A GREAT TEA-DRINKING.
AND bring her she did: her and as tiny a kit of clothing as ever, I
imagine, was borne even by the poorest emigrant leaving these shores for
distant lands. Poor Miriam, she looked sadly abashed when first she set
foot in our modest home. The Manse at Pole Moor, you may well believe,
was not a palace, yet a palace it may well have seemed to one who all
her young life had known nought but the dirty squalor of Burnplatts. And
what a magician that saucy Ruth of ours proved herself in those early
days of Miriam's coming. I would have you to understand that whereas my
Miriam was slender and willowy of bodily build, Ruth was not so tall as
she by a good two inches and of a comfortable and restful plumpness.
Yet, before Miriam had been three days beneath my father's roof, behold
her arrayed in one of Ruth's frocks that, to the male eye at least,
appeared to fit her like a glove. Then her hair--her glorious, shiny,
lustrous locks, dark as night, that ever since I had known my love had
flowed at large about her neck and shoulders and twisted and twined
about her bosom in a curling disarray--Ruth had tucked it up into a
coiling knot that nestled snugly in the nape of the neck. I vow that
when Ruth led Miriam thus transfigured into my room, her eyes downcast,
the ready blush mantling her cheeks, I scarce knew her at first glance.
With what a gentle grace the moved; how soft and sweet her speech; there
was a self-possession and composure about her that are foreign to the
girls one mostly meets on the hill-sides, with their hearty ways and
quick, bustling movements.
Now you won't need to be told that if ever a man felt bursting with
happiness that man was no other than myself in those weeks of my
convalescence, with Miriam to keep me company, and, as Jim put it,
"cocker me up like a great spoiled babby." But I protest that Miriam was
in greater danger of being spoiled than I. I say nothing of my wondering
pride and worship in those days. It is right and natural that a lover
should worship his mistress--doesn't the very marriage service say,
"With my body I thee worship?"--it is natural that he should deem her
peerless among women; but I say that in those days my lover's worship
was blended with a sort of wondering awe and a fearful pride. For,
whether it was the change from the wild and uncouth ways of the folk
among whom she had been brought up, or the spirit of her father that
moved in her blood, or the conscious striving to put her past behind her
and be a new and nobler being for love's sake, or all these and I know
not what other subtler influences put together, that is a riddle I
cannot solve. But this is certain, that the wild, elfish creature, more
than half gipsy, to whom I had poured out my love on the wild moors that
seemed so fitting setting for the picture she then made, became by
quick, yet insensible, degrees a maiden of so sweet yet quiet a charm,
moving serenely as a swan sails the waters, and, as it were, queening it
among us without an effort and without even meaning it.
"I don't know how it is," said Ruth in commenting on this marvellous
change to Jim. "She makes me feel as if she were a porcelain vase and I
a common pewter flagon."
"Well, aw always liked pewter mysen," Jim had said. "Ale never tastes so
guid as out o' a pewter pot. Gi' me pewter, let them ha' porcelain 'at
wants it." But I don't think Ruth took much comfort from this. Not that
she bore Miriam any malice. Not she indeed. She just simply accepted her
as an elder sister whom it was a pleasure and a duty to minister to and
to admire. Miriam ran some danger of being spoiled, even by Ruth, until,
after our guest had settled down somewhat into our ways, Ruth set her to
help in the kitchen. And then came the amazing and, to Ruth, not
unpleasing discovery that Miriam was just as ignorant of the commonest
household duties as Ruth was proficient. She couldn't bake, she couldn't
brew, she didn't know what a churn was, she had never in her life made a
pat of butter, and she had the most elementary notions even of the
abstruse science of bed-making. And in the teaching of her new pupil
Ruth was able to recover somewhat of that sense of general superiority
which years of undisputed sway at Pole Moor had made a second nature
with my good sister.
But in the spoiling of Miriam the greatest and chief of sinners was none
other than my reverend father. Is it to be counted a weakness in a
minister of the Gospel to seek to make converts to his faith? Surely
nay, even though, as the Book says, he compass sea and land to do it.
And in matters of religion Miriam's mind was a virgin soil. She was
absolutely ignorant of doctrine. Until she came to Pole Moor never once
had she set foot in Church or Chapel. As an infant she had not been
baptised--a source of much satisfaction to my father, who was great in
his scorn of what he called pædobaptism, which I take to mean the
baptism of infants; and I have heard him hold forth by the hour upon the
sinfulness of admitting puling babes to the membership of Christ's
Church, and on the whimsical practice of allowing sponsors in the
persons of godfathers and godmothers to take upon themselves spiritual
responsibility for the backslidings of their godchildren, for, as Enoch
Hoyle sagely remarked, in the sight of God every tub must stand upon its
own bottom. So my father set himself to preparing Ruth for baptism and
admission to the Church of God at Pole Moor by expounding to her the
true faith as declared by Calvin. And to all his teaching did Miriam
seriously incline. It was a winsome sight, those drear winter nights, to
see the old man sat by the glowing peat fire with Miriam on a hassock by
his knees the while, one hand gently stroking her ebon locks, he fed
her, as Enoch Hoyle put it, with the sincere milk of the Word, she
staring musing into the red embers, her hands resting idle on her lap.
Now as to the absolute soundness of the doctrine preached by my father I
have, I grieve to say, in these my riper years, had many
heart-searchings. But no doubts troubled Miriam's mind. I do not doubt
that from the first she accepted my father as the very oracle of God.
She stood as it were appalled before the immensity of his wisdom. That
one man, and a little one at that, should have read all the books that
cumbered the shelves of his little study, that he should be able to read
the very Hebrew in which the Tables of the Law were traced by the Divine
finger, that he could read and write the very tongue in which Jesus
spoke to his disciples by the sea of Galilee or on the Mount,--oh! who
could doubt that such a man must be as the prophets of old, his every
word but the echo of the Master's voice. I do verily believe that if,
in some moment of inspired fervour, my father had assured Miriam that
the moon was made of green cheese she would have e'en taken his word for
it. Never before nor after had my father a more reverent, a more loving
pupil. In very truth she sat at his feet and treasured his every word as
a pearl beyond price.
But Enoch Hoyle, who felt it his duty to aid in Miriam's spiritual and
doctrinal education, was often sore discomfited, and confessed to me,
oft with tears in his eyes, that he believed at bottom, despite her
seeming conformity, Miriam was little better than a pagan and a heathen.
"And what makes you think so?" I asked the worthy deacon.
"Weel, aw'm oppen to tell yo', if yo're oppen to hear me," quoth Enoch,
settling himself for a good talk, than which there was nothing the good
soul liked better, the sound of his own voice being ever the music he
liked best. "Aw've been a member o' Pole Moor sin' th' chapel were
oppened in th' year o' our Lord 1790. Aw joined th' church a bit afore
that, when th' saints met for prayer an' thanksgivin' in th' _Silent
Woman_, th' public down i' Slowit yonder. Aw'm not denyin' 'at there
were conveniences i' holdin' th' sarvices i' a licensed house, for
preichin's dry work, an' listenin' to some o' th' preichers we'n had to
put up wi' 's drier still. Aw've allus thowt th' Lord missed his way
when he didn't ca' me to be a preicher mysen. But aw've done mi best to
mak' up for that mistake on th' part o' Providence bi keepin' th'
regular ministers up to th' mark. We'n had 'em o' all mak's sin' th'
Pole were first oppened. There's bin Calvinist an' hyper-Calvinists an'
Fullerites an' Antinomians, an', as aw'n said, all mak's, an' they'n all
had th' benefit o' owd Enoch Hoyle's opinion o' their doctrine an'
preichin', an' aw ma' no doubt they were all th' better for it. Aw'n
stuck like a leech to th' owd spot, an' purge th' flock as they liked,
an' some o' th' parsons welly purged it to death, they ne'er managed to
purge Enoch Hoyle out o' it. Aw'd have stuck to it if there'd bin nowt
but heath-bobs to preich to, as folk said 'ud be th' case when we raised
our Ebenezer at th' Pole."
"But what in the name o' goodness has all this ancient history to do
with Miriam?" I asked.
"Aw'm comin' to that, Abe, all i' good time. Dunnot thee be impatient.
Th' gret fault o' th' present day is just that same wantin' to cut
things short. Why, if we tuk notice o' th' younger end they'd do away
wi' th' very hour-glass on th' pulpit desk, an' we'd ne'er be sure we'd
had our money's worth. What aw want yo' to understand is 'at me havin'
sat sin' th' sap were fresh i' mi. veins till now aw'm in th' sere an'
yellow leaf, under this preicher an' that, aw should know th' ins an'
outs o' religious doctrine as weel as here an' there a one."
"That seems to stand to reason," I conceded, though with some misgiving,
for I could not see to what this prolix prelude tended.
"Weel," proceeded Enoch, evidently gratified by my concession, "weel, if
there's one point on which aw'm more clear nor another it's on th'
doctrine o' predestination in a' its fulness an' consekenses."
"Ah!" I interposed. "I'll not be sorry to be enlightened on that point
myself. I've never been on very sure ground there."
"Hark yo' theer now!" said Enoch with great gusto, "an' yo' th' parson's
own son. There's th' guiding o' the Lord i' this. Aw'st happen kill two
birds wi' one stone yo' an' Miriam, aw mean. Weel, it's this way.
There's no gettin' away fro' it 'at God Almighty knows th' beginnin'
fro' th' end, even fro' th' beginnin' o' th' world, aye, an' afore that.
Both thee an' Miriam were in His mind's eye, so to speik, afore th'
mooin was, or th' sun or th' stars, or the waters which are aboon the
firmament, an' them 'at are under the firmament."
"It looks a long time, Enoch, but go ahead."
"Weel, an' if He knew 'at yo' were goin' to be born it's ekally sartin
He knew where yo'd go to when yo' dee, an' as He could just will it His
own gait it's plain as th' nose on your face 'at we're all predestinate
oather for Heaven or Hell long afore we were oather born or thowt on."
"It's a hard saying, that, Enoch," I demurred.
"Nowt o' th' sort," maintained Enoch stoutly.
"It's like sowing turnip seed. Tha knows 'at we sow it i' han'fuls, an'
it comes up as thick as mustard an' cress. Weel, we sort out th' likely
shoots an' leave 'em i' th' ground to swell into turnips. T'others we
just poo up an' other mak' into pottage or throw 'em to th'
pou'try--sheer waste o' gooid seed, yo' med say, an' yet it's th' only
way. It's th' same wi men an' women. Some's nobbut fit for pooin' up an'
castin' into th' oven."
"But, again, what has all this to do with Miriam?" I asked.
"Weel, aw were just speerin' about owd Granny Sykes, th' owd beldame at
Burnplatts. An' aw were tellin' her how thankful oo owt to be to ha'
been ta'en into a Christian household where oo'd ha' the means o' grace
an' the hope o' glory--bein' dipped, aw mean--and so escape joinin'
Granny Sykes in th' outer darkness wheer there's weepin', an' wailin',
an' gnashin' o' teeth."
"Oh, you said that, did you?"
"Aw did. An' oo' went as white as a sheet, an' her eyes shot lightnin'
an' daggers as oo jumped up an' just shook me till what few teeth aw han
rattled i' mi yead."
"'You believe that?'" oo said.
"'Aye,' aw towd her, it were just wovven for her wi' a shuttle o'
adamant.'"
"'Yo' wicked old man,' she cried, 'yo' wicked, wicked old man.' Yo' may
tak' my word for it, Abe, yon wench is a spit-fire, if ivver there were
one. Oo'll be a handful for onny man to tackle, an' thank God it won't
be Enoch Hoyle."
I didn't know whether to laugh or to storm; but Enoch Hoyle was Enoch
Hoyle, a good man at heart, but surely he had forgotten the assurance
that God is Love.
But I'd soon other things to think about than theological doctrines and
hair-splittings. By the month of February--a dull, drizzly, raw month
it was I well remember, with fits of heavy snow in and among, or maybe I
was over nesh from being cooped up so long and cowering over the fire
"counting th' eoiks as Jim put it--and I was able to leave my sick-room
and move about the house and into the open, but still in a feeble sort
of way. And one night, Ruth and Miriam being gone together down into
Slaithwaite shopping, my father bid me sit down as he had much to say to
me that had been long on his mind, but which he had stored up till such
time as I should be strong enough for serious thought and talk.
"So you and the maid Miriam have plighted troth," he began, when his
churchwarden was drawing comfortably.
"By your leave, father, yes," I made answer in a shamefaced way, for
young men, I know not why, would rather discuss their love affairs with
anyone in the world than their own fathers--it's different, I suppose,
with their mothers, but, you see, I hadn't one.
"Humph," said my sire, somewhat shortly, "it was French leave, I take
it."
I hung my head.
"Well, well, all's well that ends well, and I'll say you've had more
good luck than you deserve. Miriam's a bonnie lass, and, what's of
infinitely more importance, a clever one and a good one. If anything
could spoil a girl I should say such a bringing up as she must have had
at Burnplatts would have done it. But she hath been like unto Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abednego, that passed through the fiery furnace, yet 'upon
their bodies the fire had no power, nor was an hair of their head
singed, neither were their coats changed, nor the smell of fire had
passed on them.' Truly with her, as with the three captives in Babylon,
the Son of God must have walked whilst she dwelt in the tents of Shem.
Aye, verily a goodly maiden and a fair. But thou'll not have forgotten,
Abel, my son, that she is also a maiden well dowered, though, I
understand, she does not know it. Has it occurred to thee to think, lad,
that it's scarcely fair to her to hold her to a promise she made when
she may have been in despair and ready to snatch at any chance of escape
from that wretched and, I fear me, God-accursed Burnplatts?"
"Why, no, father, I've never given much thought to the money; but as to
holding Miriam or any other lass if she wanted to be free--why, you
know, it isn't in me to do it. We can soon put it to the touch. Tell her
of her fortune."
"That's what I'm going to do this very night. Nay, more. Four hundred
pound's a meaningless sound to most folk, and how much more to one who
probably never fingered a golden coin of her own in all her life. I've
been down to the bank and drawn Miriam's fortune. They wanted me to have
it in notes; but I'd none of their notes. 'Give it me in gold,' I
insisted, 'all in gold.' And I carried it to Pole Moor, and a rare
weight it was. And it shall be heaped before her eyes, and she shall see
the yellow glisten of it, and hear the rich chink of it, and handle,
and, if she likes, fondle it, as they say misers do, that she may
realise that it is a real thing and all her own, and that if she list
she may shake the dust of Pole Moor from her feet and go out into the
wide world with power to pick and choose."
Amen, and Amen, said I very heartily, for did I not know my Miriam?
And then we heard the sound of merry chatter and girlish laughter
outside the door, and the deep bass of a voice I knew to be Jim's, and
the clatter of clog toes kicked against the step.
"They're back sooner than I expected," said my father, "but it's as
well. We'll get this job through to-night. That will be your friend
James Haigh. It wonderful how set he seems to be on you. He's been
unremitting in his inquiries anent your health. It passes me when that
young man sleeps. He's been here up to all hours of the night, and then
had to walk through snow and slush the weary, lonesome way over Stanedge
to his home."
Miriam and Ruth came into the room, their eyes bright, their cheeks
glowing from the keen air and the healthful exercise. Jim followed
somewhat sheepishly in their rear, carrying a big market basket full of
groceries. He saluted my father respectfully then grasped my hand, now
somewhat worn and white, in his big, horny fist.
"Well, Abe, lad, how'st ta feelin' nah? Tha mun be comin' to thi corn
again, judgin' bi th' layin'-in o' provender thi sister's done to-neet.
Aw just happened to be dahn i' Slowit when they wer' goin' into th'
shop, so aw in after 'em to buy a bit o' baccy. By gosh, lad--gosh is
noan swearin' aw hope, Mr. Holmes, aw mun say summat, an' aw think
nother 'gosh' nor 'golly' 'll do onny harm--by gosh, lad, aw'm thinkin'
it's consumptive tha art, th' way they feed thee. Aw nobbut wish
someb'dy stick a knife into me an' lig me dahn on Pole Moor doorsteps.
Golly, aw do sweat, it's aboon a joke huggin' a load like that fro' th'
bottom to th' sky-line."
"Why, Jim," cried Miriam, "you swore it was only a featherweight, and
nothing would serve but that you must help Ruth up the hill on your
arm."
Jim's face went brick-red.
"It's only when aw come to put it dahn aw felt it," he stammered.
"He only wants a pitcher of home-brewed," declared Ruth. "I'll fetch it
when I've got my things off and put our shawls over th' winter-hedge in
front o' th' kitchen fire. I declare they're sopping. But you mustn't
say 'sweat,' Jim. How often have I to tell you? Only horses sweat. You
don't sweat, you perspire."
"Oh! don't aw though?" said Jim. "Weel, aw thowt aw did; but mebbe
you're reet an' aw only pusspire. But, onny road, sin' yo're so
pressin', aw don't mind a thimbleful or so."
"A thimbleful," laughed Ruth, as she left the room to fetch the jug. "As
well try to water a ten acre field with a squirt. I never did see the
likes of you for home-brewed. It's well you've got no brains to addle,
or addled they'd have been long since."
"Did you ever hear the like?" asked Jim of no one in particular. "It's
th' only weakness aw'n getten, an' it seems to me aw'm nivver to hear
th' last on it." And he sighed resignedly.
Meanwhile my father had fetched the heavy kist entrusted to me by Mr.
Garside from under his bed-head, which he had deemed the safest place to
keep it. He placed it solemnly in the centre of the table, as solemnly
unlocked it, and poured its glittering contents out in a golden shower.
As I have said, there were a trinket or two besides the yellow coins,
and, while Jim and I stared at the growing pile and grabbed the guineas
to prevent them rolling on to the floor, Miriam and Ruth paid just no
heed to the precious coins, but pounced with little cries of delight
upon the gemmed brooches and rings, with happy cries of "Oh, isn't it
sweet? Look at this, darling, and at this," and so on. And Miriam picked
up a brooch that glistened and sparkled by the light of the lamp, and
drew Ruth to a long looking-glass that hung on the wall, and pinned it
on her frock, and kissed and hugged her, then kissed and hugged her
again, and told her it suited her so it must have been made on purpose
for her. Then when we'd all quieted down a bit, my father explained at
length to Miriam that all this was her very own, and asked what she was
minded to do with it.
"Weel, aw mun be goin'!" Jim began, before Miriam could find words to
answer my father. "It's gettin' latish, n', aw've a tidy step. Why,
guise hang me, if it isn't goin' on for ten o' clock."
"Better stop all night, Jim," pressed my father. "It's a rough night and
a dark. You must sleep with Abe and lose a quarter to-morrow."
"Thi arm's noan smittlin', is it, Abe? All reet, then, aw'll stop, an'
thank ye; but aw thowt happen yo'd like to talk this fortin' job ovver
among yersen."
"Such nonsense," said Ruth.
"What shall I do with it?" asked Miriam. "What shall I do with it? Why,
what should I do with it but leave it where it is. Keep it, Mr. Holmes,
keep it and use it as you think best. I've no use for it. I don't want
it. I won't have it. Buy yourself a new top-coat with it. You _do_ want
a new top-coat--doesn't he, Ruth?"
"Fudge!" quoth my father testily, for he was somewhat sore on this
point. "That coat's a good coat, a very good coat, and years of wear in
it still, with care. I'm calculating on that coat lasting my time; and
if I should live to see a grandson breeched, which please God I
shall"--and his dear old eyes rested lovingly on me and Miriam, who
blushed a rosy red--"there's some very good patching in it for a
bairn's breeks. But as for keeping that store of golden gear, why,
that's stark nonsense. It's yours, and, now you've seen it and handled
it, if you've no present use for it let it e'en go back forthwith to the
bank, and lie at usury against a rainy day. What do you say, Ruth?"
Now my sister was idly toying with the heaped coins, letting them slide
through her fingers and tinkle pleasantly in the ear; but her face was
full of thought. She ever had the brains of the family had Ruth, though
she was, of course, not learned like my father. But I've often noticed
that your learned man has little wit for everyday affairs.
"You two are both out of your time, aren't you?" she asked all of a
sudden.
"What's that got to do with it?" I snapped.
"And do you mean to go on slaving for Mr. Wrigley all your days? A poor
look out for the girl you've clapped your eyes on. Do you either of you
ever look ahead, I wonder? Time doesn't stand still, if _you_ do. What's
the use of good money rusting in th' Bank? Not that if you take it there
it'll stop there. Do you think th' Bank 'll just lock it up in a
strong-box an' pay you interest just for th' fun o' keepin' it safe for
you. Where do they get th' interest from to pay you? Why, by lending
your money to folk 'at have th' brains to use it. Oh! I've no patience
with you."
Jim nudged me delightedly. "Oo's on th' scent," he whispered. "Eh! what
a head-piece--an' to be wasted on a woman!"
"H'm, I suppose so. I never thought of that," said my father.
"Well," continued Ruth, "I haven't read it in books; but it stands to
sense someone must addle th' brass for th' Bank to pay interest with.
Th' Bank isn't a cheese 'at breeds golden maggots all o' theirsen. An'
what I want to know is, why can't these two great babbies o' ours find a
use for this money, if Miriam's willing to trust it to 'em, an' make a
better living for themselves and for those that'll look to them for a
home, than ever they'll make giving th' best o' their days to Mr.
Wrigley or th' best master that ever stood on two legs?"
The sheer audacity of the suggestion took my breath away. I glanced at
Jim. His chop had fallen, his eyes were glued on Ruth, and he breathed
heavily. Miriam had jumped up and flung her arms round Ruth's neck, and
was almost crying with delighted excitement.
"'_Rem acu tetigisti_,'" quoth my father, "which in the vulgar tongue,
means, 'Thou hast touched the matter with a needle's point.'"
"To be sewer there's Mitchell Mill," breathed Jim, heavily, "'at's been
goin' to wreck an' ruin this monny a year for want o' somebdy to run it.
An' Diggle Brook's as good a run o' watter as ivver turned a wheel. But
th' varry thowt on it ma'es mi yead turn. Has it just popped into thi
yead, Ruth, or hast ta been brewin' this new brew on th' quiet?"
"That's my business," Ruth made reply.
"Main point is, is it a good brew? What do you say, father?"
"I say that it's nearly midnight, and we'll all go to bed and sleep on
it. But first let us take the matter to the Lord in prayer."
And we all knelt, and my father read the "Evening Portion" and then
poured forth a long and fervent prayer for guidance and wisdom in this
momentous crisis of our lives.
Jim had to be up next morning long before daybreak that he might be at
his work when the shuttle was drawn and the big water-wheel, with many a
creak and groan, began to turn lazily on its axle and send its power
pulsing through the mill. I got up with him; for it was high time I gave
up my invalid ways and set my thoughts towards the work that lay before
me. Early as we were, Miriam and Ruth were afoot before us; and a bright
fire burned in the kitchen grate, and the porridge steamed on the table,
and there was the pleasing sizzle of ham frying in a pan, and the
fragrance of coffee piping hot--the bean was at 3/6 a pound in those
days--and home-made bread, white, and close, and flaky, and butter pats
of Ruth's own deft making.
"Aw've been thinkin' ovver what yo' said last neet, Ruth, about Mitchell
Mill," said Jim with his mouth full.
"It's manners to swallow your food before trying to talk, and, besides,
I never mentioned Mitchell Mill. It was you."
"It's th' same thing," said Jim.
"Oh! is it? Well, what about it?"
"Can you think and snore at the same time?" I queried, for indeed Jim's
head had scarcely touched the pillow before he was fast asleep, and I
doubt if he had stirred till I had, with difficulty, roused him from the
deep slumber of a healthy and weary man who had sat up long after his
usual bedtime.
"Thee be quiet, Abe, aw've enough wi' Ruth. One dog one bull's fair play
onny day i' th' week. Aw say aw'n bin turnin' it ovver i' mi yead abaat
Mitchell Mill, an' aw'n come to a conclusion."
"An' what might it be, O most sagacious of men?" asked Ruth pertly.
"Well, aw'n come to th' conclusion," said Jim slowly--"aw'll tak'
another slice o' that theer ham, if yo' don't mind, Miriam. Aw dunnot
know if it's th' way th' pig's been fed or whether it's summat i' th'
air, but aw allus will maintain 'at there's nowt to ekal Pole Moor ham.
Aw dunnot wonder at th' chap 'at left it i' his will 'at he sud be
buried wi' ham if he'd ivver sampled yourn at th' Pole."
Clearly Jim was a diplomatist of the first order. If there was one thing
above another Ruth prided herself upon it was her ham.
"It's partly th' feeding," she said, "but it's mainly th' curing. I will
say it, though maybe I shouldn't, I can cure a ham."
"That you can, Ruth. Nah, if my grammar 'ud nobbut bin gooid pig tha'd
ha' had me cured long sin', but aw'm feart aw'm too far gone even for
thee, lass. But about Mitchell Mill?"
"Yes, about th' Mill?" I said somewhat impatiently.
"Weel," said Jim, very deliberately, "as aw were sayin', aw've turned
th' thing ovver i' my yead, while yo' were sleepin' as if yo' hadn't a
care o' your mind, just like a new-born babby 'at knows it's nowt to do
but turn its yead an' there's th' tit ready to its mouth, an' aw've come
to a concloosion. Aw'll just ha' th' heel o' that loaf, Miriam, an' a
morsel o' butter on it to polish off wi'."
"Oh! do get on," cried Ruth, "you and your conclusions."
"'Most haste, least speed,' aw'n heard mi mother say, likewise 'Hurry no
man's cattle, yo' may leet to ha' a mule o' your own some day.'"
"That's very like," quoth Ruth, "and a very stupid mule at that."
"Meaning me," said the imperturbable Jim, slowly plastering his crust
with butter, "an' thank you kindly for th' compliment."
"But really, Jim," put in Miriam gently, "joking apart, we're all agog
to know what conclusion you've come to."
"Speak for yourself," snapped Ruth. "I've no patience with the man.
Anyways, it's time he was off if he means to get to Wrigley Mill this
blessed morning."
"An' that's just what aw dunnot mean," said Jim. "Yo' see, aw'st pass
Mitchell Mill on my way down fro' th' Cutting, an' aw happen to know th'
felly 'at keeps th' keys, an' aw'll just mak' it i' mi way to ovverhaul
that ramshackle owd buildin' fro' top to bottom. Aw'n thowt o' a lie to
tell him."
"Oh! Jim," cried Miriam.
"A lie to tell him," continued Jim unabashed. "Yo' see, it 'ud nivver do
to let all th' countryside know what we're after. For one thing, though
Mr. Wrigley's a just man an' varry religious, at least his missus is,
an' that's th' same thing, for it's weel known who wears th' breeches at
th' Holly Grove, he'll noan be too weel pleased at another mill startin'
just under his nose, so to speik. An' if it all come to nowt, Abe an' me
might find ussen whistlin' for a job, an' a bird i' th' hand's worth two
in th' bush, as aw'n heard mi mother say. So aw'st just say at aw'm
thinkin' o' keepin' two or three hundred yead o' powtry, and that's all
Mitchell Mill's fit for till someb'dy's spent a pretty penny puttin' it
to reets agen. Why, there's a month's work on th watter-wheel, but aw
can see to that, thank God."
"But that conclusion of yours," insisted Miriam.
"Oh! that," said Jim. "Weel, aw'll tell yo'. Yo' see this brass o'
Miriam's nother Abe's nor mine.
"Oh! but it is," put in my love hastily.
"Axin' yo'r pardon, it isn't. An' what aw mean to say is a felly may
mak' ducks an' drakes o' his own brass, an' nob'dy's onny right to say
owt. But when it comes to lakin' wi' other folk's gear he cannot be too
careful. So aw'n come to th' concloosion--"
"Well?" we all cried.
"To talk th' matter ovver fully wi' mi' owd mother. Oo's nobbut a simple
body yo' may think, an' a working woman all th' days o' her life; but
aw'n ne'er known her wrong yet, an' aw reckon oo's too old to begin."
We all burst out laughing at what seemed, as the writer says, "a lame
and impotent conclusion," but I fancy there was a glimmer of a tear in
Ruth's eye as she jumped up and began to side the breakfast things and
put fresh water on to boil for my father's morning stirabout. But Miriam
said:
"That's a good and a wise thought of yours, Jim. And I'm sure Ruth and
Mr. Holmes would be very pleased if you could prevail on your good
mother to come up here some afternoon and have tea with us. Let me play
hostess, Ruth. Can't I give a tea-party out of this wonderful fortune
of mine?"
"We don't kill a pig every day," supplemented Jim.
"Next Thursday night, then," decided Ruth. "I'll see father doesn't get
called out that night, and there's no service for a wonder. And what do
you say to asking Enoch Hoyle? He's been among th' cloth all his life,
and should know something about it."
"Oh! Enoch's reight enough," admitted Jim, "if he'll nobbut keep off
religion, which aw tak' to be a matter needin' a mighty bit o' larnin'
to understan'; though why it sud be soa it 'ud puzzle a plain man to
explain. Aye, we'll ha' Enoch. But nob'dy else. 'Too monny cooks spoil
the broth,' as aw'n heard mi owd mother say." And Jim, after shaking
Miriam heartily by the hand and slapping me on the sound side of my
back, set off Digglewards, Ruth finding it necessary to show him as far
as the garden gate, though there was light enough by now, for we had
lingered an unconscionable time over our meal, and surely Jim knew his
way well enough by this time to find the gate blindfold.
And then began the preparations for that never-to-be-forgotten feast.
Miriam insisted that her money should pay for all, and that there should
be no stint. And Ruth let herself go. She had a natural genius for
cooking, but up to that day she had, she declared, been like the ancient
Israelites in Egypt, required to make bricks without straw. I had once
aggravated her by telling her I had read that in France no one was
considered a good cook who could not make ten different savoury dishes
out of an old boot sole, and I am not sure that she had not tried to
make a hot-pot out of an old slipper stewed with potatoes, carrots,
turnips, and cabbage. But now!--my mouth waters yet as I think of the
store of good things that the unwearying Enoch, who had been
requisitioned as fetcher and carrier, brought up from Slowit to Pole
Moor--what pokes of flour, parcels of raisins, and currants, and
almonds, and baking powder, and tea, and coffee, and sugar. I myself
beat eggs and cut pork into pieces like dice till my shackle ached--a
huge pork-pie was to be what a friend of mine, who knows the lingo,
tells me I ought to call the _pièce de résistance_ of that immortal
feast. There was to be white bread and brown bread, muffins hot and
muffins cold, currant cake--not shouting cake, mind you, but rich,
creamy cake, stuffed with fruit--seed cake, hardcakes, custards,
blancmange, wobbly jellies of all the colours of the rainbow,
mince-pies, apple charlotte, a stuffed chine, a roast goose with apple
sauce, a boiled fowl with boiled ham, and that crowning glory, the
pork-pie. My father would shuffle into the kitchen in his old list
slippers, ever down at the heel, and raise his eyes and hands in mute
protest against this sinful prodigality, only to be driven forth with
laughter and caresses at the point of the rolling-pin. But worst
offender of all was that sad deceiver, Enoch Hoyle, who smuggled into
the kitchen a bottle of Jamaica rum, purchased at his own cost and
charge, vainly endeavouring to excuse himself by the pretext that
mincemeat wouldn't keep without some mak' of spirits, and that unless
we'd what he called brown cream in our tea we should all die of
indigestion. I don't know what that goodly spread cost Miriam, but it
was worth it all to see those two bonnie lasses in clean print frocks,
their sleeves rolled up above their elbows, displaying their white
rounded arms, picking raisins and currants, cutting candied lemon,
kneading dough, pricking loaves and teacakes, dusting table tops with
flour, greasing tins with larded paper, raking fires, banging oven
doors, plucking fowls, paring apples, and all the while singing, and
laughing, and joking, and ordering me and poor Enoch about without a
with-your-leave or by-your-leave, or any ceremony whatever. Depend upon
it your true woman loves to be bustling in her kitchen when she has
plenty to go at.
And, when the eventful day arrived, of course Enoch was the first to
turn up, being nearest. He was arrayed in his very Sundayest Sunday
suit, black broadcloth, somewhat rusty to be sure, knee breeches, pale
blue worsted stockings, oft darned, patched shoes with bright steel
buckles, a satin stock, a frilled shirt front, and a broad-brimmed
beaver hat, which he had borrowed for the occasion from an uninvited and
envious neighbour. Then about two o'clock, after Ruth had run half a
score of times to the road and strained her eyes down the valley,
returning each time somewhat ruffled in temper, up came Jim and his
mother, not as we had supposed on Shanks' mare, but, if you'll believe
me, in a bone-shaking rattletrap of a gig which, with a sorry quadruped
to draw it, Jim had beguiled the trustful landlord of the "Hanging Gate"
to lend him for that day only. I hastened to help Mary out, and would
have ushered her into the parlour, but that she declared she would not
sit till such times as she had put herself to rights.
"Aw were nivver so shakken afore i' my life, an' nivver so fleyed. That
hoss mun be of a varry pious frame o' mind for it wanted to go down on
its knees ivvry twenty yards. Up hill, an' it's mostly up hill, it
puffed, an' coughed, an' wheezed--hoopin' cough, an' asthma, an'
brownchitis isn't to be named i' th' same week wi' th' way that hoss
went on. An' down hill it were warse. Th' harness may ha' fitted it
once, though aw doubt it. But now it fair dances all ovver th' poor
beast's body. An' th' trap creaked, an' groaned, an' rattled, an' th'
seat kept slippin' up an' dahn, an' back'ards an' forrards, till aw
could nivver be sewer whether aw sud fall out at th' back or tipple a
somersaut ovver th' hoss's yead. Aw wanted to ger aat an' walk, but Jim
said this being th' do as it is, it were nobbut a due compliment to Pole
Moor to drive up i' style. But aw'st noan go back i' that owd
bone-shaker if aw'm to crawl o' my hands an' knees ovver th' moor. But
theer! aw'm rested now, aw'll turn to an' wash some o' them pots. My,
what a seet o' pots to be sewer. They'll none be all your own, aw'm
thinkin'."
Ruth explained that we had ventured to borrow some of the crockery used
for Chapel and Sunday school anniversaries.
"Oh! well, then, them 'versaries is some good," commented Mary. "But see
yo'," she exclaimed suddenly, "if aw hadn't clean forgotten. Wheer's
that Jim? In th' shippon puttin' owd Barebones up? He'll be fodderin'
her wi' mi' parcel if aw'm noan quick."
But at this moment Jim appeared with a great parcel, wrapped in thick
brown paper, in his hands.
"Aw'm noan come empty-handed," explained Mary, "it's noan my way. I
suppose it isn't other o' you young women's birth-day, is it? No? Weel,
it can't be helped; we mun mak' believe it is. Yo' mun tak' these wi' my
good wishes. Aw med 'em missen, an' aw'm thinkin' they'll noan be th'
waur for bein' hand-made. Men med machines, an' aw'm not denyin' some on
'em's a fair marvel; but God med hands." And Mary undid the parcel and
proudly displayed its contents. My father had come into the kitchen and
greeted Mary heartily, and won her heart at once by his kindly welcome
and some quite unmerited praise of the graceless Jim. And now Mary drew
forth a woollen comforter, long, broad, thick, and soft, that you could
almost have wound round and round my father's whole body.
"This is for you, Mr. Holmes, if yo'll be so kind as to wear it. Aw'n
often heard how yo' go trapezin' ovver th' moors i' all sorts o'
weather, which, axin' yo'r pardon, yo'n no right to do at yo'r time o'
life, though weel aw know it's waste o' breath to gi' guid advice to th'
best o' men. An' wishin' yo' health an' strength to wear it threadbare
an' me to live to mak' yo' another when that's done. An' these vests is
for yo' lasses. Yo' can wear 'em ovver yo'r shimmies i' winter time;
they'd happen be a bit rough next to th' skin. An' these stockin's is
for yo' girls, too. They're happen a bit big i' th' cauf o' th' leg, but
yo'll thicken aat theer afore them stockin's is ready for th' rag bag,
and they'll mak' varry guid floorcloths then. Aw did think while aw were
about it aw'd mak' some little socks aat o' th' wool aw had to spare 'at
'ud come in handy some day. But aw once knew a woman, up Harrop Edge
way--Laban's wife, yo'd mebbe know her, sir--an' oo med a set o' babby
things when oo'd nobbut just started courtin', and never chick nor child
did she have to wear 'em." But here Jim and I were hustled out of the
kitchen, and what other confidences Mary might have to narrate were
reserved for gentler ears.
Now into the details of that great revel I must not enter. The meal had
been put off an hour beyond our usual time, which was enough of itself
to put an edge on appetites kept in good fettle by daily labour, frugal
fare, cleanly lives, and mountain air. So that I fear we listened with
little patience and not over-much attention to the long, long grace my
father must needs offer before we were at liberty to fall to. I daresay
there are people who wonder at those who take a delight in a hearty
feed. I expect these are the folk who all their lives have always had
more than enough to eat. We were not in that case--far otherwise. The
fare at Pole Moor was ample enough, but ever of the plainest, porridge
and buttermilk, buttermilk and porridge, bacon and pork, pork and bacon,
with haver bread--Ruth had as neat a turn of the wrist for swishing the
meal and water on to a bakestone as ever you saw--butcher's meat and
white bread perhaps once a week, and now and then a dish of tea. For
puddings and pies we fell back on fruit of our own growing, rhubarb and
gooseberries mainly. Now I've often reflected--there's nothing like a
good dinner for inducing pious meditation--that it is a sure proof of
the infinite goodness and wisdom of the great Architect of the universe
that the best and most wholesome and necessary things are ever the most
abundant and cheapest, and accessible to all God's creatures. What, for
instance, is cheaper than cold water? And what water is to man, inside
and outside, the stupid creature never realises till he is compelled at
times to do without. What fruit of the earth can a man turn to with such
unfailing relish as the potato that any cottager can grow on a rough
patch of ground, what vegetable more medicinal than the cabbage, what
fruit more toothsome than rhubarb when the shoots are yet tender, or the
gooseberry whilst still green and tart. I suppose your "gret fo'k," as
Mary called the quality, set much store on their grapes, and pines, and
peaches, and other precious fruits I don't even know the names of, but
old Dr. Dean--and a better doctor never trod--would often say that a
man would sooner stall of grapes, and pines, and peaches, and all such
fallalls, than he would of rhubarb and gooseberries, and that for
keeping a man's innards in order those luxuries of the rich were not to
be mentioned in the same week with the hardy produce of the cottage
garden. But, there, all these sage thoughts were very far from my head
as I sat next to Miriam at table, and, what time I was not kept busy
passing cups and plates, did my level best to eat up to the standard Jim
had set for himself and confided to me for my own guidance. We had been
taught in our early days that company manners forbade the partaking
twice of the same dish, and Jim had carefully modelled his slow and
steady progress through the viands on that precept. So his bill of fare,
to which he heroically adhered, was something like this:--
Pork-pie--1 plateful.
Roast goose with apple sauce--1 plateful.
Roast fowl with ham--1 plateful.
Currant cake with cheese--1 slice.
Blancmange--1 plateful.
Jelly: yellow--1 plateful.
Jelly: pink--1 plateful.
Mince-pie with cheese--One.
Muffins, hard-cakes, brown bread, white bread--company
manners fix no limit to these details.
Tea--Two cups; three if you've cheek to ask for them.
Now I think you'll agree that was a square meal for one man; but you
must remember Jim was six feet four in his stockings, and six feet four
requires a lot of support. It is a mercy all had not the stature and the
appetites of Jim and myself, else Ruth and Miriam would not have been
busy, as they were for many a day after, making up little parcels of the
fragments that remained, carrying them to those of our neighbours who
most needed such help, that they too might rejoice in Miriam's good
fortune.
We had got to the final stage of the repast--the last cup of tea, the
one in which the elders gravely stirred half a wineglass of Jamaica rum,
and to which even Ruth and Miriam, faintly protesting, were induced to
add a tiny spoonful just to flavour it, when Mary startled us all by
saying:
"Han yo' clapt e'en o' Ephraim o' Burnplatts up this way lately?"
"Why, Mary," I said, for no one else seemed able to find a word, "I
didn't know you and Ephraim were acquaint."
"No more we are," she made answer. "Aw dunnot suppose he knows me fro'
Adam, leastwise fro' Eve. But aw know him, an' aw'n seen him more nor
once sin Abe here's bin ligged o' his back. He's bin hangin' about th'
Weighkey a goodish bit--him an' Tom Bradbury fro' Bill's o Jack's are
just as thick as thieves bi all accaants. Yo' see, Mr. Holmes, aw dunnot
go abaat much missen, as yo'll weel understan', for what wi' bakin', an'
brewin', an' fettlin', an' pearkin' th' pieces, an' mendin' Jim's
clo'es, an' your Abe's, an' mi own, aw'n mi hands full, an' aw'n no time
for callin' an' runnin' abaat fro' door to door sortin' he-says an'
oo-says; but th' hands at Wrigley Mill's in an' out o' yar haase for one
thing an' another till it's awmost like Lee Gap, an' keep th' door-step
onny bit like one woman cannot do, an' use th' scraper an' th' door-mat
they winnot do. But, of coorse, aw cannot shut mi ears to what's goin'
on. An' they do say 'at Ephraim's fair thrown in wi' them Bradburys,
which who'd ha' thowt it after that do at Huddersfilt ovver them hares.
But they do say 'at when they aren't at "The Bell" at Delph, or at "Th'
Cross Keys," or at "Th' Swan," reelin' fro' one public-haase to another,
Ephraim spends all his time at "Th' Moorcock" at Bill's o' Jack's. An',
what's more, they sen 'at he's larnin' to be a gamekeeper, an' is goin'
to be takken on bi th' Bradburys an' live wi' 'em reg'lar--which set a
thief to catch a thief's bin done afore now"--and here Mary paused for
breath, or, as Jim put it, "bet back a bit for another jump."
My father shook his head gravely. "Like will to like," he said. "There
have ever been men, aye, since the world began, who, like Nimrod, the
son of Cush, have been 'mighty hunters before the Lord.' Likewise have
there been men like unto Ishmael, the son of Hagar, 'wild men' whose
hands are against every man, and every man's hands against
them--rebels, as it were, against God and man, beings whom the yoke of
society and civilisations chafes and galls, and their whole life is
spent in feverish efforts to throw it off. It may well be that the blood
of some far-off ancestor of the Eastern deserts stirs in the veins of
this misguided young man. 'Twill be to him as a very gadfly, and if he
have not--as how can he have?--the restraining influence of the
Gospel, must he not ever follow the promptings of the flesh nor heed
those of the spirit? I would fain see this youth, a comely lad as I
remember him. May be he might yet be plucked as a brand from the
burning. Was there not the godly John Bunyan, who wrote that ever
blessed book, 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' who yet in his hot, rebellious
youth was a haunter of taverns, a thrower of dice, a blasphemer, aye,
even guilty of denying the Holy Ghost. Yet did the Lord raise up in him
a very prodigy of grace. Aye, aye, we'll not abandon hope, even for such
as Ephraim."
"Aw'n often heard," quoth Mary, who had listened to my father's words
with a deference she rarely accorded to the speech of mere man, "aw'n
often heard, axin' your pardon if aw'n puttin' my spoke in, 'at a
reformed rake ma'es th' best o' husbands; but aw dunnot know"--and here
Mary shook her head doubtfully--"aw dunnot know, my 'Lijah were nowt o'
a rake hissen, other afore or 'at after we were wed, so aw cannot say
for certain, but aw sud always be in fear an' tremblin' 'at if a man had
once tasted th' flesh-pots o' Egypt he'd ha' a hankerin' after th' smell
an' taste o' 'em as long as he lived."
"By gow, hearken to that," whispered Jim in my ear, "if th' owd woman
isn't quotin' Scriptur' to thi father. It's like teichin' your granny
how to suck eggs."
I saw my father was ready to mount his horse theologic, and I was by no
means minded that our feast should become an occasion for a sermon. So I
hastened to draw a herring across the trail:
"Father," I broke in irrelevantly, "have you spoken to Enoch about our
little venture at Mitchell Mill?"
"Now that's well remembered, Abe," my father was pleased to say. "Let us
return thanks to the Giver of all good things for these His mercies, and
Enoch and I will smoke a pipe in my study, and we'll all take counsel
together so soon as you women folk have cleared away. I should like to
know what Mary has to say. But first I've my little surprise." And my
father, promising to be back anon, went slowly upstairs to his little
bed-chamber, returning presently bearing in his hands what looked like
an old cigar-box.
"This was your mother's, Ruth," he said very solemnly, "my dear saint in
heaven's. She used to keep her hus-wife, and her needles, and pins, and
threads, and hooks, and eyes, and buttons, and beads, and button-hook,
and I know not what else in it at one time. Then she took to storing
little coins in it, wrapped singly in bits of paper, the rare savings
from the egg and butter money. Then when your great aunt Rachel died
without a will your mother fell to a small share of her money. Over
sixty pounds it was, and your mother could never bear the thought of
setting the money out to usury. She kept it in this same box, and since
the Lord in His wisdom took her home I've added to it mite by mite as
I could spare it. It was to be for Ruth here, her mother ever said, when
she should wed. And if she's to be a sort of partner in Mitchell Mill,
why it will be a comfort to me to be rid of the money, and may God grant
it increase."
In vain Ruth declared she wouldn't touch a penny of it, in vain she
scolded my father for pinching himself unbeknown to her to provide for a
strong, lusty, young woman, able to look after herself and him, too--my
father was adamant; and Enoch Hoyle put an end to the fruitless
discussion by rising from table, carefully dusting the crumbs from his
coat and breeches, and moving towards the study:
"While yo'n bin fratchin'," he said, "or as yo' may say,
argey-bargeying, aw'n bin thinkin', an' though Enoch Hoyle's noan a
scholard an' farlearned, he's noan 'bout wit wheer cloth comes in. Aw'n
heerd a whiff abaat this Mitchell Mill job, though aw'll grant yo'n bin
unco' canny abaat it an' kep' mum an' close, which happen it's as weel."
Mary would have gone into the kitchen to help in the siding-up; but my
father insisted that she too should be of our counsel.
"Now, Brother Hoyle," hinted my father, when the churchwardens were lit.
"Axin' yo'r pardon, Mr. Holmes," said Enoch, "this is a company day, an'
we'll ha' company manners. Aw'm noan th' buck aw used to be afore aw
were soundly converted an' dipped, but aw'n noan forgetten behaviour.
Aw'll mak' way for Mistress Haigh here, by yo'r leave, though aw mun say
that i' things spiritooal--which this isn't--aw howd firmly wi' Saint
Paul--see Corinthians one, fourteen, thirty-four an' five, if aw
remember reetly--when he says, under th' inspiration o' th' Holy Ghost,
bein' as it were th' amanooensis o' th' Spirit: 'Let your women keep
silence in the churches; for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but
they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law. And if
they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home; for it is
a shame for women to speak in the church."
"Yo' bottle 'em up i' th' church," whispered that irrepressible Jim,
"an' th' stuff comes aat wi' a bang an' splathers all ovver th' floor
when yo' poo' th' cork aat at whom." Then aloud, encouragingly, "Tell
'em what yo'n thowt on an' towd me afore we come."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, and kind sirs all," began Mary, and I knew from this
mode of address that Mary had foreseen this occasion and that we were to
hear what I have seen called in the newspapers a considered opinion.
"Well, sirs, if a poor widder woman's opnion's o' onny, valley, which
aw'm not gainsayin' it may be, aw'm thinkin' they met do waur. There's
one thing sartin sure, 'at they'll n'er do mich guid as they are. Matthy
Haley's getten th' only shop worth owt mich at Wrigley Mill, an' aw
reckon Matthy's a sticker, which nob'dy can blame him for that. There's
yar Jim theer tentin' th' engine and tunin' th' looms, an' noan so bad
for a lad 'at could awmost go to th' hedge an' see his nippins, axin'
yo'r pardon, aw'm sewer, for mentionin' sich things, but it's a way o'
speakin' an' will aat. An' there's yo'r Abe. Weel, a weiver's a weiver
all th' world ovver, an' weivin' nobbut poverty-knockin' when all's said
an' done. Nah! aw'm noan so owd yet, but aw'n known dozens on dozens i'
this Valley an' o'er th' top (over Stanedge) 'at's started for theirssen
on a varry little brass, an' wheer are they nah? Why tak' Mr. Wrigley
hissen, then there's th' Buckleys, an' th' Malalieus, an' owd Farrar
down i' th' bottom--oh! ivver so monny on 'em. An' it's gen'ly bin wi'
brass 'at's come to 'em through th' women. Other they'n wed it or some
owd maid i' th' family 'at's welly clammed hersen to death's left it
'em. Aw know they like to ma' it aat when they'n getten on i' th' world
'at it's all their own clivverness, an' prudence, an' self--what do yo'
ca' it?"
"Self-denial," suggested my father.
"That's it, an thank yo', sir, but aw'm no scholar missen, self-denial,
but yo' mun tell that to th' Horse Marines, as they seyn, though who th'
Horse Marines may be aw'n no more notion nor a babe unborn. There were
nivver a weiver i' this world 'at could keep hissen, an' bring up a wife
an' childer, an' save owt to speik on afore he were long too owd to
think o' startin' for hissen; all th' best o' his days an' strength gone
i' keepin' body an' soul together an' pilin' up a fortin' for other
fo'k. But a' that's nother here nor theer. In th' blessed dispensation
of providence an' Mr. Garside, which aw'd nivver ha' thowt it to look
at him, an' not forgettin' yo'r gooid lady, Mr. Holmes, rest her soul,
here th' brass is to us hands, an' th' question is, what mun they do
with it?"
"Th'art gettin' to it, mother," put in Jim. "Tha's gone a long road
round, but it's happen for th' gainest."
Ruth and Miriam came in at this juncture, all spick and span, and Ruth
very brazenfacedly, as I thought, squeezed down by the side of Jim on
the settle, a tight fit, whilst Miriam, as had become her wont, nestled
on a hassock by my father's side, and stole a hand, still moist from
much washing-up, into his.
"For shame of yourself, Jim," quoth Ruth severely. "Please go on, Mrs.
Haigh. Jim knows no better."
"Crushed again," said Jim meekly. "If aw were nobbut a bit less or thee
a bit bigger, Ruth, aw'd teich thee th' respec' due to a man. Tha' sud
read what Saint Paul says. If ivver aw live to ha' a house o' mi own
aw'll ha' that tex' hung up conspicuous. But ger on, mother. Tha's none
run thissen dahn yetten, aw know."
"Weel, now, about Mitchell Mill." Mary took up her parable again. "Yo'll
noan be killed wi' rent, that's one gooid thing. An' there's a gooid run
o' watter, an' there's nob'dy aboon th' stream to run yo'r wheel dry nor
yet to foul th' watter for th' dye-house an' scourin' hoil. Then yo'
know yo'll be near th' cut an' th' tunnel under Stanedge, an' that'll
come in gain for gettin' yo'r stuff in an' for sendin' yo'r pieces out.
But it's abaat th' hands aw'm most moithered. Yo' see there's nother on
yo' bin used to havin' other fo'k under yo', and as for yar Jim he's
that soft a gooid-lookin' weiver or piecener or hurler could lake all
day afore his varry e'en an' mak' believe oo were workin' hersen to skin
an' bone an' he'd nivver know. That's th' weak spot."
Jim sighed heavily. Ruth regarded Mrs. Haigh with some disfavour.
"But aw'n bin thinkin'," resumed Mary, "'at aw could see to that. If aw
can addle a livin' at whom burlin' for Mr. Wrigley, aw can soor-lee do
as mich i' a mill-chamber workin' for mi own son an' pardner. Yo' see
aw'm thinkin' aw'st na ha' Jim to do for long"--and here Mary shot a
sly glance at Ruth, which instantly smoothed that maiden's ruffled
feathers--"an' time 'll lig heavy o' mi hands. Aw'st noan kill yo' for
wage. It's little aw want, an' if aw cannot shape for mi own lad it's a
bonny come-off." And here Mary audibly sniffed and passed a trembling
hand across her eyes. Jim got up and crossed the little room and patted
his mother on the back with his big hand.
"That's all reight, mother. Owt tha says goes, doesn't it, Abe?"
"Mary knows that," I said promptly.
"Then there's th' spinnin'," continued Mary, recovering her composure
and smiling at Jim bravely. "There's these young lasses, axin' yo'r
pardon if aw mak' too free, what's to hinder them fro' doin' a seet on
it at whom, leastwise till th' babbies come, aye, an' at after that, if
they've hauf th' sperrit aw think they han. Aw'll teich 'em, an aw'n a
spindle put by at whom awmost as gooid as new. Yo' see if yo'n to ha' a
chance to get on to yo'r feet yo' mun cut dahn th' expenses at ivvery
turn."
"Oh! I'll spin fast enough," cried Ruth. "It'll be nothing to turning a
man round my little finger."
"And wheer do aw come in?" asked Enoch, who had, doubtless with
difficulty, kept silence for quite an unwonted while.
"Aye, aye, Brother Hoyle, and what do you say?" asked his pastor.
"Weel," began Enoch with great promptitude, for he needed no pressing to
speech, and was like our old eight-days clock, in that when once wound
up he must needs be suffered to run down at his own sweet will. "Weel,
aw think aw see mi way clearly to be o' mich profit to yar young folk,
an' not forgettin' missen at th' same time, for is not the labourer
worthy of his hire, and is it not written that thou shalt not muzzle the
ox that treadeth out the corn? Aw tak' it that nother Abe here nor Jim
knows mich abaat wool, nor yet abaat the buyin' thereof. Nah yo' know
aw'n wovven guid wool an' bad wool all th' days o' mi life, an' what aw
dunnot know abaat th' feel, aye, an' th' smell, an' th' look o' wool
isn't worth knowin'. Aw can mind th' time when th' packmen used to come
ovver fro' Halifax bi Merry Dale, an' th' Valley were fair musical with
th' jingle o' th' bells on their pack-horses' necks. Ah! them were th'
days when yo' could leet on a mort o' cheap wool. But th' wool-stapplers
ha' mostly done away wi' all that, an' yo're more or less at their mercy
nowadays, an' it tak's a sma' man all his time to live. But there's
brass to be saved yet bi gerrin' among th' farmers on th' moor-sides at
th' sheep-shearing, an' buying th' fleeces. An' aw think, if it's all
th' same to yo', aw'll just devote my talents to that department. Aw'm
hale an' hearty yet, an' aw'm weel known. Not but what it's a pity this
didn't happen thirty year sin'. All mi life aw've felt aw were called
to greater things nor pushin' th' beam o' a hand-loom, an' throwin' th'
shuttle, an' workin' th' treddle, hand an' fooit an' back an' eye all
on th' stretch together. An' now th' time's come--th' hour's here, an'
th' man's here, an' his name's Enoch Hoyle. Nah so mich for th'
wool-buyin'. But it's one thing to buy wool, an' it's another to mak'
it into stuff 'at'll sell. An' other o' yo' two young men gi'en a thowt
to what mak' o' stuff yo're goin' to manifactur'?"
I looked at Jim and Jim looked at me, both very blankly. Neither spoke.
"Aw thowt as mich. Nah, it's easy enough to talk o' startin'
manifact'rin' o' yo'r own accaant; but th' thing is to know what to
mak'. Yo'n noa too mich brass to lake wi'; an' yo'n yo'r name to make.
Yo'll be wantin' to mak' summat cheap an' wi' a ready sale: summat yo'll
noan sink mich brass in an' at yo' can shut as quick as yo' can get it
off th' looms. Nah! han yo' turned yo'r thowts to approns, linsey
approns?"
Jim and I were still mute.
"Aw thowt as mich," pursued Enoch triumphantly. "Yo' were goin' to
manifactur', but what yo' were goin' to manifactur' yo'd no more thowt
nor th' babe unborn. Weel, if yo'n be guided by owd Enoch, yo'll start
wi' approns, linsey approns. They're rough, they're cheap, if there's a
flaw or two i' th' weivin' it's no gret matter, an' yo' can deal wi' th'
higglers direct. Then work yo'r way through approns, linsey approns, to
flannel shirtin's an' shawls, an' i' ten years' time, when owd Enoch 'll
happen be under th' sod--all that's mortal on him, but Enoch hissen
castin' down his crown afore the golden throne when th' Lord's med up
his jewels--i' ten years' time, aw say, it'll be sooin enough to talk
o' makkin' gooid broad cloth. Yo'll know th' tricks o' trade bi then,
an', God willin', yo'll ha' med yersens a name an' ha' put a bit bye to
launch out wi."
"It seems to me," said my father, "that Brother Enoch speaks the words
of wisdom."
"His 'prentice hand He tried on man,
And then He made the lasses, O,"
whispered Ruth,
"Your 'prentice hands on linseys try,
And then to West-o'-England's fly."