“Oh! don’t mind me,” I said inwardly. “I’ll get on wi’ mi deein’, thee get on wi’ thi courtin’.”
“Well, it was this way,” began Ruth, after Jim had hutched his burly form about an inch towards the other end of the settle, though he still clung to Ruth’s hand in a perfectly idiotic manner. Whatever sort of pleasure could he find in the touch of Ruth’s soft fingers? If they’d been Miriam’s now!
“It was this way. I’d overslept myself that morning, good New Year’s Day though it was. You see we’d had the watch-night service in the chapel, and I can’t stand these late hours. If I miss my sleep I feel stupid for a week at after. It would, maybe, be seven o’clock, and darkish still, when I was wakened by Tear’em, Abe’s old terrier you know, kicking up the most awful racket you ever heard, and there was somebody pounding at the kitchen door I thought sure it was one of th’ congregation taken badly and wanting my father. They nearly always contrive to come on that errand when we’re warm and snug in bed. Nobody ever seems to be taken worse at a reasonable hour. I’m sure I don’t know why, but it is so, and I’ve heard Dr. Dean say th’ same thing. ‘Well, let ’em knock,’ I thought, ‘father’s not rested yet after th’ watch-night service, an’ I’ll not let him out of this house for th’ King of England till he’s had his porridge. He’s getting too old for tramping th’ moors i’ midwinter on an empty stomach.’ But th’ pounding went on, and Tear ’em got worse and worse. So I slipped out o’ bed an’ drew my blind up, to let ’em know I was waken. Then I dressed myself, and went down to unbar th’ door. When I got it open I saw two men making off down th’ road as fast as their legs could carry them; th’ snow was falling thick and fast, and they’d their backs to me and their heads bent, so who they were I’ve no more notion than our cat. Not to swear to, I mean, but if one of them wasn’t Daft Billy my name’s not Ruth Holmes, and that I’ll stick to, to my dying day, though father says I’ve no right to jump to conclusions. ‘Well, that’s a nice trick to play on a parson,’ I was saying to myself, ‘that’ll be some Slowit Church Choir that have been letting New Year in, an’ done this for spite,’ when I heard a groan that made me jump nearly out of my frock. And there was poor Abe, propped up against the house side all covered with white, like a snowman. His head was sunk on his breast, and his coat, was tied round his neck. Somebody had tied a dirty red handkerchief round his arm to stop the bleeding, and Dr. Dean said whoever’d done it knew a thing or two, and that makes me all the surer Daft Billy had his finger in th’ pie, for you know how clever he is with a cow. Now, do sit further off, Jim, or I won’t say another word.”
“Aw don’t think th’ settle legs at this side are o’er strong,” muttered Jim, “an aw think aw mun ha’ getten a cowd i’ mi yead, for aw dunnot ye’r (hear) so weel at a distance, an’ yo’ munnot speik up or, maybe, yo’ll wakken Abe, an’ aw’m certain sure that’d noan be good for his health. Same as fo’k as walk i’ their sleep, yo’ know: they do say if yo’ wakken ’em sudden they go off their yeads, an’ stop so all their lives ’at after. Tha’d nivver forgive thissen, Ruth, if yo’ had to shout through me bein’ a bit deafish an’ sittin’ three yard off. But ger on wi’ thi tale.”
“Well, when I saw Abe, I cried ‘Murder!’ with all my might, and as good luck would have it old Deacon Hoyle was just coming up th’ fowd to see if we’d any skim milk to spare for his pig, an’ between us we lifted him up off th’ ground and carried him into th’ house and laid him on this very settle, him moaning all th’ time fit to break your heart, and his face as white as th’ snow itself, and you know what a colour he has when he’s himself. My father came downstairs half dressed and all of a tremble, and then we saw that the bandage round Abe’s arm was soaked with blood. We hadn’t a drop o’ brandy in the house, you know how set my father is against anything stronger than home-brewed, but all of a sudden I bethought me there was half a bottle of port wine left over from th’ last love-feast. I poured half a mugful down Abe’s throat, and he just gasped and opened his eyes, then groaned worse than ever, and seemed just to swoon away.
“‘Enoch Hoyle,’ I cried, ‘if ever you made haste in your life, which I doubt, stir those long legs of yours now, and pack yourself down to Slowit to Dr. Dean’s. Yo’ll catch him before he starts his rounds, and tell him our Abe’s bleeding himself to death.’ Well, that’s all, I think. We got him to bed after th’ doctor had come and seen to his arm. He says—th’ doctor I mean—that Abe’s been stabbed, and there’s foul play somew’ere.”
“And who do you think did it, Ruth?”
“Aye, who? Father thinks it may be one of those Bradburys over at Bill’s o’ Jack’s. But I’ve reasons of my own for thinking different.”
“And aw’ll be bun’ you’re reet, Ruth,” asseverated Jim, with great conviction. “I’d back thee agen yo’r own feyther, an’ that’s a big word to say, an’ him such a clever owd felly.”
“You mustn’t say ‘reet,’ Jim—how often have I to tell you,” said Ruth, severely. “You must say ‘right.’ I do wish you’d take more pains with your speech, if we’re ever to be more than just good friends, and that we’ll always be, won’t we?”