“Of course I know. It’s for the poor old man’s daughter if you can find her, which I doubt you’ll never do. And if you don’t light on her—and I’m sure it’ll be like looking for a needle in a hay-stack—light on her in so long—let’s see, three years, wasn’t it?—the money’s to be your own. Well, it’s as good as yours, for find her you never will, if there ever was such a person—sick folk, especially when they’ve clammed themselves to death, as th’ old hermit did, by all accounts, get queer notions into their heads.”
“But she is found,” I said quickly.
Ruth’s face fell, and she stared at me in consternation.
“I never did!” she managed to get out at last. “Well, well, it’s an old saying, and a true one, that you shouldn’t count your chickens afore they’re hatched. I’d wrong neither man nor maid if I knew it, and well I know the Book says ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s goods,’ but you can’t fairly call someone yo’n never clapped your eyes on your neighbour, it stands to reason you can’t, and I’ll own up honest I could many a time have awmost found it in my heart to pray that you’d fall heir to that brass. A God-send it would have been to Pole Moor, I know. But there, what is to be will be, and that’s good Pole Moor doctrine, anyhow. But who is she, Abe, and however did you hap on her, and does my father know, and have you told Jim? My word, if Jim knows and has kept it to himself, and me wearing to skin and bone for anxiety over it, I’ll let him know about it.” And Ruth clenched her little fist and looked daggers at an imaginary Jim.
Now it wasn’t often I had a chance of crowing it over my clever and self-willed little sister. I’m not quick, and nimble-witted, and glib of tongue as she ever was. So I was minded to relish my triumph for a while.
“Aw should think such a clever wench as yo’, Ruth, could guess at twice,” I said. “Besides, I feel a bit sleepy now. Aw think forty winks ’ud do me good. So yo’d best go help Jim fodder th’ cattle.”
“No, you don’t, Abe Holmes. Not another wink o’ sleep shalt tha have till yo’n towd me who she is. Some stuck-up, high-and-mighty miss I’ll be bound. Them rich relations o’ th’ owd hermit, over in Manchester, ’ll have been before us; and now th’ brass ’ll go where it’s noan needed, an’ you’ll have had your trouble for nowt. It’s th’ way o’ th’ world.”
“Well, I’ve seen the lady,” I remarked, in a indifferent a tone as I could assume, “and she didn’t strike me as being over and above stuck-up. Just about th’ ordinary like for that.”
“Then she is a lady!” cried Ruth, triumphantly. “If I didn’t say so! Well, it’s good-bye to th’ fortune, Abe. Tha’s had th’ fingering o’ it, an’ tha knows th’ touch and feel on it, and much good may th’ thoughts on it do thee when somebody else has th’ waring on it. Heigho!” and Ruth ended somewhat lamely with a deep-drawn sigh.
“Well, I’m not so sure about not having th’ waring of it,” I said in a meditative tone. “You see, the lady’s young and not married. I’ve a notion she’s not quite fancy-free. But that’s nowt. She might be got to change her mind. Women have been known to do such things, or else they’re sadly lied on. I’ve thought it wouldn’t be a bad plan to try my luck with her. What dost think, Ruth?”