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.
"My poor, poor darling!" was all I could say. "My poor, poor Miriam! But
thank God no worse has happened. Oh! thank God we came in time. What a
mercy Billy found that ring. Ah! what don't we owe to that faithful
creature!"
"Aye, and where is he now?" she whispered. "Fleeing from justice, a
price on his head, and all for me, unhappy girl that I am!" and she
sobbed as though her heart would break.
"Then you've heard?" I asked softly.
"Yes, yes! Ruth told me. Oh! it is horrible, horrible. I dream of it.
I see it all in my sleep, the very air goes red as blood. Will they take
him, think you? Oh! you mustn't give him up. I think I should die if he
should die a shameful death, and die he must if he's taken."
"They'll never take Billy alive," I said, to soothe her. "Not if I know
him. Besides, he's out of the country by this, belike. I suppose there
are lots of clans of the gipsy folk wandering the country, and he'd know
their haunts."
"Oh, yes, yes," said Miriam, eagerly. "Well, they'd hide him and help
him. But to go through life with the sense of that awful crime ever on
his soul; to die and meet his God with the blood of those poor men
shrieking for vengeance."
"And don't you think, Miriam, that God knows the clay of which poor
Billy was made, and knows what was in his mind when he struck those
unhappy men down--if he did strike them down? And who's to know he did?
Ephraim and the Bradburys were quarrelling before Billy burst in upon
them. Maybe the crime lies at Ephraim's door, and I'm not going to break
my heart over that villain. Hanging would be too good for him."
"Poor Ephraim! Poor misguided man!"
"Poor fiddlesticks!" I said, as near losing my patience as ever I was
with my sweet love. "If ever a man deserved hanging, he does. He tried
to murder me; he vamped up a tale to lure you to Bill's o' Jack's, for
I'll go bail half he told you was lies; he gagged and bound you, and I
tremble to think what worse he might have attempted; and yet you say
'Poor Ephraim!'"
"He was such a nice, brave lad once," she pleaded. "It was the drink,
that cursed drink, that warped his mind and his wild nature and hot,
fierce blood. Ah! Abe, Abe, let us judge not lest we be judged. How can
you, who have always known a father's love and such a father's--and had
a Christian home and nurture--how can you mete out just measure to such
as Ephraim? It is for One who knows all to judge, not for us who can at
best see but darkly as through a glass."
"And now have you two done your billing and cooing"--billing and cooing
indeed!--came Ruth's brisk voice as she entered the room with a basin
of broth and half a teacake for her invalid. "You've been making Miriam
cry, Abe, and I won't have it. Why, she vowed it only needed the sight
of you to make her happy, but all I can say is if that's how she looks
when she's happy I don't want to see her when she's miserable. And you,
too, Abe, what ails you? You look as if you'd got the whole world on
your shoulders. Eat this, Miriam, and cheer up, dear heart. Fretting
ne'er mended anything yet, and ne'er will. What you've got to do is to
get well and strong, and then if joy's in store for you, why, you'll be
ready for it, and if sorrow, you'll be able to face it. Father's asking
for you, Abe, and Jim's on tenterhooks to be off. He says Mitchell
Mill's going to rack and ruin, and another Bill's o' Jack's do would
bring him to skin and bone. But it's my opinion that man would drink
home-brewed and smoke twist if th' world were coming to an end and
falling to pieces all around him."
All that evening my father and Jim and I took serious counsel together.
We thrashed the matter out in all its bearings. My father's first view
was that so soon as Miriam was sufficiently restored in health the whole
truth must be told. To this I demurred that the result would probably be
to make her ill again; that it was plain to see the horror of that night
had so overcome her that the less her mind dwelt upon those tragic
happenings the better; that my plan was to put Up in the sparrings
without more delay, in trust that the new interests of a new life would
go far to banish the terrors that beset the midnight hours; that the
Bradburys were dead and nothing we could do could undo what was done and
bring them to life again; that we were absolutely in the dark as to
whether Ephraim or Daft Billy or both had struck the fatal blows; that
if, through our means, Ephraim were taken he was quite capable of saving
his own skin at the expense of Billy's; and finally that it would be a
poor requital of Billy's devotion to Miriam to have him tracked down and
put upon his trial for his life, and that I for one meant to hold my
peace unless either the Red Tom's or Reuben Platt or some other hitherto
unsuspected person were in serious jeopardy, when, indeed, the truth
must be told, though the heavens fell.
"Ah! if Billy would only come forward and tell the story himself," said
my father.
"That he'll never do, Mr. Holmes, asking your pardon if aw put my say in
wi'out bein' axed. Yo' see it's this way, at least to my way o' thinkin'
yo' see Billy's a cute sort o' chap i' some ways an' only hauf baked i'
others. An' all his life, as far as we know out on it, he's bin at
loggeryeads wi' th' law. He couldn't weel be a gradely Burnplatter an'
not be that. Why th' whiskey-spinnin' 'at's gone on at Burnplatts ivver
sin' aw knew out's enough to send th' whole boilin' on 'em to Botany
Bay, to say nowt o' horse steilin', an' piece-liftin', an' poachin', an'
all mak's o' ways o' ma'in a dishonest livin'. Nah! it stands to reason
'at Billy'll ha' no soort o' affection for th' law. He's a law unto
hissen. He's happen thinkin' at this varry minnit 'at them Bradburys had
a hand i' that mad prank o' Ephraim's ab--ab--what do yo' ca' it?"
"Abducting," suggested my father.
"Aye! that's it--abductin'. Weel, if he's got that bee i' his bonnet
he's noan frettin' hissen ower th' Bradburys, whether he killed them
hissen or Ephraim had a hand i' it, which aw'm thinkin' we'st nivver
know, unless they're nabbed, an that they'll nivver be till bobbies an'
detectives get more sense than they han now. It 'ud ma' a pig laugh to
hear th' policeman at Diggle layin' th' law down on th' subjec' o'
Bill's o' Jack's. It's Pat's an' Platts an' Platts an' Pats, an' he
suspects ivvery Irish navvy atween Diggle an' Greenfielt, an' every man,
woman, an' child christened Platt, an' there's scores on 'em in
Saddleworth. An' th' miracle to me is at onnybody can go on sayin'
Platts an' Platts an' ne'er tumble to Burnplatts: it's like a chap at
canna see th' wood for trees. I' my humble opinion th' greatest
benefactors o' th' criminal classes is th' bobbies. If ivver aw do
summat raal bad aw'st go live next door to a bobby an then aw'st be
safe. But aw'm wanderin' fro' my subjec'. What aw'm drivin' at is, 'at
Daft Billy bein' what he is, an' no friend to th' law nor th' law to
him, he'll gi' it a wide berth. Nowt'll fetch him into these parts agen,
unless he thinks Miriam's i' danger. That 'ud bring him: nowt more an'
nowt less. He'll noan blab, trust him. Ephraim might if there were owt
to gain by it, but is there?"
"There's the offered reward of £200," reminded my father.
"Exac'ly," continued Jim imperturbably, "and if aw remember reetly it
says that th' actooal murderer needn't apply. They'n no use for him
excep' to hang him. An' that ma'es me think Ephraim has his own reason
for lying low an' keepin' his own counsel. Yo' see fro' what Abe an' me
yeard that neet Ephraim were ready to set agate at the owd man an' Tom
onny minnit. He were just fixin' for a feight, an' aw dunnot think he
were partirkler who it were with. But, theer, it all comes back to this:
aw cannot see we can do onny gooid bi speikin' nah, an' aw can we med
put Billy's neck i' th' halter; an' aw think that ud abaat finish Miriam
off."
"Well, Well," said my father, "we'll let sleeping dogs lie."
"Besides," continued Jim, "aw'm stalled o' th' whole business. Nother
Abe nor me's struck a bat to mean owt this month back. We'n aar livin'
to addle, an' while aw'm on th' subjec', Mr. Holmes, aw sud like to ax
yo', sir, axin' yo'r pardon for ma'in' so bowd, an' weel knowin' 'at
oo's far aboon what aw'n onny reight to look to, if yo'n onny partickler
objection to me for a son-in-law. Aw know aw'n not bin dipped, but that
can happen bi getten over, though aw sud tak' it kindly if yo'd put a
drop o' warm watter i' th' dippin'-well, me bein' nobbut delicate. Aw'll
tew for her neet an day, an there's no need to say aw'll let her ha' her
own way i' ivverything. Oo'll see to that."
"Ah. Jim, Jim," said my father, "I've ever thanked God for giving me
Abe. I shall not blame Ruth for giving me you."
And now, good reader, this narrative nears its close. Neither Daft Billy
nor Ephraim was ever seen in our parts again, so far a I know, but some
months after the crime, when folk had found something else to talk
about, a stranger, whose swarthy complexion and dark locks proclaimed
him a gypsy, knocked at my father's door and, handing to Miriam an
ill-written letter, was gone before she could question him. It ran
thus:--
DEAR MIRIAM
This from Billy, to let you know all's well with him.
Ephraim's gone for a soger, which is all he's fit for. You'll
never see him or me again, though belike I'st see you, when you
little think it. I'm cow jobbing in Wales, but keep that to
yourself. There's reasons why I don't want to be seen Burnplatts
way this many a year. I thought it was them Bradburys kidnapped
you, but Eph. has owned up as it was him. I think Eph. was mad
with drink, and I was mad for what I thowt they'd done to you.
Any way, get wed as soon as you like. I'st noan be theer to drink
your health, but nobody 'll miss.
DAFT BILLY.
The reading of this letter put our studying caps on again, and I think
we were all willing to let sleeping dogs lie. My own firm conviction is
that Ephraim and the Bradburys were at high words, perhaps at blows,
that Billy burst upon them like a tiger, seized the first weapon he saw,
struck blindly, heedless where his blows fell, that there was a general
scuffle, in which probably Ephraim joined, that the old man was the
first to succumb, though not actually killed; that Tom tried to make for
the door, and was struck down and left a corpse in the passage; that
Eph. and Billy fled across the moors, of which they knew every inch,
made their way to Burnplatts, where they lay in hiding till the hue and
cry died out, and then found it easy enough to make off to distant
parts.
However, there was one sentence in the letter which I found very much to
my liking--the advice to get wed at once. Jim and I had got Mitchell
Mill into good going' order, and though we were much handicapped by
the smallness of our means we were not doing so badly.
I broached the matter to Jim, and he was as keen as mustard on an early
marriage. It was arranged that the cottage by the mill should be the
home of Miriam and myself; that Ruth and Jim should start housekeeping
with Mary in Wrigley Mill Fold.
"Aren't you feared, Ruth," asked Mary, "to set up wi' a
mother-i'-law?"
"Not with such a mother-in law as I know you'll be, Mary."
"Well, you take an old woman's advice, Ruth; when you get wed,
remember it may be 'Bear and forebear.'"
"Aye, Jim will be th' Bear and I'st be Forbear, I suppose."
But Mary would not allow even my pert sister to call her idol, Jim, a
bear--even in jest.
"Our Jim's no bear, and never was. He's got a soft heart in that
big breast of his, as who should know better nor me. You can lead Jim
with a thread o' silk, but wild horses couldn't drag him."
"Well, I've no doubt Jim will be able to make Ruth do anything _she_
likes," I ventured to predict. And in so happy a mood were we that even
that time-honoured joke raised a hearty laugh.
We had resolved to have a quiet double wedding. The tragic events in
which we had all been concerned made us feel almost as though there had
been a death in the family.
But we reckoned without Mr. and Mrs. Buckley. Miriam, as in duty bound,
had written to her relations of Bent Hall, and that estimable couple
insisted that, wherever the knot was tied, the wedding breakfast must be
at their mansion.
There was much debate as to where the great event should take place.
Finally Slaithwaite Church was fixed on in preference to Saddleworth,
for somehow I had got a horror of the church in whose graveyard the
victims of the murder lay; and indeed it was many a long year before I
could pass St. Chad's without a shudder.
It seemed to me the 16th of September, our wedding day, would never
come, and I tortured myself with the gloomiest apprehensions of some
unforeseen calamity that would dash the cup of joy from my lips; 'tis
an old and true saying that there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the
lip.
But the glad day came at last, and I would have you picture to yourself
Jim and I donned in our wedding garments: a cut-away swallow-tailed coat
of blue cloth, with brass buttons, red vest, knee breeches, shoes with
silver buckles, and beaver hats.
Those were days when men who could afford it let themselves go in their
costume. The Court of St. James set the fashion even for the humbler
classes, and he was a very poor man who would not make of himself
something of a dandy on the day of all days.
But how can I picture to you Ruth and Miriam when our expectant eyes saw
them come up the aisle of the church, Ruth on my father's arm, Miriam
led by Mr. Buckley--radiant visions of glimmering white, veils of lace,
with wreaths of orange blossom, and carrying each a bouquet of costly
blooms. Mrs. Buckley had insisted on arraying both brides at her own
charge. Well, well, that was a day of wonders; for when we came from
church there were all the maidens from Pole Moor Sunday School, all in
white muslin, strewing flowers, and the lads throwing rice. I vow that
when I undressed you could have made a rice pudding from the rice that
fell from my clothes.
Three coaches with prancing greys bore us off to Bent Hall. It was a
glorious autumn morn, and a bright sun shone upon the blushing, happy
brides, and their glad and proud grooms.
Now as we were borne through Slaithwaite and Marsden and Diggle, past
the familiar "Hanging Gate," I was not quite easy in my mind at all this
unwonted and unnecessary splendour. Would it not have been better to
have begun as we meant to go on and I imagined the villagers who ran to
their doors to see the dashing carriages exclaiming to each other:
"Just fancy--a poor parson's son and old Mary's that brews
treikle-drink!"
But when I hinted at this to Miriam she just smiled happily, and said:
"Wait and see."
The breakfast was at Mr. Buckley's. The curate of Slaithwaite Church was
there, Mr. and Mrs. Buckley, Dr. and Mrs. Dean, Mr. and Mrs. Wrigley of
Holly Grove, my father, Mary Haigh, and Enoch Hoyle, and a portly old
gentleman who turned out to be a lawyer.
They called it a breakfast; my notion of a good breakfast was ham and
eggs and a pint of coffee. But at that so-called breakfast the only
drink was a wine I had heard of, to be sure, but never
seen--champagne--Jim said he thought was yellow bobbin-water. Then
when the health of brides and grooms had been drunk, Mr. Buckley said:
"Now, Mr. Freeman, it's your turn." And the portly old gentleman rose
and spoke as follows:
"It is known to most of you that the father of Mrs. Abel Holmes"--that
was my Miriam, if you please--"was the Rev. James Garside, son of a
wealthy client of my firm. Mr. Garside, senior, predeceased his wife by
many years, and young James was left to the care of his mother. Mrs.
Garside, a most worthy lady, took into her household a foundling who had
been left upon the steps of her house--a girl babe. She became attached
to the infant, and it was given the name of Esmeralda. The child grew in
years, in grace, and beauty, and, as might have been foreseen, young
James became enamoured of her. He persuaded her to a clandestine
marriage, fearing his mother's wrath. In this he did wrong, but I am not
here to censure the dead. We all know how terrible have been the
consequences of that first wrong step--the wreck of his mother's
happiness, of his wife's, of his own, and but for a most happy chance,
of the fruit of that marriage, the beautiful maiden, Miriam, who has
to-day become Mrs. Abel Holmes, a rare jewel finding, I trust, a worthy
setting.
"I believe that Mr. James Garside was counselled to that fatal folly by
his tutor, a man in whom Mrs. Garside, sen., had the utmost confidence,
of which he, alas! proved himself unworthy, and betrayed. It is,
happily, no part of my duty to apportion the blame between young Mr.
Garside and his tutor. Probably the youth required little encouragement
to do what he did. But it is certain that the tutor profited greatly by
the issue of that wicked counsel. I know that he artfully fanned the
fires of the mother's wrath against her misguided son. I know also that
he told the unhappy Esmeralda that her marriage at Gretna Green was no
real marriage, and that the brand of shame would for ever rest upon her
offspring. I know because…"--and here the speaker paused
dramatically. "I know," he resumed, "because he has told me so with his
own lips!"
I started from my chair, upsetting a glass of that sparkling wine over
my brand new breeches.
"What!" I cried, "does the monster live?"
"No, sir, he does not. He is beyond the vengeance of man. He died some
months ago, a remorseful and, I hope, a truly penitent man. He had never
married, and he was a man of saving, almost miserly, habits. He seemed
to have no use for money, save to watch it grow. What pleasure he got
from the fruit of his scheming, if indeed he got any, I know not. He
always struck me as one of the most joyless creatures the sun ever shone
upon and failed to gladden. I became acquainted with him in my capacity
as Mrs. Garside's legal adviser, and afterwards my firm acted for him
when he became her executor and sole legatee, with the exception of a
small annuity to the Rev. James, Miriam's unhappy father.
"When that father died we only surmised the fact of his death from the
fact that he ceased to call at the office for his yearly due. He had
absolutely refused to tell us the place of his abode. That he had left
lawful issue, the smiling bride who graces this festival, I had no idea,
nor was it my duty to inquire, for the annuity died with the annuitant.
The bulk of Mrs. Garside's considerable estate passed by her will to Mr.
Stringer, the tutor.
"Some months ago Mr. Stringer sent for me. He confessed his part in the
sad estrangement between mother and son. He instructed me to prepare a
will. It is here."
Mr. Freeman laid a document upon the table by his side, took a modest
sip from his glass, passed a silk handkerchief across his mouth, took a
pinch of snuff with great deliberation, then resumed:
"I will not read this testament at present. A wedding feast is scarcely
the occasion. I am the sole executor and trustee. The estate has been
proved under £20,000, and will probably realise more. The testator was
a shrewd man of business, and knew how to make much more. The will
charges me to discover the Rev. James Garside, if alive; failing him,
his wedded wife by the laws of Scotland, Esmeralda; failing both, any
issue of theirs. Both Mr. and Mrs. James Garside I know to be dead, but
their sole issue I have the honour to meet for the first time to-day. I
owe this happy discovery to my old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Buckley, of
Bent Hall. Ladies and gentlemen, fill your glasses and drink the health
of Mistress Miriam Holmes, solo heiress of the former tutor, William
Stringer, M.A., late of Beaufort Square, in the City of Manchester. Mrs.
Holmes, my firm will be happy to act as your solicitors, and I hope you
think £20,000, if not a plum, enough to start married life upon. I
sincerely wish you long life to enjoy your good fortune. Ladies and
gentlemen, 'Mrs. Miriam Holmes'!"
Then the portly old lawyer raised his glass on high, and drained it to
the bottom. Mr. and Mrs. Buckley did likewise, but the rest of us sat as
if glued to our seats. Then Ruth jumped up and ran round the table and
flung her arms round my wife's neck, half laughing and half sobbing and
crying.
"Oh! Miriam, Miriam, I'm fit to die for joy; but I'st lose my sister."
And Jim banged his big fist on the table so that the glasses danced and
the pendants of the chandelier tinkled.
"By gow, Abe, lad, I'm fain for your sake, but bang goes Mitchell Mill,"
and the honest lad's voice broke, for it had been no mean thing for him
to quit the engine-shed and start on his own in ever so small a way.
"Say something, Abe," whispered Miriam, "or I feel as if I must scream."
Then I got up slowly, and my legs dithered under me. I'd never made a
set speech in my life before, but I saw my father's eyes upon me, and
he said solemnly:
"Speak as your heart prompts you, O Abel, my son, Abel."
I gripped one of those long glasses so that it crushed in my hand and
the blood came, but I did not know it. Then I spoke:
"Mr. Freeman, Mr. and Mrs. Buckley, if I fail to thank you on my wife's
behalf for all you have done for her, don't think my heart is not full
of gratitude. But if I have Miriam's permission to say what my first
thought is, it's just this. Jim there threw in with me when I'd next to
nothing, and I'st not desert him now I, or at least my wife, is rich. If
it isn't Mitchell Mill it will have to be some other mill, for it's the
only trade I know, and I've no sort of fancy for leading an idle life on
my wife's money."
"Well spoken, Abel," quoth my father.
"'Bring up a child in the way he should go'--we know the rest," quoth
the curate of Slaithwaite.
"A chip of the old block," cried Mr. Wrigley.
"Eh, sirs," began Mary Haigh, her emotion getting the better of the awe
which had overpowered her from the moment she entered Bent Hall. "Eh,
sirs, I've mothered Abe Holmes sin' foist he were prenticed an weel aw
knew he'd ring true when th' testin' time came."
"And what say you, Mr. Hoyle," said our genial host. "I'm told you're a
rare exhorter."
Enoch cleared his throat.
"I sud like a pint o' small beer afore aw rise to th' occasion. This
dancin' stuff gets into mi yead, tho' there are folk 'at seyn old
Enoch's poll's one o' th' strongest between Scammonden an' Slowit."
A quiet order was given to a neat maid, and a foaming two-handled
tankard was placed before Enoch, but we were not destined to hear Enoch
at large, an injury he may have forgiven, but certainly never forgot.
For Mr. Buckley, after a meaning look from his wife, who had glanced at
her watch, rose and completed the tale of the bewildering surprises that
day had had in store for us.
"Perhaps, as time presses, Mr. Hoyle will give way for me. The coach for
Blackpool leaves shortly; the brides will find, my good lady says, their
away-going garments upstairs. But, before we part I have this to say.
Ever since we discovered Miriam it had been my intention to provide for
her. Now I'm getting on, and should like to ease the strain of my
business.
"I've had my eyes on both Abe and Jim. I can tell you. There's room for
young blood at Micklehurst Mills, and if that blood runs in the veins of
Abel Holmes and Jim Haigh nobody will be better pleased than myself.
Now, ladies, off with you and get out of your finery. Time and tide and
coaches wait for no man. Mr. Holmes, will you return thanks?"
My father glanced at the curate, who waved to him a somewhat
condescending assent, so the last word at that eventful feast, and that
a heartfelt and eloquent word of thanksgiving to the Giver of all good
gifts, was spoken by my dear and honoured father.
And now, dear reader, we must part company we have journeyed together
through strange adventures, and my story is done. "Always have your
peroration ready, for you never know how soon you may need it," was
sound advice. But I think this tale needs no peroration, for if I have
succeeded even faintly, in giving a true insight into the characters of
Miriam and Ruth and Jim--I'll say nought of myself--you may close this
little volume on the full assurance that the lives united on that happy
September day had their fair share of the sunshine of life.
I am the father of two fine sons and a daughter, who bids fair to be
nearly as good to look upon as my Miriam, and unite to six sturdy little
Haigh lads and one bright maiden, who, I fear me, will prove as great a
tyrant as Jim declares our Ruth to be.
As for Enoch Hoyle, that worthy pillar of Pole Moor, he began to put in
a vast amount of time at Wrigley Mill Fold, and it was openly said all
through Diggle that he offered to Mary his stout old heart and not quite
empty hand. But all the information on this point that Jim could glean
was to be gathered from Mary's trite remark that "there's no fooil like
an old fooil."
[THE END.]