for him. I disremember exactly, but it’ll come back to me, maybe to-morrow. Give me another sup of summat, Miriam—my head’s that wammy, un’ it’s desperate cold. I think I could sleep now I’ve said my say; and oh! Abel Holmes, yo’n lifted a load off my old heart to-night. Yon tutor’s a deal to answer for, aye an’ her, too, ’at set him on to do her dirty work for her. The black lie of him killed my bairn and soured my whole life for me. I’d have been a better woman but for that. I think I should like to see your feyther, Abel, afore aw dee. Happen yo’ll bring him to me. It’s mony a weary year sin’ these owd lips said a prayer an’ these owd ears han hearkened to more curses nor blessin’s. But aw’n tried to shelter Miriam, hannot aw, lass? It’s noan so easy to fetch up a young an’ pratty wench among th’ Burnplatters i’ th’ way she should go. But aw’n done mi best, aw’ done mi best.”
Miriam now was on her knees by the bedside, and she had the old dame’s hand pressed to her own sweet breast, and the tears fell upon it from her streaming eyes.
“Don’t talk like that, granny. You’ve been all the world to me, dear heart, till—till Abel came. I always knew you loved me, granny, and I’ve loved you always. Only get well, granny, be quick and get well, and we’ll think nothing good enough for you. Aye, close your dear eyes, granny, sleep now. Go home, now, Abel, she’s talked too much. Come again tomorrow night if you can.”
She did not rise from her knees. I stooped and kissed her upturned face, and stole softly out of the cottage.
When I cleared Burnplatts it must have been, as I should judge, some four o’clock of the morning. The moon no longer sailed in a clear sky: that was overcast by sombre clouds, big with snow that was yet to fall, and but fitful gleams pierced the gloom. I was in two minds whether to turn my steps towards my father’s house at Pole or take the longer road to Wrigley Mill. I was dead beat, and would have been fain to stretch my weary limbs in rest. And my mind was in tune with my body. I wanted time to think over all old Mother Sykes had said. I felt I should have a long story to tell my father, and one, perchance, he would not be overjoyed to hear; and I felt in no mood for the telling of long stories. So with a weary shrug of my shoulders I turned my face towards Stanedge and floundered through the deep snow that, a foot deep and more, covered the rough cart-tracks and shortcuts. I suppose that after a while of steady pounding I must have fallen, as I walked, into a sort of semi-sleep, my legs moving mechanically whilst my mind was wrapped in a dull and senseless stupor. Anyway I had made to this side—I mean the Yorkshire side—of Stanedge Cutting, when, with a start, I realised that I was no longer alone. Ephraim Sykes barred my way and as my senses cleared I became aware Ephraim was in a very ugly mood. He had clearly been drinking, and deeply. His breath on the cold air was like steam, and it was heavy laden with the fumes of brandy.
“I’d have a word or two wi’ you, Abel Holmes.” he said in a thick voice. “There’s a score to settle between you an’ me, afore yo’ go ony further”
“Why, it’s a queer time and place for talking, Eph.,” I remember saying, “I’m just tired to death and want nothing so much as a good sleep. We’d both be best i’ bed, don’t you think, and you’ve a tidy step before you on to Burnplatts.”
“Damn Burnplatts,” he cried fiercely. “Burnplatts has noan bin Burnplatts for me sin’ first yo’ showed your cantin’ mug theer. An’ that’s what I’m getten to talk about. What had th’ owd hell-cat to say to thee so private ’at aw mun be turned aat i’ to th’ cowd at after midneet? What devil’s plot are yo’ three hatchin’ among you? An’ what’s Miriam to thee, Abel Holmes, aw’m speerin’—aye, that’s th’ point o’ it all. What’s Miriam to thee, I want to know?”
“Well, it’s soon told, Eph., Miriam’s tokened to me this many a happy month past. That’s what Miriam is to me, lad, and I hope you’ll wish me joy, Eph.”
“Wish you joy! Aw wish you an’ your smooth tongue were i’ hell fire an’ me th’ stoker. So that’s what all this comin’ an’ goin’, an’ your sister hanging about Burnplatts, an’ Miriam goin’ about wi’ a song on her lips an’ a light in her e’en as if oo’d had a glimpse o’ heaven—that’s what it means, is it? An’ do yo’ think aw’m th’ man to stand by an’ see another steal his lass fro’ him wi’out word said or blow struck? Miriam’s mine, aw tell thee. Afore ever yo’ clapt een on her, afore oo could toddle, when oo were a wee wench ’at aw hugged i’ these arms across th’ moor, Miriam were mine. She’s none they meat, Abel Holmes; she’s for a better man nor thee tho’ tha art a parson’s son, an’ can talk her fine,’an’ read out o’ books to her an’ turn her yead wi’ po’try an’ that mak’ o’ nonsense. She’ll never stand afore th’parson wi’ thee, Abe Holmes, nor wi’ ony other man but me. Aw’ll noan be robbed o’ th’ light o’ my life by thee nor th’ best man livin’, choose who he is. But theer, aw said to missen I’d noan be rough wi thee. Tha did me a gooid turn i’ that court do wi’ th’ Bradburys, an’ afore that when tha fun me lame on th’ moor, not so far fro’ wheer we stan’ to meet, yo’ an’ me alone on th’ moor, wi’ nowt to stan’ atween us. I’ve noan forgotten. So aw’ll noan be rough wi’ thee; tha’st ha’ thi’ chance, for owd times’ sake. Tha’s got to give her up, Abe. See th’ first streak o’ grey’s stealin’ fro’ th’ east, tha can see me hand now. Put thine into mine, Abe, an’ promise me, man to man, tha’ll’t gi’ her up.”
“You know very well, Eph., I shall do no such thing. It’s th’ drink that’s talking, not thee, Eph. Get yo’ home to bed, and stand out o’ my gait, for I’d fain be there mysen.”
“Yo’r bed ’ll be a shroud o’ snow, then. Off wi’ yo’r coit, yo’ white-livered cur, if yo’n a ounce o’ blood i’ yo’r body. Off wi’ th’ coit, an’ stan’ to me, man to man.” And Ephraim in a mad frenzy tore off his coat and cast it to the ground, and stood before me, his blood-shot eyes glaring wildly, his mouth foaming, and his face convulsed with passion. I made no move to doff my coat, but as Ephraim came at me with a wild cry and big clenched fists that strove to reach my throat, I beat him off as best I could, tho’ such was the frenzy that nerved his arm that I felt with a sick foreboding that I was at the mercy of my foe. I gave back from him, shielding my face as best I could, but he pressed me close, and his breath was hot and foul upon me and his left hand had closed upon my throat, when my eye caught the gleam as of a lanthorn and I heard from somewhere not far across the moor at the back of me, a loud, hoarse cry:
“Hold theer Ephraim, hold, aw tell thee.”
“Hell and fury, it’s Daft Billy—that’ll be Miriam’s doing. But aw’ll finish my job, ony road, Billy or no Billy,” cried Eph.
But at the sound of that voice in the wilderness I had found fresh strength, and with a sudden wrench I tore myself from Ephraim’s grasp, and with as shrewd a blow as ever this good right arm ever struck, sent him reeling on his heels. He recovered his balance, then, as the cry still came across the white waste of snow, “Howd theer, howd, aw say,” I saw Eph.’s right hand seek his belt. There was a dull flash of steel, a sharp, cutting pain on my left side, the feel of soft, warm moisture oh my skin, and I knew no more.
CHAPTER VII.
RUTH AND JIM.
When I returned to my senses, or, as Jim expressed it, “comed back to my know,” it was to find myself tucked in bed in my own little room in Pole Moor Manse, snug enough save that the upper part of my left arm seemed big enough for the thigh of an elephant. The knife with which I had been stabbed, by a blow that was probably meant for my heart, had lodged deep in the shoulder, or, as Jim explained to me, the humerus, though, again to quote my friend, “nob’dy but a doctor could see owt humorous about it, but that’s what owd Dean ca’d it.” The upper arm had swollen to a portentous size, the skin red and inflamed, and the vilely-stinking matter had been drained away by tubes inserted in the wound, I all the while unconscious and babbling about rings and Gretna Green and Burnplatters and bad warps and broken time and Bill’s o’ Jacks and Belgian hares and I know not what, beside, “enough to make angels weep,” Ruth said, “fit to mak’ a pig dee o’ laughing,” Jim declared. It had been deemed necessary to sit up with me, and for the comfort of the watchers the long-settle had been with much difficulty, hoisted to my chamber through the window, the staircase being too narrow to admit of its being brought up that way. As the mists cleared from my mind, which they did slowly, just as I have seen a mist melt away in tiny wisps as the sun gained in power, I became aware of subdued voices by the long, narrow window, under which the long-settle stretched. At first the sound seemed to my ears like the droning of a hive of bees, but as my perception cleared I knew the voices to be those of Ruth and, unless I was greatly mistaken, of the faithful Jim. I was stretched prone on my back, and my left arm was wrapped round and round again with yards of lint and bindings, and burled and throbbed and twitched and stung, and I wondered what ailed it and how I came to be in bed at Pole Moor, with the evening sun shining through the window, and why, in the name of all that was decent and seemly, Ruth and Jim should have invaded the privacy of my own bedroom. I managed, with some pain, to turn my head on the bolster in the direction of the voices, and sure enough there was Jim sat at one end of the long-settle, and though that useful article of furniture was long enough to accommodate half a dozen folk without crowding, there was our Ruth hutched close up to the giant form of my comrade, looking like a dainty yacht beside a man o’ war, and, as I’m a sinner, Jim had his left arm about Ruth’s shoulders —he’d have had to go on to his knees to clasp her waist—and her little brown hand nestled confidingly in Jim’s big fist. I was so taken aback that I merely gasped and lay still resolving however that if it should please the good Lord to lift me off that bed of pain. I’d give Ruth at large my views as to what was fitting for a maiden who was a full and dipped member at Pole Chapel, its minister’s daughter, and the sister to boot, of a decent lad who, for aught she knew or seemed to care, might at that very moment when she sat billing and cooing be at death’s door; a mere chit of a girl, I communed inwardly with myself, old enough, for sure, old enough to wait on me and be her old fathers nurse, but certainly not old enough to be casting her mind man-wards—though a quick afterthought reminded me she was Miriam’s age to a month or two; but then, that was up another street.
“Tell us all about it again, Ruth,” I heard Jim say. “Start reight at th’ beginning, like th’ Meltham singers. I could hearken to thee talkin’ fro’ th’ peep o’ day to sundown. Tha’s getten a voice like a linnet.”
“He should hear Miriam,” I thought to myself. “Ruth’s voice, indeed!”
“Well, get away to th’ other end of th’ settle,” quoth Ruth. “What do you want scrouging me up in a corner like this?”
“Aw thowt happen you were cowd,” says Jim with a grin.
“Well, I’m not, and besides, there’s a fire, and whatever would father think if he came upstairs; and there’s Abe—who knows but what unconscious folk have got their senses about them unbeknown to us. I wouldn’t have Abe know for all I can see. He’d just plague my life out.”
“Oh! don’t mind me,” I said inwardly. “I’ll get on wi’ mi deein’, thee get on wi’ thi courtin’.”
“Well, it was this way,” began Ruth, after Jim had hutched his burly form about an inch towards the other end of the settle, though he still clung to Ruth’s hand in a perfectly idiotic manner. Whatever sort of pleasure could he find in the touch of Ruth’s soft fingers? If they’d been Miriam’s now!
“It was this way. I’d overslept myself that morning, good New Year’s Day though it was. You see we’d had the watch-night service in the chapel, and I can’t stand these late hours. If I miss my sleep I feel stupid for a week at after. It would, maybe, be seven o’clock, and darkish still, when I was wakened by Tear’em, Abe’s old terrier you know, kicking up the most awful racket you ever heard, and there was somebody pounding at the kitchen door I thought sure it was one of th’ congregation taken badly and wanting my father. They nearly always contrive to come on that errand when we’re warm and snug in bed. Nobody ever seems to be taken worse at a reasonable hour. I’m sure I don’t know why, but it is so, and I’ve heard Dr. Dean say th’ same thing. ‘Well, let ’em knock,’ I thought, ‘father’s not rested yet after th’ watch-night service, an’ I’ll not let him out of this house for th’ King of England till he’s had his porridge. He’s getting too old for tramping th’ moors i’ midwinter on an empty stomach.’ But th’ pounding went on, and Tear ’em got worse and worse. So I slipped out o’ bed an’ drew my blind up, to let ’em know I was waken. Then I dressed myself, and went down to unbar th’ door. When I got it open I saw two men making off down th’ road as fast as their legs could carry them; th’ snow was falling thick and fast, and they’d their backs to me and their heads bent, so who they were I’ve no more notion than our cat. Not to swear to, I mean, but if one of them wasn’t Daft Billy my name’s not Ruth Holmes, and that I’ll stick to, to my dying day, though father says I’ve no right to jump to conclusions. ‘Well, that’s a nice trick to play on a parson,’ I was saying to myself, ‘that’ll be some Slowit Church Choir that have been letting New Year in, an’ done this for spite,’ when I heard a groan that made me jump nearly out of my frock. And there was poor Abe, propped up against the house side all covered with white, like a snowman. His head was sunk on his breast, and his coat, was tied round his neck. Somebody had tied a dirty red handkerchief round his arm to stop the bleeding, and Dr. Dean said whoever’d done it knew a thing or two, and that makes me all the surer Daft Billy had his finger in th’ pie, for you know how clever he is with a cow. Now, do sit further off, Jim, or I won’t say another word.”
“Aw don’t think th’ settle legs at this side are o’er strong,” muttered Jim, “an aw think aw mun ha’ getten a cowd i’ mi yead, for aw dunnot ye’r (hear) so weel at a distance, an’ yo’ munnot speik up or, maybe, yo’ll wakken Abe, an’ aw’m certain sure that’d noan be good for his health. Same as fo’k as walk i’ their sleep, yo’ know: theydosay if yo’ wakken ’em sudden they go off their yeads, an’ stop so all their lives ’at after. Tha’d nivver forgive thissen, Ruth, if yo’ had to shout through me bein’ a bit deafish an’ sittin’ three yard off. But ger on wi’ thi tale.”
“Well, when I saw Abe, I cried ‘Murder!’ with all my might, and as good luck would have it old Deacon Hoyle was just coming up th’ fowd to see if we’d any skim milk to spare for his pig, an’ between us we lifted him up off th’ ground and carried him into th’ house and laid him on this very settle, him moaning all th’ time fit to break your heart, and his face as white as th’ snow itself, and you know what a colour he has when he’s himself. My father came downstairs half dressed and all of a tremble, and then we saw that the bandage round Abe’s arm was soaked with blood. We hadn’t a drop o’ brandy in the house, you know how set my father is against anything stronger than home-brewed, but all of a sudden I bethought me there was half a bottle of port wine left over from th’ last love-feast. I poured half a mugful down Abe’s throat, and he just gasped and opened his eyes, then groaned worse than ever, and seemed just to swoon away.
“‘Enoch Hoyle,’ I cried, ‘if ever you made haste in your life, which I doubt, stir those long legs of yours now, and pack yourself down to Slowit to Dr. Dean’s. Yo’ll catch him before he starts his rounds, and tell him our Abe’s bleeding himself to death.’ Well, that’s all, I think. We got him to bed after th’ doctor had come and seen to his arm. He says—th’ doctor I mean—that Abe’s been stabbed, and there’s foul play somew’ere.”
“And who do you think did it, Ruth?”
“Aye, who? Father thinks it may be one of those Bradburys over at Bill’s o’ Jack’s. But I’ve reasons of my own for thinking different.”
“And aw’ll be bun’ you’re reet, Ruth,” asseverated Jim, with great conviction. “I’d back thee agen yo’r own feyther, an’ that’s a big word to say, an’ him such a clever owd felly.”
“You mustn’t say ‘reet,’ Jim—how often have I to tell you,” said Ruth, severely. “You must say ‘right.’ I do wish you’d take more pains with your speech, if we’re ever to be more than just good friends, and that we’ll always be, won’t we?”
“Friends be dalled,” quoth Jim. “Us ’ll be one flesh an’ one blood, an’ afore so long either, or I’ll know the reason why. But aw dunnot know ha’ it is, aw can talk reet—aw mean reight—aw mean right—enough when aw ta’ my time to it, but as sooin as aw warm to th’ collar, so to speik—theer aw go again, aw mean speak—out th’ owd Yorkshire comes as brode—aw mean broad—as they mak’ it.”
Now I couldn’t help thinking even as I lay there, with more than enough to perplex me and that of moment, that Ruth was a little hard upon poor Jim; for certain sure am I that she herself aye, and even, my learned and reverend father himself often, in moment of excitement or stress lapsed into the common speech; and the little wonder, too, when the common speech saluted our ears from all sides from Monday morning to Sunday night. As for me, why, I never knew when I was “talking broad,” as they say, or “talking fine,” for the dialect came to me as natural as mother’s milk to a sucking babe, as my first spoken words were to show. For at this very juncture I opened wide my eyes, and turning my head as well as I could to the settle, I said:
“Aw could eit some browies, Ruth, an’ drink a pint o’ drink.”
“The Lord preserve us,” almost screamed Ruth, as she jumped away from Jim, “if the lad isn’t wakken an’ got his know again.”
They both came to my bedside and gazed at me as though I were a natural curiosity, or something in a peep-show. Then Jim:
“Weel, lad, I’m mighty fain to hear thee speik a word o’ sense agen. Tha’s had a slate off, not to say th’ whole thack, this mony a weary day an’ neet. Aw’n ta’en my turn to sit up wi’ thee, an’ of all th’ gibberish I ivver yeard tha ta’es th’ button. But tha’s started weel, nah tha has come to thi senses— ‘browies an’ a pint o’ drink.’ If Ruth here ’ll see to th’ browies, aw’ll fot th’ drink.”
“You seem to know your way about at Pole Moor,” I remarked meaningly.
Jim looked confused. “Weel, nowt to speik on,” he said, “but aw do know mi way to th’ buttry. Yo’ see, sittin’ up th’ neet through wi’ nob’dy to talk to but Tear ’em, an’ nowt to read but Fox’s ‘Book o’ Martyrs’ an’ ‘Th’ Call to th’ Unconverted’—not ’at aw’n a word to say agen them books, mind yo’, an’ don’t you go tellin’ yo’r feyther ’at aw an—well, it’s dry work, to put it mild, an’ if aw hadn’t had a drop o’ summat to weet mi clay aw should ha’ nodded off belike just when it were time to gi’ thee thi doctor’s stuff. Summat to ‘allay th’ fever,’ owd Dean ca’d it, which my mother says if they’d let thee sup thi fill o’ cherry-laurel watter tha’d ha bin up an’ about afore this—tha knows what a woman she is for herbs. Oo’s med me read owd Culpepper awmost fro’ back to back sin’ tha’s bin ligged here, an’ as far as aw can mak’ aat from what th’ owd herbalist says in his book, an’ fro’ mi mother’s comments on what aw’n read to her, tha’s getten abaat sixty different complaints all to thi own cheek. Tha’s getten th’ symptoms o’ all on ’em, an’ partickler o’ those wi’ th’ jaw-breakin’ names, at aw couldn’t reelly put me tongue to. Why, Ruth hersen couldn’t chrisen haulf on ’em; could ta, Ruth?” And here Jim paused to take wind for a fresh start.
“Where’s my father?” I asked.
“Why, where should he be at nine o’clock of a Sabbath morn?” asked Ruth, proceeding, woman-wise, to answer her own question. “He’s in th’ barn, to be sure, with th’ Sunday School. I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I’m sure. One would have thought my father had enough to do, with two sermons every Sunday, one on week-days, sick visiting, prayer meetings, conferences, a cow, two pigs, a potato patch, a sick son——”
“An angel o’ a dowter,” put in Jim.
“And now, to crown all, this new-fangled Sunday School. And there’s Enoch Hoyle as proud as Punch because they’ve set him on to teach th’ youngest class their alphabet.”
“Why, Enoch can’t read himself,” I exclaimed feebly.
“No, but he’s learning from th’ scholars as they go on,” explained Ruth, glad, so it seemed to me, to keep chattering on any subject under the sun and not yet fully recovered from the confusion into which she had been thrown by my unexpected return to consciousness “I hearkened to them t’other Sunday, You know we’ve had the letters of the alphabet cut in large wood letters. ‘What do you ca’ this chap,’ says Enoch to th’ top boy in th’ class, taking up a letter promiscuous like. ‘It’s a P,’ says th’ boy. ‘An’ what dost ta ca’ it?’ asks Enoch from the next boy. ‘It’s a P for sartin’,’ says th’ lad. And so on, right down to the bottom boy. Then Enoch laid down the letter with a profound sigh. ‘It’s a P,’ he pronounced, an’ don’t yo’ forget it as long as yo’ live.’ And that’s how Enoch is both learning to read and teaching his class. He says he’ll die happy when he can spell ‘Belgian hares.’ But there, I’m talking all this time of something and nothing, and what we’ve all been dying to know these days back is how you came by that nasty wound in your arm. Dr. Dean says it’s our duty to society to bring the offenders to book, though father ever quotes to him ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.’
“And what does Dr. Dean say to that?” I asked, more to gain time than from any curiosity as to the worthy surgeon’s views.
“Oh, he makes short work of texts. He says they’re right enough on Sundays and for Sunday wear, but on week days he opines God Almighty relies on the secular arm, as he calls it.”
“Meaning th’ bobby,” interpreted Jim.
“It seemed to me from what I heard you saying to Jim——” I began.
“You mustn’t trust your ears for anything you fancy you heard just as you came to your senses,” put in Ruth hurriedly, and blushing red as a peony. “You can never be sure how much was real and how much dreaming.”
“To be sure,” corroborated Jim, wagging his head sagely.
“Well, I fancied I heard you say you had reasons of your own for thinking it wasn’t one of the Bradbury’s gave me this jab in my arm.”
“Oh! if that’s all you heard,” said Ruth, evidently much relieved.
“I didn’t say itwasall I heard,” I replied, trying to look at her with much severity, whilst Jim seemed to be studying a crack in the ceiling. “But Ishouldlike to know your reasons.”
“Well, Miriam, you know,” began Ruth.
“Aye, Miriam,” I cried, and turned myself in bed so unguardedly that all the pains of hell gat hold upon me, as it says in the Book, or so it seemed to me for an excruciating moment or two. “Aye, Miriam?”
“Sakes alive,” cried Ruth, “them browies! Th’ fat ’ll be boiling over into th’ fire. Miriam ’ll wait, but good beef dripping on a hot fire ’ll wait neither for man nor maid,” and Ruth whisked out of the chamber with all her sail on.
I tried to shrug my shoulders as I glanced at Jim, as though by a shrug I would convey to him what sort of treatment he might anticipate for himself in the days to come; but a sharp twinge warned me to lie quiet. There was silence between us, whilst Jim shredded some thin twist, drawing a dirty clay out of his fob and eyeing it longingly.
“I think I’ll go and ha’ a reek o’ baccy in th’ kitchen, I can put mi yead up th’ flue,” he said, sheepishly.
“You can smoke here,” I said curtly. “And look here, Jim, tell me what sort of a tale’s running the country about this hurt of mine.”
“There’s all mak’s,” said Jim. “Aw nivver knew so mich to do i’ my life abaat a bit o’ a cut ’at ony chap could get if he gate into a scrap wi one o’ them Irish haymakers ’at come over i’ th’ hay-time. Aw’m all for th’ bare nieve missen, wi’ a bit o’ a clog toe thrown in as an extry; but th’ Irish ’ll use a knife on a pinch. But if yo’d be blown up wi’ gunpowther there couldn’t ha’ bin more doment. For one thing, there’s bin at least hauf a dozen special prayer meetin’s at th’ Pole here, an’ on your account, an’ th’ prayers o’ th’ congregation ha’ been specially requested for our brother Abe ’at lies stricken unto death. Aw suppose there’ll be a thanksgiving sarvice nah tha’rt on th’ mend. Then th’ constable fro’ Marsden has bin nosin’ raand. He’s bin uncommon civil to me, an’ stooid a quart or two, but aw’n bin mum. For one reason, yo’ see, aw knowed nowt, tho’ yo’ mun be sewer aw hannot tell’d him so, an noan likely to as long as free quarts is goin’. If owt leaks aat, it’ll be Enoch Hoyle’s tellin’. He’s fair longin’ for another Court do. He were so set up wi’ hissen ower th’ way yo’ bested th’ Bradbury’s o’er Ephraim’s job ’at he’s just hitchin’ for another innin’s.”
“By the by,” I asked, “where is Ephraim?”
“Ax me another,” quoth Jim, eyeing me sideways. “He’s vanished. Ne’er been heard on sin’ New Year’s Eve, same neet yo’ were set on. Some folk’s puttin’ this an’ that together. But aw’m not for speerin’.”
“Well, don’t, Jim, there’s a good lad. An’ shut Enoch’s mouth if you can. I’ve my reasons. Ah, here’s Ruth with th’ browies, an’ I’m mortal hungry, and as dry as a lime kiln.”
It was almost worth while being ill to savour those browies and that ale. Never, sure, were nectar and ambrosia sweeter on Olympian lips than that homely mixture of haver-bread and beef-dripping, piping hot, and pepper and salt, washed down with innocent home-brewed. I’ve lived to see the day when men and women drink tea by the quart when their fathers quaffed their home-brewed; and shattered nerves and dyspeptic stomachs tell what’s amiss. Worse still, I’ve lived to see the day when you can travel the countryside for miles around and hardly a housewife be found that can brew a peck of honest malt. It’s malt and chemicals now, dear bought at the public-house; and muddled heads and shaky limbs tell what’s amiss.
But so long as my father lived never did drop of alien brew pass the doors of Pole Moor Manse, and as for spirits save a thimbleful of brandy in case of sickness the very name was anathema in my father’s ears and while I was spooning my brownies with great gusto and meditating another mighty pull at the pewter jug, my dear old father stole softly up the narrow staircase in his stocking-feet, having doffed his shoon in the kitchen, partly to avoid noise, but more to avoid dirt and Ruth’s consequent and instant railing accusations. And when he saw me so valiantly engaged, the little, thin man, with a heart as tender as a woman’s and as dauntless as Goliath’s, could find no words to speak, but must needs sit by my couch and softly pat my big hand, and bid me not to talk more but sleep if I could. And, knowing well that no petition could please him better, I asked him to read just a verse or two from the Book that was indeed to him the Book of Life, and as he read in his grave, soft voice, all tremulous now, how the Master came nigh to the gate of a certain city and there was one carried out, the only son of his mother and she a widow, and how the Lord had compassion on her and bade her weep not, and how the young man sat up and began to speak, and “he delivered him to his mother,” the warm tears trickled softly down the hollow cheeks, and I knew that not in Nain only was “God glorified,” and full of thankfulness to heaven for the love of this sainted man, and still weak, doubtless, from loss of blood and confinement to bed, and low diet, and drowsy perchance, from the ale I had drunk, and at natural peace with God and man, I sank into a natural sleep, and so slumbered with my father’s hand in mine.
It was not till some days afterwards, I being then much stronger, and my arm having sunk to something like its normal size, and I feeling little after effects from my wound, save a most voracious appetite that Ruth condescended to tell me her reasons for acquitting the Bill’s o’ Jack’s folk of having part or parcel in the attack I had been so rudely treated. It seemed that on the afternoon of the day I had been discovered propped against the Manse, Ruth had sallied forth in a blinding snowstorm to fetch from Dr. Dean’s surgery in Slaithwaite the potions and lotions he had prescribed. And not far from Pole Moor, evidently waiting about on the chance of waylaying anyone who left the parson’s house, she had come across the shrinking form of Miriam, looking, as Ruth declared, more like a sheeted ghost than a human being, so shrouded was she in the fallen flakes, white her face, so piteous and “feart” her eyes.
“Oh, Ruth, at last, at last; I thought no one would ever come! How is he, how is he? Will he get better? What does the doctor say?” Miriam had cried.
“And how do you know our Abe’s badly, I should like to know,” Ruth had answered tartly, for one may be sure she was in none the best of tempers, and small blame to her.
“Oh, Ruth, dear, dear Ruth, don’t speak unkindly to me. I’m sure I’ve enough to bear without you turning on me,” and here, it seemed, poor Miriam, who was not one of your crying sort, had fairly broken down, and Ruth, all there on the lone road and in the blinding snow, had put her arm round the swaying form, and Miriam had sobbed out her story on Ruth’s gentle breast.
“Granny’s like to die,” she had said, “and couldn’t or wouldn’t rest till she had seen Abe. She had found the ring Abe had given me, and after that nothing would quieten her but seeing Abe. And Daft Billy had brought Abe long after midnight, and Ephraim was there, and there were angry words and foul looks, and Ephraim went off in ugly mood. Then after a long, long time Abe started out, but whether for Pole Moor or Wrigley Mill I didn’t know for sure. And after he had gone I couldn’t rest for thinking of Ephraim’s black looks. Something here,” putting her hand over her fluttering heart, “seemed to tell me that danger menaced Abe. I dare not leave the sick woman, or I would myself have braved the darkness and the storm even in that grim hour. So, unable to still the forebodings that beset me, I stole out of the house to the hovel where Daft Billy dwells by his lone. I roused him with difficulty, and told him my fears. As he valued my friendship I bade him follow Abe’s footsteps, if he could trace them in the snow, and see Abe, himself unseen, safe bestowed either at Pole Moor or Wrigley Mill.” And Billy, who it seemed was in the habit of sleeping in his clothes, as saving trouble and blankets, had snatched up a lanthorn and made off in the dark, whilst Miriam returned to the sick woman’s side, to count the minutes, aye, the seconds, till news should come. Then after a never-ending waiting, after the late dawn of day, Billy had returned to Burnplatts, had thrust open her cottage door, and said just this and no more:
“Th’ young fooil’s all reet. There’s bin a bit o’ a accident, but nowt to scare yo’. He’s at th’ Pole.”
And neither coaxing, nor threats, nor cross-examination, nor bribes, nor tears, nor woman’s wiles in all their forms and force, could extract another word from Billy, surnamed the Daft, but who, as I think I have said before, was by no means so daft as he was called.
And of Ephraim there had been neither sight nor sound since he had left his granddam’s cottage on that eventful New Year’s morn.
But it was whispered at Burnplatts—goodness knows how such things do get bruited abroad—that Abe, the old parson’s son, was sick unto death, stabbed to the heart on Stanedge Moor. How he had been conveyed to Pole Moor there were a thousand guesses; but I couldn’t tell, and Daft Billy wouldn’t.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PASSING OF MOTHER SYKES.
IT must have been in the third or fourth week of my convalescence. I know I was allowed to get up for a few hours each day and sit by the fireside wrapped in a great shawl, and I kept Ruth busy making beef-tea and mutton-broth and rice puddings and custards. Fortunately, as she said, her hens had settled well down to laying, and eggs were plentiful. Dr. Dean had been very wroth when he heard about the home-brewed. He said it was of an inflammatory nature, and had put me on to barley water, a drink I’ve had a mortal loathing for ever since.
I was sat, as I have said, by the fire, very sick of my own company, and not finding it much improved by “The Call, to the Unconverted,” or the other goodly books my father exhorted me to read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest. I wondered then, and have often wondered since, how it is that your good books, or is it only your goody-goody books, are such dreary reading. I would cheerfully have swapped all the works on my reverend father’s shelves for an hour’s discourse with that cheerful sinner, Jim. Except, perhaps, Mr. Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress.” Ah! there’s a book, if you like.
But, anyroad, there’s one good thing about even goody-goody books. Dr. Dean had been strict in his commands that I must be kept quiet and absolutely free from excitement, and no one can say there’s anything very exhilarating about Hervey’s “Meditations among the Silent Tombs” a work specially commended to me by one of the Pole Moor deacons. So little so did I find it that I was nodding off to sleep in the chair when Ruth came softly into the room.
“There’s Daft Billy downstairs,” she said in a low voice, “and father’s getting his thick boots and goloshes and gaiters on, and he’s put his Bible into his pocket. I can’t quite make out—Billy ’d say nowt, though I’d a hard try at him—but unless I’m very much mistaken things are moving down at Burnplatts.
“And me like a lump o’ lumber on th’ hearthstone,” I muttered impatiently.
“We’st know more than we do now when father comes back. I’ll have some hot potato cakes, with plenty of butter. Th’ price tea’s at it’s like dissolving pearls in wine, as I’ve read those pagan Romans used to do; but all th’ same, father’st have his dish of tea to-night, if I’ve to break into that pound my aunt Keziah brought me on my first birthday, though she did say it was not to be broken into till my wedding day. Then when father’s got his wet shoon off, an’ had his tea, and got his pipe nicely going, see if I don’t get it all out of him.”
“You’re like that lady of high quality I read about, Ruth. She boasted she could always keep her husband in a good humour. ‘How do you do it?’ someone asked. ‘I feed the brute,’ was her recipe.”
“And quality or no quality, that lady was none bout sense,” opined Ruth. “Nine times out of ten the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“But a parson’s heart!” I protested.
“Why, now, who should know them better nor me?” retorted Ruth. “Don’t I have to do for ’em when they have their monthly conferences at th’ Pole. If there’s one set o’ men more than another with a weakness for hot muffins and plenty of butter it’s parsons, an’ Baptist parsons at that.”
Well, now, whether it was the influence of the tea or the potato-cake or the snug comfort of my little bedroom, to which my father brought his pipe, I know not. But this is certain, that no sooner had Ruth handed him his long churchwarden, and the weed had attained an assured glow, and Ruth had nestled up to his knee, seated on a little hassock with her steel knitting needles glinting in the fire’s rays as they threaded warp and weft for my winter “comforter,” or neck muffler, than my father began:
“Well, old Mother Sykes of Burnplatts has gone at last. She’s been failing this while back. I scarce expected her to last so long.”
“Dead!” I cried. “Mother Sykes dead!”
My father nodded gravely.
“She passed quietly away at two o’clock this afternoon. I was with her, and that strange girl we’ve always thought so much out of her natural sphere at Burnplatts. A wild, untamed spirit, I fear; but a good heart, a good and a feeling heart. She’d had a stormy and eventful, life, poor soul, but thank God her end was peace.”
“What, Miriam’s?” I gasped.
“Miriam’s, no—I was talking of the old woman. She had a deal to tell me, as well as her breathing would let her, but she gave me to understand that you, Abel, knew all it was needful to know. I’ve never compelled your confidence, Abel, but I’m not aware that I’ve been a hard father or sought ought but my children’s good.”
My conscience smote me. I had had it in my mind many a time to tell him how things stood between me and Miriam. But to tell the honest truth I had put off and put off because I more than feared he would bid me see Miriam no more. And obey him in that I knew I could not do.
“She’s to be buried next Friday. She wants to lie at Pole Moor, but I don’t quite know how that may be. Our little croft’s getting very full, and the fathers and mothers in Israel have their claim. There’s our own grave, to be sure: there’s room left there for me by your dear mother’s side, and for you, Abel, and for Ruth.”
“Oh,” cried Ruth, “th’ poor woman can have my share, and welcome. I’ll make shift anywhere The old dame’s been cuffed about enough in her lifetime, without being hawked about now she’s dead.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said my father, patting Ruth’s plump little hand fondly. “‘Let all things be done decently and in order’ the Book says. And I fear me some of the brethren may regard the departed as the Hebrews of old looked on the uncircumcised. But truly we’re under the New Dispensation, and the letter killeth, but the spirit keepeth alive.”
“There’s another text, father, about the dead burying their dead. What about the living? What about Miriam? If her grandmother made things plain to you, Burnplatts is no place for her now her only protector’s dead and gone. Come to that, it never was. Surely she’s not left alone in the house with her dead. Oh, if I’d only the strength of a kitling I’d be down to Burnplatts myself. You’ll go, Ruth?”
“And have you so little knowledge of your father, Abel? The maid Miriam is well seen to. There’s that strange man, Daft Billy, hangs about the place and will see no harm comes to her—a wild, uncouth creature, but a faithful. Then there are the women kind: a wildish lot, maybe, but they all seemed bent on easing the maid’s burden. Still, I’d have had her return with me to Pole Moor. But that she flatly refused to do. She said her Granny had cared her all her days and she wasn’t going to leave her till she had seen her laid in her last resting-place. And she was in the right of it, I thought.”
“And what at after?” I asked anxiously. “It’s out of all question that she can go on living at Burnplatts.”
“There’ll be no need for that,” said my sire. “She has money of her own, and can pick and choose her abiding place.
“Miriam? Money?”
“Why, yes. Have you forgotten old Mr. Garside’ bequest that lies now at usury in the bank at Huddersfield? Who’s should it be but the maid Miriam’s?”
Now, believe me or believe me not, you who may come to read this simple story, I’d clean forgotten the money that Mr. Garside had entrusted to my care, or, rather, should I say, it had not recurred to my mind. Nor is this so much to be wondered at. First of all had come the overwhelming revelation of Miriam’s identity, and then, before my mind had had time to assimilate old Granny Sykes’s story, I’d gone through a serious illness, my wits all scattered, and, as I’ve said more than once, I don’t set up for being one of the clever ones of the earth. But, you see, my old father’s wits had been sharper than mine, and, sure enough, the girl who had been dragged about Fairs, and Wakes, and “Thumps,” and “Rants,” selling brooms and telling fortunes, had a tidy little sum lying at command and need be beholden to no one for food and shelter in her hour of sore trial. I was pondering these things in my mind in a mazed and bewildered sort of way when Ruth broke in:
“I don’t know what you two are driving at, I’m sure. If there’s secrets about I can go downstairs and sit with th’ cat. But all this talk about Miriam being heir to that money in th’ bank’s just so much gibberish to me. Can’t one of you tell a plain tale for once. Happen you’ll find it worth while to take a woman into counsel when it’s a woman’s future you’ve got to deal with.”
“I thought Abel would have told you,” said my father mildly.
“Abe, indeed!” quoth my sister, with an accent that rated me very low indeed.
“Well, you’d better tell her now, lad, and I’ll go make th’ beasts up for the night. Then you get to bed, Abe; you’ve been up o’er long as ’tis.”
“Now then, Abe; if you’ve anything to tell me, out with it,” said Ruth, as my father gently closed the door behind him. “If there’s one thing I dislike more than another it’s to be kept on tenter-hooks.”
“Well, it’s about that money of old Mr. Garside’s You know how I came to be a sort of trustee for it?”
“Of course I know. It’s for the poor old man’s daughter if you can find her, which I doubt you’ll never do. And if you don’t light on her—and I’m sure it’ll be like looking for a needle in a hay-stack—light on her in so long—let’s see, three years, wasn’t it?—the money’s to be your own. Well, it’s as good as yours, for find her you never will, if there ever was such a person—sick folk, especially when they’ve clammed themselves to death, as th’ old hermit did, by all accounts, get queer notions into their heads.”
“But she is found,” I said quickly.
Ruth’s face fell, and she stared at me in consternation.
“I never did!” she managed to get out at last. “Well, well, it’s an old saying, and a true one, that you shouldn’t count your chickens afore they’re hatched. I’d wrong neither man nor maid if I knew it, and well I know the Book says ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s goods,’ but you can’t fairly call someone yo’n never clapped your eyes on your neighbour, it stands to reason you can’t, and I’ll own up honest I could many a time have awmost found it in my heart to pray that you’d fall heir to that brass. A God-send it would have been to Pole Moor, I know. But there, what is to be will be, and that’s good Pole Moor doctrine, anyhow. But who is she, Abe, and however did you hap on her, and does my father know, and have you told Jim? My word, if Jim knows and has kept it to himself, and me wearing to skin and bone for anxiety over it, I’ll let him know about it.” And Ruth clenched her little fist and looked daggers at an imaginary Jim.
Now it wasn’t often I had a chance of crowing it over my clever and self-willed little sister. I’m not quick, and nimble-witted, and glib of tongue as she ever was. So I was minded to relish my triumph for a while.
“Aw should think such a clever wench as yo’, Ruth, could guess at twice,” I said. “Besides, I feel a bit sleepy now. Aw think forty winks ’ud do me good. So yo’d best go help Jim fodder th’ cattle.”
“No, you don’t, Abe Holmes. Not another wink o’ sleep shalt tha have till yo’n towd me who she is. Some stuck-up, high-and-mighty miss I’ll be bound. Them rich relations o’ th’ owd hermit, over in Manchester, ’ll have been before us; and now th’ brass ’ll go where it’s noan needed, an’ you’ll have had your trouble for nowt. It’s th’ way o’ th’ world.”
“Well, I’ve seen the lady,” I remarked, in a indifferent a tone as I could assume, “and she didn’t strike me as being over and above stuck-up. Just about th’ ordinary like for that.”
“Then she is a lady!” cried Ruth, triumphantly. “If I didn’t say so! Well, it’s good-bye to th’ fortune, Abe. Tha’s had th’ fingering o’ it, an’ tha knows th’ touch and feel on it, and much good may th’ thoughts on it do thee when somebody else has th’ waring on it. Heigho!” and Ruth ended somewhat lamely with a deep-drawn sigh.
“Well, I’m not so sure about not having th’ waring of it,” I said in a meditative tone. “You see, the lady’s young and not married. I’ve a notion she’s not quite fancy-free. But that’s nowt. She might be got to change her mind. Women have been known to do such things, or else they’re sadly lied on. I’ve thought it wouldn’t be a bad plan to try my luck with her. What dost think, Ruth?”
“And what wouldyoudo with a fine lady, Abe? I fancy I see you nimby-pimbying up to one, and I fancy I see how she’d look when you did it. Of course you’ll go in your clogs and your smock; and be sure yo’ don’t forget that warkday cap o’ yours, more grease nor cloth. But you’re only talking for talking’s sake. Besides, there’s Miriam!”
“Oh, Miriam!” I said slightingly.
“Yes, Miriam,” cried Ruth, flaring up sudden gunpowder. “Miriam, poor lass, and her at this very minute, when you sit theer an’ talk so cool o’ chucking her over for that stinking brass, needing all th’ love and comfort she can get. I cry shame on you, Abel Holmes. I’d never have thought it on you. I never thought o’er much o’ your head-piece, Abe; but true and honest I could have sworn you were, aye, true to death. If anybody ’d told me my brother would have played such a trick on his plighted love, aye, for all th’ mines o’ Golconda, I’d have—I’d have—scratched their eyes out, aye, that I would,” and Ruth’s voice broke in a sob, and I saw the silly farce had been played o’er long.
“Why, Ruth, dear sis., it is Miriam.”
“What’s Miriam?” she almost sobbed.
“It’s Miriam that’s Mr. Garside’s daughter; Miriam that owns that little fortune.”
Ruth stared at me as though wondering whether I had taken leave of my senses again. Then she called out, “You wicked, wicked wretch,” and fetched me a smart smack across my powl with her open hand, and then must needs put her arm about my neck and cling to me, half laughing and half crying, and saying over and over again, “Oh, Abe, I’m so glad, so glad for Miriam’s sake.” And then, shrewd, practical, managing little woman that she was:
“And what’s to be done now?”
“I’ve thought of that, too. I’ve done a lot of thinking lately. There’s nowt else to do in bed when you’re not sleeping. If I were a ’torney, and had a knotty case to worry me, I’d just go to bed and think ovver it. There’s more wisdom between th’ blankets nor was ever fun at an office desk. And th’ first thing, Ruth, if you want both to pleasure me, and do what’s a right and a Christian thing into th’ bargain, just you don yourself right off and get you down to th’ Burnplatts. You’re Miriam’s sister-in-law that is to be, and that makes you a sort of relation. Anyhow, she’s in sore trouble, and she has a right to turn to us. I’d have been there long sin’ but for this confounded arm, and arm or no arm I’st go if you don’t.”
“Go, of course, I’ll go; and not because of that money either, nor yet to pleasure you. I’ll go because Miriam needs me, if ever poor lass needed a friend to stay by her side. I’ll stop at th’ Burnplatts till all’s over. Surely those outlandish Burnplatters will behave themselves like decent folk till th’ funeral’s over, though they do say an Irish Wakes isn’t in it for whisky where a Burnplatts’ funeral comes. I do hope that wild runagate Ephraim will give th’ spot a wide berth while I’m there. But what at after? There’s the rub, as that mad Hamlet said.”
“Why, bring her back with you to Pole Moor. Tell her you’re worn out with nursing me and want rest. Tell her I’m going back-ards way for want of proper attention—oh, tell her any mak’ o’ a fairy-tale you like—only bring her.”
Ruth fetched me a smacking kiss on my forehead.
“And bring her I will,” she cried, “if I’ve to make Jim hug her here,” and she tripped blithely out of the room and down the narrow staircase, singing like a thrush out of the lightness of her heart, and calling “Jim, Jim,” in her clear, young voice.
CHAPTER IX.
A GREAT TEA-DRINKING.
AND bring her she did: her and as tiny a kit of clothing as ever, I imagine, was borne even by the poorest emigrant leaving these shores for distant lands. Poor Miriam, she looked sadly abashed when first she set foot in our modest home. The Manse at Pole Moor, you may well believe, was not a palace, yet a palace it may well have seemed to one who all her young life had known nought but the dirty squalor of Burnplatts. And what a magician that saucy Ruth of ours proved herself in those early days of Miriam’s coming. I would have you to understand that whereas my Miriam was slender and willowy of bodily build, Ruth was not so tall as she by a good two inches and of a comfortable and restful plumpness. Yet, before Miriam had been three days beneath my father’s roof, behold her arrayed in one of Ruth’s frocks that, to the male eye at least, appeared to fit her like a glove. Then her hair—her glorious, shiny, lustrous locks, dark as night, that ever since I had known my love had flowed at large about her neck and shoulders and twisted and twined about her bosom in a curling disarray—Ruth had tucked it up into a coiling knot that nestled snugly in the nape of the neck. I vow that when Ruth led Miriam thus transfigured into my room, her eyes downcast, the ready blush mantling her cheeks, I scarce knew her at first glance. With what a gentle grace the moved; how soft and sweet her speech; there was a self-possession and composure about her that are foreign to the girls one mostly meets on the hill-sides, with their hearty ways and quick, bustling movements.