“And what would you do with a fine lady, Abe? I fancy I see you nimby-pimbying up to one, and I fancy I see how she’d look when you did it. Of course you’ll go in your clogs and your smock; and be sure yo’ don’t forget that warkday cap o’ yours, more grease nor cloth. But you’re only talking for talking’s sake. Besides, there’s Miriam!”
“Oh, Miriam!” I said slightingly.
“Yes, Miriam,” cried Ruth, flaring up sudden gunpowder. “Miriam, poor lass, and her at this very minute, when you sit theer an’ talk so cool o’ chucking her over for that stinking brass, needing all th’ love and comfort she can get. I cry shame on you, Abel Holmes. I’d never have thought it on you. I never thought o’er much o’ your head-piece, Abe; but true and honest I could have sworn you were, aye, true to death. If anybody ’d told me my brother would have played such a trick on his plighted love, aye, for all th’ mines o’ Golconda, I’d have—I’d have—scratched their eyes out, aye, that I would,” and Ruth’s voice broke in a sob, and I saw the silly farce had been played o’er long.
“Why, Ruth, dear sis., it is Miriam.”
“What’s Miriam?” she almost sobbed.
“It’s Miriam that’s Mr. Garside’s daughter; Miriam that owns that little fortune.”
Ruth stared at me as though wondering whether I had taken leave of my senses again. Then she called out, “You wicked, wicked wretch,” and fetched me a smart smack across my powl with her open hand, and then must needs put her arm about my neck and cling to me, half laughing and half crying, and saying over and over again, “Oh, Abe, I’m so glad, so glad for Miriam’s sake.” And then, shrewd, practical, managing little woman that she was:
“And what’s to be done now?”
“I’ve thought of that, too. I’ve done a lot of thinking lately. There’s nowt else to do in bed when you’re not sleeping. If I were a ’torney, and had a knotty case to worry me, I’d just go to bed and think ovver it. There’s more wisdom between th’ blankets nor was ever fun at an office desk. And th’ first thing, Ruth, if you want both to pleasure me, and do what’s a right and a Christian thing into th’ bargain, just you don yourself right off and get you down to th’ Burnplatts. You’re Miriam’s sister-in-law that is to be, and that makes you a sort of relation. Anyhow, she’s in sore trouble, and she has a right to turn to us. I’d have been there long sin’ but for this confounded arm, and arm or no arm I’st go if you don’t.”
“Go, of course, I’ll go; and not because of that money either, nor yet to pleasure you. I’ll go because Miriam needs me, if ever poor lass needed a friend to stay by her side. I’ll stop at th’ Burnplatts till all’s over. Surely those outlandish Burnplatters will behave themselves like decent folk till th’ funeral’s over, though they do say an Irish Wakes isn’t in it for whisky where a Burnplatts’ funeral comes. I do hope that wild runagate Ephraim will give th’ spot a wide berth while I’m there. But what at after? There’s the rub, as that mad Hamlet said.”