The Darcys Give a Ball

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“Hark’ee, Willem,” said old Isaac Collins to his son. “Jest you wait. It’ll come to ’ee.”

He hawked, scraping his throat with an unpleasant retching sound, and spat into the sputum jar resting on the arm of his chair.

“Yerss, everythin’ comes to ’im that waits.You’ll get ’un in the end, Bennetses or no Bennetses. Top lofty, that’s them, aspendin’ money that rightly should be mine. But you’ll see. Their blood’s arunnin’ thin.”

Young William Collins, standing to one side of his father (out of reach, he hoped, of any sudden blows from the stout walking stick that leaned against the wall), indicated his agreement. “Yes, father,” he said meekly.

“An’ you keep your nose outa them books. Book-learnin’ never did no-one no good.”

“Yes, father.”

“The mills o’ God grind slow, but they grind exceedin’ small,” croaked his father. “’Appen I won’t live to see the day. Arrr, I’m not long for this world. But you’ll get ’un.” He sniffed long and hard, then blew his nobby and reddened nose with a discoloured kerchief and gazed at the result. “Now, you get me a posset and don’t ’ee be asparin’ o’ the wine. Off with ’ee, boy!” he yelled, suddenly raising his voice and snatching at the stick. “Rouse that lazy ragbag in the kitchen. Time she earned ’er keep.”

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