Bent Hall,Micklethwaite,Mossley,March 28, 1832.My DEAR FRIEND AND SISTER,I write these few lines to tell you I am safely arrived at this great mansion, and that, if this world’s gear were all that is needed to make glad a maiden’s heart, I ought to be the happiest of girls. Yet, truth to tell, I am longing day and night to be back at Pole Moor, and count the hours till I shall be there once more, never to leave it again till—you know when.I cannot tell you what a grand place this is. I did not think there were so many beautiful things that money can buy. We swept up to the house up a long drive, arched by stately elms. The door was opened by a manservant in livery, and a neat and pretty maid took me to a room which is to be all my own, and Mrs. Buckley says that Nelly is to be my very own maid, to order about just as I like. Isn’t it ridiculous! Why, she insists on combing and brushing my hair every night and morning, and wants to arrange my black mane in some fashion that she says is all the mode. But, oh, my dear! I do wish you could see this lovely bedroom. It looks out upon the grounds, at this time of year somewhat north and wintry-looking, but I can well imagine what like they are in the spring and summer and autumn, with their well-kept beds and noble trees, and the background of the lofty Pennine Range. And talking of beds! I was almost afraid the first night to go to sleep in mine, so high that I have to have a step to climb into it, so wide that one cannot touch the edge from the centre, and so furnished with mattresses of down that one seems to be sinking into a caressing sea of rest—a great, massive mahogany four-poster, its pillars richly carved, and from the lofty canopy curtains of blue silk fall to the ground. And there’s a mighty wardrobe that would hold more dresses than any one woman, I should have thought, could wear in a long lifetime, and it has a glass from top to bottom, in which you can see yourself from head to foot. There has been a dressmaker here from Manchester, and such choosing of silks and satins and velvets and laces and what not, and such measuring and fitting and matching of colours you never saw. Nelly dresses me every night in a wondrous dinner gown, and I am decked out so in rubies and pearls and even diamonds—rings, bracelets, and necklets—that when I stand before that marvel of a glass I catch my breath and ask, “Can this be Miriam, the poor gipsy maid, that you fetched from Burnplatts to share your bed and home?” And I am to have a horse to ride after I’ve had lessons—I shall like that. And oh! Ruth, I am to be taught to play upon whatever musical instrument I may choose, and I’m to learn to dance. Oh! what will your father say—your dear, dear father?These, dear sister, are Mrs. Buckley’s plannings. But they are not mine. She talks ever as though I had come to stay here for good and all. And so does Mr. Buckley. They would kill me with kindness. But I feel very guilty amid it all, for I know what they want can never be. They will never make a fine lady of me, nor make me false to Pole Moor and all Pole Moor means to me. I’m just wearying to doff these rich trappings and don my russet once more, and be just plain Miriam, your dear sister, and Abe’s true love.And now, dear heart, for my good news. I have persuaded Mrs. Buckley to let me come to Pole Moor next week. I am to be driven to Greenfield—they would have sent the carriage all the way, but I would not have it. I vowed my limbs ached for a long stretch over the moors. So meet me, my Ruth, by the Church Inn at Saddleworth about three of the afternoon, and we’ll be at dear Mother Haigh’s for tea, and someone, I daresay, will be fain to company us to Pole Moor. Give my dear love and dutiful respects to your good father.Ever your friend and sister.MIRIAM.
Bent Hall,Micklethwaite,Mossley,March 28, 1832.My DEAR FRIEND AND SISTER,I write these few lines to tell you I am safely arrived at this great mansion, and that, if this world’s gear were all that is needed to make glad a maiden’s heart, I ought to be the happiest of girls. Yet, truth to tell, I am longing day and night to be back at Pole Moor, and count the hours till I shall be there once more, never to leave it again till—you know when.I cannot tell you what a grand place this is. I did not think there were so many beautiful things that money can buy. We swept up to the house up a long drive, arched by stately elms. The door was opened by a manservant in livery, and a neat and pretty maid took me to a room which is to be all my own, and Mrs. Buckley says that Nelly is to be my very own maid, to order about just as I like. Isn’t it ridiculous! Why, she insists on combing and brushing my hair every night and morning, and wants to arrange my black mane in some fashion that she says is all the mode. But, oh, my dear! I do wish you could see this lovely bedroom. It looks out upon the grounds, at this time of year somewhat north and wintry-looking, but I can well imagine what like they are in the spring and summer and autumn, with their well-kept beds and noble trees, and the background of the lofty Pennine Range. And talking of beds! I was almost afraid the first night to go to sleep in mine, so high that I have to have a step to climb into it, so wide that one cannot touch the edge from the centre, and so furnished with mattresses of down that one seems to be sinking into a caressing sea of rest—a great, massive mahogany four-poster, its pillars richly carved, and from the lofty canopy curtains of blue silk fall to the ground. And there’s a mighty wardrobe that would hold more dresses than any one woman, I should have thought, could wear in a long lifetime, and it has a glass from top to bottom, in which you can see yourself from head to foot. There has been a dressmaker here from Manchester, and such choosing of silks and satins and velvets and laces and what not, and such measuring and fitting and matching of colours you never saw. Nelly dresses me every night in a wondrous dinner gown, and I am decked out so in rubies and pearls and even diamonds—rings, bracelets, and necklets—that when I stand before that marvel of a glass I catch my breath and ask, “Can this be Miriam, the poor gipsy maid, that you fetched from Burnplatts to share your bed and home?” And I am to have a horse to ride after I’ve had lessons—I shall like that. And oh! Ruth, I am to be taught to play upon whatever musical instrument I may choose, and I’m to learn to dance. Oh! what will your father say—your dear, dear father?These, dear sister, are Mrs. Buckley’s plannings. But they are not mine. She talks ever as though I had come to stay here for good and all. And so does Mr. Buckley. They would kill me with kindness. But I feel very guilty amid it all, for I know what they want can never be. They will never make a fine lady of me, nor make me false to Pole Moor and all Pole Moor means to me. I’m just wearying to doff these rich trappings and don my russet once more, and be just plain Miriam, your dear sister, and Abe’s true love.And now, dear heart, for my good news. I have persuaded Mrs. Buckley to let me come to Pole Moor next week. I am to be driven to Greenfield—they would have sent the carriage all the way, but I would not have it. I vowed my limbs ached for a long stretch over the moors. So meet me, my Ruth, by the Church Inn at Saddleworth about three of the afternoon, and we’ll be at dear Mother Haigh’s for tea, and someone, I daresay, will be fain to company us to Pole Moor. Give my dear love and dutiful respects to your good father.Ever your friend and sister.MIRIAM.
Bent Hall,
Micklethwaite,
Mossley,
March 28, 1832.
My DEAR FRIEND AND SISTER,
I write these few lines to tell you I am safely arrived at this great mansion, and that, if this world’s gear were all that is needed to make glad a maiden’s heart, I ought to be the happiest of girls. Yet, truth to tell, I am longing day and night to be back at Pole Moor, and count the hours till I shall be there once more, never to leave it again till—you know when.
I cannot tell you what a grand place this is. I did not think there were so many beautiful things that money can buy. We swept up to the house up a long drive, arched by stately elms. The door was opened by a manservant in livery, and a neat and pretty maid took me to a room which is to be all my own, and Mrs. Buckley says that Nelly is to be my very own maid, to order about just as I like. Isn’t it ridiculous! Why, she insists on combing and brushing my hair every night and morning, and wants to arrange my black mane in some fashion that she says is all the mode. But, oh, my dear! I do wish you could see this lovely bedroom. It looks out upon the grounds, at this time of year somewhat north and wintry-looking, but I can well imagine what like they are in the spring and summer and autumn, with their well-kept beds and noble trees, and the background of the lofty Pennine Range. And talking of beds! I was almost afraid the first night to go to sleep in mine, so high that I have to have a step to climb into it, so wide that one cannot touch the edge from the centre, and so furnished with mattresses of down that one seems to be sinking into a caressing sea of rest—a great, massive mahogany four-poster, its pillars richly carved, and from the lofty canopy curtains of blue silk fall to the ground. And there’s a mighty wardrobe that would hold more dresses than any one woman, I should have thought, could wear in a long lifetime, and it has a glass from top to bottom, in which you can see yourself from head to foot. There has been a dressmaker here from Manchester, and such choosing of silks and satins and velvets and laces and what not, and such measuring and fitting and matching of colours you never saw. Nelly dresses me every night in a wondrous dinner gown, and I am decked out so in rubies and pearls and even diamonds—rings, bracelets, and necklets—that when I stand before that marvel of a glass I catch my breath and ask, “Can this be Miriam, the poor gipsy maid, that you fetched from Burnplatts to share your bed and home?” And I am to have a horse to ride after I’ve had lessons—I shall like that. And oh! Ruth, I am to be taught to play upon whatever musical instrument I may choose, and I’m to learn to dance. Oh! what will your father say—your dear, dear father?
These, dear sister, are Mrs. Buckley’s plannings. But they are not mine. She talks ever as though I had come to stay here for good and all. And so does Mr. Buckley. They would kill me with kindness. But I feel very guilty amid it all, for I know what they want can never be. They will never make a fine lady of me, nor make me false to Pole Moor and all Pole Moor means to me. I’m just wearying to doff these rich trappings and don my russet once more, and be just plain Miriam, your dear sister, and Abe’s true love.
And now, dear heart, for my good news. I have persuaded Mrs. Buckley to let me come to Pole Moor next week. I am to be driven to Greenfield—they would have sent the carriage all the way, but I would not have it. I vowed my limbs ached for a long stretch over the moors. So meet me, my Ruth, by the Church Inn at Saddleworth about three of the afternoon, and we’ll be at dear Mother Haigh’s for tea, and someone, I daresay, will be fain to company us to Pole Moor. Give my dear love and dutiful respects to your good father.
Ever your friend and sister.
MIRIAM.
I cannot tell you how long this letter took in the reading. You who read it in fair print, and straightforward, can have no notion. But we had to battle with Miriam’s handwriting, which, like all the women’s I’ve ever seen, was none of the easiest to make out; though, to be sure, since it was a man— old Daddy, you may remember—who had taught her her pothooks, she wrote a bolder hand than is usual with women folk, not all slopes and angles and flourishes. But Ruth’s reading of her much-prized letter was sorely interrupted by our comments as she read—Jim, I grieve to say, being the chief offender. When my sister came to that portion which told of the long glass that reflected Miriam’s face and form, Jim’s words there anent were like unto those of the comforters of Job:
“It’s all up wi’ thee, Abe lad, aw’m feart. It’s noan i’ reason ’at a lass ’ud gi’ up a looikin’ glass like yon just to wed a chap like thee. Aw’ll say nowt abaat th’ feather bed; oo med happen be got to swop it for a mattress stuffed wi’ straw, or belike shavin’s, which is th best Mickle Mill ’ll run to this mony a day to come, for aw’n noticed women set varry little store on makkin’ theirsen snug an’ comfortable wheer men come. But that glass ’ll cook thi bacon, Abe. Why, tha’s nobbut to watch a woman wi’ a bit o’ a glass noa bigger nor th’ palm o’ mi hand. Oo’ll twitch hersen, an’ twist hersen, aye, awmost stan’ on her yead, but some road or other oo’ll see th’ back o’ her yead an’ all ovver her, pertickler if oo’s getten a new bow or bonnet or strings to look at. Aw once seed a peacock i front o’ just sich another glass, an’ they towd me ’at when they tuk th’ glass away that bird fell off i’ its eatin’ and just pined away. An’ th’ rum part o’ th’ business is it isn’t their own bonny faces they want to look at, it’s their clo’es. Yo’ may be sewer ’at if Eve had onny clo’es to speik on i’ th’ Garden o’ Eden it isn’t a apple nor owt else to eit or sup other ’at Owd Harry ’ud ha’ tempted her wi’, but a looikin’ glass. But bein’ as oo were, poor thing, oo’d nowt but her own pratty face to speer at, an’ though that’s what a man vallys most i’ a woman, it’s just what she hersen sets least count on.”
“It seems to me, James Haigh,” said my sister in a very frosty tone, “that you’ve made a very minute study of women, and you’d best take yourself off to those you’ve learned such a character from.”
“Nay, nay,” protested Jim, hastily, “it’s nobbut what aw’n heard say. Aw know nowt.”
“The letter, the letter,” broke in my father, and Ruth looking but half convinced, resumed the reading.
“Meet her at the Church Inn!” cried my sister. “Aye, that I will, and I just wish it was to-morrow. Now mind you lads are at home and all washed and in your second best when we get to ‘Wrigley Mill.”
CHAPTER XII.
MISSING!
THE weather at the end of March of that year was less wintry than we often see in that blusterous month which, having come in like a lion, seemed about to go out like a lamb. The sun gained in power daily, the snow had melted on the hillsides, though under the long black stone fences and in the dells and crevices deep drifts still lingered. The grass was beginning to green, the sky was of a pale azure, flecked by slender wisps of white, like doves sailing far aloft, the birds had begun to twitter in the hedges and pipe and trill in the strewish air, and in man and maid the young blood coursed warm and glad and strong.
I was in a fever of impatience to see Miriam and hold her in my arms again. I reckoned she must come from Micklehurst through Mossley, up by Roaches, by the Royal George, and so down the slope past Willie Hole Farm, on Shaw Hall Bank, and skirting Greenfield make the detour to St. Chad’s and the Church Inn—a long walk which I was very strongly minded to lighten for her by my company. So I set off betimes, my heart full of glad expectancy, my feet scarce seeming to touch the ground, my eyes, as I neared the spot where I had calculated to meet her if she were to be at the trysting spot at the appointed hour, straining ever far ahead of me for the first glimpse of my loved one tripping lightly towards me. But up to Roaches not a sign of Miriam! And there I sat me down upon a low wall by the roadside and waited and waited and waited, but still no glimpse of Miriam. I looked at my watch a score of times. I went into a cottage hard by to time my old turnip-watch by a Dutch clock that ticked solemnly in a corner, and that the cottager assured me was never more than half an hour wrong either one way or another; then out into the road again, and still no Miriam. The day was drawing in by now; in another hour dusk would be upon us. A sense, a sick foreboding of calamity obsessed me. Clearly I had missed Miriam. What a fool I had been not to abide her coming along with Ruth, at the Church inn. I had had my walk for my pains, and now, belike, Ruth and Miriam would be at Saddleworth, and I would be hard put to it to overtake them. A long last gaze down the road to Mossley, and then I set off at a mighty pace for the Church Inn, reaching it something after the half hour past three o’clock.
Neither Ruth nor Miriam were to be seen. I asked of the landlady if she had seen ought of a young woman standing about as if expecting to meet someone. Yes, she had seen such a one, half an hour gone, or maybe threequarters, or maybe an hour. “What like of a young women? Was she tall and dark?” How should she know? She’d something else to do than take notice of all the young women that loitered about looking for their fellies.
Then out into the road again, where I encountered the ostler. Yes, he, too, had seen a wench banging about, a bonnie lass to be sure. “Dark?” “Well, middling, betwixt and between like.” “Tall?” “Nay, nowt to speik on, more on th’ plumpish line.” “Which way had she gone?” He couldn’t say for sewer. Happen up th’ sheep-track o’er Pots and Pans; there were a deal o’ fo’k took that gait for Bill’s o’ Jacks; but they’d more breath to waste nor him, or they’d stick to th’ road; what were roads for, he should like to know but walking on and riding on; he’d no patience wi’ fo’k climbing up watter courses like goats; but he’d see’d th’ lass starin’ abaat as if oo’d lost someb’dy, and then he’d gone into th’ stable, and then he saw her no more. “Doubtless her felly’d turned up, if it were a felly she were waitin’ for.” And that was all I could get out of the ostler.
There was nothing for it now but to make what haste I could to Wrigley Mill. Mary would be in a rare taking, her teacakes and her temper alike spoiled; but little that would matter when I held my Miriam’s hand close clasped in mine, all my disappointment and my anxious fears and my wonderings forgot in that first moment of our glad meeting. But even as I gained the mill yard I knew there was to be no meeting, for in the gloom I made out both Mrs. Haigh and Ruth stood at the gate of the little garden, evidently looking eagerly out into the gathering darkness of the early night.
“Where’s Miriam?” I cried, and “Where’s Miriam?” they replied.
Jim came to the door, his coat and vest doffed, his big, brawny arms, his broad chest bare, in his hands a coarse towel with which he was vigorously drying himself after his swill at the sink.
“Well, yo’n muddled it among yo’,” he commented when I had told my story and Ruth hers, which was very similar.
“But there’s one thing certain: Miriam’s none been near th’ Church Inn this afternooin. Nah other she were let startin’, or what’s every way likely, oo fun hersen wi’ plenty o’ time on her hands an’ oo’s gone forrard towards th’ Pole thinkin’ to meet Ruth here an’ save her a journey. But speckilation wi’ nowt to go on’s a fooil’s job, an’ worritin’ on a empty stomach’s waur still. Let’s get summat into us, and then we’ll wisen. Nay, Ruth, lass, dunnot look as if tha’d seen a ghost, an’ Abe, aw’m ashamed on thee! Just because a lass hasn’t turned up to time. Aw’ll bet thee a pinch o’ snuff Miriam’s at this varry minnit snug and comfortable other at Mr. Buckley’s or at th’ Pole, an’ what we’n got to do is just to mak’ ussen snug and comfortable too.”
But it was no use. I couldn’t eat a morsel, though both Mary and Ruth tried to show a brave face and to talk cheerfully, ’twas plain to see their ears were all the time at strain for the lifting of the sneck of the garden gate and the fall of a light foot on the little footpath to the door.
“And now what’s to be done?” I asked, as we rose from the table. “There’s one thing certain, I can’t sit here doing nowt. I’st go off mi head if I don’t do summat.
“Sit yo’ down, man, an’ have a reek o’ baccy,” advised Jim. “Did ever a man get i’ such a state ovver a wench missin’ a tryst. There’s a thousand things may ha’ happened to prevent her being at th’ Church Inn at th’ time. Owd Mr. Buckley or his missus may ha’ been ta’en badly, or she may ha’ towd ’em what she were up to an’ they may ha’ put a spoke i’ th’ wheel, which it’s noan so likely they’d care to ha’ her trapezin’ ovver th’ moors be hersen, or happen oo’s strained her ankle, or happen oh! what’s th’ use o’ fancyin’ this an’ fancyin’ that, th’ lass is reet enough, choose wheer oo is, yo’ may tak’ yo’r davy o’ that. Oo may be here onny minnit if oo’s comm at a’, an if oo isn’t, oo isn’t, an all th’ frettin’ an’ fumin’ i’ th’ world won’t bring her here.”
“I shan’t sleep to-night till I know the truth of the matter,” I declared. “I’ll give her just another half-hour, and then, if she come not, I’m off to Bent Hall.”
They’ll be i’ bed bi th’ time yo’ get theer, opined Mary, who herself seldom in winter time was up after nine o’clock.
“And I’ll see Ruth home to th’ Pole,” said Jim. “Miriam ’ll be theer, it’s long odds. It’s a gooid as a play thee goin’ to Micklehurst to look for Miriam an’ Miriam goin’ to th’ Pole to look for thee. But if nowt else ’ll settle, thee best be startin’. An’ when yo’ get theer be sewer to mak’ ’em gi’ yo’ summat for supper, for tha ate no dinner for thinkin’ Miriam were comin’, an’ tha’s etten no tea for knowin’ who hasn’t, an’ tha’ll none last long at that gait. Aw’m thinkin’ at this noit tha’d better get wed if for nowt but th’ savin’ it’ll be in shoe leather.”
The night was, indeed, far advanced when, worn somewhat by my long tramps of that day, but worn far more by the tumult of my mind, I pealed at the big iron knocker of Bent Hall. I found Mr. and Mrs. Buckley seated in a warm and cosy parlour, the old gentleman sitting in slippered ease in a capacious armchair, with a cigar between his lips and a glass of steaming grog by his side. I told my story.
Yes, Miriam had started for Saddleworth after an early midday meal, which Mrs. Buckley called luncheon. They had wanted to send her by the carriage, urging that it was a long trail from the Church Inn to Wrigley Mill, and thence to Pole Moor. But Miriam had made light of the walk, declaring laughingly that she was getting stiff in her limbs for want of exercise, and that one who had from infancy wandered all day long over hill and dale need not fear to walk from Micklehurst to Pole Moor. Besides, would she not have a long rest at Mary Haigh’s.
“Then she must have gone straight on to th’ Pole,” I cried.
“Of course she must,” agreed Mrs. Buckley. Now don’t you worrit yourself, Mr. Holmes. You can’t put old heads on young shoulders, you know. I’ll be bound Miriam found herself at Saddleworth long before the appointed time, and just pushed on to meet your sister instead of dallying about the inn door, no very suitable place for a young maiden to be wandering about. She skims over the ground like a swallow, and never seems to weary walking. Those Burnplatters taught her to use her legs, if they taught her nothing else. We’ll have a supper-tray brought in in a jiffy, and then, unless you’ll stay the night we’ll send you as far as the ‘Hanging Gate’ in the trap. When you get home your friend Jim will have news for you, no doubt, and you’ll be able to laugh together over this game of hide and seek.
But there was no laughing when, after midnight, I once more reached Wrigley Mill. Both Jim, and Mary were sitting up in the little kitchen, looking anxious and careworn. Miriam had not gone to Pole Moor. Then where could she be? That she had started to meet Ruth was certain; that she had not met her, that she was not at Bent Hall, nor at Wrigley Mill Fold nor at Pole Moor, equally certain. That evil had befallen her even Jim, the utmost sanguine of men, could scarce combat. A horrible fear beset me. Miriam might have been overtaken on the moors by some sudden all-enveloping mist, might have wandered up and down the cruel, sodden moors till, overcome by hunger and fatigue, she had fallen in a fatal stupor, and might even now be lying cold and stark upon some rain-swept hill, or might have strayed with weary, faltering feet and trembling limbs into some mill-race or dam, there to sink to death, with none to hear her cries. Then another thought beset my fevered brain. At that time large gangs of navvies, “Pats” we called them, were making the road from Greenfield by way of Riddings and Mossley Bottoms to Stalybridge to complete the turnpike from Manchester to Holmfirth. Might not Miriam have encountered one or more of those rough and often lawless men on her lonely way, and might not hers have been a fate far worse than the worst of deaths. The mere thought was madness. My weariness fell from me. Late though it was, and dark as pitch, I would have started there and then for Greenfield and the huts and inns in which the navvies lodged, but Jim calmly locked the door and put the key in his pocket.
“Now look here, Abe,” he said, “if ever tha’rt to prove thissen a man now’s th’ time. Walkin’ thi legs off ’ll do no gooid other to thee or to Miriam. Tha’d prob’ly walk till tha dropped senseless, an’ then there’d be two to look for i’stead o’ one. We can do nowt till there’s more leet, and then we’st want more no thee an’ me to scour th’ moors, au’ we’st want more wit nor man-wit, we’st want dog-wit.. Aw’ll up to th’ Pole an’ get your Tear’em. He’s more sense nor mony a Christian, an’ he’s getten four legs to your two, an’, what no Christian ever had ’at aw’n heerd tell on, a scent for a trail. An’ aw’ll down to th’ Burnplatts. They keep a mon o’ dogs theer bi what tha says, an’ they won’t keep dogs fit for nowt but to look at or to lake wi’.”
“Th’ Burnplatts!” I cried. “Why, what fooils we are. She may be there at this very minute. She may have taken a fancy to see some of her old friends, and taken Burnplatts on her way, and been overtaken by the dark and compelled to tarry there. She set a deal of store on that Daft Billy I do know.”
“To be sewer, to be sewer,” agreed Jim tactfully, glad to encourage any fancy that dispelled despair. “Wheer else sud oo be? Or happens oo’s ca’ed at owd Enoch Hoyle’s at th’ Merry Vale, an’ yo’ no more sense not to ha’ her lest on th’ moors; a lass ’at knows every inch o’ th’ ground bi’ th’ feel o’ th’ fooit.”
“I’ll off to Burnplatts this very minute,” I cried, starting up.
“Tha’lt do nowt o’ th’ sort,” said Jim, composedly. “Aw’n getten th’ key, an’ th’ key aw’st keep. Onny goin’ to Burnplatts aw’st do, an’ that won’t be till aw’n etten an’ slept. We’st want all th’ strength we can muster for this day’s work, belike, an’ if tha’s no stomach for food nah tha mum eit against th’ time tha has. Mother, thee ma’ jorum o’ tea, an’ put summat to it stronger nor watter if tha’s owt i’ th’ haase, an’ aw’ll lig me dahn o’ th’ settle till th’ buzzer goes, an’ then aw’m off. An’ aw’st ta’ th’ key wi’ me. So Abe, thee ger to bed, an’ stay theer till aw come back. Aw’ll bring other Miriam or news on her or that Daft Billy, or mi name’s not Jim Haigh.”
I suppose I must have fallen into the sleep of utter exhaustion. When I woke it was broad daylight. I heard voices in the room below. I sprang off the pallet on which I had thrown myself, fully dressed. In the kitchen below I found Mary and Jim and Daft Billy, the latter eating ravenously from a plate piled with smoking collops, and washing his viands down with deep draughts of Mary’s homebrewed, Jim encouraging him with hearty exhortations to eat and drink his fill.
“And don’t thee come atween a man an’ his vittles, Abe,” Jim commanded, when he saw me about to ply Billy with eager questions. “Aw dunnot gradely know what they kirsened yar friend here ‘Daft Billy’ for, but if he’s daft aw’d like to know wheer they find th’ wise men. Tak’ another collop, Billy, an’ ha’ some cheese an’ pickled cabbage wi’ it. It gi’es a relish to th’ bacon, though aw mun say tha’s getten a varry respectable twist o’ thi own wi’out mich bucking. Help thissen to th’ haver bread an’ th’ ale. It’s thinnish drinkin’, to be sewer, but what’s wantin’ i’ th’ quality yo’ can happen ma’ up i’ th’ quantity.”
I thought Billy would never have done. And he ate as leisurely and as solemnly as if he’d been at a funeral, and never a word spoke he till, after eating enough for three ordinary men, he at last drew the back of his big hand across his mouth, and said gravely:
“Theer, aw think aw’st do nah.”
“Are ta sewer tha, couldn’t do another slice across th’ flitch,” asked Jim, not, I thought, without latent sarcasm.
“Noa,” said Billy, reluctantly, “but th’ owd woman med put me up a mouthfu’ or two i’ a bit o’ paper for a bitin’ on in an hour or two.”
“God help the man’s belly,” muttered Mary, but set the frying pan to work again.
“And now, Billy,” I urged.
But no, Billy was not to be hurried. He’d just have a reek o’ baccy, he announced, by way partly of digestive and partly to assist the workings of his mind. For a good hour by the old grandfather’s clock, which never ticked so slowly since clock it was, did Billy sit over the fire staring into the embers and smoking stolidly. When he did open his lips it was only to ask:
“Han yo’ nowt shorter nor whom-brewed? That stuff ligs cowd to th’ stummick. Other brandy or whisky or rum ’ud do, but brandy for choice.”
Now Mary, by great good fortune, had about a pint of brandy stored away these goodness knows how many years back, to be ready in case of sudden sickness, and this she very reluctantly produced. Billy eyed it sourly.
“It’s hardly worth startin’ on,” he grumbled, “but when he can’t get what he wants a wise man wants what he can get.”
Then once again silence. Not till he’d emptied the bottle and smoked up both his own store of twin and Jim’s did he speak again, and then it was to ask an apparently irrelevant question:
“Have yo’ a horse an’ onny mak’ o’ cart at Mitchell Mill?”
Now Jim and I had found it necessary to buy a horse and cart, and the animal was eating its head off in a stable by the mill.
“Ha’ it here bi midneet,” Billy commanded. “Aw’st be here afore then, an’ aw’st be both hungry and dry. Put some straw or some wool or owt ’at ’ll mak’ soft liggin’ i’ th’ bottom o’ th’ cart, an’ gi’ th’ horse th’ best feed o’ oats it’s ivver had i’ its life. An’ yo’d better put a flirsk o’ brandy i’ yo’r coit pockets, an’ be ready to start when aw come back an’ ha’ etten an’ druffen.”
“But where are you going?” I asked. “And when and where are we to start looking for Miriam. Have you any notion what can have come of her, and what in heaven’s name do you want with a horse and cart?”
“Thee do as aw tell thee, an’ ax me no questions Aw’m stalled o’ hearin’ ’em.” And with this and throwing to Mary, by way of thanks, I suppose, the curt remark that he’d tasted “waur collops,” Daft Billy made for the door.
“But what areweto do?” I cried.
“Yo’re to ca’er quiet an’ howd that silly tongue if tha can,” he said gruffly. “But if yo’ll tak’ my advice yo’ll just ger off to Mitchell Mill an’ set abaat yo’r work as if nowt had happened. An’ if onny body comes speerin’ after Miriam, just yo’ know nowt. But ha’ that horse an’ cart ready an’ them vittles.” And he shambled away.
“Waur collops, indeed!” cried Mary. “Weel, of all the manners. Weel, he sud know. Someb’dy ’ll ha’ to go short for this, aw know, an’ God send nob’dy fails sick i’ this house this monny a day, for there’s nowt but rinsin’s left i’ th’ bottle. Aw’ll th’ same, aw reckon he’s a method i’ his madness. He’s getten a clue o’ some sort, or aw’m sore mista’en. So off wi’ yo’ to th’ mill, an’ aw’ll sna’ such a supper for that ugly lookin’ customer as ’ll stuff even a Burnplatter up to th’ chin. It’s more sense, onnyroad, nor wanderin’ ovver th’ moors, which lookin’ for a needle i’ a bottle o’ hay wouldn’t be in it, aw reckon.”
Before midnight Daft Billy returned, as he had promised. Jim and I were ready, for starting. The horse, Dobbin, was in the shafts, and we had lined the bottom of the cart with sacks partly filled with scoured wool. We had a lanthorn, and each of us carried a stout stick. We had no more notion than the man in the moon what our destination might be, but Billy enlightened us whilst he ate and drank. He pulled from his pocket something that he handed to me.
“Han yo’ ivver seen that thinkum’ afore?” he asked.
It was the betrothal ring I had given to Miriam!
“Where in the name of goodness did you get this?” I exclaimed.
“Then it’s th’ same,” concluded Billy. “I thowt it were.”
“But where…?”
“Amnot aw tellin’ yo’. Pass th’ ale. Yo’ll happen know th’ ‘Moorcock’?”
“Of course I know th’ ‘Moorcock.’ Everybody knows it—where the Bradburys live, and where, by all accounts, Eph. o’ Burnplatt’s lives now.”
“The same spot. Well, oo’s theer.”
“Miriam there!”
Billy nodded composedly.
“But how….“ I began.
“Aw dunnot know. But oo’s theer. Locked up i’ th’ barn. Aw went up theer to-day on th’ off chance. Aw ca’ed for summat to sup. Eph. were theer an’ th’ owd felly an’ Tom. They’d been fratchin’ abaat summat, an’ owd Bradbury an’ Tom seemed to ha’ their knife into Eph. abaat summat. Aw sat an’ aw supped an’ aw smoked an’ aw gay’ Eph. owt he wanted i’ th’ liquor line. Yo’ll owe me a bonny penny for what aw’n lain out i’ spirits on this job.”
“But Miriam, Miriam.”
“Weel, it were easy to see they were a’ on pins an’ needles to get shut o’ me. Nah when a land-lord wants to see th’ back o’ a customer wi’ brass to spend ther’s a reason for it. But there were nowt to be seen i’ th’ kitchen, an’ aw’d no mak’ o’ excuse for goin’ up th’ stairs. Aw said aw’d just tak’ a look raand th’ spot to stretch mi legs an’ tak’ a look at th’ pigs an’ th’ beasts. An’ then they were just as keen aw sud stick where aw were. Howsomedever aw did tak’ a stroll raand, an’ goin’ up to th’ mistal aw fun this trinkum. Oo’s theer, aw’m thinkin’, but th’ door were locked, an’ oo were other asleep or, what’s more like, oo’s gagged an’ bun!”
“And we’re sitting here!” I cried, starting to my feet.
It was a dark, cold night, or rather morning, but if it had been cold as the Arctic circle it would not have cooled the fever that raged in my blood. Poor Dobbin! I dro’ as one possessed, nor gave the poor beast rest till we drew near the cart road that ran from the high road down to the little inn, with its cluster of outbuildings, kept by old Bradbury. It was nigh two of the clock when I drew rein, yet even at that ghostly hour a light burned in the kitchen of the “Moorcock.”
“Turn th’ horse wi’ its yead to Greenfielt,” commanded Billy.
“Nah folly me, an’ tread prattily.”
We stole silently to the inn door. A window was by the side of the door, across which a red blind had been drawn. We could hear voices raised in violent altercation. I distinguished the thin, piping, piercing treble of old Bradbury:
“Aw’ll no ha’ it, aw’ll no ha ’it,” he cried again and again. “Yo’ mun tak’ th’ wench fro’ here. Aw’t lose mi licence an’ mi job, an’ all for nowt. Aw’ll no ha’ th’ ‘Moorcock’ turned into a brothel to please thee, Ephraim Sykes. Away wi’ th’ hussy, aw say.”
Then the gruffer tones of Tom Bradbury, hoarse and husky, but what he said I could not make out.
Then Ephraim’s—loud threatening; then the old man’s again.
“An aw’ll ha’ no feightin’ here. Dash yo’ Tom, sit thee dahn. Ta’ no notice on him. It’s th’ drink’s talking. Mind, mind, Tom, he’s getten th’ poker. God! the man’s mad!”
“Break this door in,” whispered Billy to Jim. “Then yo’ two off to th’ barn. Yo’ mun get in theer th’ best yo’ can. Get th’ lass, if oo’s theer. Then off wi’ her. Aw’ll shift for missen.”
“Aw’ll ta’ a hand i’ this game.”
Jim put his mighty shoulders to the inn door, and the bolt gave. I had lit the lanthorn and Jim and I rushed to the mistal door. We made no ado about knocking. Jim’s mighty heave burst the lock, and we tumbled into the darkness, dazed and panting. I swung the light above my head. In a corner there was the rustle of hay. A form raised itself in the shadow, and swayed, and fell again. I rushed towards it. Miriam, her arms bound to her side, a muffler fastened across her mouth, lay upon a pile of hay. A loaf of bread and a jug of water stood by. I dashed the water into her face. She moved, and sighed, and her eyes part opened, then closed again. Jim cut the bonds that bound her arms and unloosed the scarf about her head. “Oo’s fainted,” he said. “It’s your job, this, Abe. Ovver thi showders wi’ her, an’ off to th’ cart. Then for Pole Moor like hell!”
“What of Billy?” I asked, as we passed the gable of the inn on our way to the cart.
“He towd us to shift for oursen. My word, listen to that! There’s pandemonium goin’ on in’ th’ kitchen. They’re feightin’, sure enough. Up to th’ cart wi’ Miriam, man. That’s our job.”
We hurried up the road that led towards where we had left the patient Dobbin, I with Miriam over shoulder, Jim with an arm under my elbow speeding me on.
“Hark yo’,” he exclaimed, when we were half way up the road, “all’s quiet now. And th’ light’s out. Aw wonder Billy tarries, but Billy or no Billy we’ll be off.”
What need to tell how we sped towards Pole Moor, Miriam, only half conscious, shivering and moaning in my arms; how we roused my good father and Ruth; how Miriam was put to bed; how I was despatched in hot haste to Slaithwaite for Dr. Dean; how that worthy surgeon found his patient in a high state of fever and delirium. Oh! it was piteous to see her staring with horror-laden eyes in front of her and to see her, with beating hands and arms, make as though to repel one who sought to clasp her.
“Have done, Eph., have done,” she would cry. “Oh! if only Abe were here.” Dr. Dean shook his head very gravely as he felt the fevered pulse.
“Ruth,” he commanded, “she must be absolutely quiet. You and your father may be with her. Pack your brother and that young giant about their business. There’s been queer doings to bring the poor lass to this: but ask her no questions. It’ll be weeks before she’s fit to talk. Now keep everybody away from her and—no need to tell you—keep your own counsel.”
Ill news flies fast. When Jim and I got down to Diggle about noon, the very first person we spoke to asked us if we’d heard what folk were saying: that old Bradbury and his son, William, had been foully done to death. A little girl going early to the inn for barm had found the front door open: in the passage, half behind the door, lay the lifeless form of Tom o’ Bill’s, his head cleft by a spade which, its fell work done, had been left in the passage all covered with blood. The terror-stricken child had fled shrieking towards her home. Others had hurried to the scene. On the hearth in the kitchen old Bradbury, struck down by spade or shovel, lay weltering in his blood, but life was still in him. As a neighbour bent over him he had been heard to mutter with his last breath: “Pats, Pats,” or was it “Platts, Platts”?
And which that neighbour could and would not say.
Many and many a time as the years rolled by have Jim and I pondered and talked over poor old Bradbury’s effort to tell who had done him to death. There was in both our minds the same thought: not Pats, not Platts, but “Burnplatts,” old Tom had tried to gasp as he lay a-dying.
Towards the end of the month we read in theManchester Courierthat a proclamation had been issued from the Secretary of State’s office, offering a reward of £200 for the discovery of the murderers and promising the King’s pardon to any party concerned (except the actual murderers), who should discover their accomplices. Then came sure and certain information that two men suspected of being concerned in the murder of the Bradburys had been brought before the Huddersfield magistrates, had proved an alibi, and been forthwith discharged. We breathed more freely when we read this. Then many-tongued rumour became busy with the names of Jamie Bradbury and his son, Joe, commonly called the “Red Tom Bradburys,” of Howood. Jamie was reputed a desperate poacher, a hard drinker, and a hard hitter, and Joe’s reputation in the countryside was no better than his father’s. These men were no relations of the Bradburys of Bill’s o’ Jack’s, whose mangled remains had been laid to rest in St. Chad’s Churchyard, with such a concourse to watch the sad procession to the grave as, perhaps, was never seen before or since in Saddleworth. It was known that there was bad blood between the keepers and their namesakes of Howood, and that the latter were to stand their trial at Pontefract Sessions on the very day after the murder on a charge of poaching near Bill’s o’ Jack’s. Who, it was darkly asked, had so strong a motive to close the mouths of old Bill and his son Tom as the Bradburys of Howood? But then, what of old William’s dying cry: “Pats, Pats,” or was it ”Platts, Platts”? Clearly whether Pat’s or Platts, it was neither Jamie nor Joe. Then the people for miles around began to look askance at a man called Reuben Platt, who had been seen drinking in company with Tom Bradbury at Hinchcliff’s ale-house at Road End on the day before the murder: but, then, it was very pertinently asked: What earthly reason had Reuben Platt for taking the life of either of the murdered men and so putting in peril his own? And to this very searching question no one could find a sufficient answer. For many a month after that tragic day in April wherever men and women foregathered there was but one topic discussed, one eternal question propounded, and Jim and I lived in an agony of apprehension. We were loth to tell what we knew and yet we knew not what mischief our silence might entail. On one point we were clearly resolved: if any man’s life or liberty were clearly imperilled then, come what might, it was our clear duty to declare the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Two considerations closed our mouths. First and foremost I hated the very thought of having the name of my Miriam bandied about, blazoned in every newspaper, on the lips of every soaker in every pot house from Stalybridge to Huddersfield. Secondly, though of course of this I could have no certainty but only the very strongest suspicion, it seemed certain that the hand of either Ephraim or of Daft Billy had struck the cruel and fatal blows. And of Ephraim and Billy there was neither sign nor sound. They had vanished and left no traces. So engrossed was everyone in that eternal riddle, Pats or Platt, that to none did it occur to turn to Burnplatts for a solution of the mystery yet there it was assuredly to be found. Now I will confess that no consideration for Eph. o’ Burnplatts sealed my lips. I had done him no harm, except, of course, that I had won the heart he coveted. I had rescued him from the snare that had been set for him by the Bradburys of Bill’s o’ Jack’s; yet had he waylaid me by night and left me for dead on the Stanedge Moor. I don’t think I am vindictive by nature, and I had certainly not nursed my wrath against him to keep it warm. I could forgive much to the man who had lost the maid I had won: was not that loss of itself punishment enough? But though we were commanded to love our enemies and pray for them that despitefully use us, I saw no reason for sheltering Ephraim from the vengeance of the law if it was Ephraim’s hand that was stained with the blood of the murdered men. But was it? Was it not more likely that of Daft Billy? I tried to image in my mind what must or might have transpired when Billy, his ill-regulated passions aflame with the thought that Miriam had been vilely used, by whom he knew not nor reeked, burst into the room where Bill and Tom and Ephraim were at high words. Had Ephraim, maddened by the miscarriage of his schemes, attacked Billy? Had the old man and Tom sided with him? It was conjectured by many, from the fact that the old man’s body was found in the kitchen and Tom’s in the passage, that the murderers had found the father alone in the inn, had done him to death, after a desperate struggle— that a desperate struggle there had been every sign indicated—that they had then abided in that lone cottage in the awful stillness of the night, crouching by the murdered dead, waiting, waiting till such time as Tom should appear, if by chance he should; that they had sprung upon him as he entered the narrow passage and cleft his skull in twain. Had those who held this theory known human nature they would have known that murder once done the murderer’s first, and only thought is flee from the sight of the work of his hands. It passes the endurance of man to linger by the side of the murdered victim, so eloquent in its eternal silence, and to calmly await the coming of one who may or may not come. I knew and Jim knew that Tom was in the inn when Billy burst in. What then befell who shall say? I only know that if Billy had done the deed it was done in the very frenzy of a wrath justly stirred, and should I be the one to set the bloodhounds of the law upon him whose every thought and act was moved by love for Miriam?
It was some weeks after the beginning of that dread month that I betook myself, in company with Jim, to Pole Moor. Word had come from Ruth that my love was now able to leave her room, though very weak and worn and wan, a shadow of her old self, but insisting that to see me would do her more good than all the physic in Dr. Dean’s surgery. And it was in a very halting fashion, bit by bit, with many a shudder, that she told the story of what had befallen her on her way from Bent Hall to keep her tryst with Ruth at the Church Inn. She had started in merry mood, her heart glad and light within her breast, and all a-flutter at the thought that every step brought her nearer to the lad she loved. And the day was in keeping with her joyous mood. The April sun shone in a clear sky, the birds trilled in the azure and twittered in the hedgerows to their mates, every branch and bough and twig and blade and frond spoke of life’s renewing and love’s awakening after the long repose of another winter gone. She had gained the rise from Roaches when she heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs falling upon the road and a voice calling, “Miriam, Miriam.”
She turned in great surprise. It was Ephraim riding in a shabby, ram shackle old gig, but the horse in the shafts had mettle and paces. Ephraim was not the man to sit behind an indifferent beast.
“I knew you a mile of by the swing of your gait, lass. Wherever are you bound, and whatever brings you to these parts? I thowt you were tied to Pole Moor for good and all.”
“I’m on my way there now, Ephraim. I’ve been staying at Bent Hall.
“What! with old John Buckley? Tha’s never turned lady’s maid! It’ll none suit thee to be cribbed wi’in four walls, ta’in’ wage to ma’ an old woman look like a young ’un.
“Mrs. Buckley’s a relation of mine. But it’s a long story, Ephraim, and I’m in a hurry.”
“What’s your push?”
“I’m to meet Abel Holmes’ sister, Ruth, at the Church Inn at Saddleworth.”
“Aye, aye, th’ parson’s son to be sewer. You’re tokened to him, they seyn. Weel, aw wish you joy, aw’m sewer.”
“Do you really, Ephraim?”
“Aye, aye, what for no? It’s no use cryin’ for the moon. More bi token aw’n ta’en up missen wi’ a likely wench i’ Stalybridge. Her feyther keeps th’ “White House”—not at ya’ll know it. But aw cannot howd this tit in. Climb in, Miriam, an’ aw’ll tell thee all about it as we jog along. Some day aw sud like to meet Abe an’ aw should noan be sorry to tak’ him bi th’ hand an’ ma’ friends again.”
Now this had been good hearing for Miriam, her own heart so full of happiness and goodwill towards all the world that she wanted nothing better than to see the feud between Ephraim and myself, of which she had been the innocent cause, so happily ended. She clambered into the gig and seated herself by Ephraim’s side. He shook the reins, and the horse stepped out bravely. He told her that he no longer lived at the “Moorcock,” and had abandoned all idea of turning gamekeeper. He had found his true vocation to be that of a horse dealer, and the land lord of the “White House” had not only a pretty daughter, who had been taken with Ephraim’s good looks—and indeed he was a handsome fellow—but also money to spare to set up a son-in-law in a profitable line of business. Now, he told Miriam, he was on his way to Bill’s o’ Jacks to look at a young colt the Bradburys had for sale.
So absorbed was Miriam in this recital, and so joyed was she at the thought that Ephraim seemed in a fair way to mend his mode of life and to settle down into a law-abiding citizen and pursue a reputable calling—for when your own heart is full and overflowing with glad content it adds even to that full measure to know that others, too, are happy—that Miriam did not notice at first that the trap had passed the turn she should have taken towards Saddleworth and was well on its way up the Holmfirth Road. She asked Ephraim to pull up and allow her to alight.
“Nowt o’ th’ sort. Yo’re all right,” he said. “Yo’ll have nowt to do but turn off bi Bill’s o’ Jack’s, climb up to Pots an’ Pans, an’ ta’ th’ sheep-walk down to th’ “Church.” Yo’n plenty of time. Besides, aw don’t ta’ it kindly o’ yo’ to be in such a hurry to be shuton me. Yo’n fun some fine new relations to be sewer, but yo’ needn’t be i’ sich a hurry to turn yo’r back o’ them ’at fot yo’ up when yo’d nob’dy else to turn to. Th’ Burnplatters weren’t fine weather friends to yo’, Miriam. Aw were at thi beck an’ call long afore yo’ clapped em on th’ parson’s son, an’ yo’n nowt to do but lift yo’r little finger an’ aw’ll be at thi beck an’ call again, an’ th’ Staley lass may go hang.”
“Now you’re spoiling it all, Ephraim. I’ll get out here, thanking you for the lift, and oh, so pleased to have heard your good news. If you’ll ask me, I’ll dance at your wedding.”
And here Ephraim’s manner had suddenly changed. He put his disengaged arm round Miriam’s waist, and urged the horse into a gallop. The road was lonely; the moors and rolling hills begirt them; not a soul was to be seen. Thoroughly alarmed, she strove to rise from her seat, but he held her as in a vice.
“Howd thi din,” he hissed, his eyes glaring wildly. “Didst think Eph. o’ Burnplatts forgi’es an’ forgets so soon. Aw’n getten thee nah, an’ aw’st howd thee. It’s my turn to laugh now. Aw’d ha’ made thee an honest woman an’ a wedded wife once, but, by gow, tha’ll ha’ to put up wi’ jumpin’ th’ broomstick now.”
Sick with fear and apprehension, casting wild looks on every side, shrieking for help, she had been borne at a hand gallop right to Bill’s o’ Jack’s. Just as they passed the top side of the house towards the mistal, by a happy inspiration she had, unseen by Ephraim, slipped her betrothal ring from her finger and dropped it into the yard, there to lie till discovered by the keen eyes of Daft Billy. Ephraim had cast her rudely down up a heap of hay, bound her securely, and fearful lest her screams should be heard by some chance customer at the inn, had tied his own muffler tightly about her mouth. Once only, during she knew not how many hours, he had gone to her, bearing a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water, offering to relieve her of the gag if she would eat in quiet. He had been drinking heavily in the interval, and she feared the worst, but he had attempted no violence, and lurched heavily away, locking the door behind him. And there she had lain through the long dark hours of the night, trembling at every sound and sick with a deadly terror, till Jim and I had burst the door of her dreadful prison.
“My poor, poor darling!” was all I could say. “My poor, poor Miriam! But thank God no worse has happened. Oh! thank God we came in time. What a mercy Billy found that ring. Ah! what don’t we owe to that faithful creature!”
“Aye, and where is he now?” she whispered. “Fleeing from justice, a price on his head, and all for me, unhappy girl that I am!” and she sobbed as though her heart would break.
“Then you’ve heard?” I asked softly.
“Yes, yes! Ruth told me. Oh! it is horrible, horrible. I dream of it. I see it all in my sleep, the very air goes red as blood. Will they take him, think you? Oh! you mustn’t give him up. I think I should die if he should die a shameful death, and die he must if he’s taken.”
“They’ll never take Billy alive,” I said, to soothe her. “Not if I know him. Besides, he’s out of the country by this, belike. I suppose there are lots of clans of the gipsy folk wandering the country, and he’d know their haunts.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” said Miriam, eagerly. “Well, they’d hide him and help him. But to go through life with the sense of that awful crime ever on his soul; to die and meet his God with the blood of those poor men shrieking for vengeance.
“And don’t you think, Miriam, that God knows the clay of which poor Billy was made, and knows what was in his mind when he struck those unhappy men down—if he did strike them down? And who’s to know he did? Ephraim and the Bradburys were quarrelling before Billy burst in upon them. Maybe the crime lies at Ephraim’s door, and I’m not going to break my heart over that villain. Hanging would be too good for him.”
“Poor Ephraim! Poor misguided man!”
“Poor fiddlesticks!” I said, as near losing my patience as ever I was with my sweet love. “If ever a man deserved hanging, he does. He tried to murder me; he vamped up a tale to lure you to Bill’s o’ Jack’s, for I’ll go bail half he told you was lies; he gagged and bound you, and I tremble to think what worse he might have attempted; and yet you say ‘Poor Ephraim!’”
“He was such a nice, brave lad once,” she pleaded. “It was the drink, that cursed drink, that warped his mind and his wild nature and hot, fierce blood. Ah! Abe, Abe, let us judge not lest we be judged. How can you, who have always known a father’s love and such a father’s—and had a Christian home and nurture—how can you mete out just measure to such as Ephraim? It is for One who knows all to judge, not for us who can at best see but darkly as through a glass.”
“And now have you two done your billing and cooing —billing and cooing indeed !—came Ruth’s brisk voice as she entered the room with a basin of broth and half a teacake for her invalid. “You’ve been making Miriam cry, Abe, and I won’t have it. Why, she vowed it only needed the sight of you to make her happy, but all I can say is if that’s how she looks when she’s happy I don’t want to see her when she’s miserable. And you, too, Abe, what ails you? You look as if you’d got the whole world on your shoulders. Eat this, Miriam, and cheer up, dear heart. Fretting ne’er mended anything yet, and ne’er will. What you’ve got to do is to get well and strong, and then if joy’s in store for you, why, you’ll be ready for it, and if sorrow, you’ll be able to face it. Father’s asking for you, Abe, and Jim’s on tenterhooks to be off. He says Mitchell Mill’s going to rack and ruin, and another Bill’s o’ Jack’s do would bring him to skin and bone. But it’s my opinion that man would drink home-brewed and smoke twist if th’ world were coming to an end and falling to pieces all around him.
All that evening my father and Jim and I took serious counsel together. We thrashed the matter out in all its bearings. My father’s first view was that so soon as Miriam was sufficiently restored in health the whole truth must be told. To this I demurred that the result would probably be to make her ill again; that it was plain to see the horror of that night had so overcome her that the less her mind dwelt upon those tragic happenings the better; that my plan was to put Up in the sparrings without more delay, in trust that the new interests of a new life would go far to banish the terrors that beset the midnight hours; that the Bradburys were dead and nothing we could do could undo what was done and bring them to life again; that we were absolutely in the dark as to whether Ephraim or Daft Billy or both had struck the fatal blows; that if, through our means, Ephraim were taken he was quite capable of saving his own skin at the expense of Billy’s; and finally that it would be a poor requital of Billy’s devotion to Miriam to have him tracked down and put upon his trial for his life, and that I for one meant to hold my peace unless either the Red Tom’s or Reuben Platt or some other hitherto unsuspected person were in serious jeopardy, when, indeed, the truth must be told, though the heavens fell.
“Ah! if Billy would only come forward and tell the story himself,” said my father.
“That he’ll never do, Mr. Holmes, asking your pardon if aw put my say in wi’out bein’ axed. Yo’ see it’s this way, at least to my way o’ thinkin’ yo’ see Billy’s a cute sort o’ chap i’ some ways an’ only hauf baked i’ others. An’ all his life, as far as we know out on it, he’s bin at loggeryeads wi’ th’ law. He couldn’t weel be a gradely Burnplatter an’ not be that. Why th’ whiskey-spinnin’ ‘at’s gone on at Burnplatts ivver sin’ aw knew out’s enough to send th’ whole boilin’ on ’em to Botany Bay, to say nowt o’ horse steilin’, an’ piece-liftin’, an’ poachin’, an’ all mak’s o’ ways o’ ma’in a dishonest livin’. Nah! it stands to reason ’at Billy’ll ha’ no soort o’ affection for th’ law. He’s a law unto hissen. He’s happen thinkin’ at this varry minnit ’at them Bradburys had a hand i’ that mad prank o’ Ephraim’s ab—ab—what do yo’ ca’ it?”
“Abducting,” suggested my father.
“Aye! that’s it—abductin’. Weel, if he’s got that bee i’ his bonnet he’s noan frettin’ hissen ower th’ Bradburys, whether he killed them hissen or Ephraim had a hand i’ it, which aw’m thinkin’ we’st nivver know, unless they’re nabbed, an that they’ll nivver be till bobbies an’ detectives get more sense than they han now. It ’ud ma’ a pig laugh to hear th’ policeman at Diggle layin’ th’ law down on th’ subjec’ o’ Bill’s o’ Jack’s. It’s Pat’s an’ Platts an’ Platts an’ Pats, an’ he suspects ivvery Irish navvy atween Diggle an’ Greenfielt, an’ every man, woman, an’ child christened Platt, an’ there’s scores on ’em in Saddleworth. An’ th’ miracle to me is at onnybody can go on sayin’ Platts an’ Platts an’ ne’er tumble to Burnplatts: it’s like a chap at canna see th’ wood for trees. I’ my humble opinion th’ greatest benefactors o’ th’ criminal classes is th’ bobbies. If ivver aw do summat raal bad aw’st go live next door to a bobby an then aw’st be safe. But aw’m wanderin’ fro’ my subjec’. What aw’m drivin’ at is, ’at Daft Billy bein’ what he is, an’ no friend to th’ law nor th’ law to him, he’ll gi’ it a wide berth. Nowt’ll fetch him into these parts agen, unless he thinks Miriam’s i’ danger. That ’ud bring him: nowt more an’ nowt less. He’ll noan blab, trust him. Ephraim might if there were owt to gain by it, but is there?”
“There’s the offered reward of £200,” reminded my father.
“Exac’ly,” continued Jim imperturbably, “and if aw remember reetly it says that th’ actooal murderer needn’t apply. They’n no use for him excep’ to hang him. An’ that ma’es me think Ephraim has his own reason for lying low an’ keepin’ his own counsel. Yo’ see fro’ what Abe an’ me yeard that neet Ephraim were ready to set agate at the owd man an’ Tom onny minnit. He were just fixin’ for a feight, an’ aw dunnot think he were partirkler who it were with. But, theer, it all comes back to this: aw cannot see we can do onny gooid bi speikin’ nah, an’ aw can we med put Billy’s neck i’ th’ halter; an’ aw think that ud abaat finish Miriam off.”
“Well, Well,” said my father, “we’ll let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Besides,” continued Jim, “aw’m stalled o’ th’ whole business. Nother Abe nor me’s struck a bat to mean owt this month back. We’n aar livin’ to addle, an’ while aw’m on th’ subjec’, Mr. Holmes, aw sud like to ax yo’, sir, axin’ yo’r pardon for ma’in’ so bowd, an’ weel knowin’ ’at oo’s far aboon what aw’n onny reight to look to, if yo’n onny partickler objection to me for a son-in-law. Aw know aw’n not bin dipped, but that can happen bi getten over, though aw sud tak’ it kindly if yo’d put a drop o’ warm watter i’ th’ dippin’-well, me bein’ nobbut delicate. Aw’ll tew for her neet an day, an there’s no need to say aw’ll let her ha’ her own way i’ ivverything. Oo’ll see to that.”
“Ah. Jim, Jim,” said my father, “I’ve ever thanked God for giving me Abe. I shall not blame Ruth for giving me you.”
And now, good reader, this narrative nears its close. Neither Daft Billy nor Ephraim was ever seen in our parts again, so far a I know, but some months after the crime, when folk had found something else to talk about, a stranger, whose swarthy complexion and dark locks proclaimed him a gypsy, knocked at my father’s door and, handing to Miriam an ill-written letter, was gone before she could question him. It ran thus:—