Front matter (continued 5)

When Mary and Jim and I got to Holly Grove on the eventful afternoon of that ever-memorable service, we found my father and Miriam and Ruth already arrived, and seated in great state in one of the big front rooms of that imposing mansion. As we walked up Ward Lane and along the tree-flanked carriage drive there had been great debate as to whether we should knock boldly at the great white front door with the flower garden facing towards Greenfield, or whether we should, as usual, seek admission to the presence by way of the kitchen. The debate ended, as great debates often end, by a compromise, it being finally settled, to Jim’s secret relief, that Mary and I should take our courage in both hands and valiantly assail the front door knocker, whilst Jim modestly tapped at the back. We need have been under no apprehensions, for no sooner was Mary within than she was pounced upon by Mrs. Wrigley and Miriam and Ruth and conveyed upstairs to be relieved of bonnet and her wondrous shawl, and Jim and myself were bid by Mr. Wrigley to help ourselves to the gin and water if we wanted to wet our clays, as he called it, and then, taking no more notice of us, he fell to, hammer and tongs, at my poor father.

Now I had always known my good master as a silent, reserved man, very gentle with the children at the Sunday school, seldom taking vocal part in the prayer meetings, except in the hymns, which he sang very heartily and very much out of tune. But now, whether it was the gin and water, or whether it was the theme, he came out in quite a new character. I would have you know that those were the days of the great Reform Bill that set all classes by the ears. And Mr. Wrigley, as beseemed a good Wesleyan, was as stout a Tory as ever drew on a pair of Wellington tops, and my father, as was but natural in a Baptist, was as stout a Whig.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Holmes, this country is just going headlong to the dogs.” It is a curious fact: I have been young and now am old, yet there has never been a time when, to hear some folk, Old England has not been going headlong to the dogs—but this by the way. “Yes, sir, to the dogs. And little Johnny Russell” thus familiarly did Wrigley speak of Lord John—”little Johnny Russell’s whooping it on. Reform Bill! indeed—giving every twopenny-ha’penny householder the vote, forsooth. And it won’t end there, mark my words, sir. It’s but the thin end of the wedge. Before long my own workpeople will have the vote, and who’ll be master in my mill then I should like to know? What’s the like of them to know about politics and affairs of State I ask you? A man’s got to have a head on his shoulders, I can tell you, to mell with matters like that. And he must have a stake in the country, yes, sir, a stake, and then he feels the responsibility of the thing. But lower the franchise, and where are you? Why, at the mercy of the mob, sir, the mob, a set of rick-burning, frame-smashing, ignorant no-breeches. Help yourself to the gin, Mr. Holmes, and pass the tobacco-jar to the youngsters. They’re better without the Geneva water. Look what it’s done for France, sir, this reforming rubbish: revolution and republicanism, and the guillotine, red ruin, and the breaking up of laws: no king, no church, no State, no aristocracy, no property, nothing sacred, atheism rampant, virtue dethroned, and vice triumphant. Now I put it to you, Mr. Holmes, isn’t it only natural, part of God’s law in a manner of speaking, that men of birth, and family, and fortune, and education, men with a stake in the country, aye, I stick to that, a stake, sir, a stake, should have the ruling of it. Answer me that, if you can.”

Now if I never admired my father before I admired him that afternoon. There he sat in a lofty armchair, his little thin legs scarce touching the floor, his old black coat almost white at the seams, and looking sadly threadbare and shabby by contrast with the shining broadcloth Mr. Wrigley had donned for the occasion—yet did he cower and quail before the owner of Wrigley Mill, and that great mansion, and many a broad acre that lay around? Not he my certes. He was just as calm and composed as when he sat in our little parlour at the head of a conference of ministers, and the hotter Mr. Wrigley blew the cooler my father seemed.

“It’s true enough,” he said, “the great mass of the people are sadly ignorant. But whose fault is that? The great ones of the earth have ruled the roost for centuries, and yet we find they have left those whose natural guardians you say they are in an abysmal darkness.”

“They should educate themselves, sir,” bawled Mr. Wrigley; “that is, if they’ve the minds to carry it, which I doubt.

“That’s to flout your God, sir,” said my father. “Our heavenly Father is not so partial as you would have Him to be. One baby’s very much like another when it first blinks its little eyes at this strange world. Take a little prince from Buckingham Palace and bring him up in the gutter and a gutter-snipe he’ll be, blue blood or no blue blood; take a beggar’s brat and plant it in Buckingham Palace and ’twill make in time a very passable Prince.”

“And when are the working-classes to find time for education, sir, even if what you say’s true, which may be or may not be?” asked Mr. Wrigley as one who puts a poser.

“They’ll have to find time before they begin to work,” said my father stoutly. “Boys and girls of ten years of age ought to be at school and not in a mill. The manufacturers of this Riding are building up their fortunes on the life’s blood of tender and helpless children, and their little voices ascend to heaven and will yet be heard by their Father there.”

Yes, my father said that, and the walls of Holly Grove did not fall and bury him alive. I quaked in my chair. Mr. Wrigley grew purple in his wrath and was evidently rallying all his forces for a crushing rejoinder when fortunately Mrs. Wrigley sailed into the room with Mary and the two girls in her train. Mrs. Wrigley cast her keen glance at her husband.

“I believe you’ve been arguing, John. It’s that horrid gin. It’s a strange thing a man can’t take spirits without wanting to argue. And you lost your temper, too. I heard you from the bedroom. That temper of yours will be your undoing, John, You must pray against it, mustn’t he, Mr. Holmes?”

“Oh Lord!” muttered Mr. Wrigley, feebly, mopping his brow with a large silk handkerchief.

“Now we’ll go in to tea. John, you’ll take Ruth; Abel, look after Mrs. Haigh; Jim must look after himself, for I want Miriam to sit by me.”

Now I was mighty pleased and proud to see that from the first Mrs. Wrigley had taken a great fancy to my dear sweetheart. Perhaps it was her strange and sad story that had touched her heart; perhaps the mother’s heart in her breast yearned over the orphaned girl; or belike it was a way Miriam had of soft and yielding deference to those older than herself.

Now, no one would thank me to tell in full the story of that evening’s service. Matthey Haley surpassed himself. He had listened, I thought, with some impatience to my father’s discourse, which he based, somewhat unfeelingly I thought, on the cryptic saying of Ecclesiastes: “Better is the end of a thing than the beginning thereof.” I was in a chastened mood, and listened meekly enough even to Matthey’s ranting, which usually jarred upon my feelings. But I was learning be-times that most difficult of all lessons: to be indulgent of the weaknesses of others; to all their faults a little blind; to all their virtues very kind. And though, to be sure, Matthey, when in full blast, did rave and roar as though indeed his God was “either talking, or he was pursuing, or he wag on a journey, or peradventure he slept and must be awaked;” yet I doubt not his God, as he conceived him, a sort of magnified man to be flattered, cajoled, and entreated, was to Matthey a very real Being, and Matthey’s religion to him a very real and living thing.

I had looked forward all the day to accompanying my father and the girls at least a part of the way home to Pole Moor; but at the close of the service Mrs. Wrigley was good enough to ask my father to allow Miriam to stay for a week or two at Holly Grove, adding that she had formed the highest estimate of my loved one’s graces of mind and heart, and hoped a little change from the routine of Pole Moor might be all to her benefit. To this my father willingly assented; so that instead of journeying over Stanedge with Miriam by my side, her little hand stealing into mine in the friendly cover of the night, I turned my face to Wrigley Mill Fold with only Mary as my companion. No need to say where Jim was.

“Eh,” said Mary, as we walked slowly down Ward Lane, “Eh! that aw should ha’ lived to see this day, an’ my ’Lijah ta’en away i’ his prime afore it come off. ‘Affliction sore long time he bore, physicians were i’ vain’; at least Dr. Garstang were. But happen he’s been permitted to look down from aboon an’ see his lone widder an’ th fruit o his loins sittin at table wi’ his owd mester an’ his mester’s missus. Did yo’ notice th’ spooin’s, Abe? Real silver, every one on ’em, hall-marked, an’ th’ salt cellars an’ th’ teapot. Aw wonder Mrs. Wrigley can sleep i’ bed o’ neets wi’ so mich silver about. Little cattle, little care’s a true sayin’. An’ th’ cups an’ saucers, Crown Derby ’oo towd me. An’ yo’ should ha’ seen upstairs. Th’ cloe’s on th’ bed that high they’d to ha’ a steppin’ stooil to get into bed; an’ a feather bed that soft an’ thick ’at it’s a wonder onnybody can be got to ger up in a mornin. An’ th’ hair brushes—iv’ry backs an’ han’les. An’ a wardrobe, aw think oo ca’ed it, wi’ a glass to it fro’ top to bottom, so yo’ could see yersen fro yead to fooit. It gay’ mi a turn it did, aw assewer yo’. Aw nivver seed missen full length afore, an’ aw could hardly believe it were me. An’ th’ dresses! Aw do believe oo’s a dress for evvry day i’ th’ week, an’ two for Sundays. An’ th’ linen—all ready choose oo dies. Oo showed me th’ sheets Mr. Wrigley’s to be laid out in, an’ th’ shirt wi’, frilled front, an’ th’ same for hersen. Oh, they needn’t be feart to go whenivver it may please th’ gooid Lord to ca’ ’em, for they’n all ready if it were to-morrow. An’ to think yo’ an’ our Jim may ha’ th’ same if it sud please the Lord to prosper yo’. Aw cannot bear to think on it, Abe; mi heart’s full to burstin’. Aw dunnot know what aw’n done to ha’ so mich happiness showered on mi i’ mi owd days”—and here Mary fairly sobbed, and the tears streamed down her cheeks.

I comforted her as best I could by saying that to be sure she hadn’t done much to deserve such luck: only been the best of wives, the best of mothers, and the best of friends, with a hand ready for any service and a heart that made all her neighbours’ troubles its own. And so by the time we reached her little cot Mary was her serene self once more, and on her straw mattress slept, I doubt not, as sweet a sleep as Mrs. Wrigley on her bed of down.

CHAPTER XI.

JIM AND I GO ON A QUEST.

NOW, though, as I have said, Miriam remained at Holly Grove as a guest of Mrs. Wrigley, I as not destined to see her any the oftener from her being so much the nearer. Mrs. Wrigley had not invited me to visit the great house during my sweetheart’s stay, which I thought she might well have done, and I was far too proud to go there uninvited. I could not forget that though I was now a master myself—in a very small way to be sure, but still a master—I had till quite recently been Mr. Wrigley’s man, and I still stood in some awe of him and his good lady. I am told that men who have been brought up as youths at our great public schools, such as Eton and Harrow, never quite get over the sense of trembling awe with which the headmaster impressed their young and plastic minds. They may become great generals, famous ministers of State, archbishops, aye, even prime ministers, in after life, yet to the end of their days their old headmaster is still their headmaster, a being little less august than Deity itself. Nay, in my own humble experience, I remember when I was a great, broad-shouldered man of forty years and more meeting at Huddersfield Market, for the first time for thirty years and more, one who used to bully and trounce me at the little village school we both attended. I had shot up into a big, strong man. To my great wonderment the bully of my youth was, in his prime of years, a little, peevish, spindle-shanked, weak-chested, pale-faced mannikin that I could have picked up and tossed over any stall without straining myself. And yet, at our first encounter at the market, when he made himself known to me, I felt a sudden sinking and sickening of my heart, such as I had often felt in the days so long gone by, when I had seen him striding across the playground towards me, wrath in his eye, majesty on his brow, a cricket-stump in his mighty hand with which to belabour poor, trembling me for some offence to his dignity as cock of the school. Aye, and would you believe it, at our first encounter at the market, the little fellow, though but a bummer, actually addressed me—me, a prosperous manufacturer, with good and coveted orders to place, in a patronising, condescending tone. But he soon altered his tune, I can tell you. All this to explain why, partly from pride and partly from cowardice, I kept away from Holly Grove during all the time of Miriam’s sojourn there, though I will not deny that when night had fallen, and there were only the moon and stars to witness my folly, I would steal across the fields to the Upper Intak’, and from a safe distance gaze wistfully at the chamber windows, and wonder in which room my goddess slept her sweet sleep and dreamed her pure dreams. One night I was blessed by seeing a shadow cross behind the window blind, and though the night was bitter cold I went hot as a stove all over me, my heart thumped in my breast, and my knees trembled under me. I learned afterwards that I had been staring at the window of Mrs. Wrigley’s very plain and elderly serving maid!

But if I did not go to Holly Grove Miriam came on one blessed occasion to Mary’s house in the Mill Fold. It was in the afternoon, when Jim and I were, of course, busy at Mitchell Mill. She explained to Mary that Mrs. Wrigley had thought she ought not to come to the house when I was likely to be at home: that it was not seemly for a maiden to run after a young man, even though she were plighted to him. Another thing she said, which threw me into much uneasiness and apprehension. Mrs. Wrigley, having heard the story of Miriam’s birth and parentage, as we had gleaned it from her father and old Mother Sykes, was clearly of opinion that inquiry ought to be made as to her relatives in general. Her grandmother Garside had, so Mrs. Wrigley argued, clearly been a lady of position and affluence, and was likely to have connexions in like case. These, doubtless, would welcome with fervour a young and beautiful relation, and who could say what might not ensue from opening up communications with the well-to-do Garside family. To this my Miriam had promptly replied that, so far as she could judge, her grandmother Garside had behaved atrociously to her own son Miriam’s unfortunate father, and to his much wronged wife, her mother: and that so far as she was concerned all the Garsides in Lancashire might be at the bottom of the sea and their money-bags with them: that she was more than content, aye, happy as the day was long, at the humble Manse at Pole Moor, that she asked no greater gift from Heaven than the love of the simple lad who had won her heart, and that she could conceive of no greater blessing than to share his life and fortunes be they better or worse. She had even ventured, though, she confessed to Mary, with much diffidence, to take up against Mrs. Wrigley that lady’s favourite weapon, a text from the Scriptures, and to remind her hostess that we are bidden to lay not up for ourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal, but to lay up for ourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal; and that for her part she believed that a home, however humble, with fare however mean, where love reigned in the hearts of those that dwelt therein, was indeed a heaven upon earth, the very mirror and prototype of those mansions in the skies to which the chosen were called. Mrs. Wrigley had shaken her head sadly at what she called the romantic ravings of a moon-struck, silly maiden, who would know better than to talk such nonsense when she had a family of lusty lads and lasses clustering round an empty porridge bowl. Then the good dame had changed her tactics and had rebuked Miriam for her selfishness, bidding her to think of me and of how useful a little more capital and the backing of influential friends would be to a poor and struggling firm.

“And there,” concluded Miriam, “she pierced my armour, and I had no answer for her.”

“And what did you say to all this, Mary?” I asked, certain that Mary’s great gift of speech had not been allowed to rust during what must have been a prolonged colloquy.

“Why,” answered Mrs. Haigh, evidently itching to unburthen herself, “when your lass had said her say oo just med me sit dahn i’ th’ rocking-cheer, an’ oo raked th’ fire clean, an’ red th’ hearth up, an’ gate th’ tabble-cloth spread, an’ fot th’ loaf, an’ th’ butter, an’ some eggs fro’ th’ cellar-head, an’ set th’ pots, an’ got th’ toasting-fork, an’ med some toast, an’ boiled th’ eggs, an’ mashed some tea—oo’d browt a pun’ wi’ her fro’ Uppermill, wheer oo’d bin o’ purpose—an’ waited on me hand an’ fooit just as if aw’d bin a lady; an’ not till we’d etten an’ drunk yar fill would oo hearken to another word abaat th’ matter. ‘An empty stomach’s a bad counsellor,’ oo said. Then oo weshed an’ sided th’ pots, an’ set me bi th’ fire wi’ mi knitting. ‘Nah talk,’ oo said, smiling at me like a hangel fro’ heaven, which I awmost think oo is, though her browt up more like a heathen nor a Christian body.”

“And, of course, you talked,” I put in.

Mary looked at me sharply and bridled:

“One ’ud think yo’ thowt aw were gi’en to talkin’,” she said.

“Never a woman less so,” I protested—God forgive me.

“Weel, as it happens aw didn’t talk for a guidish bit, for oo’d put mi studyin’ cap on. Th’ more aw looked at th’ matter th’ harder it seems. Mi fust thowt were ’at Mrs. Wrigley had no call to put her spoke i’ th’ wheel. Miriam’s nother chick nor child o’ hern, ’at aw know on. But then it’s weel known ’at she’s so used to managin’ for everyone ’at works at Wrigley Mill, male an’ female, owd an’ young, single an’ wed, ’at it’s a sort o’ second natur’ wi her, an oo cannot help hersen. An’ oo means weel. Yo’ll mind when Ned Thewlis gate that silly young wench o’ Buckley’s into trouble, Mrs. Wrigley n’er rested till oo’d landed ’em both at Saddleworth Church an’ see’d her med an honest woman, an’ nobbut just i’ time.”

“Well, well,” I said impatiently.

“Yo’re gettin’ as bad as yar Jim,” said Mary, eyeing me coldly. “Yo’ didn’t used to be so. Aw rekkon yo’d better get used to lettin’ a woman say her say, if yo’ want to poo’ on wi’ yo’r wire, choose who she be, as weel as aw sud like.”

I groaned in spirit, and Mary continued her monologue, which long experience should have taught me was but her way of thinking aloud; so that to those side issues which flit across every one’s mind in discussing any subject, and which trained thinkers and practised speakers dismiss as irrelevant from their thoughts, Mary must needs give the spoken word.

“So, as I were, sayin’, yo’ munnot be hard o’ Mrs. Wrigley. It’s perhaps noan payin’ yo a gret compliment to think, as oo happen does, ’at Miriam’s throwin’ hersen away on yo’, an’ might do better for hersen, if oo’d haulf th’ chances her feyther’s dowter owt to ha’ had.”

The hot blood rushed to my face, and I sprang to my feet.

“I asked Miriam before ever I knew a word about her parentage or her fortune,” I began angrily.

“Aye, aye,” said Mary, placidly. “An’ oo took thee when tha were th’ only decent lookin’ or decent spokken felly oo’d ivver clapt e’en on, for yo’ cannot ca’ yon Ephraim other t’one or t’other. But nah, yo know, oo’s happen nowt to do but ma’ her case known i’ Manchester, an’ friends an’ relations, all on ’em weel to do, ’ll just spring up i’ dozens. Brass breeds brass, as onny fooil knows; an’ it’s noan likely ’at her grandmother Garside had nob’dy belongin’ to her, ’at ’ud happen ax nowt better nor to tak’ her bi th’ hand an’ do for her a seet better a worldly way o’ speikin’ nor even yo’r feyther, though, in course, i’ a heavenly way there’s no marrowing him, if aw’m to judge. Aw duzinot know ha fo’k hunt for lost kinfolk; send th’ bellman raand, aw reckon. Onny road, theer th’ case is, Abel, whether yo’ like it or not, an’ it’s not to be thowt ’at like it yo’ weel. It’s hard on thee, lad, an’ aw’m sorry for thee: but reight’s reight, an’ wrong’s no man’s reight. An’ Mrs Wrigley says.

“D——, Mrs. Wrigley,” I began, and went as near to swearing as ever I did in my life, but checked myself in time.

Mary eyed me sorrowfully. “Aw thowt yo’ were yo’r feyther’s son,” she said. “But aw’n said mi say, an’ yo’ can other like it or lump it. Ger aat o’ th’ haase an’ tak’ a walk bi thissen; an’ if yo’ want better guidance nor owd Mary Haigh can gi’e yo’, yo’r feyther’s son s’ud know wheer to seek it.”

It will be judged that I slept ill that night, and Jim must have found me an uneasy chamber-fellow. ‘Uneasy,’ says the poet, ‘lies the head that wears a crown.’ Alas! we all wear crowns of sorts, mostly of thorns; and it isn’t only the Scots thane that murders sleep. Over and over again in my midnight tossings and turnings I railed at Mrs. Wrigley and her meddling tongue. Of course the sting of the whole matter was that I knew she was in the right. My conscience smote me as I looked at things through her eyes. Mr. Garside’s dying charge to me had been to find his child, if child there should be and hand to it the little store he had husbanded so jealously. Well, she was found: so far so good. But if Mr. Garside had lived and found his daughter as I had found her, what would he have done? Would he not for her sweet sake have sought to resume the station his birth and breeding entitled him to? And if that was what he would have done, was it not equally my duty, as standing as it were in his shoes, being indeed not only Miriam’s lover, but what old “Yallow Breeches”—of whom anon—described as one standing in loco parentis. That was the problem that drove sleep from my couch, and with which I confronted poor Jim when I could find it in my heart to rouse him from his Well-earned slumbers.

Jim listened drowsily as I poured the whole tale into his ears, yawning mightily and grumbling not a little at being robbed of his rest to hearken to the opinions of a couple of old women, as he irreverently called his mother and Mrs. Wrigley.

“Aw sud ha’ thowt we’d enough o’ yar hands wi’ Mitchell Mill wi’out bein’ set on to hunt up folks’ kith an’ kin. What does Miriam want wi’ onny o’ her own side? Won’t she ha’ enow o’ yours? There’ll be your feyther, an’ Ruth, an’, after a fashion, me an’ mi mother. That sud be relations enow to satisfy onny ordinary body—to say nowt o’ Ephraim o’ Burnplatts, who’s a handful o’ himself, though aw don’t gradely see wheer he comes in. Aw’m noan so keen o’ kinsfolk mysen, an aw’st be capped if yo’r Miriam doesn’t tak’ after me. But what ails askin’ her hersen? If oo’s frettin’ for her feyther’s folk—a feyther oo nivver saw, much less his folk—oo’s nowt to do but say so, an’ thin yo’ can set to wark; but let sleepin’ dogs lie, say I. N’er trouble trouble till trouble troubles.

“That won’t do, Jim,” I said. “I wish with all my heart it would, but it won’t. I’ll be honest with myself anyhow. You see, even if Miriam in her heart of hearts yearned after her relatives, and all their discovery may mean to her, she would never let on to me that it is so. She would fear to hurt me and to wound father and Ruth. No, no, I’ve to do what’s right, and no one’s back but mine can bear this burden.”

“Why not talk it ovver wi’ yo’r Ruth?” asked Jim “oo’s more sense i’ her little finger than tha has i’ that big yead o’ thine, an’ oo’ll noan stand shillyshallyin’ first this way an’ then that. If y’ like, as a pertickler favour to yo, aw’ll don missen up to-neet an’ walk ovver to th’ Pole, an’ put the whole case i’ front o’ Ruth, an’ yo’ be guided by her, that’s my advice.”

“No, no, Jim, it won’t do. I’m going into Lancashire myself, and if Miriam has any relations living I’m going to find them.”

“Tell, if tha’rt set, tha’rt set, an’ theer’s an end on ’t; but aw dunnot see th’ use o’ wakin’ me up i’ th’ middle o’ th’ neet to ax my advice if tha’d made up thi mind to go thi own way i’ th’ finish.” Jim had yet to learn that the only advice people welcome is that which confirms their own opinions.

“Weel, how are ta bahn to set agate?” asked Jim, after a pause. “Tha cannot varry weel go to Manchester axin’ ivvery blessed man tha comes across if he’s owt akin to Miriam’s feyther.”

“Did you ever hear of a lawyer called Roberts, I think, a Manchester man?”

“Owd ‘Yaller Breeches’? Aw sud think aw did.”

“Yaller Breeches?” I queried.

“Aye, they seyn a what do yo’ ca’ ‘em, a cust’mer o’ his—no, that’s noan th’ word.”

“A client,” I suggested.

“Aye, that’s it. A client o’ his ’at he’d gate out o’ a pertickler tight fix gay’ him a whole piece o’ yaller cloath, an’ he’s wearin’ it aat i’ breeches. Ne’er wears onny other sort, Sunday or warkday. They seyn hauf th’ rogues i’ Lancasheer ’at’s walkin’ th’ streets to-day ’ud ha’ bin i’ Towzer (jail) but for him.”

“That’s a doubtful sort of compliment,” I observed.

“Doubtful fiddlesticks,” quoth Jim. “If yo’ want to clean a chimbley yo’ don’t get a lace hankercher to it, dun yo’? It’s th’ same wi’ law, aw tak’ it. Yaller Breeches is th’ man for yo’r brass, aw tell yo’, an’ seem’ as to-morn’s a short day, aw’m agreeable to start wi’ yo’ to walk to Manchester afore th’ sun’s up, an’ we’st be theer bi th’ time he’s dahn to his office.”

“How shall we find it?”

“Ax th’ first bobby we meet, yo’ silly.”

“Why not take the coach?”

“Coach, says ta? What’s legs for, aw sud like to know, an’ it nobbut a matter o’ thirty mile fro’ here to Manchester an’ back. Why, aw knew a felly, a higgler he were, ’at used to walk sixty mile a day an’ go coortin’ at after. Aw’m thinkin’, Abe, tha’s getten some biggish notions i’ thi yead o’ late. Fingerin’ that brass o’ owd Garside’s gi’en thee a touch o’ what, wi’out offence, aw’ll tak’ leave to ca’ swelled yead. If we’n to mak’ Mitchell Mill go there’ll be no coaches for other thee nor me this monny a day. Look at owd Bamforth o’ Slowit yonder, as warm a man as yo’d find i’ these pearts, an him nowt but a han’-loom weiver to start wi. Did he do it on coaches, thinkst ta? Not he, bi gow. He telled me hissen. He used to stan’ Newcastle an’ Macclesfield markets wi’ his cloath. He sent th’ piece on bi th’ carrier. He’d ha’ hugged ’em if he could; but even a Doady has his limits.”

“A Doady?”

“Yo’ know all them parts is called Doady Land. So he sent th’ pieces on by th’ carrier, an’ for hissen just took Shank’s mare. Yo’ can reckon for yersen what a poo’ he had ovver clothiers ’at went bi th’ coach an’ had to put th’ coach fare on to th’ price o’ their pieces. An’ it isn’t th’ coach fare only. Yo’n to stop here for brekfus’, an’ theer for dinner, an’ theer agen for supper an’ them big coachin’-houses know how to charge for their victuals, aw reckon. Then there’s tips to th’ ostler, an th’ waiters, an’ th’ booits, an’ th’ chambermaids—to say nowt o’ th’ drinkin’. But owd Bamforth used to put a big apple pasty ’at their Sarah made for him up his weskit, an’ rare and warm it kept him i’ cowd weather, an’ he’s ca’ at a farmhouse on th’ road an’ get a pint o’ milk for a penny, or mebbe for th’ axin’—an’ theer he were. Coach, indeed! Do yo’ think aw’n gi’en up ale an’ denied missen all th’ little bit o’ pleasure aw ivver had just to throw mi brass away on coaches? No, Abe, lad, we’st fooit it, every inch on it, an’ don’t yo’ forget it.”

And foot it we did—right through Greenfield and Mossley and Stalybridge and Ashton, and so to Manchester, where, sure enough, we had no difficulty in finding the office of Mr. Roberts himself. To me, as I walked the streets of that vast city, it seemed stark madness to think that amid such a multitude as teemed on the wayside any human ingenuity could discover those of whom we were in quest. But that wonderful Yellow Breeches made light of the task.

“It’ll be easy as falling off a tree,” he said. “Garside, the Rev. James Garside, an ordained minister of the Church of England, a graduate of Oxford University. Why, man alive, I suppose I shall have nothing to do but ask at the university and they’ll tell us there who was the Rev. James’s father. And a Manchester merchant, and a rich one, and only dead a matter of forty or fifty years. Pooh! it’s as easy as sinning. But what the young lady ’ll do with her relations when she finds them, or what they ’ll do with her, beats me. A paltry four hundred pounds or so! Who’s going to bother about that? You see, if her relations are rich they won’t want her and her beggarly four hundred; if they’re poor, I take it she won’t want them. However, that’s your business. You say the girl is staying with Mrs. Wrigley at Holly Grove? Very good. Five guineas, please. You’ll hear from me within a week or two. Good morning.”

I paid the five guineas, whilst Jim looked mighty glum, but opened not his mouth till we regained the street.

“Five guineas! he exclaimed. ‘Five gowden guineas. ‘Bang went saxpence,’ th’ Scotchman said when he’d his first tot o’ whiskey i’ Lunnon. An’ bang went yo’r gooid brass; an’ all for what? Aw’m dalled if aw can tell yo. He’s getten howd, onny road, but aw nivver seed brass skip out o’ one chap’s fob into another felly’s as quick i’ my life. It beats conjurin’ hollow. Eh! mon, we’n missed our vocation, as yo’r feyther ‘d ca’ it. Here’s yo an’ me, ovver twelve foot o’ guid bone an’ flesh and blood between us, ’ll ha’ to toil an’ moil an’ sweat for mony a weary day to scrape that bras together, an’ he just says, ‘Five guineas; good morning,’ an’ th’ bonnie yaller gowd’s gone for gooid an’ aw. If ivver aw’n a son aw’ll breed him to be a ’torney. Aw thowt parsons an’ doctors ’d a easy time on it, but lawyerin’ for me, say I. Yo’ do get a bottle o’ physic aat o’ th’ doctor, but yo’n nowt owt o’ yon chap but ‘Gooid mornin’!’ Well, well, th’ longer aw live th’ plainer aw see ’at warkin’s a fooil’s job. Th’ harder th’ work, th’ less th’ pay. Show me a chap ’at slaves his blood to watter an’ aw’ll show yo’ one ’at ’ll, ten to one, dee i’th’ warkhouse. Show me one ’at does nowt fro’ morn to neet an’ aw’ll show thee a man, as like as not, clothed i’ purple an’ fine linen.”

“It’s brains, Jim, brains,” I said for his solace. “Now here were you an’ me cudgelling our heads how to get on the scent of poor Mr. Garside’s relations, and even your mother could suggest nothing better than setting the bell-man to work; and Mr. Roberts yonder had it all planned out in the twinkling of an eye. You’ll see he’ll run them to earth before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’”

I proved a true prophet. A few days after our visit to Manchester a messenger came from Wrigley Mill to Mitchell Mill to say that I was wanted at once at Holly Grove. I wasn’t to stop to fettle myself up—I was to go as I was. Wondering not a little what could have chanced to cause this urgent summons, and conjuring up in my mind a thousand forebodings of I knew not what disaster, I made haste to Holly Grove. At the end of the drive there stood as fine an equipage as ever drove through Diggle, a carriage with a pair of mettlesome bays with silver-mounted harness tossing their glossy manes and pawing the ground impatiently. A coachman who sat proudly on the box and a groom who idled by the horses’ heads eyed me with much condescension as I hurried past them to the house.

In the front room I found Mrs. Wrigley and Miriam and a strange lady and gentleman, both, as even I could tell at a glance, richly dressed, with an air of distinction, and both far advanced in years.

Mrs. Wrigley motioned me to a seat, which I took, hardly knowing whether I stood on my head or my heels, and my heart sinking into my boots, for I felt instinctively that these strangers boded me no good. I glanced at Miriam, who remained standing, very pale and tremulous, twisting a tiny handkerchief nervously in her hands.

“This is Mr. and Mrs. Buckley, from Mossley,” said Mrs. Wrigley, by way of introduction. “They have been in communication with Mr. Roberts, the attorney you very wisely and properly consulted. You will do me the justice, Abel, to remember that I urged upon you to make search for Miriam’s kith and kin. I am thankful I did so, and that you had the good sense to act on my advice. Mrs. Buckley is the sister of the late Mrs. Garside, Miriam’s grandmother, if all your poor friend told you is true.”

“And that you may be sure it is,” I was just able to say.

“Perhaps, madam, you will permit me,” interrupted the old gentleman, with a courtly bow to Mrs. Wrigley. “This young gentleman,” turning to me, “is, I understand, Mr. Abel Holmes, and there have been some foolish love-passages between him and our fair young friend. Well, well, it was excusable enough, perhaps, as things were. And it seems pretty certain that her father, the recluse you tended in his dying hours, was indeed the son of my good wife’s elder sister. Of course, my lawyers will have to go into the matter thoroughly, but I don’t think there can be much question of the relationship. Everything tallies. And my dear wife declares that Miriam is strangely like her grandmother as a young women. Eh, dear?”

Mrs. Buckley bowed. “Indeed, indeed she is; but with a softer, gentler air. My sister was over proud and hard; but she suffered for it, poor dear, she suffered for it sorely.”

“Serve her right,” I thought, but said nothing.

“The Lord has not blessed my good wife with children,” continued Mr. Buckley. “Ours has been a long and happy wedded life, but though God has showered upon us wealth beyond our desires, He withheld from us the crowning gift of a child’s love. Your husband will know my mills at Micklehurst, Mrs. Wrigley. I’m a rich man, if I may say so without seeming to boast unduly; and until Mr. Roberts sought an interview with me I thought that all my wealth must go to religious or charitable objects. I thank God that He has restored to us, though at the eleventh hour, one whom we can welcome to our hearts and home as indeed our own. She shall be to us as our very daughter, and we can only pray that she will learn to love us as we are more than ready to love her.”

I looked at Miriam, sick at heart. I saw my love slipping from my arms, and my whole life seemed to stretch before me wrecked and desolate. And Miriam looked at me as though she waited for me to speak.

“You’re very good,” I babbled feebly.

“And now, Miriam,” said Mrs. Wrigley briskly, “I’m sure I congratulate you with all my heart. Have you no thanks for Mr. and Mrs. Buckley?”

“Yes, dear,” said the latter lady, “come, sit by my side and let us hear from your own lips that you will come to us.”

But Miriam for a while made no sign, but just stood, swaying slightly as she stood, and torturing that ill-used handkerchief.

Then Mr. Buckley resumed: “I understand, Mr. Holmes, that you have just started on your own. And I well, I envy you. You have youth and strength, and, so Mrs. Wrigley assures me, an excellent character. Well, again don’t think I’m boasting, John Buckley is worth having for a friend. Though my line is cotton, and yours woollen, I make no doubt I can find you customers for every inch of cloth you can turn out, and when you want capital to launch out, why, I’m your man.”

“ ‘Thirty pieces of silver,’ ” I groaned, “ ‘thirty pieces of silver.’ ”

“Eh, what?” asked Mr. Buckley, on whom the allusion was clearly lost.

But Miriam understood. She came and stood by my side.

“I thank you kindly, sir,” she said, dropping a courtesy first to Mr. Buckley and then to his stately lady. “I thank you kindly, but I’m not for sale. I’ve made my choice, Mr. Buckley, and I stand by it. I know you mean well, and indeed, indeed, I’m grateful to you. But I want nothing better than the lot I’ve chosen. Take me to your fine home, clothe me in silks and satins, give me carriages and jewels, let my whole life be one round of pleasure, and what will it avail? My heart is no longer mine to give. Abel, here, stole it when I was a poor, wandering outcast, and it is his to keep till he cast it from him, and then I know ’twill break, ’twill break.”

And then my manhood came back to me. I stood and put my arm round Miriam’s waist, and looked Mr. Buckley squarely in the face.

“Don’t think, sir,” I said, “that I have been silent because I wanted Miriam to go with you. I don’t know how I should have faced life if she had been seduced by your offer, as well she might have been. But I should have counted it shame in me to hold her to her troth if she wanted to be free. I’ve nothing to set against your wealth but a true man’s love and a poor man’s home, and it seems Miriam thinks they weigh down the scale.”

Then Mrs. Buckley, wiping, if I was not greatly mistaken, a tear from either eye, said very gently:

“Now, you young people, don’t you think you are jumping before you’ve got to the stile? I think, Mr. Holmes, if you’ll allow me an old woman's privilege, I think you show a very proper spirit, and just what I should have hoped and expected from you. Don’t think either my husband or I deem you unfitted for Miriam’s husband because you are poor and struggling. Why, bless you, when John Buckley first made eyes at me he was only a mill manager, and nigh as poor as you. And we’d a fight for it, at first, I can tell you; but they were the happiest days of our lives, weren’t they, John?”

And I declare the eyes that turned to the grey-headed old gentleman shone with such a light as a young maid turns upon the lover of her youth.

“No, no,” went on Mrs. Buckley, “there shall be no talk of parting two loving and faithful souls, not with my consent. All we ask is that you’ll spare Miriam to us for a month or two occasionally. We won’t spoil her, and we won’t corrupt her, and you’ll be free to see her just as often as you like, aye, even if you come in your clogs and smock. Why, man alive, nine out of every ten of the Lancashire manufacturers started in clogs and smock, and it’s only the fools that are ashamed to own it. But you’ll let us learn to know Miriam, won’t you? Ah! if you only knew how my old heart yearns for a daughter’s love.”

And then I did what Miriam afterwards told me made her proud of the lad of her choice. I strode across the room to where Mrs. Buckley sat, and I dropped on one knee and I raised her white, withered hands to my lips, and said softly:

“Let it be as you wish, madam.”

And so it was settled, and that very day Miriam was whisked off in that great carriage to the lordly hall at Mossley, her last words as I gazed fondly in her eyes and pressed her hands in mine being a promise to write a long letter to Pole Moor within a few days.

I suppose in these days people can scarce realise what an event in our lives was the receipt of a letter in the days of which I write. Our letters from Mossley must come by The Fair Trader, the coach being met by old Matty, the Slaithwaite postmistress, who had to trudge painfully up the long, steep, rough road to Pole Moor. Be sure I did not fail on the Saturday after Miriam’s departure to hie me to my father’s house, and be sure, too, that Jim needed no pressing to accompany me. I fear me poor Mary in those days did not have much joy of her only son’s companionship. Ah, me! youth and love are sadly selfish. How readily do we, if not forget, seem to a parent’s eyes to forget or lightly consider the long years of care and anxious love and sacrifice that have smoothed and sheltered our tender years, when first we came under the glamour of love’s young dream.

Arrived at Pole Moor, we found Ruth in a high state of excitement. Miriam had been true to her word, and old Molly had brought her missive duly. I have it now before me as I write, the paper thin and frayed, the ink faint and faded:

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 are we to 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 the Manchester Courier that 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.