“It was my mother’s,” said Tom.
“And she?”
“She died the night I was born.”
“But her name? Who was she? For heaven’s sake, Tom, tell me all you know. You cannot divine how much hangs on your words. They mean perhaps as much to me as you.”
Then Tom told him the tale of the night on which this story opened.
“And Fairbanks, the landlady, the midwife? They can tell me more, they can speak to this. Does this Moll o’ Stute’s still live?”
“Oh, yes, Moll’s safe enough. Did you know my mother, Mr. Tinker?”
“Know her! Oh! my God, know her! But ask me no more now, Tom. Not a moment must be lost. Brook will lend me a horse. Mine went with the Flood. I’ll see you to-morrow. Now have your arrowroot and sleep and get strong and well. Whether my hopes are well founded or not, you’re my son from this day, Tom, for you saved my life, lad, and you saved Dorothy’s. And I’m proud of you, lad, I’m proud of you—Tom Pinder, foundling, and there isn’t a man in the valley that wouldn’t like to call you son, nor a girl you couldn’t win. Hannah and Dorothy’ll look after you till tomorrow, then.”
It was the afternoon of the next day before Jabez Tinker returned from his quest. In the interval between his departure and return, Hannah had yielded to Tom’s importunity, and sent for Ben.
“Eh! Lad,” was Ben’s greeting, as he wrung the invalid’s hand with a grip that made Tom wince, “aw could awmost find it i’ mi heart to call it an answer to prayer. Yo’ munnot let on to Hannah, but mony a time a day this last ten days an’ more, aw’ve been dahn o’ my marrow-bones a prayin’ tha med be spared Th’ laws o’ natur’s all vary weel, Tom, for th’ intellec’ but there’s times, lad, when th’ heart o’ man turns to its Maker like a babby to its mother i’ its pain. An’ this has been sich a time, aw reckon. Eh! man! its fair heart-breakin’ to gooa dahn th’ valley. Near on eighty folks drahned, caantin’ th’ childer in, an’ as for th’ damage to property, a quarter million pund willn’t cover it, folk sayn. Th’ Co-op. Mill’s gone, choose yah, an’ Wilberlee House an’ all. Yar bit o’ a whomstid’s safe, an’ that’s summat to be thankful for; but, eh, mon, aw dunnot know wheer we’st all ha’ to turn for summat to do, there’s thaasan’s an’ thaasan’s o’ folk aat o’ wark, an’ no prospec’ o’ ther getting onny, an’ i’ thick o’ winter, too.”