He had said nothing at home, as he now considered Ben Garside’s, about his little fortune, and as for the furniture which he had placed in the little cottage, Hannah declared, and meant it, that though it was “gooid on ’im to think o’ old fr’en’s, an’ like ’im, ’oo wer’ nooan so greedy as to do owt but store th’ thin’s for ’im, till such times as he wer’ wed, and warst wish ’at ’oo could wish ’im wer’ ’at he’d wed a lass ’at ’ud put as gooid a shine on th’ owd table, an’ cheers, an’ th’ oak-chest an’ linen-press and charney-cupboard as ’oo’d done, but that wer’ past prayin’ for now-a-days.”
There is no question that in this time of electricity and daily papers, news travels faster than in the times of our grandfathers but it travelled fast enough even then. And somehow it began to be whispered about the village that Gentlemen Tom “had come in for a fortin’.” with that delicacy of reserve which is nowhere more to be found than among the better end of the working classes, neither Ben, nor Hannah, nor Lucy spoke to him on the matter. It was his concern, and if he choose to have secrets from his best well-wishers they were not going to force his confidence; though it cannot be denied that when neighbours questioned Hannah on the subject, as she stood with her flour-poke and basket waiting her turn at Split’s counter of a Saturday afternoon she could give to her sibs no more satisfactory reply, than to tell them “to mell (meddle) o’ their own business, an’ ’ood try, God helping her, to mell o’ hers,”—a reply which was no more satisfactory to herself than to her gossips, for it not only brought a discussion of a highly interesting domestic topic to an untimely end, but it deprived Hannah of that assumption of exclusive intelligence which is as dear to a woman of conversational gifts as to a newspaper editor. But when Tom became aware by many subtle signs that not only had people heard something of his windfall, but that Hannah was piqued by his silence he resolved to take counsel with Ben. Even should he get no better advice than to seek advice.
“Ah, it’s a seet o’ brass lad, is a hunderd paands, an’ a gret responsibility. Aw dunnot think aw ivver seed more nor ten all at onc’t, an’ that fair med me gip.” It was thus Ben delivered himself one Sunday afternoon as he smoked his pipe before the kitchen fire. “Aw knew tha’d do nowt wi’out speikin’ to me or yar Hannah abaat th’ job, an’ we thowt no waur o’ thi’ for howdin’ thi tongue abaat it i’steead o’ makkin a spreead abaat it waur nor a peeacock wi’ it’s tail as some ’ud ha’ done. An’ as for wearin’ th’ brass o’ drink an’ wenchin’, as some ’ud ha’ done; why it wer better for thi’ ’at tha’ sud ha’ had a millstone then raand thi neck an’ bin plumped fair i’ th’ middle o’ th’ mill-dam.”
“Yes, but Ben, I can discover for myself what I should not do with the money; what I want to settle is what I should do with it.”
“It’s safe enew wheer it is, isn’t it?” asked Hannah, anxiously.
“Well, it’ as safe as the bank, any way,” Tom assured her.
Hannah seemed dubious. “Aw dunnot ma’ mich accaant o’ them banks. Ther’ wer’ Ingram’s, tha’ll mind oo’, Ben, i’ Hundersfild. It went dahn th’ slot an’ lots o’ folk lost ther brass through it. Aw’d just as sooin put my bit i’ th’ teea-caddy—but we’re nivver safe, as th’ lad said when he fun’ a sov’rin’.”
Ben had puffed his pipe in silence, but now waved the long churchwarden to bespeak attention.
“There’s yo’r writin’s to think on,” he said. “Yo’ munnot forget as yo’r bun’ to Jabez Tinker till y’or twenty-one, an’ thof mebbe nob’dy could blame yo’ if yo’ just went yo’r own gate as if th’ writin’s weren’t ther; still aw misdoubt me th’ law ’ud ha’ summat to say: an’ if yo’ once get into th’ lawyers’ han’s aw reely dunnot think yo’ need bother yo’rsen abaat what yo’ mun do wi’ yo’r fortin’.”
“But, Ben, whatever comes I mean to do the square thing by Mr. Tinker. I’ve served him faithfully up to now, and I don’t mean to end up by doing otherwise. But don’t you think he would release me, if it were fairly put to him, and he received some equivalent.”