“I asked Miriam before ever I knew a word about her parentage or her fortune,” I began angrily.
“Aye, aye,” said Mary, placidly. “An’ oo took thee when tha were th’ only decent lookin’ or decent spokken felly oo’d ivver clapt e’en on, for yo’ cannot ca’ yon Ephraim other t’one or t’other. But nah, yo know, oo’s happen nowt to do but ma’ her case known i’ Manchester, an’ friends an’ relations, all on ’em weel to do, ’ll just spring up i’ dozens. Brass breeds brass, as onny fooil knows; an’ it’s noan likely ’at her grandmother Garside had nob’dy belongin’ to her, ’at ’ud happen ax nowt better nor to tak’ her bi th’ hand an’ do for her a seet better a worldly way o’ speikin’ nor even yo’r feyther, though, in course, i’ a heavenly way there’s no marrowing him, if aw’m to judge. Aw duzinot know ha fo’k hunt for lost kinfolk; send th’ bellman raand, aw reckon. Onny road, theer th’ case is, Abel, whether yo’ like it or not, an’ it’s not to be thowt ’at like it yo’ weel. It’s hard on thee, lad, an’ aw’m sorry for thee: but reight’s reight, an’ wrong’s no man’s reight. An’ Mrs Wrigley says.
“D——, Mrs. Wrigley,” I began, and went as near to swearing as ever I did in my life, but checked myself in time.
Mary eyed me sorrowfully. “Aw thowt yo’ were yo’r feyther’s son,” she said. “But aw’n said mi say, an’ yo’ can other like it or lump it. Ger aat o’ th’ haase an’ tak’ a walk bi thissen; an’ if yo’ want better guidance nor owd Mary Haigh can gi’e yo’, yo’r feyther’s son s’ud know wheer to seek it.”
It will be judged that I slept ill that night, and Jim must have found me an uneasy chamber-fellow. ‘Uneasy,’ says the poet, ‘lies the head that wears a crown.’ Alas! we all wear crowns of sorts, mostly of thorns; and it isn’t only the Scots thane that murders sleep. Over and over again in my midnight tossings and turnings I railed at Mrs. Wrigley and her meddling tongue. Of course the sting of the whole matter was that I knew she was in the right. My conscience smote me as I looked at things through her eyes. Mr. Garside’s dying charge to me had been to find his child, if child there should be and hand to it the little store he had husbanded so jealously. Well, she was found: so far so good. But if Mr. Garside had lived and found his daughter as I had found her, what would he have done? Would he not for her sweet sake have sought to resume the station his birth and breeding entitled him to? And if that was what he would have done, was it not equally my duty, as standing as it were in his shoes, being indeed not only Miriam’s lover, but what old “Yallow Breeches”—of whom anon—described as one standing in loco parentis. That was the problem that drove sleep from my couch, and with which I confronted poor Jim when I could find it in my heart to rouse him from his Well-earned slumbers.
Jim listened drowsily as I poured the whole tale into his ears, yawning mightily and grumbling not a little at being robbed of his rest to hearken to the opinions of a couple of old women, as he irreverently called his mother and Mrs. Wrigley.
“Aw sud ha’ thowt we’d enough o’ yar hands wi’ Mitchell Mill wi’out bein’ set on to hunt up folks’ kith an’ kin. What does Miriam want wi’ onny o’ her own side? Won’t she ha’ enow o’ yours? There’ll be your feyther, an’ Ruth, an’, after a fashion, me an’ mi mother. That sud be relations enow to satisfy onny ordinary body—to say nowt o’ Ephraim o’ Burnplatts, who’s a handful o’ himself, though aw don’t gradely see wheer he comes in. Aw’m noan so keen o’ kinsfolk mysen, an aw’st be capped if yo’r Miriam doesn’t tak’ after me. But what ails askin’ her hersen? If oo’s frettin’ for her feyther’s folk—a feyther oo nivver saw, much less his folk—oo’s nowt to do but say so, an’ thin yo’ can set to wark; but let sleepin’ dogs lie, say I. N’er trouble trouble till trouble troubles.
“That won’t do, Jim,” I said. “I wish with all my heart it would, but it won’t. I’ll be honest with myself anyhow. You see, even if Miriam in her heart of hearts yearned after her relatives, and all their discovery may mean to her, she would never let on to me that it is so. She would fear to hurt me and to wound father and Ruth. No, no, I’ve to do what’s right, and no one’s back but mine can bear this burden.”
“Why not talk it ovver wi’ yo’r Ruth?” asked Jim “oo’s more sense i’ her little finger than tha has i’ that big yead o’ thine, an’ oo’ll noan stand shillyshallyin’ first this way an’ then that. If y’ like, as a pertickler favour to yo, aw’ll don missen up to-neet an’ walk ovver to th’ Pole, an’ put the whole case i’ front o’ Ruth, an’ yo’ be guided by her, that’s my advice.”
“No, no, Jim, it won’t do. I’m going into Lancashire myself, and if Miriam has any relations living I’m going to find them.”