“But the child’s father?” I could not help suggesting.
“She had a father, and a lawful father. That’s enough for you, Abel Holmes. Old Mother Sykes was not a Burnplatter born and bred. I’d as fair a beginning as e’er a man need wish. Oh, I can talk fine, like you, when I want, so you needn’t stare as if you’d seen a boggard. Some day, if I live long enough, and if you prove your right to know, I’ll tell you my story. But it boots not to-night. Tell me only one thing, and I think I can die happy. You say that Esmeralda was James Garside’s wedded wife. Can’st prove it?”
“Aye, that I can. My father says—”
“Aye, thi feyther ’ll know,” nodded the sick woman, lapsing again into our common speech.
“My father says these Gretna Green marriages were binding enough, and I’ve the blacksmith’s own certificate safe at home yonder. I’ll bring it to you next time I come. James Garside and Esmeralda—Esmeralda Atkinson, aye, that was the name—were tied as fast as the law of Scotland could tie them.”
“And that villain of a man that went to her from Manchester swore that the wedding was all a sham. Told her her lover had sent him to her to get shut of her. Offered her money, bid her name her own price, only go, go, go, anywhere, so long as she crossed James Garside’s path no more. Said that if she loved, and loved truly, she would best show her love by vanishing from her so-called husband’s life for ever. To cling to him were to ruin him. And she, poor child, believed him. She flung his money in his face, and bid him return to the false coward who had sent him, and say that never more should he look upon her face again. She stripped off the fine clothing and the jewel’s his money had bought, and left them all behind her. That ring was one of them,”
“You knew the ring then, mother?”
“Knew it! In course I knew it. Esmeralda showed it to me before ever she quitted Manchester. Showed me the letters traced on the inner side of it. I’d seen her often after she grew up, unbeknown to old Mrs. Garside, and I’d made myself known to her. At first she was fleyed of me; but blood’s thicker than water. She told me, too, the young master was courting her, but his mother would never consent. There was some talk of another woman they’d planned for him. I disremember exactly, but it’ll come back to me, maybe to-morrow. Give me another sup of summat, Miriam—my head’s that wammy, un’ it’s desperate cold. I think I could sleep now I’ve said my say; and oh! Abel Holmes, yo’n lifted a load off my old heart to-night. Yon tutor’s a deal to answer for, aye an’ her, too, ’at set him on to do her dirty work for her. The black lie of him killed my bairn and soured my whole life for me. I’d have been a better woman but for that. I think I should like to see your feyther, Abel, afore aw dee. Happen yo’ll bring him to me. It’s mony a weary year sin’ these owd lips said a prayer an’ these owd ears han hearkened to more curses nor blessin’s. But aw’n tried to shelter Miriam, hannot aw, lass? It’s noan so easy to fetch up a young an’ pratty wench among th’ Burnplatters i’ th’ way she should go. But aw’n done mi best, aw’ done mi best.”
Miriam now was on her knees by the bedside, and she had the old dame’s hand pressed to her own sweet breast, and the tears fell upon it from her streaming eyes.
“Don’t talk like that, granny. You’ve been all the world to me, dear heart, till—till Abel came. I always knew you loved me, granny, and I’ve loved you always. Only get well, granny, be quick and get well, and we’ll think nothing good enough for you. Aye, close your dear eyes, granny, sleep now. Go home, now, Abel, she’s talked too much. Come again tomorrow night if you can.”