She did not rise from her knees. I stooped and kissed her upturned face, and stole softly out of the cottage.
When I cleared Burnplatts it must have been, as I should judge, some four o’clock of the morning. The moon no longer sailed in a clear sky: that was overcast by sombre clouds, big with snow that was yet to fall, and but fitful gleams pierced the gloom. I was in two minds whether to turn my steps towards my father’s house at Pole or take the longer road to Wrigley Mill. I was dead beat, and would have been fain to stretch my weary limbs in rest. And my mind was in tune with my body. I wanted time to think over all old Mother Sykes had said. I felt I should have a long story to tell my father, and one, perchance, he would not be overjoyed to hear; and I felt in no mood for the telling of long stories. So with a weary shrug of my shoulders I turned my face towards Stanedge and floundered through the deep snow that, a foot deep and more, covered the rough cart-tracks and shortcuts. I suppose that after a while of steady pounding I must have fallen, as I walked, into a sort of semi-sleep, my legs moving mechanically whilst my mind was wrapped in a dull and senseless stupor. Anyway I had made to this side—I mean the Yorkshire side—of Stanedge Cutting, when, with a start, I realised that I was no longer alone. Ephraim Sykes barred my way and as my senses cleared I became aware Ephraim was in a very ugly mood. He had clearly been drinking, and deeply. His breath on the cold air was like steam, and it was heavy laden with the fumes of brandy.
“I’d have a word or two wi’ you, Abel Holmes.” he said in a thick voice. “There’s a score to settle between you an’ me, afore yo’ go ony further”
“Why, it’s a queer time and place for talking, Eph.,” I remember saying, “I’m just tired to death and want nothing so much as a good sleep. We’d both be best i’ bed, don’t you think, and you’ve a tidy step before you on to Burnplatts.”
“Damn Burnplatts,” he cried fiercely. “Burnplatts has noan bin Burnplatts for me sin’ first yo’ showed your cantin’ mug theer. An’ that’s what I’m getten to talk about. What had th’ owd hell-cat to say to thee so private ’at aw mun be turned aat i’ to th’ cowd at after midneet? What devil’s plot are yo’ three hatchin’ among you? An’ what’s Miriam to thee, Abel Holmes, aw’m speerin’—aye, that’s th’ point o’ it all. What’s Miriam to thee, I want to know?”
“Well, it’s soon told, Eph., Miriam’s tokened to me this many a happy month past. That’s what Miriam is to me, lad, and I hope you’ll wish me joy, Eph.”
“Wish you joy! Aw wish you an’ your smooth tongue were i’ hell fire an’ me th’ stoker. So that’s what all this comin’ an’ goin’, an’ your sister hanging about Burnplatts, an’ Miriam goin’ about wi’ a song on her lips an’ a light in her e’en as if oo’d had a glimpse o’ heaven—that’s what it means, is it? An’ do yo’ think aw’m th’ man to stand by an’ see another steal his lass fro’ him wi’out word said or blow struck? Miriam’s mine, aw tell thee. Afore ever yo’ clapt een on her, afore oo could toddle, when oo were a wee wench ’at aw hugged i’ these arms across th’ moor, Miriam were mine. She’s none they meat, Abel Holmes; she’s for a better man nor thee tho’ tha art a parson’s son, an’ can talk her fine,’an’ read out o’ books to her an’ turn her yead wi’ po’try an’ that mak’ o’ nonsense. She’ll never stand afore th’parson wi’ thee, Abe Holmes, nor wi’ ony other man but me. Aw’ll noan be robbed o’ th’ light o’ my life by thee nor th’ best man livin’, choose who he is. But theer, aw said to missen I’d noan be rough wi thee. Tha did me a gooid turn i’ that court do wi’ th’ Bradburys, an’ afore that when tha fun me lame on th’ moor, not so far fro’ wheer we stan’ to meet, yo’ an’ me alone on th’ moor, wi’ nowt to stan’ atween us. I’ve noan forgotten. So aw’ll noan be rough wi’ thee; tha’st ha’ thi’ chance, for owd times’ sake. Tha’s got to give her up, Abe. See th’ first streak o’ grey’s stealin’ fro’ th’ east, tha can see me hand now. Put thine into mine, Abe, an’ promise me, man to man, tha’ll’t gi’ her up.”
“You know very well, Eph., I shall do no such thing. It’s th’ drink that’s talking, not thee, Eph. Get yo’ home to bed, and stand out o’ my gait, for I’d fain be there mysen.”
“Yo’r bed ’ll be a shroud o’ snow, then. Off wi’ yo’r coit, yo’ white-livered cur, if yo’n a ounce o’ blood i’ yo’r body. Off wi’ th’ coit, an’ stan’ to me, man to man.” And Ephraim in a mad frenzy tore off his coat and cast it to the ground, and stood before me, his blood-shot eyes glaring wildly, his mouth foaming, and his face convulsed with passion. I made no move to doff my coat, but as Ephraim came at me with a wild cry and big clenched fists that strove to reach my throat, I beat him off as best I could, tho’ such was the frenzy that nerved his arm that I felt with a sick foreboding that I was at the mercy of my foe. I gave back from him, shielding my face as best I could, but he pressed me close, and his breath was hot and foul upon me and his left hand had closed upon my throat, when my eye caught the gleam as of a lanthorn and I heard from somewhere not far across the moor at the back of me, a loud, hoarse cry:
“Hold theer Ephraim, hold, aw tell thee.”