"'Tis true, I suppose, that his father's van ain't good enough for your son?"
Inwardly Mrs. Yellam winced again. Alfred had made his decision "on his own." But she answered as tranquilly as before:
"Seemin'ly it ain't. God A'mighty knows what us be coming to, and He don't tell. As a Christian woman I bows afore Him."
Poor Mrs. Mucklow, continually contrasting the prosperity of Alfred with the ill-luck, as she deemed it, of her own three sons, sniffed again. Not long since the three Mucklows had contemplated emigration to Canada. They had been anchored in Nether-Applewhite by Mr. Fishpingle, sometime butler to Sir Geoffrey, now bailiff at the Home Farm. They happened to pursue avocations such as hurdling, spar-making, hedging and ditching, which were precariously dependent upon a demand that varied tremendously, a demand that, year by year, shewed inexorable signs of failing. And Mrs. Mucklow was uneasily conscious that her sons' ill luck was regarded by her sister-in-law as part of a Divine dispensation. In the same complacent spirit the good-luck of Alfred became, in Susan Yellam's eyes, a mark of Divine favour. It may be imagined how this rankled in the heart of a woman who held herself to be as good a Christian as her neighbours, and perhaps better. Mrs. Mucklow retorted tartly:
"You be allers shovin' your Christian feelin's down our throats, Susan. But I say this—you ain't been tried as I hev."
Mrs. Yellam dealt with this drastically.
"I be thankful for God's mercies. I might be less thankful if so be as I mixed up my victuals as you do. Faith in A'mighty God have more to do wi' the stomach than most folks think on. As for being tried—I tend four graves in churchyard to your one."
Mrs. Mucklow's small beady eyes softened.
"Yas—you've had your sore trials, Susan. And the graves be a credit to 'ee. But I've said it afore, and I say it again, small fam'lies make for righteousness. Keepin' my childern in shoe-leather alone took a deal o' saintliness out o' me. Be that cake?"
"I hopes so. Have a slice?"