“I’ve sent for you, Clem Hicks, for more reasons than wan.  I be gwaine down the hill fast, along o’ marryin’ this cursed mommet[12] of a man, Lezzard.  He lied about his money—­him a pauper all the time; and now he waits and watches me o’ nights, when he thinks I’m drunk or dreamin’ an’ I ban’t neither.  He watches, wi’ his auld, mangy poll shakin’, an’ the night-lamp flingin’ the black shadow of un ‘gainst the bed curtain an’ shawin’ wheer his wan front tooth sticks up like a yellow stone in a charred field.  Blast un to hell!  He’m waitin’ for my money, an’ I’ve told un he’s to have it.  But ’twas only to make the sting bite deeper when the time comes.  Not a penny—­not a farthing—­him or any of ’em.”

[12] Mommet = scarecrow.

“Don’t get angry with him.  He’s not worth it.  Tell me if I can help you and how.  You’ll be up and about again soon, I hope.”

“Never.  Not me.  Doctor Parsons be to blame.  I hate that man.  He knawed it was weakness of heart that called for drink after Coonistock died; an’ he let me go on an’ on—­just to gain his own dark ends.  You’ll see, you’ll see.  But that reminds me.  Of all my relations you an’ your mother’s all I care for; because you’m of my awn blood an’ you’ve let me bide, an’ haven’t been allus watchin’ an’ waitin’ an’ divin’ me to the bottle.  An’ the man I was fule enough to take in his dotage be worst of all.”

“Forget about these things.  Anger’s bad for you.”

“Forget!  Well, so I will forget, when I ve told ’e.  I had the young man what does my business, since old Ford died, awver here last week, an’ what there is will be yourn—­every stiver yourn.  Not the business, of course; that was sold when Coonistock died; but what I could leave I have.  You expected nothin,’ an’ by God! you shall have all!”

She saw his face and hastened to lessen the force of the announcement in some degree.

“Ban’t much, mind, far less than you might think for—­far less.  Theer’s things I was driven to do—­a lone woman wi’out a soul to care.  An’ wan was—­but you’ll hear in gude time, you’ll hear.  It concerns Doctor Parsons.”

“I can’t believe my senses.  If you only knew what happened to me this morning.  And if you only knew what absolute paupers we are—­mother and I. Not that I would confess it to any living soul but you.  And how can I thank you?  Words are such vain things.”

“Ban’t no call to thank me.  ‘Tis more from hatred of t’ others than love of you, when all’s said.  An’ it ban’t no gert gold mine.  But I’d like to be laid along wi’ Coomstock; an’ doan’t, for God’s love, bury Lezzard wi’ me; an’ I want them words on auld George Mundy’s graave set ’pon mine—­not just writ, but cut in a slate or some such lasting thing.  ’Tis a tidy tomb he’ve got, wi’ a cherub angel, an’ I’d like the same.  You’ll find a copy o’ the words in the desk there.  My maid took it down last Sunday.  I minded the general meaning, but couldn’t call home the rhymes.  Read it out, will ’e?”