‘Yes,’ agreed Elias unwillingly; for the enumeration of these extenuating circumstances detracted from the picturesque aspect of the case. ‘Oh, yes, he did that, but my father he al’ays said it were a poor way o’ makin’ a livin’. “Save up, ’Lias, my boy,” he al’ays did use to say to I. “Save up and buy a bit o’ land for yourself.” So I scraped and scrimped and laid by; and my first missus, she were a very thrifty body, a very thrifty body she were. She put her shoulder to the wheel too, and when old Meatyard died we bought the farm, and things did prosper wi’ us very well since—till my last poor wife died; then all did go wrong wi’ I. Aye, as I say, if I do seem more set on matrimony than other folks, ’t is because the Lord ha’ marked I out for ’t. Now you, Isaac, never was called that way, seemingly.’
‘Nay,’ agreed Isaac, ‘I never were a-called that way. I never could do wi’ women-folk about. I’ve seed too much of ’em when I were a young ’un. Lord, what a cat-and-dog life my poor father and mother did lead, to be sure! He liked a drop o’ drink, my father did; and when he’d had a glass too much I’ve seen my mother pull the hair out of his head by handfuls—ah, that I have. But father, he’d never complain. Soon as she ’d leave go of him he’d stoop down and pick up all the hair as she ’d a-pulled out of his head. He’d put it in a box—ah, many’s the time he’ve a-showed it to me arter him and her had had a fallin’ out, and he’d say to me, “Never you go fur to get married, my boy,” and I’d say, “Nay, father,” and I’ve a-kept my word.’
‘Your poor sister kep’ house for you a good bit, though, did n’t she, after she lost her husband? And you were uncommon fond o’ the boy.’
‘Yes, it be different wi’ a sister—particularly one as knows she have n’t got no right to be there. She were a very quiet body, poor Eliza were. I were quite sorry when she and the little chap shifted to Dorchester; but she thought she’d do better in business.’
‘Well, but you were a good friend to she,’ remarked Elias, ‘both to she and her boy. Ye paid his passage to ’Merica arter she died, poor thing, did n’t ye?’
‘Ah, I did pay his passage to ’Merica, and I did gi’ him a bit o’ money in hand to start wi’, out there. Well, but you ha’n’t told me the name o’ your new missus.’
‘Rosalie Goldring is her name,’ returned Elias, lowering his voice confidentially. ‘Rosalie Goldring—nice name, bain’t it? Soon’s I heard her name I took it for a kind o’ token.’
‘Ah! there be a good many Goldrings Dorchester side,’ remarked Isaac. ‘Was that what took you off so far away? You’ve been a-coortin’ and never dropped a hint o’ it.’
‘Nay now, I never so much as set eyes on her till this very day. But being so bad off for a wife, and so put about wi’ all the waste as is a-goin’ on at my place, I thought I’d make sure o’ her, so I axed her. And she were glad enough to take me—she’s Giles Stelling’s granddaughter, d’ ye see, and she has to turn out now.’
‘Old Stelling’s granddaughter,’ repeated Isaac with emphasis. ‘Granddaughter? He must ha’ been a terrible old man.’