In vain Ruth declared she wouldn’t touch a penny of it, in vain she scolded my father for pinching himself unbeknown to her to provide for a strong, lusty, young woman, able to look after herself and him, too—my father was adamant; and Enoch Hoyle put an end to the fruitless discussion by rising from table, carefully dusting the crumbs from his coat and breeches, and moving towards the study:
“While yo’n bin fratchin’,” he said, “or as yo’ may say, argey-bargeying, aw’n bin thinkin’, an’ though Enoch Hoyle’s noan a scholard an’ farlearned, he’s noan ’bout wit wheer cloth comes in. Aw’n heerd a whiff abaat this Mitchell Mill job, though aw’ll grant yo’n bin unco’ canny abaat it an’ kep’ mum an’ close, which happen it’s as weel.”
Mary would have gone into the kitchen to help in the siding-up; but my father insisted that she too should be of our counsel.
“Now, Brother Hoyle,” hinted my father, when the churchwardens were lit.
“Axin’ yo’r pardon, Mr. Holmes,” said Enoch, “this is a company day, an’ we’ll ha’ company manners. Aw’m noan th’ buck aw used to be afore aw were soundly converted an’ dipped, but aw’n noan forgetten behaviour. Aw’ll mak’ way for Mistress Haigh here, by yo’r leave, though aw mun say that i’ things spiritooal—which this isn’t—aw howd firmly wi’ Saint Paul—see Corinthians one, fourteen, thirty-four an’ five, if aw remember reetly—when he says, under th’ inspiration o’ th’ Holy Ghost, bein’ as it were th’ amanooensis o’ th’ Spirit: ‘Let your women keep silence in the churches; for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law. And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home; for it is a shame for women to speak in the church.”
“Yo’ bottle ’em up i’ th’ church,” whispered that irrepressible Jim, “an’ th’ stuff comes aat wi’ a bang an’ splathers all ovver th’ floor when yo’ poo’ th’ cork aat at whom.” Then aloud, encouragingly, “Tell ’em what yo’n thowt on an’ towd me afore we come.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, and kind sirs all,” began Mary, and I knew from this mode of address that Mary had foreseen this occasion and that we were to hear what I have seen called in the newspapers a considered opinion. “Well, sirs, if a poor widder woman’s opnion’s o’ onny, valley, which aw’m not gainsayin’ it may be, aw’m thinkin’ they met do waur. There’s one thing sartin sure, ’at they’ll n’er do mich guid as they are. Matthy Haley’s getten th’ only shop worth owt mich at Wrigley Mill, an’ aw reckon Matthy’s a sticker, which nob’dy can blame him for that. There’s yar Jim theer tentin’ th’ engine and tunin’ th’ looms, an’ noan so bad for a lad ’at could awmost go to th’ hedge an’ see his nippins, axin’ yo’r pardon, aw’m sewer, for mentionin’ sich things, but it’s a way o’ speakin’ an’ will aat. An’ there’s yo’r Abe. Weel, a weiver’s a weiver all th’ world ovver, an’ weivin’ nobbut poverty-knockin’ when all’s said an’ done. Nah! aw’m noan so owd yet, but aw’n known dozens on dozens i’ this Valley an’ o’er th’ top (over Stanedge) ’at’s started for theirssen on a varry little brass, an’ wheer are they nah? Why tak’ Mr. Wrigley hissen, then there’s th’ Buckleys, an’ th’ Malalieus, an’ owd Farrar down i’ th’ bottom—oh! ivver so monny on ’em. An’ it’s gen’ly bin wi’ brass ’at’s come to ’em through th’ women. Other they’n wed it or some owd maid i’ th’ family ’at’s welly clammed hersen to death’s left it ’em. Aw know they like to ma’ it aat when they’n getten on i’ th’ world ’at it’s all their own clivverness, an’ prudence, an’ self—what do yo’ ca’ it?”
“Self-denial,” suggested my father.
“That’s it, an thank yo’, sir, but aw’m no scholar missen, self-denial, but yo’ mun tell that to th’ Horse Marines, as they seyn, though who th’ Horse Marines may be aw’n no more notion nor a babe unborn. There were nivver a weiver i’ this world ’at could keep hissen, an’ bring up a wife an’ childer, an’ save owt to speik on afore he were long too owd to think o’ startin’ for hissen; all th’ best o’ his days an’ strength gone i’ keepin’ body an’ soul together an’ pilin’ up a fortin’ for other fo’k. But a’ that’s nother here nor theer. In th’ blessed dispensation of providence an’ Mr. Garside, which aw’d nivver ha’ thowt it to look at him, an’ not forgettin’ yo’r gooid lady, Mr. Holmes, rest her soul, here th’ brass is to us hands, an’ th’ question is, what mun they do with it?”
“Th’art gettin’ to it, mother,” put in Jim. “Tha’s gone a long road round, but it’s happen for th’ gainest.”