Chapter IV: Congratulations

THE next few days were very stirring. People were always coming in and out, to talk over our "piece of good fortune." Neighbours kept dropping in to congratulate us, and to ask particulars, and to find something more to gossip about. And mother liked nothing better than to talk with everybody about what had happened, and to boast of all that she and father meant to do with the five thousand pounds, as soon as ever it came to us.

"Of course you won't stay any longer in this little cottage," one said. I heard her, and I thought the words were said sneeringly. I didn't like the person who said them—Mrs. Raikes, the wife of a tailor who lived near. But mother took up the idea, and could talk of nothing else for hours. Grannie said quietly—"If you go, you and Miles, I don't go with you;" and she said no more.

I think we all expected the money to come in one or two days, and it disappointed us to hear that we might have to wait a good while. Young Mr. Johnstone looked in one morning, and he was very agreeable and kind. Mother asked him how soon we should have the money, and he said the lawyers were not bound to pay it in less than a year. "I dare say you won't have to wait quite so long," he said, "but lawyers never hurry themselves. And meantime, it isn't at all impossible that the other party may dispute the will, which might cause further delays."

Mother pouted, and was very vexed to think of having to wait. She had so set her heart on having a silk dress directly. But grannie seemed rather pleased than otherwise to hear of delay, for she thought it would give us all time to come to our senses.

Another day, to our great amazement, the Johnstones' carriage stopped at our door. It was a very big heavy carriage, and the coachman and footman were big heavy men, with powdered hair, and a great deal of red and yellow about them, and dangling cords and tassels. I always thought the carriage must be a little like the Lord Mayor's coach. Lord Wheatstone's carriage, which sometimes passed our door, didn't make half so fine a show, for it was plain and dark, and the coachman and footman wore plain dark liveries too—only there was a coronet painted on the door, and the horses were such splendid spirited creatures. I liked the dark carriage best, but father called it shabby beside the Johnstones' carriage.

Well, as I say, the Johnstones stopped at our gate, and mother was quite in a flurry, and went hurrying into the garden, with her cap all on one side. Mrs. Johnstone did not get out, for she was so extremely stout that moving was a great trouble to her. She was dressed in bright ruby-coloured velvet, and a jacket to match, and she had a sweeping straw-coloured ostrich feather on her bonnet, and yellow kid gloves. It looked grand, but I could not quite admire the red and yellow together, though mother thought them lovely. Mrs. Johnstone kept her talking for some minutes, and seemed to think a deal of our "good fortune," as she called it. Mother's head was quite turned, and she could think and talk of nothing for the rest of the day but velvets and silks and feathers. I suppose that sort of taste is catching. I remember looking at my print dress, and thinking how much I should like a pretty new frock. And just after doing so, I caught grannie's eye, and she said—

"Feathers don't make the bird, my dear."

"I do like pretty things, grannie," I said.

"So do I, Phœbe," she answered. "But nothing ever looks pretty out of its right place."

"Would a nice new frock for me be out of its right place?" I asked.

"No, not a nice one, perhaps," she said—"if it was the right way of spending the money. But a smart one would. Don't be easy taken in, my girl. If Mrs. Johnstone was a true lady, she wouldn't be driving about in that dress."

"Wouldn't she?" I said.

Grannie laughed, and said—"Think of Mrs. Scott now, Phœbe. Would she?"

"O no," I said. "But then Mrs. Scott always does dress so quiet."

"Well, think of Lady Wheatstone. You've seen her pass, many a time. Would she?"

"No," I said. "But then it isn't her way to put on such smart things. I suppose she doesn't like them."

"That's just it," says grannie. "She don't like them, and Mrs. Scott don't like them, and if Mrs. Johnstone was a true lady she wouldn't like them either. I don't say but what she may be a nice enough person in other ways, if she does make mistakes in her dress. But they are mistakes, Phœbe. That red velvet, with all the smart trimmings and the yellow feather atop, would do well enough, maybe, if she was going to a Queen's drawing-room, or a Parliament opening, or something of that sort, but they are not fit for driving about in a little place like this. It's just as out of place for her, as if I was to go trudging about in the mud with a green silk dress on."

Mother had been talking about buying a green silk dress for herself that very morning. But grannie had not heard her; if she had, she would have taken right good care not to say words which should seem like blaming a mother to her child—and I would not tell grannie.

Another day our clergyman, Mr. Scott, came. He was an elderly man, with silver hair, and a thoughtful way of speaking, and bright eyes which seemed to look one through. Father was at home when he called. Mother slipped away into the back garden, when she saw him in the distance, for somehow mother never much cared for Mr. Scott. But grannie did love him, and look up to him. She made him sit down in the best chair, and looked as pleased as possible to have him there.

Of course the five thousand pounds were soon spoken of. Mr. Scott told father first how glad he was to hear the news, and how nice it was for us all. He said it in such a kind way, that father was quite pleased. And then Mr. Scott asked father what were his plans.

"Well, I don't just exactly know," father said. "I'm meaning to take a bit of a holiday for one thing, and I did think it would be nice to have a bigger cottage than this: but mother says she'll stick by the old place, and I'm loth to part from her; so we'll wait a while. I've a mind to get some tidy furniture, though, and my wife has a great notion of a silk dress. And we'll have a trip to the sea some fine day."

Mr. Scott listened to all this, and smiled, and didn't seem to think of blaming anybody or anything. I thought grannie was a little disappointed. But presently, somehow, he was talking quietly to father about investing the money, and asking him what he meant to do. For of course five thousand pounds could not be left to lie about, he said, and it was a large sum to put into a county bank. Suppose the bank should fail. Such things did happen.

"Mr. Carver did say something about investments," father said. "But I don't know as I paid much heed. You see, sir, he is a lawyer, and they do say lawyers have a wonderful trick of keeping back some of the money that slips through their fingers;—though, for the matter of that, so have most people."

"You cannot expect them to work without payment," said Mr. Scott. "A lawyer has his living to get, as well as any other man. Of course there are honest and dishonest lawyers; but Mr. Carver is one of the honest sort. He is an honourable man, and you may quite rely on his advice."

Then Mr. Scott talked about different ways of "putting out money," as he called it. I heard such words as "stocks," and "shares," and "railways," and "interest." Father exclaimed presently,—"Only four per cent! That wouldn't be much."

"It would bring you in a nice little income of two hundred a year," said Mr. Scott. "Better have that secure, than aim higher and perhaps in the end lose it all."

"Why, Bill Jenkins told me I'd ought to have ten per cent at least," said father. "And that 'ud be an income of five hundred a year. I was counting on five hundred, so as we could live easy."

Mr. Scott shook his head. "Too much," he said. "Ten per cent is far too high for safety, Murdock. Take my advice, and don't risk your capital where such high interest is given. Four per cent, is likely to be safe. You might even go safely as high as five per cent perhaps, but that is doubtful."

Father did not much take to the notion. He had been talking so big, and making so much of the thought of five hundred pounds a year, that two hundred a year seemed small in comparison.