“Whativer does he want in t’ Holy Land, then?”
“He’s wi’ a Bishop.”
“Ay? Then he’s pious?”
“For sure; he’s a Methodist.”
“That’s not bad. Squire Gregory was a Methodist. He saved more ‘an a bit o’ money, and he bought all o’ t’ low meadows, and built main part o’ t’ stables, and laid out best half o’ t’ gardens. There nivver was a better or thriftier holder o’ Hallam. Ay, ay, there’s a kind o’ fellowship between Methodism and money. This Mr. Fontaine will do uncommon well for Hallam, squire, I should think.”
“If I got Antony to come to thee, Whaley, could ta do owt wi’ him, thinks ta?”
“I wouldn’t try it, squire. It would be breath thrown away. Soon or later thy son Antony will take his own way, no matter where it leads him. Thou hes t’ reins i’ thy hand now, tak’ my advice, and settle this thing while thou hes. It’s a deep wound, but it’s a clean wound yet; cut off t’ limb afore it begins to fester and poison t’ whole body. And don’t thee quarrel wi’ him. He’s a man now, and there hes to be a’ mak’s o’ men to do t’ world’s work. Let Antony be; he’ll mebbe be a credit to thee yet.”
“I don’t believe, Whaley, thou understands what a sorrow this is to me.”
“Don’t I? I’ve got a heart yet, Hallam, though thou’d happen think I’ve varry little use for it at eighty-nine years old; but I’ll tell thee what, instead o’ looking at t’ troubles thou hes, just tak’ a look at them thou hesn’t. I nivver gave thee a bit o’ advice better worth seven-and-sixpence than that is.”
“What does ta mean?”