I rose to go. I itched to ask after Miriam, but somehow the words would not come. I could not place her in that coarse environment. I loathed to think of her as the associate of these abandoned Burnplatters.
“I’d be careful how you meddle with those Bradbury’s,” was my parting counsel to Ephraim. “The law’s the law, you know; and ’tis poor work for a horse to kick against the prick of the spur, and just as idle for a man to run his head against a stone wall. I’d give them a wide berth if I were you, Ephraim.”
“Yo’d turn t’ other cheek, I suppose,” sneered Ephraim. “But yo’ see I’m not a parson’s son, an’ if I were I could find a text or two more to my thinking than that—‘an eye for an eye an’ a tooth for a tooth is somewhere i’ t’ Bible, or I’m mista’en.”
I remembered to have heard my father say that the devil not only could quote the Scriptures to his purpose, but on one memorable occasion had actually done so. But every man to his trade. I’m no preacher and just as certainly I was not Ephraim’s keeper. So I took my leave, promising to look in again. Ephraim said neither yea nor nay to this, but the old dame, telling me they kept better brandy at “The Star” than “The Sun,” assured me I should be welcome.
I breathed more freely once out of that hamlet of ill-repute, and set off at a good pace towards Pole Moor, lamenting the failure of my attempt to get sight once more of Miriam, and wondering greatly what could have got her.
And lo! a mile and more from Burnplatts I spied her walking slowly homewards. Her step was listless, her whole being drooped. As I drew near I saw her features plainly by the moon’s cold light, and if I erred not a tear glistened on the long black lashes that curtained her glorious eyes. So rapt was she in thought that she was unconscious of my approach, and when I stood right in her path she started with a little cry, and her hand went to her bosom.
“Miriam!” I cried, and stretched out both my hands.
“Why, ’tis Abel Holmes” she said, and a blush mantled on her cheek If I’m any reader of what the poet calls the light that lies in woman’s eyes the maid was glad see me, and yet alarm mingled with her joy. She glanced apprehensively around the moor.
“Nay, we have it to ourselves,” I laughed, reading her thoughts “But you’re in trouble, Miriam I’m sure of it. Why your cheek is wet. Has anyone ill-used you? And I clenched my fist. I felt just then as if I could face an army of Burnplatters, and would welcome the chance of braying the lot to a jelly.
“Nay, ’tis nought, Abel, only thoughts, idle thoughts. They come over me at times when I’m all by my lone, and they make me sad. But perhaps I oughtn’t to call you Abel. But I heard your brave friend call you Abel.”