Chapter XI: Jim and I Go on a Quest

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

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

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

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

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

"And, of course, you talked," I put in.

Mary looked at me sharply and bridled:

"One 'ud think yo' thowt aw were gi'en to talkin'," she said.

"Never a woman less so," I protested--God forgive me.

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

"Well, well," I said impatiently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Owd 'Yaller Breeches'? Aw sud think aw did."

"Yaller Breeches?" I queried.

"Aye, they seyn a what do yo' ca' 'em, a cust'mer o' his--no, that's noan th' word."

"A client," I suggested.

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

"That's a doubtful sort of compliment," I observed.

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

"How shall we find it?"

"Ax th' first bobby we meet, yo' silly."

"Why not take the coach?"

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

"A Doady?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Serve her right," I thought, but said nothing.

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

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

"You're very good," I babbled feebly.

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

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

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

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

"'Thirty pieces of silver,'" I groaned, "'thirty pieces of silver.'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let it be as you wish, madam."

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

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

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

Bent Hall,
Micklethwaite,
Mossley,
March 28, 1832.

My DEAR FRIEND AND SISTER,

I write these few lines to tell you I am safely arrived at this
great mansion, and that, if this world's gear were all that is
needed to make glad a maiden's heart, I ought to be the happiest
of girls. Yet, truth to tell, I am longing day and night to be
back at Pole Moor, and count the hours till I shall be there once
more, never to leave it again till--you know when.

I cannot tell you what a grand place this is. I did not think
there were so many beautiful things that money can buy. We swept
up to the house up a long drive, arched by stately elms. The
door was opened by a manservant in livery, and a neat and pretty
maid took me to a room which is to be all my own, and Mrs. Buckley
says that Nelly is to be my very own maid, to order about just
as I like. Isn't it ridiculous! Why, she insists on combing and
brushing my hair every night and morning, and wants to arrange
my black mane in some fashion that she says is all the mode.
But, oh, my dear! I do wish you could see this lovely bedroom. It
looks out upon the grounds, at this time of year somewhat north and
wintry-looking, but I can well imagine what like they are in the
spring and summer and autumn, with their well-kept beds and noble
trees, and the background of the lofty Pennine Range. And talking
of beds! I was almost afraid the first night to go to sleep in
mine, so high that I have to have a step to climb into it, so
wide that one cannot touch the edge from the centre, and so
furnished with mattresses of down that one seems to be sinking
into a caressing sea of rest--a great, massive mahogany four-poster,
its pillars richly carved, and from the lofty canopy curtains of
blue silk fall to the ground. And there's a mighty wardrobe that
would hold more dresses than any one woman, I should have thought,
could wear in a long lifetime, and it has a glass from top to
bottom, in which you can see yourself from head to foot. There
has been a dressmaker here from Manchester, and such choosing of
silks and satins and velvets and laces and what not, and such
measuring and fitting and matching of colours you never saw.
Nelly dresses me every night in a wondrous dinner gown, and I am
decked out so in rubies and pearls and even diamonds--rings,
bracelets, and necklets--that when I stand before that marvel of
a glass I catch my breath and ask, "Can this be Miriam, the poor
gipsy maid, that you fetched from Burnplatts to share your bed
and home?" And I am to have a horse to ride after I've had
lessons--I shall like that. And oh! Ruth, I am to be taught to play
upon whatever musical instrument I may choose, and I'm to learn to
dance. Oh! what will your father say--your dear, dear father?

These, dear sister, are Mrs. Buckley's plannings. But they are not
mine. She talks ever as though I had come to stay here for good
and all. And so does Mr. Buckley. They would kill me with kindness.
But I feel very guilty amid it all, for I know what they want can
never be. They will never make a fine lady of me, nor make me false
to Pole Moor and all Pole Moor means to me. I'm just wearying to
doff these rich trappings and don my russet once more, and be just
plain Miriam, your dear sister, and Abe's true love.

And now, dear heart, for my good news. I have persuaded
Mrs. Buckley to let me come to Pole Moor next week. I am to be
driven to Greenfield--they would have sent the carriage all the
way, but I would not have it. I vowed my limbs ached for a long
stretch over the moors. So meet me, my Ruth, by the Church Inn at
Saddleworth about three of the afternoon, and we'll be at dear
Mother Haigh's for tea, and someone, I daresay, will be fain to
company us to Pole Moor. Give my dear love and dutiful respects
to your good father.

Ever your friend and sister.

MIRIAM.

I cannot tell you how long this letter took in the reading. You who read it in fair print, and straightforward, can have no notion. But we had to battle with Miriam's handwriting, which, like all the women's I've ever seen, was none of the easiest to make out; though, to be sure, since it was a man--old Daddy, you may remember--who had taught her her pothooks, she wrote a bolder hand than is usual with women folk, not all slopes and angles and flourishes. But Ruth's reading of her much-prized letter was sorely interrupted by our comments as she read--Jim, I grieve to say, being the chief offender. When my sister came to that portion which told of the long glass that reflected Miriam's face and form, Jim's words there anent were like unto those of the comforters of Job:

"It's all up wi' thee, Abe lad, aw'm feart. It's noan i' reason 'at a lass 'ud gi' up a looikin' glass like yon just to wed a chap like thee. Aw'll say nowt abaat th' feather bed; oo med happen be got to swop it for a mattress stuffed wi' straw, or belike shavin's, which is th best Mickle Mill 'll run to this mony a day to come, for aw'n noticed women set varry little store on makkin' theirsen snug an' comfortable wheer men come. But that glass 'll cook thi bacon, Abe. Why, tha's nobbut to watch a woman wi' a bit o' a glass noa bigger nor th' palm o' mi hand. Oo'll twitch hersen, an' twist hersen, aye, awmost stan' on her yead, but some road or other oo'll see th' back o' her yead an' all ovver her, pertickler if oo's getten a new bow or bonnet or strings to look at. Aw once seed a peacock i front o' just sich another glass, an' they towd me 'at when they tuk th' glass away that bird fell off i' its eatin' and just pined away. An' th' rum part o' th' business is it isn't their own bonny faces they want to look at, it's their clo'es. Yo' may be sewer 'at if Eve had onny clo'es to speik on i' th' Garden o' Eden it isn't a apple nor owt else to eit or sup other 'at Owd Harry 'ud ha' tempted her wi', but a looikin' glass. But bein' as oo were, poor thing, oo'd nowt but her own pratty face to speer at, an' though that's what a man vallys most i' a woman, it's just what she hersen sets least count on."

"It seems to me, James Haigh," said my sister in a very frosty tone, "that you've made a very minute study of women, and you'd best take yourself off to those you've learned such a character from."

"Nay, nay," protested Jim, hastily, "it's nobbut what aw'n heard say. Aw know nowt."

"The letter, the letter," broke in my father, and Ruth looking but half convinced, resumed the reading.

"Meet her at the Church Inn!" cried my sister. "Aye, that I will, and I just wish it was to-morrow. Now mind you lads are at home and all washed and in your second best when we get to 'Wrigley Mill."