Chapter 5

Now you won’t need to be told that if ever a man felt bursting with happiness that man was no other than myself in those weeks of my convalescence, with Miriam to keep me company, and, as Jim put it, “cocker me up like a great spoiled babby.” But I protest that Miriam was in greater danger of being spoiled than I. I say nothing of my wondering pride and worship in those days. It is right and natural that a lover should worship his mistress—doesn’t the very marriage service say, “With my body I thee worship?”—it is natural that he should deem her peerless among women; but I say that in those days my lover’s worship was blended with a sort of wondering awe and a fearful pride. For, whether it was the change from the wild and uncouth ways of the folk among whom she had been brought up, or the spirit of her father that moved in her blood, or the conscious striving to put her past behind her and be a new and nobler being for love’s sake, or all these and I know not what other subtler influences put together, that is a riddle I cannot solve. But this is certain, that the wild, elfish creature, more than half gipsy, to whom I had poured out my love on the wild moors that seemed so fitting setting for the picture she then made, became by quick, yet insensible, degrees a maiden of so sweet yet quiet a charm, moving serenely as a swan sails the waters, and, as it were, queening it among us without an effort and without even meaning it.

“I don’t know how it is,” said Ruth in commenting on this marvellous change to Jim. “She makes me feel as if she were a porcelain vase and I a common pewter flagon.”

“Well, aw always liked pewter mysen,” Jim had said. “Ale never tastes so guid as out o’ a pewter pot. Gi’ me pewter, let them ha’ porcelain ’at wants it.” But I don’t think Ruth took much comfort from this. Not that she bore Miriam any malice. Not she indeed. She just simply accepted her as an elder sister whom it was a pleasure and a duty to minister to and to admire. Miriam ran some danger of being spoiled, even by Ruth, until, after our guest had settled down somewhat into our ways, Ruth set her to help in the kitchen. And then came the amazing and, to Ruth, not unpleasing discovery that Miriam was just as ignorant of the commonest household duties as Ruth was proficient. She couldn’t bake, she couldn’t brew, she didn’t know what a churn was, she had never in her life made a pat of butter, and she had the most elementary notions even of the abstruse science of bed-making. And in the teaching of her new pupil Ruth was able to recover somewhat of that sense of general superiority which years of undisputed sway at Pole Moor had made a second nature with my good sister.

But in the spoiling of Miriam the greatest and chief of sinners was none other than my reverend father. Is it to be counted a weakness in a minister of the Gospel to seek to make converts to his faith? Surely nay, even though, as the Book says, he compass sea and land to do it.

And in matters of religion Miriam’s mind was a virgin soil. She was absolutely ignorant of doctrine. Until she came to Pole Moor never once had she set foot in Church or Chapel. As an infant she had not been baptised—a source of much satisfaction to my father, who was great in his scorn of what he called pædobaptism, which I take to mean the baptism of infants; and I have heard him hold forth by the hour upon the sinfulness of admitting puling babes to the membership of Christ’s Church, and on the whimsical practice of allowing sponsors in the persons of godfathers and godmothers to take upon themselves spiritual responsibility for the backslidings of their godchildren, for, as Enoch Hoyle sagely remarked, in the sight of God every tub must stand upon its own bottom. So my father set himself to preparing Ruth for baptism and admission to the Church of God at Pole Moor by expounding to her the true faith as declared by Calvin. And to all his teaching did Miriam seriously incline. It was a winsome sight, those drear winter nights, to see the old man sat by the glowing peat fire with Miriam on a hassock by his knees the while, one hand gently stroking her ebon locks, he fed her, as Enoch Hoyle put it, with the sincere milk of the Word, she staring musing into the red embers, her hands resting idle on her lap.

Now as to the absolute soundness of the doctrine preached by my father I have, I grieve to say, in these my riper years, had many heart-searchings. But no doubts troubled Miriam’s mind. I do not doubt that from the first she accepted my father as the very oracle of God. She stood as it were appalled before the immensity of his wisdom. That one man, and a little one at that, should have read all the books that cumbered the shelves of his little study, that he should be able to read the very Hebrew in which the Tables of the Law were traced by the Divine finger, that he could read and write the very tongue in which Jesus spoke to his disciples by the sea of Galilee or on the Mount,—oh! who could doubt that such a man must be as the prophets of old, his every word but the echo of the Master’s voice. I do verily believe that if, in some moment of inspired fervour, my father had assured Miriam that the moon was made of green cheese she would have e’en taken his word for it. Never before nor after had my father a more reverent, a more loving pupil. In very truth she sat at his feet and treasured his every word as a pearl beyond price.

But Enoch Hoyle, who felt it his duty to aid in Miriam’s spiritual and doctrinal education, was often sore discomfited, and confessed to me, oft with tears in his eyes, that he believed at bottom, despite her seeming conformity, Miriam was little better than a pagan and a heathen.

“And what makes you think so?” I asked the worthy deacon.

“Weel, aw’m oppen to tell yo’, if yo’re oppen to hear me,” quoth Enoch, settling himself for a good talk, than which there was nothing the good soul liked better, the sound of his own voice being ever the music he liked best. “Aw’ve been a member o’ Pole Moor sin’ th’ chapel were oppened in th’ year o’ our Lord 1790. Aw joined th’ church a bit afore that, when th’ saints met for prayer an’ thanksgivin’ in th’Silent Woman, th’ public down i’ Slowit yonder. Aw’m not denyin’ ’at there were conveniences i’ holdin’ th’ sarvices i’ a licensed house, for preichin’s dry work, an’ listenin’ to some o’ th’ preichers we’n had to put up wi’ ’s drier still. Aw’ve allus thowt th’ Lord missed his way when he didn’t ca’ me to be a preicher mysen. But aw’ve done mi best to mak’ up for that mistake on th’ part o’ Providence bi keepin’ th’ regular ministers up to th’ mark. We’n had ’em o’ all mak’s sin’ th’ Pole were first oppened. There’s bin Calvinist an’ hyper-Calvinists an’ Fullerites an’ Antinomians, an’, as aw’n said, all mak’s, an’ they’n all had th’ benefit o’ owd Enoch Hoyle’s opinion o’ their doctrine an’ preichin’, an’ aw ma’ no doubt they were all th’ better for it. Aw’n stuck like a leech to th’ owd spot, an’ purge th’ flock as they liked, an’ some o’ th’ parsons welly purged it to death, they ne’er managed to purge Enoch Hoyle out o’ it. Aw’d have stuck to it if there’d bin nowt but heath-bobs to preich to, as folk said ’ud be th’ case when we raised our Ebenezer at th’ Pole.”

“But what in the name o’ goodness has all this ancient history to do with Miriam?” I asked.

“Aw’m comin’ to that, Abe, all i’ good time. Dunnot thee be impatient. Th’ gret fault o’ th’ present day is just that same wantin’ to cut things short. Why, if we tuk notice o’ th’ younger end they’d do away wi’ th’ very hour-glass on th’ pulpit desk, an’ we’d ne’er be sure we’d had our money’s worth. What aw want yo’ to understand is ’at me havin’ sat sin’ th’ sap were fresh i’ mi. veins till now aw’m in th’ sere an’ yellow leaf, under this preicher an’ that, aw should know th’ ins an’ outs o’ religious doctrine as weel as here an’ there a one.”

“That seems to stand to reason,” I conceded, though with some misgiving, for I could not see to what this prolix prelude tended.

“Weel,” proceeded Enoch, evidently gratified by my concession, “weel, if there’s one point on which aw’m more clear nor another it’s on th’ doctrine o’ predestination in a’ its fulness an’ consekenses.”

“Ah!” I interposed. “I’ll not be sorry to be enlightened on that point myself. I’ve never been on very sure ground there.”

“Hark yo’ theer now!” said Enoch with great gusto, “an’ yo’ th’ parson’s own son. There’s th’ guiding o’ the Lord i’ this. Aw’st happen kill two birds wi’ one stone yo’ an’ Miriam, aw mean. Weel, it’s this way. There’s no gettin’ away fro’ it ’at God Almighty knows th’ beginnin’ fro’ th’ end, even fro’ th’ beginnin’ o’ th’ world, aye, an’ afore that. Both thee an’ Miriam were in His mind’s eye, so to speik, afore th’ mooin was, or th’ sun or th’ stars, or the waters which are aboon the firmament, an’ them ’at are under the firmament.”

“It looks a long time, Enoch, but go ahead.”

“Weel, an’ if He knew ’at yo’ were goin’ to be born it’s ekally sartin He knew where yo’d go to when yo’ dee, an’ as He could just will it His own gait it’s plain as th’ nose on your face ’at we’re all predestinate oather for Heaven or Hell long afore we were oather born or thowt on.”

“It’s a hard saying, that, Enoch,” I demurred.

“Nowt o’ th’ sort,” maintained Enoch stoutly.

“It’s like sowing turnip seed. Tha knows ’at we sow it i’ han’fuls, an’ it comes up as thick as mustard an’ cress. Weel, we sort out th’ likely shoots an’ leave ’em i’ th’ ground to swell into turnips. T’others we just poo up an’ other mak’ into pottage or throw ’em to th’ pou’try—sheer waste o’ gooid seed, yo’ med say, an’ yet it’s th’ only way. It’s th’ same wi men an’ women. Some’s nobbut fit for pooin’ up an’ castin’ into th’ oven.”

“But, again, what has all this to do with Miriam?” I asked.

“Weel, aw were just speerin’ about owd Granny Sykes, th’ owd beldame at Burnplatts. An’ aw were tellin’ her how thankful oo owt to be to ha’ been ta’en into a Christian household where oo’d ha’ the means o’ grace an’ the hope o’ glory—bein’ dipped, aw mean—and so escape joinin’ Granny Sykes in th’ outer darkness wheer there’s weepin’, an’ wailin’, an’ gnashin’ o’ teeth.”

“Oh, you said that, did you?”

“Aw did. An’ oo’ went as white as a sheet, an’ her eyes shot lightnin’ an’ daggers as oo jumped up an’ just shook me till what few teeth aw han rattled i’ mi yead.”

“ ‘You believe that?’ ” oo said.

“ ‘Aye,’ aw towd her, it were just wovven for her wi’ a shuttle o’ adamant.’ ”

“ ‘Yo’ wicked old man,’ she cried, ‘yo’ wicked, wicked old man.’ Yo’ may tak’ my word for it, Abe, yon wench is a spit-fire, if ivver there were one. Oo’ll be a handful for onny man to tackle, an’ thank God it won’t be Enoch Hoyle.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or to storm; but Enoch Hoyle was Enoch Hoyle, a good man at heart, but surely he had forgotten the assurance that God is Love.

But I’d soon other things to think about than theological doctrines and hair-splittings. By the month of February—a dull, drizzly, raw month it was I well remember, with fits of heavy snow in and among, or maybe I was over nesh from being cooped up so long and cowering over the fire “counting th’ eoiks as Jim put it—and I was able to leave my sick-room and move about the house and into the open, but still in a feeble sort of way. And one night, Ruth and Miriam being gone together down into Slaithwaite shopping, my father bid me sit down as he had much to say to me that had been long on his mind, but which he had stored up till such time as I should be strong enough for serious thought and talk.

“So you and the maid Miriam have plighted troth,” he began, when his churchwarden was drawing comfortably.

“By your leave, father, yes,” I made answer in a shamefaced way, for young men, I know not why, would rather discuss their love affairs with anyone in the world than their own fathers—it’s different, I suppose, with their mothers, but, you see, I hadn’t one.

“Humph,” said my sire, somewhat shortly, “it was French leave, I take it.”

I hung my head.

“Well, well, all’s well that ends well, and I’ll say you’ve had more good luck than you deserve. Miriam’s a bonnie lass, and, what’s of infinitely more importance, a clever one and a good one. If anything could spoil a girl I should say such a bringing up as she must have had at Burnplatts would have done it. But she hath been like unto Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, that passed through the fiery furnace, yet ‘upon their bodies the fire had no power, nor was an hair of their head singed, neither were their coats changed, nor the smell of fire had passed on them.’ Truly with her, as with the three captives in Babylon, the Son of God must have walked whilst she dwelt in the tents of Shem. Aye, verily a goodly maiden and a fair. But thou’ll not have forgotten, Abel, my son, that she is also a maiden well dowered, though, I understand, she does not know it. Has it occurred to thee to think, lad, that it’s scarcely fair to her to hold her to a promise she made when she may have been in despair and ready to snatch at any chance of escape from that wretched and, I fear me, God-accursed Burnplatts?”

“Why, no, father, I’ve never given much thought to the money; but as to holding Miriam or any other lass if she wanted to be free—why, you know, it isn’t in me to do it. We can soon put it to the touch. Tell her of her fortune.”

“That’s what I’m going to do this very night. Nay, more. Four hundred pound’s a meaningless sound to most folk, and how much more to one who probably never fingered a golden coin of her own in all her life. I’ve been down to the bank and drawn Miriam’s fortune. They wanted me to have it in notes; but I’d none of their notes. ‘Give it me in gold,’ I insisted, ‘all in gold.’ And I carried it to Pole Moor, and a rare weight it was. And it shall be heaped before her eyes, and she shall see the yellow glisten of it, and hear the rich chink of it, and handle, and, if she likes, fondle it, as they say misers do, that she may realise that it is a real thing and all her own, and that if she list she may shake the dust of Pole Moor from her feet and go out into the wide world with power to pick and choose.”

Amen, and Amen, said I very heartily, for did I not know my Miriam?

And then we heard the sound of merry chatter and girlish laughter outside the door, and the deep bass of a voice I knew to be Jim’s, and the clatter of clog toes kicked against the step.

“They’re back sooner than I expected,” said my father, “but it’s as well. We’ll get this job through to-night. That will be your friend James Haigh. It wonderful how set he seems to be on you. He’s been unremitting in his inquiries anent your health. It passes me when that young man sleeps. He’s been here up to all hours of the night, and then had to walk through snow and slush the weary, lonesome way over Stanedge to his home.”

Miriam and Ruth came into the room, their eyes bright, their cheeks glowing from the keen air and the healthful exercise. Jim followed somewhat sheepishly in their rear, carrying a big market basket full of groceries. He saluted my father respectfully then grasped my hand, now somewhat worn and white, in his big, horny fist.

“Well, Abe, lad, how’st ta feelin’ nah? Tha mun be comin’ to thi corn again, judgin’ bi th’ layin’-in o’ provender thi sister’s done to-neet. Aw just happened to be dahn i’ Slowit when they wer’ goin’ into th’ shop, so aw in after ’em to buy a bit o’ baccy. By gosh, lad—gosh is noan swearin’ aw hope, Mr. Holmes, aw mun say summat, an’ aw think nother ‘gosh’ nor ‘golly’ ’ll do onny harm—by gosh, lad, aw’m thinkin’ it’s consumptive tha art, th’ way they feed thee. Aw nobbut wish someb’dy stick a knife into me an’ lig me dahn on Pole Moor doorsteps. Golly, aw do sweat, it’s aboon a joke huggin’ a load like that fro’ th’ bottom to th’ sky-line.”

“Why, Jim,” cried Miriam, “you swore it was only a featherweight, and nothing would serve but that you must help Ruth up the hill on your arm.”

Jim’s face went brick-red.

“It’s only when aw come to put it dahn aw felt it,” he stammered.

“He only wants a pitcher of home-brewed,” declared Ruth. “I’ll fetch it when I’ve got my things off and put our shawls over th’ winter-hedge in front o’ th’ kitchen fire. I declare they’re sopping. But you mustn’t say ‘sweat,’ Jim. How often have I to tell you? Only horses sweat. You don’t sweat, you perspire.”

“Oh! don’t aw though?” said Jim. “Weel, aw thowt aw did; but mebbe you’re reet an’ aw only pusspire. But, onny road, sin’ yo’re so pressin’, aw don’t mind a thimbleful or so.”

“A thimbleful,” laughed Ruth, as she left the room to fetch the jug. “As well try to water a ten acre field with a squirt. I never did see the likes of you for home-brewed. It’s well you’ve got no brains to addle, or addled they’d have been long since.”

“Did you ever hear the like?” asked Jim of no one in particular. “It’s th’ only weakness aw’n getten, an’ it seems to me aw’m nivver to hear th’ last on it.” And he sighed resignedly.

Meanwhile my father had fetched the heavy kist entrusted to me by Mr. Garside from under his bed-head, which he had deemed the safest place to keep it. He placed it solemnly in the centre of the table, as solemnly unlocked it, and poured its glittering contents out in a golden shower. As I have said, there were a trinket or two besides the yellow coins, and, while Jim and I stared at the growing pile and grabbed the guineas to prevent them rolling on to the floor, Miriam and Ruth paid just no heed to the precious coins, but pounced with little cries of delight upon the gemmed brooches and rings, with happy cries of “Oh, isn’t it sweet? Look at this, darling, and at this,” and so on. And Miriam picked up a brooch that glistened and sparkled by the light of the lamp, and drew Ruth to a long looking-glass that hung on the wall, and pinned it on her frock, and kissed and hugged her, then kissed and hugged her again, and told her it suited her so it must have been made on purpose for her. Then when we’d all quieted down a bit, my father explained at length to Miriam that all this was her very own, and asked what she was minded to do with it.

“Weel, aw mun be goin’!” Jim began, before Miriam could find words to answer my father. “It’s gettin’ latish, n’, aw’ve a tidy step. Why, guise hang me, if it isn’t goin’ on for ten o’ clock.”

“Better stop all night, Jim,” pressed my father. “It’s a rough night and a dark. You must sleep with Abe and lose a quarter to-morrow.”

“Thi arm’s noan smittlin’, is it, Abe? All reet, then, aw’ll stop, an’ thank ye; but aw thowt happen yo’d like to talk this fortin’ job ovver among yersen.”

“Such nonsense,” said Ruth.

“What shall I do with it?” asked Miriam. “What shall I do with it? Why, what should I do with it but leave it where it is. Keep it, Mr. Holmes, keep it and use it as you think best. I’ve no use for it. I don’t want it. I won’t have it. Buy yourself a new top-coat with it. Youdowant a new top-coat—doesn’t he, Ruth?”

“Fudge!” quoth my father testily, for he was somewhat sore on this point. “That coat’s a good coat, a very good coat, and years of wear in it still, with care. I’m calculating on that coat lasting my time; and if I should live to see a grandson breeched, which please God I shall”—and his dear old eyes rested lovingly on me and Miriam, who blushed a rosy red—”there’s some very good patching in it for a bairn’s breeks. But as for keeping that store of golden gear, why, that’s stark nonsense. It’s yours, and, now you’ve seen it and handled it, if you’ve no present use for it let it e’en go back forthwith to the bank, and lie at usury against a rainy day. What do you say, Ruth?”

Now my sister was idly toying with the heaped coins, letting them slide through her fingers and tinkle pleasantly in the ear; but her face was full of thought. She ever had the brains of the family had Ruth, though she was, of course, not learned like my father. But I’ve often noticed that your learned man has little wit for everyday affairs.

“You two are both out of your time, aren’t you?” she asked all of a sudden.

“What’s that got to do with it?” I snapped.

“And do you mean to go on slaving for Mr. Wrigley all your days? A poor look out for the girl you’ve clapped your eyes on. Do you either of you ever look ahead, I wonder? Time doesn’t stand still, ifyoudo. What’s the use of good money rusting in th’ Bank? Not that if you take it there it’ll stop there. Do you think th’ Bank ’ll just lock it up in a strong-box an’ pay you interest just for th’ fun o’ keepin’ it safe for you. Where do they get th’ interest from to pay you? Why, by lending your money to folk ’at have th’ brains to use it. Oh! I’ve no patience with you.”

Jim nudged me delightedly. “Oo’s on th’ scent,” he whispered. “Eh! what a head-piece—an’ to be wasted on a woman!”

“H’m, I suppose so. I never thought of that,” said my father.

“Well,” continued Ruth, “I haven’t read it in books; but it stands to sense someone must addle th’ brass for th’ Bank to pay interest with. Th’ Bank isn’t a cheese ’at breeds golden maggots all o’ theirsen. An’ what I want to know is, why can’t these two great babbies o’ ours find a use for this money, if Miriam’s willing to trust it to ’em, an’ make a better living for themselves and for those that’ll look to them for a home, than ever they’ll make giving th’ best o’ their days to Mr. Wrigley or th’ best master that ever stood on two legs?”

The sheer audacity of the suggestion took my breath away. I glanced at Jim. His chop had fallen, his eyes were glued on Ruth, and he breathed heavily. Miriam had jumped up and flung her arms round Ruth’s neck, and was almost crying with delighted excitement.

“ ‘Rem acu tetigisti,’ ” quoth my father, “which in the vulgar tongue, means, ‘Thou hast touched the matter with a needle’s point.’ ”

“To be sewer there’s Mitchell Mill,” breathed Jim, heavily, “’at’s been goin’ to wreck an’ ruin this monny a year for want o’ somebdy to run it. An’ Diggle Brook’s as good a run o’ watter as ivver turned a wheel. But th’ varry thowt on it ma’es mi yead turn. Has it just popped into thi yead, Ruth, or hast ta been brewin’ this new brew on th’ quiet?”

“That’s my business,” Ruth made reply.

“Main point is, is it a good brew? What do you say, father?”

“I say that it’s nearly midnight, and we’ll all go to bed and sleep on it. But first let us take the matter to the Lord in prayer.”

And we all knelt, and my father read the “Evening Portion” and then poured forth a long and fervent prayer for guidance and wisdom in this momentous crisis of our lives.

Jim had to be up next morning long before daybreak that he might be at his work when the shuttle was drawn and the big water-wheel, with many a creak and groan, began to turn lazily on its axle and send its power pulsing through the mill. I got up with him; for it was high time I gave up my invalid ways and set my thoughts towards the work that lay before me. Early as we were, Miriam and Ruth were afoot before us; and a bright fire burned in the kitchen grate, and the porridge steamed on the table, and there was the pleasing sizzle of ham frying in a pan, and the fragrance of coffee piping hot—the bean was at 3/6 a pound in those days—and home-made bread, white, and close, and flaky, and butter pats of Ruth’s own deft making.

“Aw’ve been thinkin’ ovver what yo’ said last neet, Ruth, about Mitchell Mill,” said Jim with his mouth full.

“It’s manners to swallow your food before trying to talk, and, besides, I never mentioned Mitchell Mill. It was you.”

“It’s th’ same thing,” said Jim.

“Oh! is it? Well, what about it?”

“Can you think and snore at the same time?” I queried, for indeed Jim’s head had scarcely touched the pillow before he was fast asleep, and I doubt if he had stirred till I had, with difficulty, roused him from the deep slumber of a healthy and weary man who had sat up long after his usual bedtime.

“Thee be quiet, Abe, aw’ve enough wi’ Ruth. One dog one bull’s fair play onny day i’ th’ week. Aw say aw’n bin turnin’ it ovver i’ mi yead abaat Mitchell Mill, an’ aw’n come to a conclusion.”

“An’ what might it be, O most sagacious of men?” asked Ruth pertly.

“Well, aw’n come to th’ conclusion,” said Jim slowly—”aw’ll tak’ another slice o’ that theer ham, if yo’ don’t mind, Miriam. Aw dunnot know if it’s th’ way th’ pig’s been fed or whether it’s summat i’ th’ air, but aw allus will maintain ’at there’s nowt to ekal Pole Moor ham. Aw dunnot wonder at th’ chap ’at left it i’ his will ’at he sud be buried wi’ ham if he’d ivver sampled yourn at th’ Pole.”

Clearly Jim was a diplomatist of the first order. If there was one thing above another Ruth prided herself upon it was her ham.

“It’s partly th’ feeding,” she said, “but it’s mainly th’ curing. I will say it, though maybe I shouldn’t, I can cure a ham.”

“That you can, Ruth. Nah, if my grammar ’ud nobbut bin gooid pig tha’d ha’ had me cured long sin’, but aw’m feart aw’m too far gone even for thee, lass. But about Mitchell Mill?”

“Yes, about th’ Mill?” I said somewhat impatiently.

“Weel,” said Jim, very deliberately, “as aw were sayin’, aw’ve turned th’ thing ovver i’ my yead, while yo’ were sleepin’ as if yo’ hadn’t a care o’ your mind, just like a new-born babby ’at knows it’s nowt to do but turn its yead an’ there’s th’ tit ready to its mouth, an’ aw’ve come to a concloosion. Aw’ll just ha’ th’ heel o’ that loaf, Miriam, an’ a morsel o’ butter on it to polish off wi’.”

“Oh! do get on,” cried Ruth, “you and your conclusions.”

“ ‘Most haste, least speed,’ aw’n heard mi mother say, likewise ‘Hurry no man’s cattle, yo’ may leet to ha’ a mule o’ your own some day.’ ”

“That’s very like,” quoth Ruth, “and a very stupid mule at that.”

“Meaning me,” said the imperturbable Jim, slowly plastering his crust with butter, “an’ thank you kindly for th’ compliment.”

“But really, Jim,” put in Miriam gently, “joking apart, we’re all agog to know what conclusion you’ve come to.”

“Speak for yourself,” snapped Ruth. “I’ve no patience with the man. Anyways, it’s time he was off if he means to get to Wrigley Mill this blessed morning.”

“An’ that’s just what aw dunnot mean,” said Jim. “Yo’ see, aw’st pass Mitchell Mill on my way down fro’ th’ Cutting, an’ aw happen to know th’ felly ’at keeps th’ keys, an’ aw’ll just mak’ it i’ mi way to ovverhaul that ramshackle owd buildin’ fro’ top to bottom. Aw’n thowt o’ a lie to tell him.”

“Oh! Jim,” cried Miriam.

“A lie to tell him,” continued Jim unabashed. “Yo’ see, it ’ud nivver do to let all th’ countryside know what we’re after. For one thing, though Mr. Wrigley’s a just man an’ varry religious, at least his missus is, an’ that’s th’ same thing, for it’s weel known who wears th’ breeches at th’ Holly Grove, he’ll noan be too weel pleased at another mill startin’ just under his nose, so to speik. An’ if it all come to nowt, Abe an’ me might find ussen whistlin’ for a job, an’ a bird i’ th’ hand’s worth two in th’ bush, as aw’n heard mi mother say. So aw’st just say at aw’m thinkin’ o’ keepin’ two or three hundred yead o’ powtry, and that’s all Mitchell Mill’s fit for till someb’dy’s spent a pretty penny puttin’ it to reets agen. Why, there’s a month’s work on th watter-wheel, but aw can see to that, thank God.”

“But that conclusion of yours,” insisted Miriam.

“Oh! that,” said Jim. “Weel, aw’ll tell yo’. Yo’ see this brass o’ Miriam’s nother Abe’s nor mine.

“Oh! but it is,” put in my love hastily.

“Axin’ yo’r pardon, it isn’t. An’ what aw mean to say is a felly may mak’ ducks an’ drakes o’ his own brass, an’ nob’dy’s onny right to say owt. But when it comes to lakin’ wi’ other folk’s gear he cannot be too careful. So aw’n come to th’ concloosion—”

“Well?” we all cried.

“To talk th’ matter ovver fully wi’ mi’ owd mother. Oo’s nobbut a simple body yo’ may think, an’ a working woman all th’ days o’ her life; but aw’n ne’er known her wrong yet, an’ aw reckon oo’s too old to begin.”

We all burst out laughing at what seemed, as the writer says, “a lame and impotent conclusion,” but I fancy there was a glimmer of a tear in Ruth’s eye as she jumped up and began to side the breakfast things and put fresh water on to boil for my father’s morning stirabout. But Miriam said:

“That’s a good and a wise thought of yours, Jim. And I’m sure Ruth and Mr. Holmes would be very pleased if you could prevail on your good mother to come up here some afternoon and have tea with us. Let me play hostess, Ruth. Can’t I give a tea-party out of this wonderful fortune of mine?”

“We don’t kill a pig every day,” supplemented Jim.

“Next Thursday night, then,” decided Ruth. “I’ll see father doesn’t get called out that night, and there’s no service for a wonder. And what do you say to asking Enoch Hoyle? He’s been among th’ cloth all his life, and should know something about it.”

“Oh! Enoch’s reight enough,” admitted Jim, “if he’ll nobbut keep off religion, which aw tak’ to be a matter needin’ a mighty bit o’ larnin’ to understan’; though why it sud be soa it ’ud puzzle a plain man to explain. Aye, we’ll ha’ Enoch. But nob’dy else. ‘Too monny cooks spoil the broth,’ as aw’n heard mi owd mother say.” And Jim, after shaking Miriam heartily by the hand and slapping me on the sound side of my back, set off Digglewards, Ruth finding it necessary to show him as far as the garden gate, though there was light enough by now, for we had lingered an unconscionable time over our meal, and surely Jim knew his way well enough by this time to find the gate blindfold.

And then began the preparations for that never-to-be-forgotten feast. Miriam insisted that her money should pay for all, and that there should be no stint. And Ruth let herself go. She had a natural genius for cooking, but up to that day she had, she declared, been like the ancient Israelites in Egypt, required to make bricks without straw. I had once aggravated her by telling her I had read that in France no one was considered a good cook who could not make ten different savoury dishes out of an old boot sole, and I am not sure that she had not tried to make a hot-pot out of an old slipper stewed with potatoes, carrots, turnips, and cabbage. But now!—my mouth waters yet as I think of the store of good things that the unwearying Enoch, who had been requisitioned as fetcher and carrier, brought up from Slowit to Pole Moor—what pokes of flour, parcels of raisins, and currants, and almonds, and baking powder, and tea, and coffee, and sugar. I myself beat eggs and cut pork into pieces like dice till my shackle ached—a huge pork-pie was to be what a friend of mine, who knows the lingo, tells me I ought to call thepièce de résistanceof that immortal feast. There was to be white bread and brown bread, muffins hot and muffins cold, currant cake—not shouting cake, mind you, but rich, creamy cake, stuffed with fruit—seed cake, hardcakes, custards, blancmange, wobbly jellies of all the colours of the rainbow, mince-pies, apple charlotte, a stuffed chine, a roast goose with apple sauce, a boiled fowl with boiled ham, and that crowning glory, the pork-pie. My father would shuffle into the kitchen in his old list slippers, ever down at the heel, and raise his eyes and hands in mute protest against this sinful prodigality, only to be driven forth with laughter and caresses at the point of the rolling-pin. But worst offender of all was that sad deceiver, Enoch Hoyle, who smuggled into the kitchen a bottle of Jamaica rum, purchased at his own cost and charge, vainly endeavouring to excuse himself by the pretext that mincemeat wouldn’t keep without some mak’ of spirits, and that unless we’d what he called brown cream in our tea we should all die of indigestion. I don’t know what that goodly spread cost Miriam, but it was worth it all to see those two bonnie lasses in clean print frocks, their sleeves rolled up above their elbows, displaying their white rounded arms, picking raisins and currants, cutting candied lemon, kneading dough, pricking loaves and teacakes, dusting table tops with flour, greasing tins with larded paper, raking fires, banging oven doors, plucking fowls, paring apples, and all the while singing, and laughing, and joking, and ordering me and poor Enoch about without a with-your-leave or by-your-leave, or any ceremony whatever. Depend upon it your true woman loves to be bustling in her kitchen when she has plenty to go at.

And, when the eventful day arrived, of course Enoch was the first to turn up, being nearest. He was arrayed in his very Sundayest Sunday suit, black broadcloth, somewhat rusty to be sure, knee breeches, pale blue worsted stockings, oft darned, patched shoes with bright steel buckles, a satin stock, a frilled shirt front, and a broad-brimmed beaver hat, which he had borrowed for the occasion from an uninvited and envious neighbour. Then about two o’clock, after Ruth had run half a score of times to the road and strained her eyes down the valley, returning each time somewhat ruffled in temper, up came Jim and his mother, not as we had supposed on Shanks’ mare, but, if you’ll believe me, in a bone-shaking rattletrap of a gig which, with a sorry quadruped to draw it, Jim had beguiled the trustful landlord of the “Hanging Gate” to lend him for that day only. I hastened to help Mary out, and would have ushered her into the parlour, but that she declared she would not sit till such times as she had put herself to rights.

“Aw were nivver so shakken afore i’ my life, an’ nivver so fleyed. That hoss mun be of a varry pious frame o’ mind for it wanted to go down on its knees ivvry twenty yards. Up hill, an’ it’s mostly up hill, it puffed, an’ coughed, an’ wheezed—hoopin’ cough, an’ asthma, an’ brownchitis isn’t to be named i’ th’ same week wi’ th’ way that hoss went on. An’ down hill it were warse. Th’ harness may ha’ fitted it once, though aw doubt it. But now it fair dances all ovver th’ poor beast’s body. An’ th’ trap creaked, an’ groaned, an’ rattled, an’ th’ seat kept slippin’ up an’ dahn, an’ back’ards an’ forrards, till aw could nivver be sewer whether aw sud fall out at th’ back or tipple a somersaut ovver th’ hoss’s yead. Aw wanted to ger aat an’ walk, but Jim said this being th’ do as it is, it were nobbut a due compliment to Pole Moor to drive up i’ style. But aw’st noan go back i’ that owd bone-shaker if aw’m to crawl o’ my hands an’ knees ovver th’ moor. But theer! aw’m rested now, aw’ll turn to an’ wash some o’ them pots. My, what a seet o’ pots to be sewer. They’ll none be all your own, aw’m thinkin’.”

Ruth explained that we had ventured to borrow some of the crockery used for Chapel and Sunday school anniversaries.

“Oh! well, then, them ’versaries is some good,” commented Mary. “But see yo’,” she exclaimed suddenly, “if aw hadn’t clean forgotten. Wheer’s that Jim? In th’ shippon puttin’ owd Barebones up? He’ll be fodderin’ her wi’ mi’ parcel if aw’m noan quick.”

But at this moment Jim appeared with a great parcel, wrapped in thick brown paper, in his hands.

“Aw’m noan come empty-handed,” explained Mary, “it’s noan my way. I suppose it isn’t other o’ you young women’s birth-day, is it? No? Weel, it can’t be helped; we mun mak’ believe it is. Yo’ mun tak’ these wi’ my good wishes. Aw med ’em missen, an’ aw’m thinkin’ they’ll noan be th’ waur for bein’ hand-made. Men med machines, an’ aw’m not denyin’ some on ’em’s a fair marvel; but God med hands.” And Mary undid the parcel and proudly displayed its contents. My father had come into the kitchen and greeted Mary heartily, and won her heart at once by his kindly welcome and some quite unmerited praise of the graceless Jim. And now Mary drew forth a woollen comforter, long, broad, thick, and soft, that you could almost have wound round and round my father’s whole body.

“This is for you, Mr. Holmes, if yo’ll be so kind as to wear it. Aw’n often heard how yo’ go trapezin’ ovver th’ moors i’ all sorts o’ weather, which, axin’ yo’r pardon, yo’n no right to do at yo’r time o’ life, though weel aw know it’s waste o’ breath to gi’ guid advice to th’ best o’ men. An’ wishin’ yo’ health an’ strength to wear it threadbare an’ me to live to mak’ yo’ another when that’s done. An’ these vests is for yo’ lasses. Yo’ can wear ’em ovver yo’r shimmies i’ winter time; they’d happen be a bit rough next to th’ skin. An’ these stockin’s is for yo’ girls, too. They’re happen a bit big i’ th’ cauf o’ th’ leg, but yo’ll thicken aat theer afore them stockin’s is ready for th’ rag bag, and they’ll mak’ varry guid floorcloths then. Aw did think while aw were about it aw’d mak’ some little socks aat o’ th’ wool aw had to spare ’at ’ud come in handy some day. But aw once knew a woman, up Harrop Edge way—Laban’s wife, yo’d mebbe know her, sir—an’ oo med a set o’ babby things when oo’d nobbut just started courtin’, and never chick nor child did she have to wear ’em.” But here Jim and I were hustled out of the kitchen, and what other confidences Mary might have to narrate were reserved for gentler ears.

Now into the details of that great revel I must not enter. The meal had been put off an hour beyond our usual time, which was enough of itself to put an edge on appetites kept in good fettle by daily labour, frugal fare, cleanly lives, and mountain air. So that I fear we listened with little patience and not over-much attention to the long, long grace my father must needs offer before we were at liberty to fall to. I daresay there are people who wonder at those who take a delight in a hearty feed. I expect these are the folk who all their lives have always had more than enough to eat. We were not in that case—far otherwise. The fare at Pole Moor was ample enough, but ever of the plainest, porridge and buttermilk, buttermilk and porridge, bacon and pork, pork and bacon, with haver bread—Ruth had as neat a turn of the wrist for swishing the meal and water on to a bakestone as ever you saw—butcher’s meat and white bread perhaps once a week, and now and then a dish of tea. For puddings and pies we fell back on fruit of our own growing, rhubarb and gooseberries mainly. Now I’ve often reflected—there’s nothing like a good dinner for inducing pious meditation—that it is a sure proof of the infinite goodness and wisdom of the great Architect of the universe that the best and most wholesome and necessary things are ever the most abundant and cheapest, and accessible to all God’s creatures. What, for instance, is cheaper than cold water? And what water is to man, inside and outside, the stupid creature never realises till he is compelled at times to do without. What fruit of the earth can a man turn to with such unfailing relish as the potato that any cottager can grow on a rough patch of ground, what vegetable more medicinal than the cabbage, what fruit more toothsome than rhubarb when the shoots are yet tender, or the gooseberry whilst still green and tart. I suppose your “gret fo’k,” as Mary called the quality, set much store on their grapes, and pines, and peaches, and other precious fruits I don’t even know the names of, but old Dr. Dean—and a better doctor never trod—would often say that a man would sooner stall of grapes, and pines, and peaches, and all such fallalls, than he would of rhubarb and gooseberries, and that for keeping a man’s innards in order those luxuries of the rich were not to be mentioned in the same week with the hardy produce of the cottage garden. But, there, all these sage thoughts were very far from my head as I sat next to Miriam at table, and, what time I was not kept busy passing cups and plates, did my level best to eat up to the standard Jim had set for himself and confided to me for my own guidance. We had been taught in our early days that company manners forbade the partaking twice of the same dish, and Jim had carefully modelled his slow and steady progress through the viands on that precept. So his bill of fare, to which he heroically adhered, was something like this:—

Pork-pie—1 plateful.

Roast goose with apple sauce—1 plateful.

Roast fowl with ham—1 plateful.

Currant cake with cheese—1 slice.

Blancmange—1 plateful.

Jelly: yellow—1 plateful.

Jelly: pink—1 plateful.

Mince-pie with cheese—One.

Muffins, hard-cakes, brown bread, white bread-company manners fix no limit to these details.

Tea—Two cups; three if you’ve cheek to ask for them.

Now I think you’ll agree that was a square meal for one man; but you must remember Jim was six feet four in his stockings, and six feet four requires a lot of support. It is a mercy all had not the stature and the appetites of Jim and myself, else Ruth and Miriam would not have been busy, as they were for many a day after, making up little parcels of the fragments that remained, carrying them to those of our neighbours who most needed such help, that they too might rejoice in Miriam’s good fortune.

We had got to the final stage of the repast—the last cup of tea, the one in which the elders gravely stirred half a wineglass of Jamaica rum, and to which even Ruth and Miriam, faintly protesting, were induced to add a tiny spoonful just to flavour it, when Mary startled us all by saying:

“Han yo’ clapt e’en o’ Ephraim o’ Burnplatts up this way lately?”

“Why, Mary,” I said, for no one else seemed able to find a word, “I didn’t know you and Ephraim were acquaint.”

“No more we are,” she made answer. “Aw dunnot suppose he knows me fro’ Adam, leastwise fro’ Eve. But aw know him, an’ aw’n seen him more nor once sin Abe here’s bin ligged o’ his back. He’s bin hangin’ about th’ Weighkey a goodish bit—him an’ Tom Bradbury fro’ Bill’s o Jack’s are just as thick as thieves bi all accaants. Yo’ see, Mr. Holmes, aw dunnot go abaat much missen, as yo’ll weel understan’, for what wi’ bakin’, an’ brewin’, an’ fettlin’, an’ pearkin’ th’ pieces, an’ mendin’ Jim’s clo’es, an’ your Abe’s, an’ mi own, aw’n mi hands full, an’ aw’n no time for callin’ an’ runnin’ abaat fro’ door to door sortin’ he-says an’ oo-says; but th’ hands at Wrigley Mill’s in an’ out o’ yar haase for one thing an’ another till it’s awmost like Lee Gap, an’ keep th’ door-step onny bit like one woman cannot do, an’ use th’ scraper an’ th’ door-mat they winnot do. But, of coorse, aw cannot shut mi ears to what’s goin’ on. An’ they do say ’at Ephraim’s fair thrown in wi’ them Bradburys, which who’d ha’ thowt it after that do at Huddersfilt ovver them hares. But they do say ’at when they aren’t at “The Bell” at Delph, or at “Th’ Cross Keys,” or at “Th’ Swan,” reelin’ fro’ one public-haase to another, Ephraim spends all his time at “Th’ Moorcock” at Bill’s o’ Jack’s. An’, what’s more, they sen ’at he’s larnin’ to be a gamekeeper, an’ is goin’ to be takken on bi th’ Bradburys an’ live wi’ ’em reg’lar—which set a thief to catch a thief’s bin done afore now”—and here Mary paused for breath, or, as Jim put it, “bet back a bit for another jump.”

My father shook his head gravely. “Like will to like,” he said. “There have ever been men, aye, since the world began, who, like Nimrod, the son of Cush, have been ‘mighty hunters before the Lord.’ Likewise have there been men like unto Ishmael, the son of Hagar, ‘wild men’ whose hands are against every man, and every man’s hands against them—rebels, as it were, against God and man, beings whom the yoke of society and civilisations chafes and galls, and their whole life is spent in feverish efforts to throw it off. It may well be that the blood of some far-off ancestor of the Eastern deserts stirs in the veins of this misguided young man. ’Twill be to him as a very gadfly, and if he have not—as how can he have?—the restraining influence of the Gospel, must he not ever follow the promptings of the flesh nor heed those of the spirit? I would fain see this youth, a comely lad as I remember him. May be he might yet be plucked as a brand from the burning. Was there not the godly John Bunyan, who wrote that ever blessed book, ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress,’ who yet in his hot, rebellious youth was a haunter of taverns, a thrower of dice, a blasphemer, aye, even guilty of denying the Holy Ghost. Yet did the Lord raise up in him a very prodigy of grace. Aye, aye, we’ll not abandon hope, even for such as Ephraim.”

“Aw’n often heard,” quoth Mary, who had listened to my father’s words with a deference she rarely accorded to the speech of mere man, “aw’n often heard, axin’ your pardon if aw’n puttin’ my spoke in, ’at a reformed rake ma’es th’ best o’ husbands; but aw dunnot know”—and here Mary shook her head doubtfully—“aw dunnot know, my ’Lijah were nowt o’ a rake hissen, other afore or ’at after we were wed, so aw cannot say for certain, but aw sud always be in fear an’ tremblin’ ’at if a man had once tasted th’ flesh-pots o’ Egypt he’d ha’ a hankerin’ after th’ smell an’ taste o’ ’em as long as he lived.”

“By gow, hearken to that,” whispered Jim in my ear, “if th’ owd woman isn’t quotin’ Scriptur’ to thi father. It’s like teichin’ your granny how to suck eggs.”

I saw my father was ready to mount his horse theologic, and I was by no means minded that our feast should become an occasion for a sermon. So I hastened to draw a herring across the trail:

“Father,” I broke in irrelevantly, “have you spoken to Enoch about our little venture at Mitchell Mill?”

“Now that’s well remembered, Abe,” my father was pleased to say. “Let us return thanks to the Giver of all good things for these His mercies, and Enoch and I will smoke a pipe in my study, and we’ll all take counsel together so soon as you women folk have cleared away. I should like to know what Mary has to say. But first I’ve my little surprise.” And my father, promising to be back anon, went slowly upstairs to his little bed-chamber, returning presently bearing in his hands what looked like an old cigar-box.

“This was your mother’s, Ruth,” he said very solemnly, “my dear saint in heaven’s. She used to keep her hus-wife, and her needles, and pins, and threads, and hooks, and eyes, and buttons, and beads, and button-hook, and I know not what else in it at one time. Then she took to storing little coins in it, wrapped singly in bits of paper, the rare savings from the egg and butter money. Then when your great aunt Rachel died without a will your mother fell to a small share of her money. Over sixty pounds it was, and your mother could never bear the thought of setting the money out to usury. She kept it in this same box, and since the Lord in His wisdom took her home I’ve added to it mite by mite as I could spare it. It was to be for Ruth here, her mother ever said, when she should wed. And if she’s to be a sort of partner in Mitchell Mill, why it will be a comfort to me to be rid of the money, and may God grant it increase.”

In vain Ruth declared she wouldn’t touch a penny of it, in vain she scolded my father for pinching himself unbeknown to her to provide for a strong, lusty, young woman, able to look after herself and him, too—my father was adamant; and Enoch Hoyle put an end to the fruitless discussion by rising from table, carefully dusting the crumbs from his coat and breeches, and moving towards the study:

“While yo’n bin fratchin’,” he said, “or as yo’ may say, argey-bargeying, aw’n bin thinkin’, an’ though Enoch Hoyle’s noan a scholard an’ farlearned, he’s noan ’bout wit wheer cloth comes in. Aw’n heerd a whiff abaat this Mitchell Mill job, though aw’ll grant yo’n bin unco’ canny abaat it an’ kep’ mum an’ close, which happen it’s as weel.”

Mary would have gone into the kitchen to help in the siding-up; but my father insisted that she too should be of our counsel.

“Now, Brother Hoyle,” hinted my father, when the churchwardens were lit.

“Axin’ yo’r pardon, Mr. Holmes,” said Enoch, “this is a company day, an’ we’ll ha’ company manners. Aw’m noan th’ buck aw used to be afore aw were soundly converted an’ dipped, but aw’n noan forgetten behaviour. Aw’ll mak’ way for Mistress Haigh here, by yo’r leave, though aw mun say that i’ things spiritooal—which this isn’t—aw howd firmly wi’ Saint Paul—see Corinthians one, fourteen, thirty-four an’ five, if aw remember reetly—when he says, under th’ inspiration o’ th’ Holy Ghost, bein’ as it were th’ amanooensis o’ th’ Spirit: ‘Let your women keep silence in the churches; for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law. And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home; for it is a shame for women to speak in the church.”

“Yo’ bottle ’em up i’ th’ church,” whispered that irrepressible Jim, “an’ th’ stuff comes aat wi’ a bang an’ splathers all ovver th’ floor when yo’ poo’ th’ cork aat at whom.” Then aloud, encouragingly, “Tell ’em what yo’n thowt on an’ towd me afore we come.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, and kind sirs all,” began Mary, and I knew from this mode of address that Mary had foreseen this occasion and that we were to hear what I have seen called in the newspapers a considered opinion. “Well, sirs, if a poor widder woman’s opnion’s o’ onny, valley, which aw’m not gainsayin’ it may be, aw’m thinkin’ they met do waur. There’s one thing sartin sure, ’at they’ll n’er do mich guid as they are. Matthy Haley’s getten th’ only shop worth owt mich at Wrigley Mill, an’ aw reckon Matthy’s a sticker, which nob’dy can blame him for that. There’s yar Jim theer tentin’ th’ engine and tunin’ th’ looms, an’ noan so bad for a lad ’at could awmost go to th’ hedge an’ see his nippins, axin’ yo’r pardon, aw’m sewer, for mentionin’ sich things, but it’s a way o’ speakin’ an’ will aat. An’ there’s yo’r Abe. Weel, a weiver’s a weiver all th’ world ovver, an’ weivin’ nobbut poverty-knockin’ when all’s said an’ done. Nah! aw’m noan so owd yet, but aw’n known dozens on dozens i’ this Valley an’ o’er th’ top (over Stanedge) ’at’s started for theirssen on a varry little brass, an’ wheer are they nah? Why tak’ Mr. Wrigley hissen, then there’s th’ Buckleys, an’ th’ Malalieus, an’ owd Farrar down i’ th’ bottom—oh! ivver so monny on ’em. An’ it’s gen’ly bin wi’ brass ’at’s come to ’em through th’ women. Other they’n wed it or some owd maid i’ th’ family ’at’s welly clammed hersen to death’s left it ’em. Aw know they like to ma’ it aat when they’n getten on i’ th’ world ’at it’s all their own clivverness, an’ prudence, an’ self—what do yo’ ca’ it?”

“Self-denial,” suggested my father.

“That’s it, an thank yo’, sir, but aw’m no scholar missen, self-denial, but yo’ mun tell that to th’ Horse Marines, as they seyn, though who th’ Horse Marines may be aw’n no more notion nor a babe unborn. There were nivver a weiver i’ this world ’at could keep hissen, an’ bring up a wife an’ childer, an’ save owt to speik on afore he were long too owd to think o’ startin’ for hissen; all th’ best o’ his days an’ strength gone i’ keepin’ body an’ soul together an’ pilin’ up a fortin’ for other fo’k. But a’ that’s nother here nor theer. In th’ blessed dispensation of providence an’ Mr. Garside, which aw’d nivver ha’ thowt it to look at him, an’ not forgettin’ yo’r gooid lady, Mr. Holmes, rest her soul, here th’ brass is to us hands, an’ th’ question is, what mun they do with it?”

“Th’art gettin’ to it, mother,” put in Jim. “Tha’s gone a long road round, but it’s happen for th’ gainest.”

Ruth and Miriam came in at this juncture, all spick and span, and Ruth very brazenfacedly, as I thought, squeezed down by the side of Jim on the settle, a tight fit, whilst Miriam, as had become her wont, nestled on a hassock by my father’s side, and stole a hand, still moist from much washing-up, into his.

“For shame of yourself, Jim,” quoth Ruth severely. “Please go on, Mrs. Haigh. Jim knows no better.”

“Crushed again,” said Jim meekly. “If aw were nobbut a bit less or thee a bit bigger, Ruth, aw’d teich thee th’ respec’ due to a man. Tha’ sud read what Saint Paul says. If ivver aw live to ha’ a house o’ mi own aw’ll ha’ that tex’ hung up conspicuous. But ger on, mother. Tha’s none run thissen dahn yetten, aw know.”

“Weel, now, about Mitchell Mill.” Mary took up her parable again. “Yo’ll noan be killed wi’ rent, that’s one gooid thing. An’ there’s a gooid run o’ watter, an’ there’s nob’dy aboon th’ stream to run yo’r wheel dry nor yet to foul th’ watter for th’ dye-house an’ scourin’ hoil. Then yo’ know yo’ll be near th’ cut an’ th’ tunnel under Stanedge, an’ that’ll come in gain for gettin’ yo’r stuff in an’ for sendin’ yo’r pieces out. But it’s abaat th’ hands aw’m most moithered. Yo’ see there’s nother on yo’ bin used to havin’ other fo’k under yo’, and as for yar Jim he’s that soft a gooid-lookin’ weiver or piecener or hurler could lake all day afore his varry e’en an’ mak’ believe oo were workin’ hersen to skin an’ bone an’ he’d nivver know. That’s th’ weak spot.”

Jim sighed heavily. Ruth regarded Mrs. Haigh with some disfavour.

“But aw’n bin thinkin’,” resumed Mary, “’at aw could see to that. If aw can addle a livin’ at whom burlin’ for Mr. Wrigley, aw can soor-lee do as mich i’ a mill-chamber workin’ for mi own son an’ pardner. Yo’ see aw’m thinkin’ aw’st na ha’ Jim to do for long”—and here Mary shot a sly glance at Ruth, which instantly smoothed that maiden’s ruffled feathers—“an’ time ’ll lig heavy o’ mi hands. Aw’st noan kill yo’ for wage. It’s little aw want, an’ if aw cannot shape for mi own lad it’s a bonny come-off.” And here Mary audibly sniffed and passed a trembling hand across her eyes. Jim got up and crossed the little room and patted his mother on the back with his big hand.

“That’s all reight, mother. Owt tha says goes, doesn’t it, Abe?”

“Mary knows that,” I said promptly.

“Then there’s th’ spinnin’,” continued Mary, recovering her composure and smiling at Jim bravely. “There’s these young lasses, axin’ yo’r pardon if aw mak’ too free, what’s to hinder them fro’ doin’ a seet on it at whom, leastwise till th’ babbies come, aye, an’ at after that, if they’ve hauf th’ sperrit aw think they han. Aw’ll teich ’em, an aw’n a spindle put by at whom awmost as gooid as new. Yo’ see if yo’n to ha’ a chance to get on to yo’r feet yo’ mun cut dahn th’ expenses at ivvery turn.”

“Oh! I’ll spin fast enough,” cried Ruth. “It’ll be nothing to turning a man round my little finger.”

“And wheer do aw come in?” asked Enoch, who had, doubtless with difficulty, kept silence for quite an unwonted while.

“Aye, aye, Brother Hoyle, and what do you say?” asked his pastor.

“Weel,” began Enoch with great promptitude, for he needed no pressing to speech, and was like our old eight-days clock, in that when once wound up he must needs be suffered to run down at his own sweet will. “Weel, aw think aw see mi way clearly to be o’ mich profit to yar young folk, an’ not forgettin’ missen at th’ same time, for is not the labourer worthy of his hire, and is it not written that thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn? Aw tak’ it that nother Abe here nor Jim knows mich abaat wool, nor yet abaat the buyin’ thereof. Nah yo’ know aw’n wovven guid wool an’ bad wool all th’ days o’ mi life, an’ what aw dunnot know abaat th’ feel, aye, an’ th’ smell, an’ th’ look o’ wool isn’t worth knowin’. Aw can mind th’ time when th’ packmen used to come ovver fro’ Halifax bi Merry Dale, an’ th’ Valley were fair musical with th’ jingle o’ th’ bells on their pack-horses’ necks. Ah! them were th’ days when yo’ could leet on a mort o’ cheap wool. But th’ wool-stapplers ha’ mostly done away wi’ all that, an’ yo’re more or less at their mercy nowadays, an’ it tak’s a sma’ man all his time to live. But there’s brass to be saved yet bi gerrin’ among th’ farmers on th’ moor-sides at th’ sheep-shearing, an’ buying th’ fleeces. An’ aw think, if it’s all th’ same to yo’, aw’ll just devote my talents to that department. Aw’m hale an’ hearty yet, an’ aw’m weel known. Not but what it’s a pity this didn’t happen thirty year sin’. All mi life aw’ve felt aw were called to greater things nor pushin’ th’ beam o’ a hand-loom, an’ throwin’ th’ shuttle, an’ workin’ th’ treddle, hand an’ fooit an’ back an’ eye all on th’ stretch together. An’ now th’ time’s come—th’ hour’s here, an’ th’ man’s here, an’ his name’s Enoch Hoyle. Nah so mich for th’ wool-buyin’. But it’s one thing to buy wool, an’ it’s another to mak’ it into stuff ’at’ll sell. An’ other o’ yo’ two young men gi’en a thowt to what mak’ o’ stuff yo’re goin’ to manifactur’?”

I looked at Jim and Jim looked at me, both very blankly. Neither spoke.

“Aw thowt as mich. Nah, it’s easy enough to talk o’ startin’ manifact’rin’ o’ yo’r own accaant; but th’ thing is to know what to mak’. Yo’n noa too mich brass to lake wi’; an’ yo’n yo’r name to make. Yo’ll be wantin’ to mak’ summat cheap an’ wi’ a ready sale: summat yo’ll noan sink mich brass in an’ at yo’ can shut as quick as yo’ can get it off th’ looms. Nah! han yo’ turned yo’r thowts to approns, linsey approns?”

Jim and I were still mute.

“Aw thowt as mich,” pursued Enoch triumphantly. “Yo’ were goin’ to manifactur’, but what yo’ were goin’ to manifactur’ yo’d no more thowt nor th’ babe unborn. Weel, if yo’n be guided by owd Enoch, yo’ll start wi’ approns, linsey approns. They’re rough, they’re cheap, if there’s a flaw or two i’ th’ weivin’ it’s no gret matter, an’ yo’ can deal wi’ th’ higglers direct. Then work yo’r way through approns, linsey approns, to flannel shirtin’s an’ shawls, an’ i’ ten years’ time, when owd Enoch ’ll happen be under th’ sod—all that’s mortal on him, but Enoch hissen castin’ down his crown afore the golden throne when th’ Lord’s med up his jewels—i’ ten years’ time, aw say, it’ll be sooin enough to talk o’ makkin’ gooid broad cloth. Yo’ll know th’ tricks o’ trade bi then, an’, God willin’, yo’ll ha’ med yersens a name an’ ha’ put a bit bye to launch out wi.”

“It seems to me,” said my father, “that Brother Enoch speaks the words of wisdom.”

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