“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.”