“Let’s hope not,” I said, affecting a cheerfulness I was far from feeling. “But, father or no father, I’m going to get Miriam away from those Burnplatts riff-raff if it’s to be done by hook or crook. A man’s not a pig if he chances to have been born in a stye, and Miriam’s a good girl, Burnplatter or no Burnplatter. And I want you to help me, Ruth. I’m hard hit, sis, and that’s the truth o’ ’t.”
Now, I suppose there never was maiden yet born into this world who has not revelled in a love story. You’ve only to look at the dear creatures as they crowd round a church door at a wedding to make sure of that. The sight of a white veil and orange blossoms sets their sweet hearts all of a quiver. They’re so in love with love that if they haven’t a romance of their own they’re quick to enter into another’s, and if the course of true love doesn’t run smooth it’s not for want of willing help to straighten the way. And I dare say my astute sister may have reflected that one good turn deserves another, and that she herself might have need of a brother’s backing in the days to come. Anyhow, though with many a discouraging shake of her clever little head, she promised me to do what she could to win to speech with Miriam and help me to my heart’s desire. Though what she could do she avowed she failed to see.
“She’s a strange girl, that Miriam of yours,” she averred. “I’ve seen her scores of times these years back. Why, she can’t be as old as I am for I remember her, a little, black-eyed, wild-looking, elfish thing, going about the moors with that half-witted Daddy folk said was such a scholar. I’ve come across her bilberrying, or sat upon a boulder making up bunches of wild flowers, and singing softly some strange heathenish song—she’s a sweet voice enough, I’ll allow. But she’s either feart or proud. I’d have made up to her many’s the time for my heart ached for the girl brought up among those good-for-nought Burnplatters, but no! she was off, like an unbroken colt, before I could say ten words. And more by token I’m a bit feared myself o’ that old witch she goes about with. Folk say she’s got the evil eye, and the girls always cross their fingers when she goes by.”
“I’m surprised at you, Ruth. Where’s your Christianity?”
“That’s all very well, Abel. But facts are facts, and there’s none so much smoke but what there’s a fire somewhere. She’s an evil name in the countryside, and I could wish your sweetheart—if it has to be, though let’s hope you’ll cure of it—had anyone but her for a granny. Then there’s that Ephraim—not but what he might have been all right if he’d been reared different. I remember him as nice a lad as ever strode—but those Burnplatters would spoil a saint.”
“But about. Miriam?” I interrupted, for I was not greatly concerned to hear my sister at large upon the possibilities of Ephraim’s nature.
“When are you to see her again?”
“To-night, please God.”
“I’d leave God out of the question in this job, Abel. Let’s hope it isn’t all a peck of the other one’s brewing.”
“Pshaw!” was all I’d patience to utter.