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.