Chapter VIII

THE legacy left him by Mr. Black amounted to no less than a hundred pounds, which seemed to Tom a vast sum. Mr. Redfearn was sole executor of the will. Tom took possession of the books,--a few choice Latin authors, the Greek Testament, and many educational works. He selected, besides, a few articles of furniture, of which he made a present to Mrs. Garside; he did not forget Moll o' Stuarts. Out of the proceeds of the portion of the furniture which he sold, there was just enough to pay for a mourning suit of good broadcloth for himself, and strangely ill at ease he felt when first he beheld himself arrayed in the glossy doeskin. But after the funeral, he had only to wear it on Sundays, when most people who could manage it by hook or crook contrived to wear decent suits, mainly of black,--black was the general, if not "the only wear." The reason is not far to seek. Among the working-classes the better suit is a very distinct garment from what are called emphatically "wartday clo'es," and is seldom worn except on Sunday, and at funerals.

There remained the hundred pounds, and the question was not easy of answer, what should he do with it? Under the will, Mr. Redfearn had power to apply the money for Tom's advancement in life, even before his majority when it was to pass into his uncontrolled disposition. Tom cudgelled his brain so much and so vainly as to the ultimate application of this immense sum that he came to be thankful he could not, as yet, touch the bulk, or he would have been tempted to throw it into the river. He did not get much help from Mr. Redfearn.

"Yo' see, Tom," said his guardian, "a hundred pounds is a very awk'ard sum o' money. It's summat like a gooise, which is too much o' a meal for one, an' not enuff for two. Nah this legacy o' yo'rs is summat i'th' same fashion. It's too much to go on th' spree wi', an' ha' done wi' it, an' off yo'r mind, so to speeak, and it's too little to set up i' business on yo'r own account,--at leastwise i' ony business 'at's likely to suit thee. Yo' might start i'th' grocery line, to be sure, but I doubt th' little childer 'ud be feart to come into th' shop if they seed six feet of brawn and muscle behind th' counter. Besides they say it tak's a very light hand to weigh grocer's stuff aat to ony profit. I can think o' nowt else. You might go into th' public line on yo'r furtin in a smallish way, an' there's one thing 'at's i' yo'r favour, yo'd nooan want a chuckor aat."

Tom shook his head emphatically: "Nay," he said, "I will never make my living by giving my brother strong drink to his hurt."

Redfearn laughed, "they'll call yo' 'Parson Tom' in a bit, lad. But happen yo'r i'th' reight on it. For one gooid word yo' can find to say for drink yo' can find a hundred to say agen it, an' then start afresh an' tack another hundred to it. Folk will have it, but them as get's th' leeast has th' best share, an' I'll nivver be one to set a young lad i' th' way o' temptation. But has ta thowt o' onything thi sen?"

Tom shook his head. "I've thought till I'm almost stalled of the thought of the money."

"Well, there's no hurry, that's one comfort. Th' brass 'll nooan get less so long as it's ith' bank, that's a sure thing. An' yo're not be out o' your indentures yet. Tak' yo'r time i' makin' up your mind, an' remember 'at it's th' easiest thing i' th' world to put good money into business, but it's quite another thing getting it back after yo'n once let go yo'r how'd."

On one point Tom was quite resolved. So soon as his apprenticeship should be at an end, and sooner if might be, he would be his own master. He would not live and die a weaver, nor yet be content even to live and die a slubber. Other men had conquered Fate and he was resolved that by God's help, he, too could and would. Why, the whole valley in which he did his daily task abounded with men who could tell of early privations, of years of patient unremitting toil, of Spartan endurance, of privations self-imposed and cheerfully borne, and of a notable success crowning and rewarding in middle life, the efforts of their youth and manhood's prime. And Tom felt that he had him the makings of a man and though he had, as yet, unbosomed the inner workings of his soul to man nor woman, being, indeed more given to seek commune with himself rather than another, yet was his mind firmly fixed either to make a spoon or spoil a horn, as the saying goes. But how?

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."

"He mote," said Ben, "an' then agen he moten't. But ther's no harm i' axin'."

"Aye, that's just like yo' men," said Hannah, "nowt'll do but goin' at a thing like a bull at a red rag. Tom mun step i' to th' caantin'-haase, an' say: 'If yo' please Mr. Tinker, aw'd like yo' to breik mi writin's, aw'n had some brass left me.' Nah, that's nooan my way."

"Well, what is it, Hannah?"

"Sayin's tellin', an' if aw tell'd yo', yo'd be as wise as me. Th' question is, what mun Tom do when he's free?"

"Aye, that's it," said Tom. "Well aw 've my plan, Tom, if th' missus, theer 'll let a man get a word in edgeways. Nah! Hannah, if th'rt fair run daan aw 'll go on." Hannah disdained to make reply.

"Nah! my advice is," said Ben, "just go on, as it were, quiet, for the next few months; but i'stead o' bein' satisfied i' th' mill wi' just doin' what tha'rt set to, keep thi een oppen an' tak' th' cotton wool aat o' yo'r ears, if yo' happen to have ony in, an' larn all ther' is to larn at Tinker's. He 'greed to teeach thee th' trade o' a clothier, an' aw'll be bun' he has'nt swopped ten words wi' yo' sin a 'prentice yo'n bin an' as for that druffen swill-tub, th' slubber, he might teich yo' th' differ atween th' feel o' a strap an' th' feel o' a pickin'-rod abaat yo'r back, an' that's abaat all. But till th' time comes for thee to oppen aat to Tinker, aw'd recommend yo in a quiet way, to larn all tha can. Get to know th' feel an' th' qualities o' wool, an' th' prices, an' th' natur' o'th' dyes an' acids, an' aboon all mak frien's wi' th' tuner, an' larn to gear a machine, an' tune it when it's aat o' gear."

Tom nodded.

"Weel," went on Ben, "as aw'n said. A hunderd paand 's a seet o' brass, an' if yo' know yo'r way abaat yo' can get a set o' machines wi' it--what 'll do for a start ony road i' a sma'ish way, which is th' best rooad an' choose hah! Yo'll ha nooa difficulty i' gettin' room an' power, an' what's more, if yo' winnot think awm sayin' one word for thee an' two for mysen, if yo' like to start i' manifactorin' o' thi own accaant, owd Ben Garsed's mony a yer o' gooid wark in him yet an' he'll be yo'r man, an' that's more nor he'd say for ony other being 'at walks o' two legs atween here an' th' next spot."

Tom's eyes sparkled with a sudden light, and he leaped to his feet to the imminent peril of his head against the rafters.

"The very thing," he cried, "the very, very thing. 'Oh! wise King, oh! prudent King'--stupid that I was never to think of it before, couldn't see wood for trees.--Lucy, you shall be our book-keeper. Let me see--Garside and Pinder, woollen manufacturers Holmfirth. Carried unanimously. Put it. Lucy, put it and hold up both your hands. My word, Ben, but you've a headpiece if you like. We'st nivver mend o' that idea if we talk fro' now till Doomsday. But will th' money run to it?"

"Ben 'll ha' considered that," said Hannah.

"He's a deep un, is Ben, an' if he wadn't talk so much wod mak' heead way yet; but it's 'im for goin' round an' round a thing an' under it an' ovver it afore he's made his mind up. Yo'n awmost to shak' him to get an opinion aat on him sometimes."

"Aw waren't long i' makkin' up mi mind abaat one thing ony road th' time aw clapt mi e'en o' thee, lass," said Ben, with a wink that comprehended both Tom and Lucy.

"Aye, an' aw didn't gi' time to unmak' it, noather," chuckled Hannah, and cast a glance at Ben that made her look thirty years younger and set him thinking of the days when an apparently chance shaft from Hannah's eyes set his heart a pit-a-pat.

"Aye, lad," said Ben, "there's folk started i' this valley wi' less nor a hundred pun', 'at fairly stinks o' brass naah. It's noan th' brass altogether 'at does th' trick; there's more i' knowin' haa to use it, an' more still in knowin' haa to keep what yo' mak' an' turn it ovver an' ovver like a rolling snowball. There's mony a man can mak' brass but it's stickin' to it bothers 'em."

And so it was settled that Tom should bide his time, making haste slowly, as the Roman sage advises, and that, meanwhile, Ben should keep his weather-eye open for room and power.

And Tom was not content with such knowledge as could be acquired in the Mill. Although his hours at the loom were long enough in all conscience, and he certainly led laborious days, he resolved also to shun luxurious nights, if idling through the evenings with a novel of Sir Walter Scott or doing odd jobs about the house for Hannah Garside or, in the summer, strolling about the lanes and over the moors could be said to constitute a luxury. He joined the classes at the Mechanics' Institute and nightly wrestled with the mysteries of Euclid, chevied the elusive _x_ through algebraic equations, acquired enough of statics and dynamics to be appalled by the height, depth, and breadth of his own ignorance, and enough of chemistry to bring him to the same conclusion that the highway to ruin would be to trust to his own knowledge of that weird and fascinating science. But if of learning to be likely to be really useful in the career he had marked out for himself, Tom attained to little enough, his mind was all the better for the mental gymnastics his studies compelled. The books he conned demanded close application and sustained thought, and so, had he learned nothing from them at all, were an intellectual discipline that would tell in the battle of life, and rescued him from that flabby habit of mind that comes from desultory and random reading.

It was noticed too, that about this time Tom forsook in some measure his first love, the services of the Established Church, and became a very frequent worshipper at Aenon Chapel. Ben declared that he couldn't make head or tail of this change from country walks turned to profitable account, as Ben conceived, by Ben's discursive utterances _de omnibus rebus et aliis praterca_, but more particularly and recurringly concerning the high metaphysics of Calvinistic theology.

"There's a screw loose, somewhere," he remarked solemnly to Hannah one Sunday afternoon when Tom, after brushing his suit of woe very sedulously and looking more than once in the little cracked glass to see if his tie were rightly bunched and his "toppin" duly "lashed" and parted had sidled rather shamefacedly out of the house with a hymn-book in one hand, whilst with the fore-finger of the other he assured himself that the coin destined for the collection box nestled securely in the corner of his waistcoat pocket. Hannah stayed her rocking and smoothed the sheen of her silken apron, but was mute.

"Aye," continued Ben, "aw cannot tell whativver's come ovver th' lad. Aw say nowt agen his buryin' his nose i' books e'ery neet, an' hardly goin' to bed till aw'm thinkin o' gettin' up. That's improvin' his mind, that is, at least aw hope so--it's only to be hoped he won't addle it i'th process. But this chapel-goin's beyond me. Mind yo', aw nivver said so mich abaat his gooin' to th' church o' a mornin'. He wer' browt up so, and Mr. Black set a deal o' store on it, so it wer' like honourin' yo'r father an yo'r mother, in a fashion o' speikin'. But, dal me, chapel-goin's like turnin' his back on th' church altogether. What does _ta_ mak on it, Hannah?"

"Nowt," said Hannah, and Ben knew from experience that the wife of his bosom thought more than she was minded to tell.

"If it hadn't been Tom," continued Ben in a meditative and perhaps something of a tentative strain, "Tom 'at's as steady as a booat-hoss aw sud be enclined to speckilate ther' wer' a wench at th' bottom on it. What do'st think, Lucy, has he said owt to yo' abaat it?"

"No, father. Tom has said nothing but that the new minister at Aenon 's a very good preacher. One o' th' new school, he says."

"Aye, aye, aw'n yerd abaat him. 'A wind-bag,' some o'th owd hands ca' 'im. Bi all aw can mak' aat he's a trimmer 'at sets his sails to catch the wind o' approval fro' th' upper seats o' th' 'orthodox, orthodox Sons o' auld John Knox,' an' the gale o' applause fro' th' young 'uns 'at 'ud like to kick ovver th' traces. He's noather fish, nor flesh, nor fowl, nor gooid red herrin'--so folk sen, an' goes on refinin' an' refinin' and explainin' till Deacon Whiteley says he's refined and explained th' owd Trust Deed away, an' ther's lots o'th owder end dunnot know whether they're stood o' their heads or their heels. An' they dunnot hauf like th' Band o' Hope 'at he's started i' connection wi' th' Sunday Schooil, though aw'll say nowt agen that missen."

"It 'ud be a gooid thing if they'd ha' a Band o' Hope for th' grown-up childer," said Hannah. "I fancy from what Tom said to me t'other neet--I mean night," began Lucy.

"Neet's gooid enew," interrupted her mother in a sharper tone than Lucy often heard. "Though awm awmost forced to be dumb, when yo'r father's got owt to say, awm noather deaf nor blind, thank God; an' aw'n noticed lately 'at Tom's getten into a fine way o' speikin',--Miss Nancyfied aw ca' it,--an' yo'r followin' suit. There'll be no livin' wi' oather on yo' sooin if it goes on."

"Well, what is it yo' wouldn't be capped at?" asked Ben, by way of diversion.

"If Tom joined the Band of Hope," said Lucy quietly, and, one would have judged, sadly.

"Th' lad's clean off," said Ben. "That brass has bin too mich for his yed. Wi' most folk it runs to drink, but aw reckon it depends o' th' constitooshun. But, dal me, if aw dunnot don missen up very next Sunday 'at ever is, an' gooa wi' 'im to th' chapel an' hear for missen; so, dooant forget, Hannah, to ha' me a clean shirt, for aw munnot shame th' lad."

"Aye," assented Hannah, "gooa, bi all meeans, an' if a fooil's advice worth's takkin', please thissen abaat keepin' thi ears on th' pulpit, but keep thi e'en on th' pews." And with this Delphic utterance Mrs. Garside began to lay the little round table for tea, with a clatter that threatened the longevity of the "chaney" cups and saucers that had descended with the Family Bible, and were almost as venerated.

And Lucy looked troubled with that trouble that seeks disguise in constrained cheerfulness.

"It's a woman, then," said Ben to himself. "Who'd ha' thowt it, but whooa i' th' name o' wonder can it be?"

Pursuant to his resolve, Ben, the next Sunday, volunteered to accompany Tom to Chapel, to Tom's undisguised surprise.

"Well, yo' see, lad," explained the Senior, inwardly congratulating himself on the astuteness of his reply, "what's gooid enough for thee 'll daatless be gooid enough for thi partner 'at is to be."

The Rev. David Jones was a man of middle stature, quick and nervous in his movements, and quick and nervous in his delivery. He had all the fire and not a little of the poetic feeling and imagination of his Welsh ancestry. He had the great gift of being able to see and understand the very crux of an abstruse problem and to state it lucidly. Then, when you held your breath for the solution, he would break into a rhapsody, and, in a torrent of words, metaphor piled upon metaphor in dazzling extravagance of phrase, he would scale the gamut of the emotions, and close the exordium as in the wild frenzy of an ancient seer.

"Ther's a gooid deeal o'clout, Tom," whispered Ben, "but aw'n nooan come to th' puddin'." But Ben spoke to ears that heard not. The rhapsodies of the eloquent Gael were thrown away on Tom. His eyes were fixed on the ample pew in which Mr. and Mrs. Tinker sat erect and listening apparently with much attention to the sermon. Mr. Tinker's regard indeed, appeared to be more critical than appreciative.

"Jabez is too owd a bird to be ta'en wi' chaff," thought Ben. "Th' parson's main clever, reight enough, but there's one yonder's gotten his measure, or awm mista'en."

But neither on his employer nor on the severe face of Mrs. Tinker was Tom's wrapt look so intently fixed. By her uncle's side sat Dorothy, looking, said Ben, in his afternoon account to Hannah, "just as if butter wouldn't melt in her maath. She nivver took her e'en fro' off her Bible or her hymn book or th' parson, barrin' once, an' if 'oo didn't look plainly at Tom then 'oo looked at me, that's all aw can say. But it weren't a look straight out o' her e'en, yo' mun understand, nor wi' her eyes starin' out o' her yead, like some wenches 'll look at a young felly; but just a sort o' a squint aat o'th tail o' her e'en, an' then th' lashes fell part way ovver 'em, an' theer 'oo wer' gazin' at th' parson as if 'ood nivver blinked. It's a mercy 'oo didn't look at me th' same way again, or I'd ha' made a fooil o' missen some road or other, an' chance it. An' Tom, why he went as red as a peony, an' his hand trem'led so he dropped a book an' had to scrat it up wi' his feet by reason o'th pew bein' too narrow for him to get his yed dahn to reick it up wi' his hand i' th' ordinary way. Aw poised his shin for 'im under th' seeat to make him mind his manners for when aw _do_ go to a chapel aw like to behave some-bit-like, an' after that he listened to th' sarmon as good as gowd."

"And do you remember the text, father?"

"To be sure aw do, trust me for that. Aw gate Tom to nick it with his thumb in his book, an aw wer' settlin' dahn comfortable to th' exposition when aw gate th' full blast o' Miss Dorothy's look, choose 'oo it wer' meant for. It had liked to ha' bowled me ovver, but aw poo'd missen together, an' aw'n getten th' heads o'th discoorse. Reick us th' Bible, missus. It wer' eighth Romans, thirtieth. Read it up, Lucy."

"Moreover whom he did predestinate, them he also called; and whom he called, them he also justified; and whom he justified, them he also glorified."

"Nah! I thowt to missen, we're in for it. Aw liked th' chap's courage. It's holus-bolus, nah, says I, an' th' owder end they looked up at th' parson wi' a grim sort o' look as much as to say, 'Get ovver that if yo' can' an' then they glowered at th' younger end wi' a look 'at said as plain as a pikestaff, 'he's bahn to throw yo' ovver' nah, wi' yo'r new criticism an' yo'r refinin's.'"

"An' did he?" asked Lucy and her mother in a breath.

And it may be just as well to say here and once for all, for the benefit of those who through no fault of their own, to be sure, but to their great loss notwithstanding, have not the privilege of being Yorkshire bred and born, that half-a-century ago theological discussion was, among the mill-hands of the West Riding, as common as ratting or dog-fighting or as disputing over the form of a foot-ball player in these degenerate days. Any fine Sunday of the year, if you walked in the country, you would come across a group of men, gravely excited, discussing with acumen, and all the artillery of text and commentary, original sin, predestination, effectual calling and the inefficiency of works.

"And did he?"

Ben shook his head. "He's a deep 'un is yon'. They ca' folk 'at go to Church o' a mornin' an' chapel i' th' afternooin, devil-dodgers; but yon's waur, he's a deacon-dodger. He knew as weel as he knew his dinner 'd be spoilin' bi hauf-past twelve 'at ther' wer' owd Split an' Tommy Shaw, not to say Jabez Tinker, at's happen more charity, just simply waitin' to lay howd on a word here an' a sentence theer to condemn; but he slipped past 'em a'. It wer' clivver aw'll nooan gainsay, but it wer' nooan honest. Yo've happen no reight to expect brains i' a parson, but th' leeast he can do is to be honest."

"But yo' dunnot tell us ha he han'led th' text," said his wife impatiently.

"Why th' cream on it wer' this: 'at th' Almighty fro' th' beginnin' had foreordained th' law o' righteousness, just th' same as he foreordained th' law o' gravitation an' he elected to salvation them as walked therein, an' them as didn't were rejected. Same as th' law o' combustion," he said, "if yo' put yo'r finger i'th' fire God had pre-arranged 'at yo' sud be burned, an' sarve yo' reight."

"Why that's common sense enough to please you, father, you couldn't find fault with that."

"Aye' that wer' reight enough; but yo' should ha' heeard th' way he wrapped it up an' dressed it i'th catch words o' th' hard-an'-fast Baptists, so as to mak' them o' th' owder end think it wer' all th' owd dish sarved up a bit different. But it wern't; it wer' common sense an' nat'ral religion dressed up to mak' 'em sound like Calvinism. He caught th' deacons sleepin', as he thowt, an' stole their clo'es; but Jabez Tinker saw through him, aw tell yo', an' so did Ben Garsed, if he _is_ an' owd foo."

"And what did Tom say to it all?" asked Lucy.

"Tom! Aw've no patience wi' Tom. He walked all th' way whom as if he wer' dreamin', an' all 'at aw could get out on him wer' 'at pale blue went varry well wi some shades o' yoller. He wer' thinkin o' his dyein', yo' see."

"Was he for sure?" asked Mrs. Garside, "which dun yo' think's th' blindest, Lucy, a bat or a mole?"

But Lucy was looking out of the window and answer made none.