Chapter VIII: The Passing of Mother Sykes

IT must have been in the third or fourth week of my convalescence. I know I was allowed to get up for a few hours each day and sit by the fireside wrapped in a great shawl, and I kept Ruth busy making beef-tea and mutton-broth and rice puddings and custards. Fortunately, as she said, her hens had settled well down to laying, and eggs were plentiful. Dr. Dean had been very wroth when he heard about the home-brewed. He said it was of an inflammatory nature, and had put me on to barley water, a drink I've had a mortal loathing for ever since.

I was sat, as I have said, by the fire, very sick of my own company, and not finding it much improved by "The Call, to the Unconverted," or the other goodly books my father exhorted me to read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest. I wondered then, and have often wondered since, how it is that your good books, or is it only your goody-goody books, are such dreary reading. I would cheerfully have swapped all the works on my reverend father's shelves for an hour's discourse with that cheerful sinner, Jim. Except, perhaps, Mr. Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress." Ah! there's a book, if you like.

But, anyroad, there's one good thing about even goody-goody books. Dr. Dean had been strict in his commands that I must be kept quiet and absolutely free from excitement, and no one can say there's anything very exhilarating about Hervey's "Meditations among the Silent Tombs" a work specially commended to me by one of the Pole Moor deacons. So little so did I find it that I was nodding off to sleep in the chair when Ruth came softly into the room.

"There's Daft Billy downstairs," she said in a low voice, "and father's getting his thick boots and goloshes and gaiters on, and he's put his Bible into his pocket. I can't quite make out--Billy 'd say nowt, though I'd a hard try at him--but unless I'm very much mistaken things are moving down at Burnplatts.

"And me like a lump o' lumber on th' hearthstone," I muttered impatiently.

"We'st know more than we do now when father comes back. I'll have some hot potato cakes, with plenty of butter. Th' price tea's at it's like dissolving pearls in wine, as I've read those pagan Romans used to do; but all th' same, father'st have his dish of tea to-night, if I've to break into that pound my aunt Keziah brought me on my first birthday, though she did say it was not to be broken into till my wedding day. Then when father's got his wet shoon off, an' had his tea, and got his pipe nicely going, see if I don't get it all out of him."

"You're like that lady of high quality I read about, Ruth. She boasted she could always keep her husband in a good humour. 'How do you do it?' someone asked. 'I feed the brute,' was her recipe."

"And quality or no quality, that lady was none bout sense," opined Ruth. "Nine times out of ten the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

"But a parson's heart!" I protested.

"Why, now, who should know them better nor me?" retorted Ruth. "Don't I have to do for 'em when they have their monthly conferences at th' Pole. If there's one set o' men more than another with a weakness for hot muffins and plenty of butter it's parsons, an' Baptist parsons at that."

Well, now, whether it was the influence of the tea or the potato-cake or the snug comfort of my little bedroom, to which my father brought his pipe, I know not. But this is certain, that no sooner had Ruth handed him his long churchwarden, and the weed had attained an assured glow, and Ruth had nestled up to his knee, seated on a little hassock with her steel knitting needles glinting in the fire's rays as they threaded warp and weft for my winter "comforter," or neck muffler, than my father began:

"Well, old Mother Sykes of Burnplatts has gone at last. She's been failing this while back. I scarce expected her to last so long."

"Dead!" I cried. "Mother Sykes dead!"

My father nodded gravely.

"She passed quietly away at two o'clock this afternoon. I was with her, and that strange girl we've always thought so much out of her natural sphere at Burnplatts. A wild, untamed spirit, I fear; but a good heart, a good and a feeling heart. She'd had a stormy and eventful, life, poor soul, but thank God her end was peace."

"What, Miriam's?" I gasped.

"Miriam's, no--I was talking of the old woman. She had a deal to tell me, as well as her breathing would let her, but she gave me to understand that you, Abel, knew all it was needful to know. I've never compelled your confidence, Abel, but I'm not aware that I've been a hard father or sought ought but my children's good."

My conscience smote me. I had had it in my mind many a time to tell him how things stood between me and Miriam. But to tell the honest truth I had put off and put off because I more than feared he would bid me see Miriam no more. And obey him in that I knew I could not do.

"She's to be buried next Friday. She wants to lie at Pole Moor, but I don't quite know how that may be. Our little croft's getting very full, and the fathers and mothers in Israel have their claim. There's our own grave, to be sure: there's room left there for me by your dear mother's side, and for you, Abel, and for Ruth."

"Oh," cried Ruth, "th' poor woman can have my share, and welcome. I'll make shift anywhere The old dame's been cuffed about enough in her lifetime, without being hawked about now she's dead."

"Well, we'll see," said my father, patting Ruth's plump little hand fondly. "'Let all things be done decently and in order' the Book says. And I fear me some of the brethren may regard the departed as the Hebrews of old looked on the uncircumcised. But truly we're under the New Dispensation, and the letter killeth, but the spirit keepeth alive."

"There's another text, father, about the dead burying their dead. What about the living? What about Miriam? If her grandmother made things plain to you, Burnplatts is no place for her now her only protector's dead and gone. Come to that, it never was. Surely she's not left alone in the house with her dead. Oh, if I'd only the strength of a kitling I'd be down to Burnplatts myself. You'll go, Ruth?"

"And have you so little knowledge of your father, Abel? The maid Miriam is well seen to. There's that strange man, Daft Billy, hangs about the place and will see no harm comes to her--a wild, uncouth creature, but a faithful. Then there are the women kind: a wildish lot, maybe, but they all seemed bent on easing the maid's burden. Still, I'd have had her return with me to Pole Moor. But that she flatly refused to do. She said her Granny had cared her all her days and she wasn't going to leave her till she had seen her laid in her last resting-place. And she was in the right of it, I thought."

"And what at after?" I asked anxiously. "It's out of all question that she can go on living at Burnplatts."

"There'll be no need for that," said my sire. "She has money of her own, and can pick and choose her abiding place.

"Miriam? Money?"

"Why, yes. Have you forgotten old Mr. Garside' bequest that lies now at usury in the bank at Huddersfield? Who's should it be but the maid Miriam's?"

Now, believe me or believe me not, you who may come to read this simple story, I'd clean forgotten the money that Mr. Garside had entrusted to my care, or, rather, should I say, it had not recurred to my mind. Nor is this so much to be wondered at. First of all had come the overwhelming revelation of Miriam's identity, and then, before my mind had had time to assimilate old Granny Sykes's story, I'd gone through a serious illness, my wits all scattered, and, as I've said more than once, I don't set up for being one of the clever ones of the earth. But, you see, my old father's wits had been sharper than mine, and, sure enough, the girl who had been dragged about Fairs, and Wakes, and "Thumps," and "Rants," selling brooms and telling fortunes, had a tidy little sum lying at command and need be beholden to no one for food and shelter in her hour of sore trial. I was pondering these things in my mind in a mazed and bewildered sort of way when Ruth broke in:

"I don't know what you two are driving at, I'm sure. If there's secrets about I can go downstairs and sit with th' cat. But all this talk about Miriam being heir to that money in th' bank's just so much gibberish to me. Can't one of you tell a plain tale for once. Happen you'll find it worth while to take a woman into counsel when it's a woman's future you've got to deal with."

"I thought Abel would have told you," said my father mildly.

"Abe, indeed!" quoth my sister, with an accent that rated me very low indeed.

"Well, you'd better tell her now, lad, and I'll go make th' beasts up for the night. Then you get to bed, Abe; you've been up o'er long as 'tis."

"Now then, Abe; if you've anything to tell me, out with it," said Ruth, as my father gently closed the door behind him. "If there's one thing I dislike more than another it's to be kept on tenter-hooks."

"Well, it's about that money of old Mr. Garside's You know how I came to be a sort of trustee for it?"

"Of course I know. It's for the poor old man's daughter if you can find her, which I doubt you'll never do. And if you don't light on her--and I'm sure it'll be like looking for a needle in a hay-stack--light on her in so long--let's see, three years, wasn't it?--the money's to be your own. Well, it's as good as yours, for find her you never will, if there ever was such a person--sick folk, especially when they've clammed themselves to death, as th' old hermit did, by all accounts, get queer notions into their heads."

"But she is found," I said quickly.

Ruth's face fell, and she stared at me in consternation.

"I never did!" she managed to get out at last. "Well, well, it's an old saying, and a true one, that you shouldn't count your chickens afore they're hatched. I'd wrong neither man nor maid if I knew it, and well I know the Book says 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's goods,' but you can't fairly call someone yo'n never clapped your eyes on your neighbour, it stands to reason you can't, and I'll own up honest I could many a time have awmost found it in my heart to pray that you'd fall heir to that brass. A God-send it would have been to Pole Moor, I know. But there, what is to be will be, and that's good Pole Moor doctrine, anyhow. But who is she, Abe, and however did you hap on her, and does my father know, and have you told Jim? My word, if Jim knows and has kept it to himself, and me wearing to skin and bone for anxiety over it, I'll let him know about it." And Ruth clenched her little fist and looked daggers at an imaginary Jim.

Now it wasn't often I had a chance of crowing it over my clever and self-willed little sister. I'm not quick, and nimble-witted, and glib of tongue as she ever was. So I was minded to relish my triumph for a while.

"Aw should think such a clever wench as yo', Ruth, could guess at twice," I said. "Besides, I feel a bit sleepy now. Aw think forty winks 'ud do me good. So yo'd best go help Jim fodder th' cattle."

"No, you don't, Abe Holmes. Not another wink o' sleep shalt tha have till yo'n towd me who she is. Some stuck-up, high-and-mighty miss I'll be bound. Them rich relations o' th' owd hermit, over in Manchester, 'll have been before us; and now th' brass 'll go where it's noan needed, an' you'll have had your trouble for nowt. It's th' way o' th' world."

"Well, I've seen the lady," I remarked, in a indifferent a tone as I could assume, "and she didn't strike me as being over and above stuck-up. Just about th' ordinary like for that."

"Then she is a lady!" cried Ruth, triumphantly. "If I didn't say so! Well, it's good-bye to th' fortune, Abe. Tha's had th' fingering o' it, an' tha knows th' touch and feel on it, and much good may th' thoughts on it do thee when somebody else has th' waring on it. Heigho!" and Ruth ended somewhat lamely with a deep-drawn sigh.

"Well, I'm not so sure about not having th' waring of it," I said in a meditative tone. "You see, the lady's young and not married. I've a notion she's not quite fancy-free. But that's nowt. She might be got to change her mind. Women have been known to do such things, or else they're sadly lied on. I've thought it wouldn't be a bad plan to try my luck with her. What dost think, Ruth?"

"And what would _you_ do with a fine lady, Abe? I fancy I see you nimby-pimbying up to one, and I fancy I see how she'd look when you did it. Of course you'll go in your clogs and your smock; and be sure yo' don't forget that warkday cap o' yours, more grease nor cloth. But you're only talking for talking's sake. Besides, there's Miriam!"

"Oh, Miriam!" I said slightingly.

"Yes, Miriam," cried Ruth, flaring up sudden gunpowder. "Miriam, poor lass, and her at this very minute, when you sit theer an' talk so cool o' chucking her over for that stinking brass, needing all th' love and comfort she can get. I cry shame on you, Abel Holmes. I'd never have thought it on you. I never thought o'er much o' your head-piece, Abe; but true and honest I could have sworn you were, aye, true to death. If anybody 'd told me my brother would have played such a trick on his plighted love, aye, for all th' mines o' Golconda, I'd have--I'd have--scratched their eyes out, aye, that I would," and Ruth's voice broke in a sob, and I saw the silly farce had been played o'er long.

"Why, Ruth, dear sis., it is Miriam."

"What's Miriam?" she almost sobbed.

"It's Miriam that's Mr. Garside's daughter; Miriam that owns that little fortune."

Ruth stared at me as though wondering whether I had taken leave of my senses again. Then she called out, "You wicked, wicked wretch," and fetched me a smart smack across my powl with her open hand, and then must needs put her arm about my neck and cling to me, half laughing and half crying, and saying over and over again, "Oh, Abe, I'm so glad, so glad for Miriam's sake." And then, shrewd, practical, managing little woman that she was:

"And what's to be done now?"

"I've thought of that, too. I've done a lot of thinking lately. There's nowt else to do in bed when you're not sleeping. If I were a 'torney, and had a knotty case to worry me, I'd just go to bed and think ovver it. There's more wisdom between th' blankets nor was ever fun at an office desk. And th' first thing, Ruth, if you want both to pleasure me, and do what's a right and a Christian thing into th' bargain, just you don yourself right off and get you down to th' Burnplatts. You're Miriam's sister-in-law that is to be, and that makes you a sort of relation. Anyhow, she's in sore trouble, and she has a right to turn to us. I'd have been there long sin' but for this confounded arm, and arm or no arm I'st go if you don't."

"Go, of course, I'll go; and not because of that money either, nor yet to pleasure you. I'll go because Miriam needs me, if ever poor lass needed a friend to stay by her side. I'll stop at th' Burnplatts till all's over. Surely those outlandish Burnplatters will behave themselves like decent folk till th' funeral's over, though they do say an Irish Wakes isn't in it for whisky where a Burnplatts' funeral comes. I do hope that wild runagate Ephraim will give th' spot a wide berth while I'm there. But what at after? There's the rub, as that mad Hamlet said."

"Why, bring her back with you to Pole Moor. Tell her you're worn out with nursing me and want rest. Tell her I'm going back-ards way for want of proper attention--oh, tell her any mak' o' a fairy-tale you like--only bring her."

Ruth fetched me a smacking kiss on my forehead.

"And bring her I will," she cried, "if I've to make Jim hug her here," and she tripped blithely out of the room and down the narrow staircase, singing like a thrush out of the lightness of her heart, and calling "Jim, Jim," in her clear, young voice.