“He’s dead, and he’s committed that box to my keeping.” And then I told my tale.
“Now, what’s to be done, father? Four hundred pound and more’s a sight of money. You’ll have to look after that. I can’t keep it at Wrigley Mill, that’s certain sure. Mary would go off her head if she knew it was in the house, and I’d be dreaming of burglars and cutthroats till my nights were a burden to me.”
“This is a heavy matter Abel, my son—one to be pondered over nor determined lightly, to be taken to the Lord in Prayer. But one thing is borne in upon me, a thought that comes to me from the Book of Books, that well of wisdom—you must not do after the manner of that wicked and slothful servant to whom his lord said, ‘Thou oughtest to have put my money to the exchangers and then at my coming I should have received my own with usury.’ This lucre must to the bank that it increase and fructify till such time as the woman and her child be found.”
“That’s plain as a pikestaff,” I agreed. “But what can I do to find them? It seems to me Mr. Garside did all a man could do at the time, and after all those years...”
“I’ll think upon it, Abel, and a way may be opened unto us”—and that was all I could get out of him that night. It seemed to me that the good man had resolved upon a policy of what I have heard called “masterly inactivity”; and I’d great trust in my father’s judgment. And perhaps at the back of my head lurked insidious the thought, why should I be in such a hurry to be shut of four hundred pounds? I tried to banish this unworthy prompting of the devil, but there I confess it was, and I’ll not set up to be better than my neighbours.
It was a glorious night—the moor was just bathed in a moonlight you could almost see to read by. Ruth and Jim had disappeared into the mistal, some hay wanted cutting, and chop grinding, so Jim had said. I put my head through the shippon door as I passed and there were Jim and Ruth sat on a heap of pulled hay, the cow was bedded down for the night and placidly chewing her cud—but Ruth and Jim seemed to have found a deal to say to each other, and I was in no ways minded to disturb them and take Jim away, for the simple reason that I was bent on an errand on which it is proverbial that two are company and three are none. I set my face towards Ainley Place and Burnplatts, pretending to myself that ’twas but Christian charity to enquire as to the progress of Ephraim o’ Burnplatt’s game foot, but knowing full well in my heart of hearts, which beat tumultuous at the bare thought, that my eyes ached for another sight of the maiden Miriam; but how to compass my design I must perforce leave to the chapter of accidents.
Some hundred yards or so above the cluster of a score or more of the straw-thatched cots or hovels of mud and rubble that constituted the notorious hamlet, I came across a surly looking customer, clad in fustian and wearing a moleskin cap, seated on a low wall with a cur as unprepossessing as himself perched by his side. The beast bristled and shewed his teeth viciously, but the man quieted it with a word.
“Yo’re out late, mester, an’ summat out o’ yo’r latitude, aw’m thinkin’. Strangers are noan so welcome at Burnplatts this time o’ neet. But happen yo’re a buyer? Dun yo’ want a hoss or a moke belike? Aw can deal wi yo’ for th’ finest, clivverest donkey as ivver went a buntin’—an’ cheap, too.”
I said I was in no present need of either horse or donkey.
“It’s been warm to-day,” he volunteered.