“Han yo’ clapt e’en o’ Ephraim o’ Burnplatts up this way lately?”
“Why, Mary,” I said, for no one else seemed able to find a word, “I didn’t know you and Ephraim were acquaint.”
“No more we are,” she made answer. “Aw dunnot suppose he knows me fro’ Adam, leastwise fro’ Eve. But aw know him, an’ aw’n seen him more nor once sin Abe here’s bin ligged o’ his back. He’s bin hangin’ about th’ Weighkey a goodish bit—him an’ Tom Bradbury fro’ Bill’s o Jack’s are just as thick as thieves bi all accaants. Yo’ see, Mr. Holmes, aw dunnot go abaat much missen, as yo’ll weel understan’, for what wi’ bakin’, an’ brewin’, an’ fettlin’, an’ pearkin’ th’ pieces, an’ mendin’ Jim’s clo’es, an’ your Abe’s, an’ mi own, aw’n mi hands full, an’ aw’n no time for callin’ an’ runnin’ abaat fro’ door to door sortin’ he-says an’ oo-says; but th’ hands at Wrigley Mill’s in an’ out o’ yar haase for one thing an’ another till it’s awmost like Lee Gap, an’ keep th’ door-step onny bit like one woman cannot do, an’ use th’ scraper an’ th’ door-mat they winnot do. But, of coorse, aw cannot shut mi ears to what’s goin’ on. An’ they do say ’at Ephraim’s fair thrown in wi’ them Bradburys, which who’d ha’ thowt it after that do at Huddersfilt ovver them hares. But they do say ’at when they aren’t at “The Bell” at Delph, or at “Th’ Cross Keys,” or at “Th’ Swan,” reelin’ fro’ one public-haase to another, Ephraim spends all his time at “Th’ Moorcock” at Bill’s o’ Jack’s. An’, what’s more, they sen ’at he’s larnin’ to be a gamekeeper, an’ is goin’ to be takken on bi th’ Bradburys an’ live wi’ ’em reg’lar—which set a thief to catch a thief’s bin done afore now”—and here Mary paused for breath, or, as Jim put it, “bet back a bit for another jump.”
My father shook his head gravely. “Like will to like,” he said. “There have ever been men, aye, since the world began, who, like Nimrod, the son of Cush, have been ‘mighty hunters before the Lord.’ Likewise have there been men like unto Ishmael, the son of Hagar, ‘wild men’ whose hands are against every man, and every man’s hands against them—rebels, as it were, against God and man, beings whom the yoke of society and civilisations chafes and galls, and their whole life is spent in feverish efforts to throw it off. It may well be that the blood of some far-off ancestor of the Eastern deserts stirs in the veins of this misguided young man. ’Twill be to him as a very gadfly, and if he have not—as how can he have?—the restraining influence of the Gospel, must he not ever follow the promptings of the flesh nor heed those of the spirit? I would fain see this youth, a comely lad as I remember him. May be he might yet be plucked as a brand from the burning. Was there not the godly John Bunyan, who wrote that ever blessed book, ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress,’ who yet in his hot, rebellious youth was a haunter of taverns, a thrower of dice, a blasphemer, aye, even guilty of denying the Holy Ghost. Yet did the Lord raise up in him a very prodigy of grace. Aye, aye, we’ll not abandon hope, even for such as Ephraim.”
“Aw’n often heard,” quoth Mary, who had listened to my father’s words with a deference she rarely accorded to the speech of mere man, “aw’n often heard, axin’ your pardon if aw’n puttin’ my spoke in, ’at a reformed rake ma’es th’ best o’ husbands; but aw dunnot know”—and here Mary shook her head doubtfully—“aw dunnot know, my ’Lijah were nowt o’ a rake hissen, other afore or ’at after we were wed, so aw cannot say for certain, but aw sud always be in fear an’ tremblin’ ’at if a man had once tasted th’ flesh-pots o’ Egypt he’d ha’ a hankerin’ after th’ smell an’ taste o’ ’em as long as he lived.”
“By gow, hearken to that,” whispered Jim in my ear, “if th’ owd woman isn’t quotin’ Scriptur’ to thi father. It’s like teichin’ your granny how to suck eggs.”
I saw my father was ready to mount his horse theologic, and I was by no means minded that our feast should become an occasion for a sermon. So I hastened to draw a herring across the trail:
“Father,” I broke in irrelevantly, “have you spoken to Enoch about our little venture at Mitchell Mill?”
“Now that’s well remembered, Abe,” my father was pleased to say. “Let us return thanks to the Giver of all good things for these His mercies, and Enoch and I will smoke a pipe in my study, and we’ll all take counsel together so soon as you women folk have cleared away. I should like to know what Mary has to say. But first I’ve my little surprise.” And my father, promising to be back anon, went slowly upstairs to his little bed-chamber, returning presently bearing in his hands what looked like an old cigar-box.
“This was your mother’s, Ruth,” he said very solemnly, “my dear saint in heaven’s. She used to keep her hus-wife, and her needles, and pins, and threads, and hooks, and eyes, and buttons, and beads, and button-hook, and I know not what else in it at one time. Then she took to storing little coins in it, wrapped singly in bits of paper, the rare savings from the egg and butter money. Then when your great aunt Rachel died without a will your mother fell to a small share of her money. Over sixty pounds it was, and your mother could never bear the thought of setting the money out to usury. She kept it in this same box, and since the Lord in His wisdom took her home I’ve added to it mite by mite as I could spare it. It was to be for Ruth here, her mother ever said, when she should wed. And if she’s to be a sort of partner in Mitchell Mill, why it will be a comfort to me to be rid of the money, and may God grant it increase.”