Chapter XII: Missing!

THE weather at the end of March of that year was less wintry than we often see in that blusterous month which, having come in like a lion, seemed about to go out like a lamb. The sun gained in power daily, the snow had melted on the hillsides, though under the long black stone fences and in the dells and crevices deep drifts still lingered. The grass was beginning to green, the sky was of a pale azure, flecked by slender wisps of white, like doves sailing far aloft, the birds had begun to twitter in the hedges and pipe and trill in the strewish air, and in man and maid the young blood coursed warm and glad and strong.

I was in a fever of impatience to see Miriam and hold her in my arms again. I reckoned she must come from Micklehurst through Mossley, up by Roaches, by the Royal George, and so down the slope past Willie Hole Farm, on Shaw Hall Bank, and skirting Greenfield make the detour to St. Chad's and the Church Inn--a long walk which I was very strongly minded to lighten for her by my company. So I set off betimes, my heart full of glad expectancy, my feet scarce seeming to touch the ground, my eyes, as I neared the spot where I had calculated to meet her if she were to be at the trysting spot at the appointed hour, straining ever far ahead of me for the first glimpse of my loved one tripping lightly towards me. But up to Roaches not a sign of Miriam! And there I sat me down upon a low wall by the roadside and waited and waited and waited, but still no glimpse of Miriam. I looked at my watch a score of times. I went into a cottage hard by to time my old turnip-watch by a Dutch clock that ticked solemnly in a corner, and that the cottager assured me was never more than half an hour wrong either one way or another; then out into the road again, and still no Miriam. The day was drawing in by now; in another hour dusk would be upon us. A sense, a sick foreboding of calamity obsessed me. Clearly I had missed Miriam. What a fool I had been not to abide her coming along with Ruth, at the Church inn. I had had my walk for my pains, and now, belike, Ruth and Miriam would be at Saddleworth, and I would be hard put to it to overtake them. A long last gaze down the road to Mossley, and then I set off at a mighty pace for the Church Inn, reaching it something after the half hour past three o'clock.

Neither Ruth nor Miriam were to be seen. I asked of the landlady if she had seen ought of a young woman standing about as if expecting to meet someone. Yes, she had seen such a one, half an hour gone, or maybe threequarters, or maybe an hour. "What like of a young women? Was she tall and dark?" How should she know? She'd something else to do than take notice of all the young women that loitered about looking for their fellies.

Then out into the road again, where I encountered the ostler. Yes, he, too, had seen a wench banging about, a bonnie lass to be sure. "Dark?" "Well, middling, betwixt and between like." "Tall?" "Nay, nowt to speik on, more on th' plumpish line." "Which way had she gone?" He couldn't say for sewer. Happen up th' sheep-track o'er Pots and Pans; there were a deal o' fo'k took that gait for Bill's o' Jacks; but they'd more breath to waste nor him, or they'd stick to th' road; what were roads for, he should like to know but walking on and riding on; he'd no patience wi' fo'k climbing up watter courses like goats; but he'd see'd th' lass starin' abaat as if oo'd lost someb'dy, and then he'd gone into th' stable, and then he saw her no more. "Doubtless her felly'd turned up, if it were a felly she were waitin' for." And that was all I could get out of the ostler.

There was nothing for it now but to make what haste I could to Wrigley Mill. Mary would be in a rare taking, her teacakes and her temper alike spoiled; but little that would matter when I held my Miriam's hand close clasped in mine, all my disappointment and my anxious fears and my wonderings forgot in that first moment of our glad meeting. But even as I gained the mill yard I knew there was to be no meeting, for in the gloom I made out both Mrs. Haigh and Ruth stood at the gate of the little garden, evidently looking eagerly out into the gathering darkness of the early night.

"Where's Miriam?" I cried, and "Where's Miriam?" they replied.

Jim came to the door, his coat and vest doffed, his big, brawny arms, his broad chest bare, in his hands a coarse towel with which he was vigorously drying himself after his swill at the sink.

"Well, yo'n muddled it among yo'," he commented when I had told my story and Ruth hers, which was very similar.

"But there's one thing certain: Miriam's none been near th' Church Inn this afternooin. Nah other she were let startin', or what's every way likely, oo fun hersen wi' plenty o' time on her hands an' oo's gone forrard towards th' Pole thinkin' to meet Ruth here an' save her a journey. But speckilation wi' nowt to go on's a fooil's job, an' worritin' on a empty stomach's waur still. Let's get summat into us, and then we'll wisen. Nay, Ruth, lass, dunnot look as if tha'd seen a ghost, an' Abe, aw'm ashamed on thee! Just because a lass hasn't turned up to time. Aw'll bet thee a pinch o' snuff Miriam's at this varry minnit snug and comfortable other at Mr. Buckley's or at th' Pole, an' what we'n got to do is just to mak' ussen snug and comfortable too."

But it was no use. I couldn't eat a morsel, though both Mary and Ruth tried to show a brave face and to talk cheerfully, 'twas plain to see their ears were all the time at strain for the lifting of the sneck of the garden gate and the fall of a light foot on the little footpath to the door.

"And now what's to be done?" I asked, as we rose from the table. "There's one thing certain, I can't sit here doing nowt. I'st go off mi head if I don't do summat.

"Sit yo' down, man, an' have a reek o' baccy," advised Jim. "Did ever a man get i' such a state ovver a wench missin' a tryst. There's a thousand things may ha' happened to prevent her being at th' Church Inn at th' time. Owd Mr. Buckley or his missus may ha' been ta'en badly, or she may ha' towd 'em what she were up to an' they may ha' put a spoke i' th' wheel, which it's noan so likely they'd care to ha' her trapezin' ovver th' moors be hersen, or happen oo's strained her ankle, or happen oh! what's th' use o' fancyin' this an' fancyin' that, th' lass is reet enough, choose wheer oo is, yo' may tak' yo'r davy o' that. Oo may be here onny minnit if oo's comm at a', an if oo isn't, oo isn't, an all th' frettin' an' fumin' i' th' world won't bring her here."

"I shan't sleep to-night till I know the truth of the matter," I declared. "I'll give her just another half-hour, and then, if she come not, I'm off to Bent Hall."

They'll be i' bed bi th' time yo' get theer, opined Mary, who herself seldom in winter time was up after nine o'clock.

"And I'll see Ruth home to th' Pole," said Jim. "Miriam 'll be theer, it's long odds. It's a gooid as a play thee goin' to Micklehurst to look for Miriam an' Miriam goin' to th' Pole to look for thee. But if nowt else 'll settle, thee best be startin'. An' when yo' get theer be sewer to mak' 'em gi' yo' summat for supper, for tha ate no dinner for thinkin' Miriam were comin', an' tha's etten no tea for knowin' who hasn't, an' tha'll none last long at that gait. Aw'm thinkin' at this noit tha'd better get wed if for nowt but th' savin' it'll be in shoe leather."

The night was, indeed, far advanced when, worn somewhat by my long tramps of that day, but worn far more by the tumult of my mind, I pealed at the big iron knocker of Bent Hall. I found Mr. and Mrs. Buckley seated in a warm and cosy parlour, the old gentleman sitting in slippered ease in a capacious armchair, with a cigar between his lips and a glass of steaming grog by his side. I told my story.

Yes, Miriam had started for Saddleworth after an early midday meal, which Mrs. Buckley called luncheon. They had wanted to send her by the carriage, urging that it was a long trail from the Church Inn to Wrigley Mill, and thence to Pole Moor. But Miriam had made light of the walk, declaring laughingly that she was getting stiff in her limbs for want of exercise, and that one who had from infancy wandered all day long over hill and dale need not fear to walk from Micklehurst to Pole Moor. Besides, would she not have a long rest at Mary Haigh's.

"Then she must have gone straight on to th' Pole," I cried.

"Of course she must," agreed Mrs. Buckley. Now don't you worrit yourself, Mr. Holmes. You can't put old heads on young shoulders, you know. I'll be bound Miriam found herself at Saddleworth long before the appointed time, and just pushed on to meet your sister instead of dallying about the inn door, no very suitable place for a young maiden to be wandering about. She skims over the ground like a swallow, and never seems to weary walking. Those Burnplatters taught her to use her legs, if they taught her nothing else. We'll have a supper-tray brought in in a jiffy, and then, unless you'll stay the night we'll send you as far as the 'Hanging Gate' in the trap. When you get home your friend Jim will have news for you, no doubt, and you'll be able to laugh together over this game of hide and seek.

But there was no laughing when, after midnight, I once more reached Wrigley Mill. Both Jim, and Mary were sitting up in the little kitchen, looking anxious and careworn. Miriam had not gone to Pole Moor. Then where could she be? That she had started to meet Ruth was certain; that she had not met her, that she was not at Bent Hall, nor at Wrigley Mill Fold nor at Pole Moor, equally certain. That evil had befallen her even Jim, the utmost sanguine of men, could scarce combat. A horrible fear beset me. Miriam might have been overtaken on the moors by some sudden all-enveloping mist, might have wandered up and down the cruel, sodden moors till, overcome by hunger and fatigue, she had fallen in a fatal stupor, and might even now be lying cold and stark upon some rain-swept hill, or might have strayed with weary, faltering feet and trembling limbs into some mill-race or dam, there to sink to death, with none to hear her cries. Then another thought beset my fevered brain. At that time large gangs of navvies, "Pats" we called them, were making the road from Greenfield by way of Riddings and Mossley Bottoms to Stalybridge to complete the turnpike from Manchester to Holmfirth. Might not Miriam have encountered one or more of those rough and often lawless men on her lonely way, and might not hers have been a fate far worse than the worst of deaths. The mere thought was madness. My weariness fell from me. Late though it was, and dark as pitch, I would have started there and then for Greenfield and the huts and inns in which the navvies lodged, but Jim calmly locked the door and put the key in his pocket.

"Now look here, Abe," he said, "if ever tha'rt to prove thissen a man now's th' time. Walkin' thi legs off 'll do no gooid other to thee or to Miriam. Tha'd prob'ly walk till tha dropped senseless, an' then there'd be two to look for i'stead o' one. We can do nowt till there's more leet, and then we'st want more no thee an' me to scour th' moors, au' we'st want more wit nor man-wit, we'st want dog-wit.. Aw'll up to th' Pole an' get your Tear'em. He's more sense nor mony a Christian, an' he's getten four legs to your two, an', what no Christian ever had 'at aw'n heerd tell on, a scent for a trail. An' aw'll down to th' Burnplatts. They keep a mon o' dogs theer bi what tha says, an' they won't keep dogs fit for nowt but to look at or to lake wi'."

"Th' Burnplatts!" I cried. "Why, what fooils we are. She may be there at this very minute. She may have taken a fancy to see some of her old friends, and taken Burnplatts on her way, and been overtaken by the dark and compelled to tarry there. She set a deal of store on that Daft Billy I do know."

"To be sewer, to be sewer," agreed Jim tactfully, glad to encourage any fancy that dispelled despair. "Wheer else sud oo be? Or happens oo's ca'ed at owd Enoch Hoyle's at th' Merry Vale, an' yo' no more sense not to ha' her lest on th' moors; a lass 'at knows every inch o' th' ground bi' th' feel o' th' fooit."

"I'll off to Burnplatts this very minute," I cried, starting up.

"Tha'lt do nowt o' th' sort," said Jim, composedly. "Aw'n getten th' key, an' th' key aw'st keep. Onny goin' to Burnplatts aw'st do, an' that won't be till aw'n etten an' slept. We'st want all th' strength we can muster for this day's work, belike, an' if tha's no stomach for food nah tha mum eit against th' time tha has. Mother, thee ma' jorum o' tea, an' put summat to it stronger nor watter if tha's owt i' th' haase, an' aw'll lig me dahn o' th' settle till th' buzzer goes, an' then aw'm off. An' aw'st ta' th' key wi' me. So Abe, thee ger to bed, an' stay theer till aw come back. Aw'll bring other Miriam or news on her or that Daft Billy, or mi name's not Jim Haigh."

I suppose I must have fallen into the sleep of utter exhaustion. When I woke it was broad daylight. I heard voices in the room below. I sprang off the pallet on which I had thrown myself, fully dressed. In the kitchen below I found Mary and Jim and Daft Billy, the latter eating ravenously from a plate piled with smoking collops, and washing his viands down with deep draughts of Mary's homebrewed, Jim encouraging him with hearty exhortations to eat and drink his fill.

"And don't thee come atween a man an' his vittles, Abe," Jim commanded, when he saw me about to ply Billy with eager questions. "Aw dunnot gradely know what they kirsened yar friend here 'Daft Billy' for, but if he's daft aw'd like to know wheer they find th' wise men. Tak' another collop, Billy, an' ha' some cheese an' pickled cabbage wi' it. It gi'es a relish to th' bacon, though aw mun say tha's getten a varry respectable twist o' thi own wi'out mich bucking. Help thissen to th' haver bread an' th' ale. It's thinnish drinkin', to be sewer, but what's wantin' i' th' quality yo' can happen ma' up i' th' quantity."

I thought Billy would never have done. And he ate as leisurely and as solemnly as if he'd been at a funeral, and never a word spoke he till, after eating enough for three ordinary men, he at last drew the back of his big hand across his mouth, and said gravely:

"Theer, aw think aw'st do nah."

"Are ta sewer tha, couldn't do another slice across th' flitch," asked Jim, not, I thought, without latent sarcasm.

"Noa," said Billy, reluctantly, "but th' owd woman med put me up a mouthfu' or two i' a bit o' paper for a bitin' on in an hour or two."

"God help the man's belly," muttered Mary, but set the frying pan to work again.

"And now, Billy," I urged.

But no, Billy was not to be hurried. He'd just have a reek o' baccy, he announced, by way partly of digestive and partly to assist the workings of his mind. For a good hour by the old grandfather's clock, which never ticked so slowly since clock it was, did Billy sit over the fire staring into the embers and smoking stolidly. When he did open his lips it was only to ask:

"Han yo' nowt shorter nor whom-brewed? That stuff ligs cowd to th' stummick. Other brandy or whisky or rum 'ud do, but brandy for choice."

Now Mary, by great good fortune, had about a pint of brandy stored away these goodness knows how many years back, to be ready in case of sudden sickness, and this she very reluctantly produced. Billy eyed it sourly.

"It's hardly worth startin' on," he grumbled, "but when he can't get what he wants a wise man wants what he can get."

Then once again silence. Not till he'd emptied the bottle and smoked up both his own store of twin and Jim's did he speak again, and then it was to ask an apparently irrelevant question:

"Have yo' a horse an' onny mak' o' cart at Mitchell Mill?"

Now Jim and I had found it necessary to buy a horse and cart, and the animal was eating its head off in a stable by the mill.

"Ha' it here bi midneet," Billy commanded. "Aw'st be here afore then, an' aw'st be both hungry and dry. Put some straw or some wool or owt 'at 'll mak' soft liggin' i' th' bottom o' th' cart, an' gi' th' horse th' best feed o' oats it's ivver had i' its life. An' yo'd better put a flirsk o' brandy i' yo'r coit pockets, an' be ready to start when aw come back an' ha' etten an' druffen."

"But where are you going?" I asked. "And when and where are we to start looking for Miriam. Have you any notion what can have come of her, and what in heaven's name do you want with a horse and cart?"

"Thee do as aw tell thee, an' ax me no questions Aw'm stalled o' hearin' 'em." And with this and throwing to Mary, by way of thanks, I suppose, the curt remark that he'd tasted "waur collops," Daft Billy made for the door.

"But what are _we_ to do?" I cried.

"Yo're to ca'er quiet an' howd that silly tongue if tha can," he said gruffly. "But if yo'll tak' my advice yo'll just ger off to Mitchell Mill an' set abaat yo'r work as if nowt had happened. An' if onny body comes speerin' after Miriam, just yo' know nowt. But ha' that horse an' cart ready an' them vittles." And he shambled away.

"Waur collops, indeed!" cried Mary. "Weel, of all the manners. Weel, he sud know. Someb'dy 'll ha' to go short for this, aw know, an' God send nob'dy fails sick i' this house this monny a day, for there's nowt but rinsin's left i' th' bottle. Aw'll th' same, aw reckon he's a method i' his madness. He's getten a clue o' some sort, or aw'm sore mista'en. So off wi' yo' to th' mill, an' aw'll sna' such a supper for that ugly lookin' customer as 'll stuff even a Burnplatter up to th' chin. It's more sense, onnyroad, nor wanderin' ovver th' moors, which lookin' for a needle i' a bottle o' hay wouldn't be in it, aw reckon."

Before midnight Daft Billy returned, as he had promised. Jim and I were ready, for starting. The horse, Dobbin, was in the shafts, and we had lined the bottom of the cart with sacks partly filled with scoured wool. We had a lanthorn, and each of us carried a stout stick. We had no more notion than the man in the moon what our destination might be, but Billy enlightened us whilst he ate and drank. He pulled from his pocket something that he handed to me.

"Han yo' ivver seen that thinkum' afore?" he asked.

It was the betrothal ring I had given to Miriam!

"Where in the name of goodness did you get this?" I exclaimed.

"Then it's th' same," concluded Billy. "I thowt it were."

"But where…?"

"Amnot aw tellin' yo'. Pass th' ale. Yo'll happen know th' 'Moorcock'?"

"Of course I know th' 'Moorcock.' Everybody knows it--where the Bradburys live, and where, by all accounts, Eph. o' Burnplatt's lives now."

"The same spot. Well, oo's theer."

"Miriam there!"

Billy nodded composedly.

"But how…" I began.

"Aw dunnot know. But oo's theer. Locked up i' th' barn. Aw went up theer to-day on th' off chance. Aw ca'ed for summat to sup. Eph. were theer an' th' owd felly an' Tom. They'd been fratchin' abaat summat, an' owd Bradbury an' Tom seemed to ha' their knife into Eph. abaat summat. Aw sat an' aw supped an' aw smoked an' aw gay' Eph. owt he wanted i' th' liquor line. Yo'll owe me a bonny penny for what aw'n lain out i' spirits on this job."

"But Miriam, Miriam."

"Weel, it were easy to see they were a' on pins an' needles to get shut o' me. Nah when a land-lord wants to see th' back o' a customer wi' brass to spend ther's a reason for it. But there were nowt to be seen i' th' kitchen, an' aw'd no mak' o' excuse for goin' up th' stairs. Aw said aw'd just tak' a look raand th' spot to stretch mi legs an' tak' a look at th' pigs an' th' beasts. An' then they were just as keen aw sud stick where aw were. Howsomedever aw did tak' a stroll raand, an' goin' up to th' mistal aw fun this trinkum. Oo's theer, aw'm thinkin', but th' door were locked, an' oo were other asleep or, what's more like, oo's gagged an' bun!"

"And we're sitting here!" I cried, starting to my feet.

It was a dark, cold night, or rather morning, but if it had been cold as the Arctic circle it would not have cooled the fever that raged in my blood. Poor Dobbin! I dro' as one possessed, nor gave the poor beast rest till we drew near the cart road that ran from the high road down to the little inn, with its cluster of outbuildings, kept by old Bradbury. It was nigh two of the clock when I drew rein, yet even at that ghostly hour a light burned in the kitchen of the "Moorcock."

"Turn th' horse wi' its yead to Greenfielt," commanded Billy.

"Nah folly me, an' tread prattily."

We stole silently to the inn door. A window was by the side of the door, across which a red blind had been drawn. We could hear voices raised in violent altercation. I distinguished the thin, piping, piercing treble of old Bradbury:

"Aw'll no ha' it, aw'll no ha 'it," he cried again and again. "Yo' mun tak' th' wench fro' here. Aw't lose mi licence an' mi job, an' all for nowt. Aw'll no ha' th' 'Moorcock' turned into a brothel to please thee, Ephraim Sykes. Away wi' th' hussy, aw say."

Then the gruffer tones of Tom Bradbury, hoarse and husky, but what he said I could not make out.

Then Ephraim's--loud threatening; then the old man's again.

"An aw'll ha' no feightin' here. Dash yo' Tom, sit thee dahn. Ta' no notice on him. It's th' drink's talking. Mind, mind, Tom, he's getten th' poker. God! the man's mad!"

"Break this door in," whispered Billy to Jim. "Then yo' two off to th' barn. Yo' mun get in theer th' best yo' can. Get th' lass, if oo's theer. Then off wi' her. Aw'll shift for missen."

"Aw'll ta' a hand i' this game."

Jim put his mighty shoulders to the inn door, and the bolt gave. I had lit the lanthorn and Jim and I rushed to the mistal door. We made no ado about knocking. Jim's mighty heave burst the lock, and we tumbled into the darkness, dazed and panting. I swung the light above my head. In a corner there was the rustle of hay. A form raised itself in the shadow, and swayed, and fell again. I rushed towards it. Miriam, her arms bound to her side, a muffler fastened across her mouth, lay upon a pile of hay. A loaf of bread and a jug of water stood by. I dashed the water into her face. She moved, and sighed, and her eyes part opened, then closed again. Jim cut the bonds that bound her arms and unloosed the scarf about her head. "Oo's fainted," he said. "It's your job, this, Abe. Ovver thi showders wi' her, an' off to th' cart. Then for Pole Moor like hell!"

"What of Billy?" I asked, as we passed the gable of the inn on our way to the cart.

"He towd us to shift for oursen. My word, listen to that! There's pandemonium goin' on in' th' kitchen. They're feightin', sure enough. Up to th' cart wi' Miriam, man. That's our job."

We hurried up the road that led towards where we had left the patient Dobbin, I with Miriam over shoulder, Jim with an arm under my elbow speeding me on.

"Hark yo'," he exclaimed, when we were half way up the road, "all's quiet now. And th' light's out. Aw wonder Billy tarries, but Billy or no Billy we'll be off."

What need to tell how we sped towards Pole Moor, Miriam, only half conscious, shivering and moaning in my arms; how we roused my good father and Ruth; how Miriam was put to bed; how I was despatched in hot haste to Slaithwaite for Dr. Dean; how that worthy surgeon found his patient in a high state of fever and delirium. Oh! it was piteous to see her staring with horror-laden eyes in front of her and to see her, with beating hands and arms, make as though to repel one who sought to clasp her.

"Have done, Eph., have done," she would cry. "Oh! if only Abe were here." Dr. Dean shook his head very gravely as he felt the fevered pulse.

"Ruth," he commanded, "she must be absolutely quiet. You and your father may be with her. Pack your brother and that young giant about their business. There's been queer doings to bring the poor lass to this: but ask her no questions. It'll be weeks before she's fit to talk. Now keep everybody away from her and--no need to tell you--keep your own counsel."

Ill news flies fast. When Jim and I got down to Diggle about noon, the very first person we spoke to asked us if we'd heard what folk were saying: that old Bradbury and his son, William, had been foully done to death. A little girl going early to the inn for barm had found the front door open: in the passage, half behind the door, lay the lifeless form of Tom o' Bill's, his head cleft by a spade which, its fell work done, had been left in the passage all covered with blood. The terror-stricken child had fled shrieking towards her home. Others had hurried to the scene. On the hearth in the kitchen old Bradbury, struck down by spade or shovel, lay weltering in his blood, but life was still in him. As a neighbour bent over him he had been heard to mutter with his last breath: "Pats, Pats," or was it "Platts, Platts"?

And which that neighbour could and would not say.

Many and many a time as the years rolled by have Jim and I pondered and talked over poor old Bradbury's effort to tell who had done him to death. There was in both our minds the same thought: not Pats, not Platts, but "Burnplatts," old Tom had tried to gasp as he lay a-dying.

Towards the end of the month we read in the _Manchester Courier_ that a proclamation had been issued from the Secretary of State's office, offering a reward of £200 for the discovery of the murderers and promising the King's pardon to any party concerned (except the actual murderers), who should discover their accomplices. Then came sure and certain information that two men suspected of being concerned in the murder of the Bradburys had been brought before the Huddersfield magistrates, had proved an alibi, and been forthwith discharged. We breathed more freely when we read this. Then many-tongued rumour became busy with the names of Jamie Bradbury and his son, Joe, commonly called the "Red Tom Bradburys," of Howood. Jamie was reputed a desperate poacher, a hard drinker, and a hard hitter, and Joe's reputation in the countryside was no better than his father's. These men were no relations of the Bradburys of Bill's o' Jack's, whose mangled remains had been laid to rest in St. Chad's Churchyard, with such a concourse to watch the sad procession to the grave as, perhaps, was never seen before or since in Saddleworth. It was known that there was bad blood between the keepers and their namesakes of Howood, and that the latter were to stand their trial at Pontefract Sessions on the very day after the murder on a charge of poaching near Bill's o' Jack's. Who, it was darkly asked, had so strong a motive to close the mouths of old Bill and his son Tom as the Bradburys of Howood? But then, what of old William's dying cry: "Pats, Pats," or was it "Platts, Platts"? Clearly whether Pat's or Platts, it was neither Jamie nor Joe. Then the people for miles around began to look askance at a man called Reuben Platt, who had been seen drinking in company with Tom Bradbury at Hinchcliff's ale-house at Road End on the day before the murder: but, then, it was very pertinently asked: What earthly reason had Reuben Platt for taking the life of either of the murdered men and so putting in peril his own? And to this very searching question no one could find a sufficient answer. For many a month after that tragic day in April wherever men and women foregathered there was but one topic discussed, one eternal question propounded, and Jim and I lived in an agony of apprehension. We were loth to tell what we knew and yet we knew not what mischief our silence might entail. On one point we were clearly resolved: if any man's life or liberty were clearly imperilled then, come what might, it was our clear duty to declare the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Two considerations closed our mouths. First and foremost I hated the very thought of having the name of my Miriam bandied about, blazoned in every newspaper, on the lips of every soaker in every pot house from Stalybridge to Huddersfield. Secondly, though of course of this I could have no certainty but only the very strongest suspicion, it seemed certain that the hand of either Ephraim or of Daft Billy had struck the cruel and fatal blows. And of Ephraim and Billy there was neither sign nor sound. They had vanished and left no traces. So engrossed was everyone in that eternal riddle, Pats or Platt, that to none did it occur to turn to Burnplatts for a solution of the mystery yet there it was assuredly to be found. Now I will confess that no consideration for Eph. o' Burnplatts sealed my lips. I had done him no harm, except, of course, that I had won the heart he coveted. I had rescued him from the snare that had been set for him by the Bradburys of Bill's o' Jack's; yet had he waylaid me by night and left me for dead on the Stanedge Moor. I don't think I am vindictive by nature, and I had certainly not nursed my wrath against him to keep it warm. I could forgive much to the man who had lost the maid I had won: was not that loss of itself punishment enough? But though we were commanded to love our enemies and pray for them that despitefully use us, I saw no reason for sheltering Ephraim from the vengeance of the law if it was Ephraim's hand that was stained with the blood of the murdered men. But was it? Was it not more likely that of Daft Billy? I tried to image in my mind what must or might have transpired when Billy, his ill-regulated passions aflame with the thought that Miriam had been vilely used, by whom he knew not nor reeked, burst into the room where Bill and Tom and Ephraim were at high words. Had Ephraim, maddened by the miscarriage of his schemes, attacked Billy? Had the old man and Tom sided with him? It was conjectured by many, from the fact that the old man's body was found in the kitchen and Tom's in the passage, that the murderers had found the father alone in the inn, had done him to death, after a desperate struggle--that a desperate struggle there had been every sign indicated--that they had then abided in that lone cottage in the awful stillness of the night, crouching by the murdered dead, waiting, waiting till such time as Tom should appear, if by chance he should; that they had sprung upon him as he entered the narrow passage and cleft his skull in twain. Had those who held this theory known human nature they would have known that murder once done the murderer's first, and only thought is flee from the sight of the work of his hands. It passes the endurance of man to linger by the side of the murdered victim, so eloquent in its eternal silence, and to calmly await the coming of one who may or may not come. I knew and Jim knew that Tom was in the inn when Billy burst in. What then befell who shall say? I only know that if Billy had done the deed it was done in the very frenzy of a wrath justly stirred, and should I be the one to set the bloodhounds of the law upon him whose every thought and act was moved by love for Miriam?

It was some weeks after the beginning of that dread month that I betook myself, in company with Jim, to Pole Moor. Word had come from Ruth that my love was now able to leave her room, though very weak and worn and wan, a shadow of her old self, but insisting that to see me would do her more good than all the physic in Dr. Dean's surgery. And it was in a very halting fashion, bit by bit, with many a shudder, that she told the story of what had befallen her on her way from Bent Hall to keep her tryst with Ruth at the Church Inn. She had started in merry mood, her heart glad and light within her breast, and all a-flutter at the thought that every step brought her nearer to the lad she loved. And the day was in keeping with her joyous mood. The April sun shone in a clear sky, the birds trilled in the azure and twittered in the hedgerows to their mates, every branch and bough and twig and blade and frond spoke of life's renewing and love's awakening after the long repose of another winter gone. She had gained the rise from Roaches when she heard the sound of a horse's hoofs falling upon the road and a voice calling, "Miriam, Miriam."

She turned in great surprise. It was Ephraim riding in a shabby, ram shackle old gig, but the horse in the shafts had mettle and paces. Ephraim was not the man to sit behind an indifferent beast.

"I knew you a mile of by the swing of your gait, lass. Wherever are you bound, and whatever brings you to these parts? I thowt you were tied to Pole Moor for good and all."

"I'm on my way there now, Ephraim. I've been staying at Bent Hall."

"What! with old John Buckley? Tha's never turned lady's maid! It'll none suit thee to be cribbed wi'in four walls, ta'in' wage to ma' an old woman look like a young 'un."

"Mrs. Buckley's a relation of mine. But it's a long story, Ephraim, and I'm in a hurry."

"What's your push?"

"I'm to meet Abel Holmes' sister, Ruth, at the Church Inn at Saddleworth."

"Aye, aye, th' parson's son to be sewer. You're tokened to him, they seyn. Weel, aw wish you joy, aw'm sewer."

"Do you really, Ephraim?"

"Aye, aye, what for no? It's no use cryin' for the moon. More bi token aw'n ta'en up missen wi' a likely wench i' Stalybridge. Her feyther keeps th' "White House"--not at ya'll know it. But aw cannot howd this tit in. Climb in, Miriam, an' aw'll tell thee all about it as we jog along. Some day aw sud like to meet Abe an' aw should noan be sorry to tak' him bi th' hand an' ma' friends again."

Now this had been good hearing for Miriam, her own heart so full of happiness and goodwill towards all the world that she wanted nothing better than to see the feud between Ephraim and myself, of which she had been the innocent cause, so happily ended. She clambered into the gig and seated herself by Ephraim's side. He shook the reins, and the horse stepped out bravely. He told her that he no longer lived at the "Moorcock," and had abandoned all idea of turning gamekeeper. He had found his true vocation to be that of a horse dealer, and the land lord of the "White House" had not only a pretty daughter, who had been taken with Ephraim's good looks--and indeed he was a handsome fellow--but also money to spare to set up a son-in-law in a profitable line of business. Now, he told Miriam, he was on his way to Bill's o' Jacks to look at a young colt the Bradburys had for sale.

So absorbed was Miriam in this recital, and so joyed was she at the thought that Ephraim seemed in a fair way to mend his mode of life and to settle down into a law-abiding citizen and pursue a reputable calling--for when your own heart is full and overflowing with glad content it adds even to that full measure to know that others, too, are happy--that Miriam did not notice at first that the trap had passed the turn she should have taken towards Saddleworth and was well on its way up the Holmfirth Road. She asked Ephraim to pull up and allow her to alight.

"Nowt o' th' sort. Yo're all right," he said. "Yo'll have nowt to do but turn off bi Bill's o' Jack's, climb up to Pots an' Pans, an' ta' th' sheep-walk down to th' "Church." Yo'n plenty of time. Besides, aw don't ta' it kindly o' yo' to be in such a hurry to be shuton me. Yo'n fun some fine new relations to be sewer, but yo' needn't be i' sich a hurry to turn yo'r back o' them 'at fot yo' up when yo'd nob'dy else to turn to. Th' Burnplatters weren't fine weather friends to yo', Miriam. Aw were at thi beck an' call long afore yo' clapped em on th' parson's son, an' yo'n nowt to do but lift yo'r little finger an' aw'll be at thi beck an' call again, an' th' Staley lass may go hang."

"Now you're spoiling it all, Ephraim. I'll get out here, thanking you for the lift, and oh, so pleased to have heard your good news. If you'll ask me, I'll dance at your wedding."

And here Ephraim's manner had suddenly changed. He put his disengaged arm round Miriam's waist, and urged the horse into a gallop. The road was lonely; the moors and rolling hills begirt them; not a soul was to be seen. Thoroughly alarmed, she strove to rise from her seat, but he held her as in a vice.

"Howd thi din," he hissed, his eyes glaring wildly. "Didst think Eph. o' Burnplatts forgi'es an' forgets so soon. Aw'n getten thee nah, an' aw'st howd thee. It's my turn to laugh now. Aw'd ha' made thee an honest woman an' a wedded wife once, but, by gow, tha'll ha' to put up wi' jumpin' th' broomstick now."

Sick with fear and apprehension, casting wild looks on every side, shrieking for help, she had been borne at a hand gallop right to Bill's o' Jack's. Just as they passed the top side of the house towards the mistal, by a happy inspiration she had, unseen by Ephraim, slipped her betrothal ring from her finger and dropped it into the yard, there to lie till discovered by the keen eyes of Daft Billy. Ephraim had cast her rudely down up a heap of hay, bound her securely, and fearful lest her screams should be heard by some chance customer at the inn, had tied his own muffler tightly about her mouth. Once only, during she knew not how many hours, he had gone to her, bearing a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water, offering to relieve her of the gag if she would eat in quiet. He had been drinking heavily in the interval, and she feared the worst, but he had attempted no violence, and lurched heavily away, locking the door behind him. And there she had lain through the long dark hours of the night, trembling at every sound and sick with a deadly terror, till Jim and I had burst the door of her dreadful prison.

"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.]