Chapter VI: I Visit the Sick

IT was New Year's Eve, and Jim and I, much pressed thereto by his good mother, had resolved to attend the Watch Night Service in the Warping Room at Wrigley Mill, to watch the Old Year out and the New Year in. A marked change had come over my friend Jim in these latter days. He had foresworn all taverning, contenting himself with the modest home-brewed of the domestic table, and declaring that he hoped by this route to bring himself in time to treikle-drink, and maybe, though of this he was somewhat sceptical, to plain cold water, a beverage in whose favour all that could be alleged, Jim considered, was that it "cost nowt." He confessed to me, indeed, that he looked forward with the gloomiest apprehensions to a long existence unenlivened by an occasional spree. But he had made up his mind to "save his brass," and he knew from grim experience that a working man cannot spend his nights in an alehouse and save money out of his slender earnings.

"Yo' see," he would observe pathetically, "it isn't what yo' sup yersen, it's treatin' other folk. Yo' go into th' 'Hangin' Gate,' we'll say, an' yo' ca' for a pint o' drink, an' yo' sit yo' dahn an' fill yo'r pipe, an' yo' begin to feel at peace wi' all mankind. Then a chap comes in an' says, 'Hullo, Jim, is that ta? How are ta, lad? Aw hannot seen thee this mony a day. An' how's thi owd mother? Eh! aw remember her afore yo' were born, afore 'oo wedded thi feyther, come to that, an' a likelier wench nivver stepped this side Stanedge!' Then he looks at yo'r pot an' says he'd ha' axed yo' to have a pint wi' him, but he just leets to be shortish hissen. Nah what can yo' do, aw ax yo' as man to man but ax him to ha' a pint wi' yo', an' ha' one yersen for company's sake? Then another chap comes in an' sets him dahn bi th' side on yo', an' tells yo' both to sup an' ha' a drink wi' him, an' yo' don't like to throw his kindness i' his face, let alone doin' an ill turn to th' landlord. Then in course yo'll ha' to put yo'r hands dahn for another go for th' three on yo', an' when yo'n had that yo've just abaht come to th' conclusion yo might as weel mak' a neet on it, an' start afresh wi' yo'r good resolutions another time. So aw see there's nowt for it but keepin' aht o' th' publics altogether, if ivver aw mean to ha' a nest-egg laid by."

"And what has come over you lately, Jim, to make you so keen on saving money."

Jim eyed me sideways.

"Doesn't ta know? Oh, well, tha'll happen find aht sooin' enough. I' th' meantime yo' may suppose 'at aw intend when aw dee to fahnd a 'sylum for loonatics, or perhaps aw'm thinkin' a' bequeaving a legacy for th' endowment o' Powl Moor Chapel. Yo' may be sewer, whativver it is, it'll be summat 'at ca's for a seet o' brass. Aw've getten three pun' nineteen an' sevenpence farden teed up i' a stockin' fooit, an' i' a varry little time aw'st look aht for a sootable investment."

Another symptom, that excited in me a languid speculation was the fact that Jim, about this time, embarked upon a determined effort to reform his speech with the result that much concentration was needed to follow his discourse This is a sample of his speech at this painful period of his progress in self improvement:

"Well, aw meean--that is, I mean 'well,' if we're--aw mean, I meean 'mean'--'we are' bun--that's to say I mean goin'--drat it, aw've dropped th' 'g,' as Ruth said--aw mean 'going' to th' sarvice I mean th' 'service' to-neet--theer aw go agen, aw mean 'to-night'--it's time we donned ussen, aw mean rid ussen up--no'h, that won't do, nother--dressed ussen--no, that's noan it, nother--aw mean 'dressed ourselves.'"

I think it will not be denied that conversation with Jim in this phase of his development was attended with difficulties. However, we put on our Sunday best, and after Mary had straightened Jim's neckcloth and inspected his boots and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his coat sleeve--tender ministrations under which Jim fidgeted impatiently, declaring that his mother couldn't make more coil if he was going to be wed--we set off for the Warping Room a few minutes before eleven o'clock, both feeling very sleepy, and much more inclined for bed than worship. We hadn't far to go, for Mary's cottage was in the front of a small block of buildings in the mill yard, and the office or counting house at the back, and over the counting house, up a short, worm-eaten flight of steps, the warping room, evidently two bedrooms knocked into one chamber--and a smallish chamber at that.

It was an ideal winter's night. The moon sailed in a cloudless sky gemmed with glittering stars. The ground was deep in virgin snow. Not a breath of air fluttered the fallen flakes. No sound broke the silence save the babbling of Diggle Brook and the crunching of the snow under our clogging shoon. The Old Year was dying in a rare peace. It had been the year that had brought to me the greatest gifts life holds for man--a pure maiden's trust and love--and I had nought but benedictions to soothe its passing. As we reached the foot of the short flight of stairs that led to the warping room we heard the words of the familiar hymn:

"Thy faithful people praise Thee, Lord,
For countless gifts received;
And pray for grace to keep the Faith,
Which saints of old believed."

And the words found a ready echo in my heart.

"That's a Church hymn," remarked Jim, as we waited in the little throng pressing for entry, "that's noan Methody. We'st ha' 'Another rollin' year, another rollin' year, has swiftly passed away,' just when th' clock's strucken twelve. That's th' tune for me; it goes wi' a rare swing. That an' 'Christians, awake!' an' 'Wild shepherds'"--I suppose Jim referred to the hymn commencing "While shepherds," but he called it "Wild shepherds"--"is th' only hymn tunes aw can sing, but th' worst on it is, if aw start on 'Christians, awake!' I'm sure to glide into 'Wild shepherds,' an' go on at th' top o' my voice till th' wench nearest to me gi'es me a dig i' th' ribs."

"And then what?" I asked.

"Aw pom, pom," said Jim, gravely.

The room was crowded, nay, packed. Mr. and Mrs. Wrigley were there, and, of course, Matthy Haley, and nearly all, old and young, male and female, were "hands" at Wrigley Mill. Mr. Wrigley, a man of some fifty years, tall, broad-shouldered with plain, honest, good-humoured features, a quiet, unassuming man, who liked more to listen than to speak, and generally believed to be much in awe of his wife, was leading the meeting by right of his position as superintendent of the Sunday School. Jim and I found ourselves fain to stand wedged in a corner against the white-washed wall unpleasantly near a little iron stove and flue that grew so hot as almost to stifle us.

"Dear friends and neighbours" Mr. Wrigley was saying, "I hope--me and my wife hope--you've all had a Merry Christmas and that you'll all have a Happy New Year. You know I'm not much of a talker, and--well--yes, I think that's all. Let us all pray. Those 'at can't find room to kneel, must stand. Perhaps someone will lead us in prayer."

"Nah for Matthy," whispered Jim, and Matthew it was. He managed to kneel down somehow, and I resigned myself to suffer in silence, for when Matthew got under way at a prayer meeting he was good for half an hour, and I often wondered how his poor knees stood it. And this was how he prayed, and as he warmed to his work his voice rose to a shout, and he banged with clenched fist the bench at which he knelt, and the sweat streamed from every pore of his skin:

"Oh Lord, we come to Thee at the close of another rolling year. Yes, Lord, another year has quickly rolled away, an' we'n rolled wi' it, an' we're still Thy people, aye, Thine, only Thine, thank the Lord. And we feel, O Lord, that it is good for us to be here. It's only a warping hoil, Lord, as Thou canst see for Thissen, but Thou hast said wherever two or three are gathered together in Thy name there art Thou in their midst, and that to bless. Oh, Lord, we'st pin Thee to that. Bless us Lord. Bless th' owd uns an' th' young uns, th' rich an' poor. Bless Mr. Wrigley, Lord. Mak' him a vessel o' grace an' sanctify him to Thy service, so that he may indeed read his title clear to mansions in the skies. And bless Mrs. Wrigley, Lord. Thou knowest she is Thy handmaiden and rich in grace. Oh, Lord, bless her, and that abundantly. And bless their Percy, and their Polly, and their Guster, and their Amy, and their Lizzie and their maid-servants and their manservants, and the stranger that is within their gates and all for whom it's our duty to pray. And bless _us_, Lord, and make us feel that it is good for us to be here. Thou knows, Lord, we might ha' been elsewhere spending our substance in riotous livin', aye, even at th' 'Hanging Gate,' abusin' Thy gifts. There'll be those, Lord, at this minute drinking strong waters"--"Aw could do a quart missen," said Jim in my ear--"and as like as not takin' Thy name in vain. Oh, Lord, we thank Thee we are not as them but here upon our knees at the Throne of Grace. And now, Lord, Thou knowest what we need even before we ax it, but there's no harm in mentionin' one or two things. There's bin a shortage o' water at Wrigley Mill this last summer, an' we'n had a job to keep th' wheel turnin'. Oh, Lord, when th' dog days come round in due season, open Thy heavens and let the waters fall. We know, Lord, they fall upon the just and the unjust alike, but, Lord, if Thou wilt Thou canst lean a bit. Lord, forget not Thy servants at Wrigley Mill, an' Thine shall be all the glory…."

Now how long Matthew continued in this strain I cannot tell, for at about this point a stentorian voice from the bottom of the stairs, which were just as packed as the room, shouted:

"Is Abel Holmes theer?"

"Aye, up i' th' corner, bi th' stove," a young lass at the top of the steps shouted down to the doorway.

"Tell him he's wanted very pertickler."

Matthew stopped short, and every eye was turned to the corner where Jim and I were sweltering.

"There'll be something wrong at home," I cried in quick alarm.

"Mak' way, theer," said Jim. "I'm wi thee, Abe. Yo'll excuse us, Mr. and Mrs. Wrigley, but we're feart there's summat wrong at th' Poll."

Standing by the counting house door we found the man who had come in quest of me, assuredly no messenger from my father or Ruth, a man known to me from my earliest days, and once not a little feared, a Burnplatter known through all the countryside as, Daft Billy. He was generally supposed to have what was lightly and unfeelingly spoken of as "half a slate off," and as such was the butt of all the boys of the valley, whose delight it was to follow him at a safe distance, shouting at him all the silly gibes they could lay their tongues to. Billy usually pursued his way unheeding, only the fierce gleam of his eyes and the malignant scowl on his face betraying that the words had reached his ears. But at rare times an ungovernable fury would seize upon him. His face then was a fearsome thing to look upon; he would bellow like a wounded bull, and rush after the scattering lads, and woe betide the urchin that fell into his hands. He was the terror of the matrons for miles around, and women expecting to become mothers dreaded meeting Daft Billy as they walked abroad. He was counted the cunningest cow doctor anywhere our abouts, and the farmers sent for him when at their own wits' end. It was generally allowed that Billy could see further into the innards of a horse or "beast" than any vet, in Huddersfield or Oldham, and he made a pretty penny by advising the local gentry in their dealings in horseflesh. But, unlike all other vets I've ever come across, he was the most unsociable of human beings. I don't remember ever to have seen him smile or laugh, and, as Jim complained, good liquor was fair thrown away on him, for the more he drank the more morose he waxed. He had no known kith and kin whose lad he was or whence he came none could tell, and he seemed to have a special aversion for the gentler sex. For all save Miriam. I know not how my dear love had won the heart of this Slaithwaite Caliban, but certain it is he worshipped the ground she trod on. She could say him in his wildest moods with a word, nay, with a look. Yet was not his love, like mine, that of a man for a maid, but rather that of a dog for its master. It was never questioned that Daft Billy would cheerfully give his life for Miriam, if need were, and as I grew to know this my old feelings for the man melted away and I came to have a curious sort of liking for him. How he regarded me I do not know to this day--with a sort of tolerance, belike, when he came to know how matters stood between Miriam and myself.

"Why, Billy, what brings you here at this time of night?" I exclaimed, fears of evil quick besetting me. "Nothing wrong at Burnplatts?"

"Tha'rt wanted--Burnplatts; owd Mother Sykes--'oo's badly."

"But what good can I do her? I'm no doctor."

"Dunnot know. Women's whimsy, belike. Miriam sent me, an' tha's got to go if aw hug thee theer."

"Oh, if Miriam sent for me I'm with you, Billy. Jim'll come, too."

"There were nowt said about that felly. But th' road's free fro' here to th' Burnplatts. Aw doubt he'll noan ha' to see Mother Sykes." And with that Billy turned his back on us, and set off in a sort of ambling trot in the direction of Burnplatts, Jim and I following at his heels, nor to all the questions that I bawled at Billy's back could I get a word in answer.

I cudgelled my brain in vain surmises as to the reasons for this sudden summons, and I fear was but an unappreciative listener to the monologue by which Jim who had no gift for silence, sought to beguile the tedium of the tramp across the snow-shrouded moors.

"Dal it all, Abe," he said, "that's abaat th' fiftieth time tha's axed me what owd Mother Sykes can want wi' thee. Tha'll know sooin enough. It'll be nowt to thi advantage or aw'st be capped. If aw'm ony judge th' owd witch has no use for nob'dy except for what 'oo can mak' aat on 'em. Aw dunnut know what sort o' a mother your Miriam had, but her gran'mother's a beauty, an' don't yo' forget it. If Miriam's mother were owt like Miriam hersen 'oo mun ha' bred back a gooidish bit. It's weel known a rose 'll grow on a muck midden, but aw'n ne'er known a rose grow aat o' a thistle seed, an' there's a seet more thistle nor rose abaat owd Mother Sykes."

"But what in the name of goodness does she want with me at dead of night."

"Theer tha goes again. 'Oo's ill, didn't Daft Billy say. Happen 'oo's bahn to mak' her will an' appoint thee her, what do yo' ca' it?--exekittor. Aw suddn't be capped if 'oo'd getten a stockin' laid by snug an' safe somewheer. Yo' nivver can tell bi th' way fo'k live how they'll cut up when they dee. Yo' needn't go further nor owd Mr. Garside, 'at you're sort o' heir to, to prove that. An' wimmen's nat'rally of a more savin' an' scrattin' natur' nor men. When they tak' that way they can live a week on th' backbone of a herrin', an' if they live long enough it's surprisin' how it mounts up. An' yo' needn't ha' so mich to start on, nother. Aw were at th' Market Cross i' Huddersfelt one Tuesday, an' there were one o' those teetotal chaps 'at's just come up a lecturin'. Varry smart at figures he were, to be sewer. He axed ony man i' th' crowd to tell him what he spent i' ale ivery week. Nob'dy seemed anxious to tell him, so just to encourage th' chap aw said, 'Two bob, maybe.' Weel, he had it worked aat in his yead i' double quicksticks 'at that were more nor five pund a year, an' he axed me ha' owd aw were. 'Four and twenty,' says I. 'Put that i' th' bank at some mak' o' interest'--it were a queerish name, like what th' doctors say when you've brokken yo'r arm i' two spots"

"Compound interest," I suggested.

"Tha's getten it. 'Put it i' th' bank at compound interest, an' bi' th' time yo'r forty yo'll ha'--aw dunnot gradely remember how mich it were, but he med it aat ivery man i' th' country could ha' a house to live in an' another to let, an' if a felly nobbut lived till he were eighty he could buy Buckingham Palace, for owt aw know."

"Was that how you came to start _your_ stocking?" I asked.

"Weel, in a manner o' speakin' yo' may say it were. That an' summat else--but that's up another street. But it's weary work savin' brass. Aw'n counted my bit till mi wit's nearly addled, an' aw cannot see 'at it gets onny bigger except when aw put summat to it missen. It's that compound interest lays ovver me; an' what's th' use o' tellin' them mak' o' fairy tales, when yo' know varry weel it can't be done. But here we are at th' top o' th' Ainley Place, an' a rare poo' it's bin up th' broo, wi' the' snow ballin' i' yo'r clogs ivery five yard. Yo'll excuse me, Abe, aw'm noan so set o' these Burnplatters. Yo'll find yo'r way whom wi'out me, so aw'st leave yo' here, an' if th' owd hag _has_ owt to fling away, an's lookin' for a desarvin' objec', just yo' put a word in for yours truly." And Jim clapped me heartily on the back, and turned back the way we had come.

Daft Billy led me to the door of Mother Sykes's cottage. My heart thumped in my breast, not, be sure, because I knew that lowly abode held the old dame, but because there dwelt my Miriam. I knocked the snow off my clogs against the lintel of the door, and, obedient to a motion of my taciturn guide, pulled the string that lifted the sneck, and entered. The low room was dimly lighted by a farthing dip, and the glow from a peat fire. Miriam was seated by the fire on a rude rush-bottomed chair. She rose as I paused just within the chamber, and placed her finger on her lips, glancing towards a pallet on which, as my eyes became accustomed to the dim light, I saw lay the eerie being whose summons had brought me to that uncanny spot at that ghostly hour.

"Come to the fire and warm yourself," whispered Miriam

"I'm noan asleep; yo' needn't think it," came in a feeble, gasping voice from the bed. "Don't come near me till you're warm, Abel Holmes, I can't abear cold. Wheer's Ephraim?"

I jumped in my skin when from the gloom of the remotest corner of the room Ephraim's voice said surlily, "Aw'm here, trying to get a wink o' sleep, for aw'n had none this three neets back an more. What do yo' want nah? Of all the women i' this world for whimsies, aw'll back yo' again creation. There's no more brandy, if that's what yo're hankerin' for, an' it's a sore neet an' an ungain hour to go seekin' it."

"Aw reckon yo'n supped it, then. Yo'n swum i' liquor sin' aw were bedridden, yo' unnat'ral crittor. But tha'rt off thi horse this time. Aw want nother thee nor thi liquor. Aw want to talk to Abel Holmes."

"Weel, get agate. He's theer, isn't he?"

"Aye, but aw want thee aat o' th' gate first. Just thee mak' thissen scarce for th' neist hour or two."

"An' wheer should aw go at this time o' neet an' i' this mak' o' weather?"

"Yo' can go to--for owt aw care," said the beldam, naming a very warm spot indeed, and displaying a quite remarkable vigour for one whom I had expected to find at death's door.

Ephraim gave me an evil look that I was by no means conscious of deserving from one I had not so long ago rescued from durance vile, tossed a rat-skin cap on to his head, and flung himself out of the room. The sick woman listened intently to the sound of his footsteps crunching through the snow. Then she roused herself with difficulty upon one poor, withered arm, and groping under her pillow drew thence, to my consternation, the ring I had given to Miriam. I glanced reproachfully at my sweet one, and she hung her head and would not meet my eyes.

"Wheer did yo' get this trinkum, Abel Holmes th' parson's son at Powl Moor. Wheer did your father's son come by this? Answer me truly, for there's more hangs by what yo' tell me nor either yo' nor that hussy theer know on. Tell me truly, or may the curse o' the God o' Abraham an' Jacob rest on both on yo', and yo'r leet o' love."

"If it's Miriam you're talking of, she's no light of love of mine nor of any other man, Mother Sykes, you shameless old woman, that I should use such a word to one that lies on her death-bed, or so I thought when I was fetched here at dead of night. Miriam's neither hussy nor light-of-love. She's my promised wife, and proud I am to say it," and I put my arm boldly round Miriam's rounded waist, and drew her to my side, where she seemed to find no small comfort in clinging, as together we gazed down upon the brown, shrunken face and the thin, spare, grizzled wisps of hair that hung about it in wild disorder. "My plighted and 'trothed beloved," I continued in a firm voice, gaining confidence as I went on, "and I gave her that ring in token of our betrothal. As to where I got it, that's my business. Tell me first how _you_ got it, Mother Sykes. I didn't give it to _you_, that's certain sure."

"Your promised wife!" sneered that very evil-spoken old woman. "Promises and pie-crusts, we know what they're made for. Aw'n heerd that tale afore, an' so in an evil day did my dowter an' her mother afore her."

"Miriam's mother!" I gasped. "Your daughter! Tell me--oh! this is a fearful tangle!"

"Aye, Miriam's mother. Her 'at that gew-gaw once belonged to, that went the way o' shame, th' same Miriam's like to tread. It's i' th' blood, it's i' th' blood, an' wi' a parson's son, too. It's time aw deed, but aw'll put a spoke i' this wheel afore they put me under th' sod."

I stood as in a dream. I am not quick at reading riddles. A straightforward story I think I can grasp with any plain and ordinary man. But through the maze my brain was wrapped in stole at length a slender gleam of light, a sort of inkling, a mere glimpse of what the truth might be.

I seized the thin wrist of the sick Woman more roughly, I fear, than there was warrant for.

"You say this ring once belonged to Miriam's mother, and that that mother went the way of shame. Then, Mother Sykes, though you were at your last gasp, I tell you, you lie foully in your throat. Her mother was the loved and honoured wife of as good and God-fearing and of as unfortunate and wronged a man as ever trod this earth. I knew him well, and closed his eyes in death, and were it the last word I have to speak, James Garside was no seducer of women. Aye, even a Burnplatter's daughter would be safe with him, as a Burnplatter's granddaughter is safe with Abel Holmes. I'm my father's son in that, if in nothing else," and I closed my arm about that bonnie waist till I think Miriam must have gasped for breath.

"Garside, James Garside, aye, that were his name, the name of the man who led my Esmeralda astray, and broke her young heart. She died when Miriam were born, heart-broken if ever woman were."

"But Esmeralda, Mr. Garside's Esmeralda," I cried in sore perplexity, "was brought up in his mother's house, and yet you say she was your daughter. Oh! I remember now--he said the child was left on the doorstep of his mother's house. And your hands laid her there?"

"Aye, marry, that they did, and oft I've rued it. But I did it for the best. I saw no way of rearing the bairn myself, and I'd no mind the bonnie wee thing should lead the life, the only life, I saw before me. Twas bad enough for me to cast in with the Burnplatters, but I thought to find a safe asylum for my bairn."

"But the child's father?" I could not help suggesting.

"She _had_ a father, and a lawful father. That's enough for you, Abel Holmes. Old Mother Sykes was not a Burnplatter born and bred. I'd as fair a beginning as e'er a man need wish. Oh, I can talk fine, like you, when I want, so you needn't stare as if you'd seen a boggard. Some day, if I live long enough, and if you prove your right to know, I'll tell you my story. But it boots not to-night. Tell me only one thing, and I think I can die happy. You say that Esmeralda was James Garside's wedded wife. Can'st prove it?"

"Aye, that I can. My father says--"

"Aye, thi feyther 'll know," nodded the sick woman, lapsing again into our common speech.

"My father says these Gretna Green marriages were binding enough, and I've the blacksmith's own certificate safe at home yonder. I'll bring it to you next time I come. James Garside and Esmeralda--Esmeralda Atkinson, aye, that was the name--were tied as fast as the law of Scotland could tie them."

"And that villain of a man that went to her from Manchester swore that the wedding was all a sham. Told her her lover had sent him to her to get shut of her. Offered her money, bid her name her own price, only go, go, go, anywhere, so long as she crossed James Garside's path no more. Said that if she loved, and loved truly, she would best show her love by vanishing from her so-called husband's life for ever. To cling to him were to ruin him. And she, poor child, believed him. She flung his money in his face, and bid him return to the false coward who had sent him, and say that never more should he look upon her face again. She stripped off the fine clothing and the jewel's his money had bought, and left them all behind her. That ring was one of them."

"You knew the ring then, mother?"

"Knew it! In course I knew it. Esmeralda showed it to me before ever she quitted Manchester. Showed me the letters traced on the inner side of it. I'd seen her often after she grew up, unbeknown to old Mrs. Garside, and I'd made myself known to her. At first she was fleyed of me; but blood's thicker than water. She told me, too, the young master was courting her, but his mother would never consent. There was some talk of another woman they'd planned for him. I disremember exactly, but it'll come back to me, maybe to-morrow. Give me another sup of summat, Miriam--my head's that wammy, un' it's desperate cold. I think I could sleep now I've said my say; and oh! Abel Holmes, yo'n lifted a load off my old heart to-night. Yon tutor's a deal to answer for, aye an' her, too, 'at set him on to do her dirty work for her. The black lie of him killed my bairn and soured my whole life for me. I'd have been a better woman but for that. I think I should like to see your feyther, Abel, afore aw dee. Happen yo'll bring him to me. It's mony a weary year sin' these owd lips said a prayer an' these owd ears han hearkened to more curses nor blessin's. But aw'n tried to shelter Miriam, hannot aw, lass? It's noan so easy to fetch up a young an' pratty wench among th' Burnplatters i' th' way she should go. But aw'n done mi best, aw' done mi best."

Miriam now was on her knees by the bedside, and she had the old dame's hand pressed to her own sweet breast, and the tears fell upon it from her streaming eyes.

"Don't talk like that, granny. You've been all the world to me, dear heart, till--till Abel came. I always knew you loved me, granny, and I've loved you always. Only get well, granny, be quick and get well, and we'll think nothing good enough for you. Aye, close your dear eyes, granny, sleep now. Go home, now, Abel, she's talked too much. Come again tomorrow night if you can."

She did not rise from her knees. I stooped and kissed her upturned face, and stole softly out of the cottage.

When I cleared Burnplatts it must have been, as I should judge, some four o'clock of the morning. The moon no longer sailed in a clear sky: that was overcast by sombre clouds, big with snow that was yet to fall, and but fitful gleams pierced the gloom. I was in two minds whether to turn my steps towards my father's house at Pole or take the longer road to Wrigley Mill. I was dead beat, and would have been fain to stretch my weary limbs in rest. And my mind was in tune with my body. I wanted time to think over all old Mother Sykes had said. I felt I should have a long story to tell my father, and one, perchance, he would not be overjoyed to hear; and I felt in no mood for the telling of long stories. So with a weary shrug of my shoulders I turned my face towards Stanedge and floundered through the deep snow that, a foot deep and more, covered the rough cart-tracks and shortcuts. I suppose that after a while of steady pounding I must have fallen, as I walked, into a sort of semi-sleep, my legs moving mechanically whilst my mind was wrapped in a dull and senseless stupor. Anyway I had made to this side--I mean the Yorkshire side--of Stanedge Cutting, when, with a start, I realised that I was no longer alone. Ephraim Sykes barred my way and as my senses cleared I became aware Ephraim was in a very ugly mood. He had clearly been drinking, and deeply. His breath on the cold air was like steam, and it was heavy laden with the fumes of brandy.

"I'd have a word or two wi' you, Abel Holmes." he said in a thick voice. "There's a score to settle between you an' me, afore yo' go ony further."

"Why, it's a queer time and place for talking, Eph.," I remember saying, "I'm just tired to death and want nothing so much as a good sleep. We'd both be best i' bed, don't you think, and you've a tidy step before you on to Burnplatts."

"Damn Burnplatts," he cried fiercely. "Burnplatts has noan bin Burnplatts for me sin' first yo' showed your cantin' mug theer. An' that's what I'm getten to talk about. What had th' owd hell-cat to say to thee so private 'at aw mun be turned aat i' to th' cowd at after midneet? What devil's plot are yo' three hatchin' among you? An' what's Miriam to thee, Abel Holmes, aw'm speerin'--aye, that's th' point o' it all. What's Miriam to thee, I want to know?"

"Well, it's soon told, Eph., Miriam's tokened to me this many a happy month past. That's what Miriam is to me, lad, and I hope you'll wish me joy, Eph."

"Wish you joy! Aw wish you an' your smooth tongue were i' hell fire an' me th' stoker. So that's what all this comin' an' goin', an' your sister hanging about Burnplatts, an' Miriam goin' about wi' a song on her lips an' a light in her e'en as if oo'd had a glimpse o' heaven--that's what it means, is it? An' do yo' think aw'm th' man to stand by an' see another steal his lass fro' him wi'out word said or blow struck? Miriam's mine, aw tell thee. Afore ever yo' clapt een on her, afore oo could toddle, when oo were a wee wench 'at aw hugged i' these arms across th' moor, Miriam were mine. She's none they meat, Abel Holmes; she's for a better man nor thee tho' tha art a parson's son, an' can talk her fine,'an' read out o' books to her an' turn her yead wi' po'try an' that mak' o' nonsense. She'll never stand afore th'parson wi' thee, Abe Holmes, nor wi' ony other man but me. Aw'll noan be robbed o' th' light o' my life by thee nor th' best man livin', choose who he is. But theer, aw said to missen I'd noan be rough wi thee. Tha did me a gooid turn i' that court do wi' th' Bradburys, an' afore that when tha fun me lame on th' moor, not so far fro' wheer we stan' to meet, yo' an' me alone on th' moor, wi' nowt to stan' atween us. I've noan forgotten. So aw'll noan be rough wi' thee; tha'st ha' thi' chance, for owd times' sake. Tha's got to give her up, Abe. See th' first streak o' grey's stealin' fro' th' east, tha can see me hand now. Put thine into mine, Abe, an' promise me, man to man, tha'll't gi' her up."

"You know very well, Eph., I shall do no such thing. It's th' drink that's talking, not thee, Eph. Get yo' home to bed, and stand out o' my gait, for I'd fain be there mysen."

"Yo'r bed 'll be a shroud o' snow, then. Off wi' yo'r coit, yo' white-livered cur, if yo'n a ounce o' blood i' yo'r body. Off wi' th' coit, an' stan' to me, man to man." And Ephraim in a mad frenzy tore off his coat and cast it to the ground, and stood before me, his blood-shot eyes glaring wildly, his mouth foaming, and his face convulsed with passion. I made no move to doff my coat, but as Ephraim came at me with a wild cry and big clenched fists that strove to reach my throat, I beat him off as best I could, tho' such was the frenzy that nerved his arm that I felt with a sick foreboding that I was at the mercy of my foe. I gave back from him, shielding my face as best I could, but he pressed me close, and his breath was hot and foul upon me and his left hand had closed upon my throat, when my eye caught the gleam as of a lanthorn and I heard from somewhere not far across the moor at the back of me, a loud, hoarse cry:

"Hold theer Ephraim, hold, aw tell thee."

"Hell and fury, it's Daft Billy--that'll be Miriam's doing. But aw'll finish my job, ony road, Billy or no Billy," cried Eph.

But at the sound of that voice in the wilderness I had found fresh strength, and with a sudden wrench I tore myself from Ephraim's grasp, and with as shrewd a blow as ever this good right arm ever struck, sent him reeling on his heels. He recovered his balance, then, as the cry still came across the white waste of snow, "Howd theer, howd, aw say," I saw Eph.'s right hand seek his belt. There was a dull flash of steel, a sharp, cutting pain on my left side, the feel of soft, warm moisture oh my skin, and I knew no more.