DEAR MIRIAMThis from Billy, to let you know all’s well with him. Ephraim’s gone for a soger, which is all he’s fit for. You’ll never see him or me again, though belike I’st see you, when you little think it. I’m cow jobbing in Wales, but keep that to yourself. There’s reasons why I don’t want to be seen Burnplatts way this many a year. I thought it was them Bradburys kidnapped you, but Eph. has owned up as it was him. I think Eph. was mad with drink, and I was mad for what I thowt they’d done to you. Any way, get wed as soon as you like. I’st noan be theer to drink your health, but nobody ’ll missDAFT BILLY.
DEAR MIRIAMThis from Billy, to let you know all’s well with him. Ephraim’s gone for a soger, which is all he’s fit for. You’ll never see him or me again, though belike I’st see you, when you little think it. I’m cow jobbing in Wales, but keep that to yourself. There’s reasons why I don’t want to be seen Burnplatts way this many a year. I thought it was them Bradburys kidnapped you, but Eph. has owned up as it was him. I think Eph. was mad with drink, and I was mad for what I thowt they’d done to you. Any way, get wed as soon as you like. I’st noan be theer to drink your health, but nobody ’ll missDAFT BILLY.
DEAR MIRIAM
This from Billy, to let you know all’s well with him. Ephraim’s gone for a soger, which is all he’s fit for. You’ll never see him or me again, though belike I’st see you, when you little think it. I’m cow jobbing in Wales, but keep that to yourself. There’s reasons why I don’t want to be seen Burnplatts way this many a year. I thought it was them Bradburys kidnapped you, but Eph. has owned up as it was him. I think Eph. was mad with drink, and I was mad for what I thowt they’d done to you. Any way, get wed as soon as you like. I’st noan be theer to drink your health, but nobody ’ll miss
DAFT BILLY.
The reading of this letter put our studying caps on again, and I think we were all willing to let sleeping dogs lie. My own firm conviction is that Ephraim and the Bradburys were at high words, perhaps at blows, that Billy burst upon them like a tiger, seized the first weapon he saw, struck blindly, heedless where his blows fell, that there was a general scuffle, in which probably Ephraim joined, that the old man was the first to succumb, though not actually killed; that Tom tried to make for the door, and was struck down and left a corpse in the passage; that Eph. and Billy fled across the moors, of which they knew every inch, made their way to Burnplatts, where they lay in hiding till the hue and cry died out, and then found it easy enough to make off to distant parts.
However, there was one sentence in the letter which I found very much to my liking—the advice to get wed at once. Jim and I had got Mitchell Mill into good going’ order, and though we were much handicapped by the smallness of our means we were not doing so badly.
I broached the matter to Jim, and he was as keen as mustard on an early marriage. It was arranged that the cottage by the mill should be the home of Miriam and myself; that Ruth and Jim should start housekeeping with Mary in Wrigley Mill Fold.
“Aren’t you feared, Ruth,” asked Mary, “to set up wi’ a mother-i’-law?”
“Not with such a mother-in law as I know you’ll be, Mary.”
“Well, you take an old woman’s advice, Ruth; when you get wed, remember it may be ‘Bear and forebear.’ ”
“Aye, Jim will be th’ Bear and I’st be Forbear, I suppose.”
But Mary would not allow even my pert sister to call her idol, Jim, a bear—even in jest.
“Our Jim’s no bear, and never was. He’s got a soft heart in that big breast of his, as who should know better nor me. You can lead Jim with a thread o’ silk, but wild horses couldn’t drag him.”
“Well, I’ve no doubt Jim will be able to make Ruth do anythingshelikes,” I ventured to predict. And in so happy a mood were we that even that time- honoured joke raised a hearty laugh.
We had resolved to have a quiet double wedding. The tragic events in which we had all been concerned made us feel almost as though there had been a death in the family.
But we reckoned without Mr. and Mrs. Buckley. Miriam, as in duty bound, had written to her relations of Bent Hall, and that estimable couple insisted that, wherever the knot was tied, the wedding breakfast must be at their mansion.
There was much debate as to where the great event should take place. Finally Slaithwaite Church was fixed on in preference to Saddleworth, for somehow I had got a horror of the church in whose graveyard the victims of the murder lay; and indeed it was many a long year before I could pass St. Chad’s without a shudder.
It seemed to me the 16th of September, our wedding day, would never come, and I tortured myself with the gloomiest apprehensions of some unforeseen calamity that would dash the cup of joy from my lips; ’tis an old and true saying that there’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.
But the glad day came at last, and I would have you picture to yourself Jim and I donned in our wedding garments: a cut-away swallow-tailed coat of blue cloth, with brass buttons, red vest, knee breeches, shoes with silver buckles, and beaver hats.
Those were days when men who could afford it let themselves go in their costume. The Court of St. James set the fashion even for the humbler classes, and he was a very poor man who would not make of himself something of a dandy on the day of all days.
But how can I picture to you Ruth and Miriam when our expectant eyes saw them come up the aisle of the church, Ruth on my father’s arm, Miriam led by Mr. Buckley—radiant visions of glimmering white, veils of lace, with wreaths of orange blossom, and carrying each a bouquet of costly blooms. Mrs. Buckley had insisted on arraying both brides at her own charge. Well, well, that was a day of wonders; for when we came from church there were all the maidens from Pole Moor Sunday School, all in white muslin, strewing flowers, and the lads throwing rice. I vow that when I undressed you could have made a rice pudding from the rice that fell from my clothes.
Three coaches with prancing greys bore us off to Bent Hall. It was a glorious autumn morn, and a bright sun shone upon the blushing, happy brides, and their glad and proud grooms.
Now as we were borne through Slaithwaite and Marsden and Diggle, past the familiar “Hanging Gate,” I was not quite easy in my mind at all this unwonted and unnecessary splendour. Would it not have been better to have begun as we meant to go on and I imagined the villagers who ran to their doors to see the dashing carriages exclaiming to each other:
“Just fancy— a poor parson’s son and old Mary’s that brews treikle-drink!”
But when I hinted at this to Miriam she just smiled happily, and said: “Wait and see.”
The breakfast was at Mr. Buckley’s. The curate of Slaithwaite Church was there, Mr. and Mrs. Buckley, Dr. and Mrs. Dean, Mr. and Mrs. Wrigley of Holly Grove, my father, Mary Haigh, and Enoch Hoyle, and a portly old gentleman who turned out to be a lawyer.
They called it a breakfast; my notion of a good breakfast was ham and eggs and a pint of coffee. But at that so-called breakfast the only drink was a wine I had heard of, to be sure, but never seen—champagne— Jim said he thought was yellow bobbin-water. Then when the health of brides and grooms had been drunk, Mr. Buckley said:
“Now, Mr. Freeman, it’s your turn.” And the portly old gentleman rose and spoke as follows:
“It is known to most of you that the father of Mrs. Abel Holmes”—that was my Miriam, if you please—“was the Rev. James Garside, son of a wealthy client of my firm. Mr. Garside, senior, predeceased his wife by many years, and young James was left to the care of his mother. Mrs. Garside, a most worthy lady, took into her household a foundling who had been left upon the steps of her house—a girl babe. She became attached to the infant, and it was given the name of Esmeralda. The child grew in years, in grace, and beauty, and, as might have been foreseen, young James became enamoured of her. He persuaded her to a clandestine marriage, fearing his mother’s wrath. In this he did wrong, but I am not here to censure the dead. We all know how terrible have been the consequences of that first wrong step—the wreck of his mother’s happiness, of his wife’s, of his own, and but for a most happy chance, of the fruit of that marriage, the beautiful maiden, Miriam, who has to-day become Mrs. Abel Holmes, a rare jewel finding, I trust, a worthy setting.
“I believe that Mr. James Garside was counselled to that fatal folly by his tutor, a man in whom Mrs. Garside, sen., had the utmost confidence, of which he, alas! proved himself unworthy, and betrayed. It is, happily, no part of my duty to apportion the blame between young Mr. Garside and his tutor. Probably the youth required little encouragement to do what he did. But it is certain that the tutor profited greatly by the issue of that wicked counsel. I know that he artfully fanned the fires of the mother’s wrath against her misguided son. I know also that he told the unhappy Esmeralda that her marriage at Gretna Green was no real marriage, and that the brand of shame would for ever rest upon her offspring. I know because…”—and here the speaker paused dramatically. “I know,” he resumed, “because he has told me so with his own lips!”
I started from my chair, upsetting a glass of that sparkling wine over my brand new breeches.
“What!” I cried, “does the monster live?”
“No, sir, he does not. He is beyond the vengeance of man. He died some months ago, a remorseful and, I hope, a truly penitent man. He had never married, and he was a man of saving, almost miserly, habits. He seemed to have no use for money, save to watch it grow. What pleasure he got from the fruit of his scheming, if indeed he got any, I know not. He always struck me as one of the most joyless creatures the sun ever shone upon and failed to gladden. I became acquainted with him in my capacity as Mrs. Garside’s legal adviser, and afterwards my firm acted for him when he became her executor and sole legatee, with the exception of a small annuity to the Rev. James, Miriam’s unhappy father.
“When that father died we only surmised the fact of his death from the fact that he ceased to call at the office for his yearly due. He had absolutely refused to tell us the place of his abode. That he had left lawful issue, the smiling bride who graces this festival, I had no idea, nor was it my duty to inquire, for the annuity died with the annuitant. The bulk of Mrs. Garside’s considerable estate passed by her will to Mr. Stringer, the tutor.
“Some months ago Mr. Stringer sent for me. He confessed his part in the sad estrangement between mother and son. He instructed me to prepare a will. It is here.”
Mr. Freeman laid a document upon the table by his side, took a modest sip from his glass, passed a silk handkerchief across his mouth, took a pinch of snuff with great deliberation, then resumed:
“I will not read this testament at present. A wedding feast is scarcely the occasion. I am the sole executor and trustee. The estate has been proved under £20,000, and will probably realise more. The testator was a shrewd man of business, and knew how to make much more. The will charges me to discover the Rev. James Garside, if alive; failing him, his wedded wife by the laws of Scotland, Esmeralda; failing both, any issue of theirs. Both Mr. and Mrs. James Garside I know to be dead, but their sole issue I have the honour to meet for the first time to-day. I owe this happy discovery to my old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Buckley, of Bent Hall. Ladies and gentlemen, fill your glasses and drink the health of Mistress Miriam Holmes, solo heiress of the former tutor, William Stringer, M.A., late of Beaufort Square, in the City of Manchester. Mrs. Holmes, my firm will be happy to act as your solicitors, and I hope you think £20,000, if not a plum, enough to start married life upon. I sincerely wish you long life to enjoy your good fortune. Ladies and gentlemen, ‘Mrs. Miriam Holmes!”
Then the portly old lawyer raised his glass on high, and drained it to the bottom. Mr. and Mrs. Buckley did likewise, but the rest of us sat as if glued to our seats. Then Ruth jumped up and ran round the table and flung her arms round my wife’s neck, half laughing and half sobbing and crying.
“Oh! Miriam, Miriam, I’m fit to die for joy; but I’st lose my sister.”
And Jim banged his big fist on the table so that the glasses danced and the pendants of the chandelier tinkled.
“By gow, Abe, lad, I’m fain for your sake, but bang goes Mitchell Mill,” and the honest lad’s voice broke, for it had been no mean thing for him to quit the engine-shed and start on his own in ever so small a way.
“Say something, Abe,” whispered Miriam, “or I feel as if I must scream.”
Then I got up slowly, and my legs dithered under me. I’d never made a set speech in my life before, but I saw my father’s eyes upon me, and he said solemnly:
“Speak as your heart prompts you, O Abel, my son, Abel.”
I gripped one of those long glasses so that it crushed in my hand and the blood came, but I did not know it. Then I spoke:
“Mr. Freeman, Mr. and Mrs. Buckley, if I fail to thank you on my wife’s behalf for all you have done for her, don’t think my heart is not full of gratitude. But if I have Miriam’s permission to say what my first thought is, it’s just this. Jim there threw in with me when I’d next to nothing, and I’st not desert him now I, or at least my wife, is rich. If it isn’t Mitchell Mill it will have to be some other mill, for it’s the only trade I know, and I’ve no sort of fancy for leading an idle life on my wife’s money.”
“Well spoken, Abel,” quoth my father.
“‘Bring up a child in the way he should go’—we know the rest,” quoth the curate of Slaithwaite.
“A chip of the old block,” cried Mr. Wrigley.
“Eh, sirs,” began Mary Haigh, her emotion getting the better of the awe which had overpowered her from the moment she entered Bent Hall. “Eh, sirs, I’ve mothered Abe Holmes sin’ foist he were prenticed an weel aw knew he’d ring true when th’ testin’ time came.”
“And what say you, Mr. Hoyle,” said our genial host. “I’m told you’re a rare exhorter.”
Enoch cleared his throat.
“I sud like a pint o’ small beer afore aw rise to th’ occasion. This dancin’ stuff gets into mi yead, tho’ there are folk ’at seyn old Enoch’s poll’s one o’ th’ strongest between Scammonden an’ Slowit.”
A quiet order was given to a neat maid, and a foaming two-handled tankard was placed before Enoch, but we were not destined to hear Enoch at large, an injury he may have forgiven, but certainly never forgot. For Mr. Buckley, after a meaning look from his wife, who had glanced at her watch, rose and completed the tale of the bewildering surprises that day had had in store for us.
“Perhaps, as time presses, Mr. Hoyle will give way for me. The coach for Blackpool leaves shortly; the brides will find, my good lady says, their away-going garments upstairs. But, before we part I have this to say. Ever since we discovered Miriam it had been my intention to provide for her. Now I’m getting on, and should like to ease the strain of my business.
“I’ve had my eyes on both Abe and Jim. I can tell you. There’s room for young blood at Micklehurst Mills, and if that blood runs in the veins of Abel Holmes and Jim Haigh nobody will be better pleased than myself. Now, ladies, off with you and get out of your finery. Time and tide and coaches wait for no man.
“Mr. Holmes, will you return thanks?”
My father glanced at the curate, who waved to him a somewhat condescending assent, so the last word at that eventful feast, and that a heartfelt and eloquent word of thanksgiving to the Giver of all good gifts, was spoken by my dear and honoured father.
And now, dear reader, we must part company we have journeyed together through strange adventures, and my story is done. “Always have your peroration ready, for you never know how soon you may need it,” was sound advice. But I think this tale needs no peroration, for if I have succeeded even faintly, in giving a true insight into the characters of Miriam and Ruth and Jim—I’ll say nought of myself—you may close this little volume on the full assurance that the lives united on that happy September day had their fair share of the sunshine of life.
I am the father of two fine sons and a daughter, who bids fair to be nearly as good to look upon as my Miriam, and unite to six sturdy little Haigh lads and one bright maiden, who, I fear me, will prove as great a tyrant as Jim declares our Ruth to be.
As for Enoch Hoyle, that worthy pillar of Pole Moor, he began to put in a vast amount of time at Wrigley Mill Fold, and it was openly said all through Diggle that he offered to Mary his stout old heart and not quite empty hand. But all the information on this point that Jim could glean was to be gathered from Mary’s trite remark that “there’s no fooil like an old fooil.”
[THE END.]