“There were nowt said about that felly. But th’ road’s free fro’ here to th’ Burnplatts. Aw doubt he’ll noan ha’ to see Mother Sykes.” And with that Billy turned his back on us, and set off in a sort of ambling trot in the direction of Burnplatts, Jim and I following at his heels, nor to all the questions that I bawled at Billy’s back could I get a word in answer.
I cudgelled my brain in vain surmises as to the reasons for this sudden summons, and I fear was but an unappreciative listener to the monologue by which Jim who had no gift for silence, sought to beguile the tedium of the tramp across the snow-shrouded moors.
“Dal it all, Abe,” he said, “that’s abaat th’ fiftieth time tha’s axed me what owd Mother Sykes can want wi’ thee. Tha’ll know sooin enough. It’ll be nowt to thi advantage or aw’st be capped. If aw’m ony judge th’ owd witch has no use for nob’dy except for what ’oo can mak’ aat on ’em. Aw dunnut know what sort o’ a mother your Miriam had, but her gran’mother’s a beauty, an’ don’t yo’ forget it. If Miriam’s mother were owt like Miriam hersen ’oo mun ha’ bred back a gooidish bit. It’s weel known a rose ’ll grow on a muck midden, but aw’n ne’er known a rose grow aat o’ a thistle seed, an’ there’s a seet more thistle nor rose abaat owd Mother Sykes.”
“But what in the name of goodness does she want with me at dead of night”
“Theer tha goes again. ’Oo’s ill, didn’t Daft Billy say. Happen ’oo’s bahn to mak’ her will an’ appoint thee her, what do yo’ ca’ it?—exekittor. Aw suddn’t be capped if ’oo’d getten a stockin’ laid by snug an’ safe somewheer. Yo’ nivver can tell bi th’ way fo’k live how they’ll cut up when they dee. Yo’ needn’t go further nor owd Mr. Garside, ’at you’re sort o’ heir to, to prove that. An’ wimmen’s nat’rally of a more savin’ an’ scrattin’ natur’ nor men. When they tak’ that way they can live a week on th’ backbone of a herrin’, an’ if they live long enough it’s surprisin’ how it mounts up. An’ yo’ needn’t ha’ so mich to start on, nother. Aw were at th’ Market Cross i’ Huddersfelt one Tuesday, an’ there were one o’ those teetotal chaps ’at’s just come up a lecturin’. Varry smart at figures he were, to be sewer. He axed ony man i’ th’ crowd to tell him what he spent i’ ale ivery week. Nob’dy seemed anxious to tell him, so just to encourage th’ chap aw said, ‘Two bob, maybe.’ Weel, he had it worked aat in his yead i’ double quicksticks ’at that were more nor five pund a year, an’ he axed me ha’ owd aw were. ‘Four and twenty,’ says I. ‘Put that i’ th’ bank at some mak’ o’ interest’—it were a queerish name, like what th’ doctors say when you’ve brokken yo’r arm i’ two spots”
“Compound interest,” I suggested.
“Tha’s getten it. ‘Put it i’ th’ bank at compound interest, an’ bi’ th’ time yo’r forty yo’ll ha’—aw dunnot gradely remember how mich it were, but he med it aat ivery man i’ th’ country could ha’ a house to live in an’ another to let, an’ if a felly nobbut lived till he were eighty he could buy Buckingham Palace, for owt aw know.”
“Was that how you came to start your stocking?” I asked.
“Weel, in a manner o’ speakin’ yo’ may say it were. That an’ summat else—but that’s up another street. But it’s weary work savin’ brass. Aw’n counted my bit till mi wit’s nearly addled, an’ aw cannot see ’at it gets onny bigger except when aw put summat to it missen. It’s that compound interest lays ovver me; an’ what’s th’ use o’ tellin’ them mak’ o’ fairy tales, when yo’ know varry weel it can’t be done. But here we are at th’ top o’ th’ Ainley Place, an’ a rare poo’ it’s bin up th’ broo, wi’ the’ snow ballin’ i’ yo’r clogs ivery five yard. Yo’ll excuse me, Abe, aw’m noan so set o’ these Burnplatters. Yo’ll find yo’r way whom wi’out me, so aw’st leave yo’ here, an’ if th’ owd hag has owt to fling away, an’s lookin’ for a desarvin’ objec’, just yo’ put a word in for yours truly.” And Jim clapped me heartily on the back, and turned back the way we had come.
Daft Billy led me to the door of Mother Sykes’s cottage. My heart thumped in my breast, not, be sure, because I knew that lowly abode held the old dame, but because there dwelt my Miriam. I knocked the snow off my clogs against the lintel of the door, and, obedient to a motion of my taciturn guide, pulled the string that lifted the sneck, and entered. The low room was dimly lighted by a farthing dip, and the glow from a peat fire. Miriam was seated by the fire on a rude rush-bottomed chair. She rose as I paused just within the chamber, and placed her finger on her lips, glancing towards a pallet on which, as my eyes became accustomed to the dim light, I saw lay the eerie being whose summons had brought me to that uncanny spot at that ghostly hour.