It was, of course, her own settled opinion that her uncle ought to leave
that box with her and Isaac; and it had wounded her vanity, and her
affection besides, that John had never yet made any such proposal,
though she knew--as, indeed, the village knew--that he was perplexed as
to what to do with his hoard. But she had never dared to suggest that he
should leave it with her, out of fear of Eliza Bolderfield. Bessie was
well aware that Eliza thought ill of her and would dissuade John from
any such arrangement if she could. And so formidable was Eliza--a woman
of the hardest and sourest virtue--when she chose, that Bessie was
afraid of her, even on her death-bed, though generally ready enough to
quarrel with other people. Nevertheless, Bessie had always felt that it
would be a crying shame and slight if she and Isaac did not have the
guardianship of the money. She thirsted, perhaps, to make an impression
upon public opinion in the village, which, as she instinctively
realised, held her cheaply. And then, of course, there was the secret
thought of John's death and what might come of it. John had always
loudly proclaimed that he meant to spend his money, and not leave it
behind him. But the instinct of saving, once formed, is strong. John,
too, might die sooner than he thought--and she and Isaac had children.

She had come up, indeed, that afternoon, haunted by a passionate desire
to get the money into her hands; yet the mere sordidness of
'expectations' counted for less in the matter than one would suppose.
Vanity, a vague wish to ingratiate herself with her uncle, to avoid a
slight--these were, on the whole, her strongest motives. At any rate,
when he had once asked her the momentous question, she knew well what to
say to him.

'Well, if you arst me,' she said hastily, 'of course _we_ think as it's