Collected works of j s f.., p.447
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 447
Albert was in the shop when she marched in, busied in taking down an order from Mrs. Aislabie, the curate’s wife, who, seated in a chair at the counter, was meditatively examining a price list and wondering how to make thirty shillings go as far as forty. He glanced smilingly but without surprise at Jeckie, and inclined his head and the pen behind his large right ear towards a certain door at the back of the shop. Jeckie knew precisely what he meant — which was that his father had just gone to dinner. They had a custom there at Grice’s — the old man went to dinner at twelve; Albert at one; there was thus always one of them in the shop to look after things in general and the assistant and two shop lads in particular. And Albert, who knew that since Jeckie was there in her morning gown and without headgear it must be because she wanted to see his father, added a word or two to his signal.
“Only just gone in,” he said. “Go forward.”
Jeckie went down the shop to the door, tapped at the glass of the upper panel, pushed aside a heavy curtain that hung behind, and entered upon old Grice as he sat down to his dinner. He was a biggish, round-faced, bald-headed man, bearded, save for his upper lip, which was very large and very tight — folk who knew George Grice well, and went to him seeking favours, watched that tight lip, and knew from it whether he was going to accede or not. He was a prosperous-looking man, too; plump and well-fed; and there was a fine round of cold beef and a bowl of smoking potatoes before him, to say nothing of a freshly-cut salad, a big piece of prime Cheddar and a tankard of foaming ale. The buxom servant-lass who attended to the wants of the widowed father and the bachelor son, was just going out of the room by one door as Jeckie entered by the other. She glanced wonderingly at the visitor, but George Grice, picking up the carving knife and fork, showed no surprise. He had long since graduated in the school of life, and well knew the signs when man or woman came wanting something.
“Hallo!” he said in sharp, businesslike tones. “Queer time o’ day to come visiting, mi lass! What’s in the wind, now?”
Jeckie, uninvited, sat down in one of the two easy chairs which flanked the hearth, and went straight to her subject.
“Mr. Grice!” she said, having ascertained by a glance that the door leading to the kitchen was safely closed. “I came down to see you. Now, look here, Mr. Grice; you know me, and you know I’m going to marry your Albert.”
“Humph!” muttered Grice, busied in carving thin slices of beef for himself. “Aye, and what then?”
“And you know I shall make him a rare good wife, too,” continued Jeckie. “The best wife he could find anywhere in these parts!”
“When I were a lad,” remarked Grice, with the ghost of a thin smile about his top lip, “we used to write a certain saying in the copybook— ‘Self-praise is no recommendation.’ I’m not so certain of it myself, though. Some folks knows the value of their own goods better than anybody.”
“I know the value of mine!” asserted Jeckie solemnly. “You couldn’t find a better wife for Albert than I shall make him if you went all through Yorkshire with a small-tooth comb! And you know it, Mr. Grice!”
“Well, mi lass,” said Grice, “and what then?”
“I want you to do something for me,” answered Jeckie. She pulled the chair nearer to the table, and went on talking while the grocer steadily ate and drank. “I’ll be plain with you, Mr. Grice. There’s nobody knows I’ve come here, nor why. But it’s this — I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s no use my father going on any longer. He isn’t fit; he’s no good. I’ve found things out. He’s been borrowing money from some, or one, o’ them money-lenders at Clothford. He owes half a year’s rent, and there’s another nearly due. There’s others wanting money. I think you want a bit, yourself. Well, it’s all got to stop. I’m going to stop it! And as I’m going to be your daughter-in-law, I want you to help me!”
Grice, carefully selecting the ripest of some conservatory-grown tomatoes from the bowl in front of him, stuck a fork into it, and began to peel it with a small silver knife which he picked up from beside his plate. His tight lip pursed itself while he was engaged; it was not until he had put the peeled tomato on his plate, and added the heart of a lettuce to it, that he looked at his caller.
“What d’ye want, mi lass?” he asked.
“I want you to lend me — me! — five or six hundred pounds, just now,” replied Jeckie readily. “Me, mind, Mr. Grice — not him. Me!”
“What for?” demanded Grice, stolidly and with no sign of surprise. “What for, now?”
“I’ll tell you,” answered Jeckie, gaining in courage. “I want to pay off every penny he owes. Then I’ll be master! I shall have him under my thumb, and I’ll make him do. I’ll see to every penny that comes in and goes out; and you mark my words, Mr. Grice, I can make that farm pay! If you’ll lend me what I want I’ll pay you back in three years, and it’ll be then a good going concern. I know what I’m saying.”
“In less nor three years you and my son Albert’ll be wed,” remarked Grice.
“I can keep an eye on it, and on my father and Rushie when we are wed,” retorted Jeckie.
“And there’s another thing,” said Grice. “When I gave my consent to your weddin’ my son, it were an agreed thing between me an’ Farnish, a bargain, that you should have five hundred pound from him as a portion. Where’s that?”
Jeckie gave him a swift meaning look.
“I might have yet, if I took hold o’ things,” she answered. “But it ‘ud be me ‘at would find it, Mr. Grice. My father — Lord bless you — he’d never find five hundred pence! But — trust me!”
Grice carved himself some more cold beef, and as he seemed to be considering her proposal, Jeckie resumed her arguments.
“There’ll be a good bit of money to come in this back-end,” she said. “And if we’d more cows, as I’d have, we should do better. And pigs — I’d go in for pigs. Let me only clear off what debt he’s got into, and — —”
Grice suddenly laughed quietly, and, seizing his tankard, looked knowingly at her as he lifted it to his lips.
“The question is, mi lass,” he said, “the question is — how deep has he got? You don’t know that, you know!”
“Most of it, at any rate,” said Jeckie. “I’ll lay four or five hundred ‘ud clear it all off, Mr. Grice.”
“Five hundred pound,” observed Grice, “is a big, a very big sum o’ money. It were a long time,” he added reflectively, “before I could truly say that I were worth it!”
“You’re worth a lot more now, anyway,” remarked Jeckie. “And you’ll be doing a good deed if you help me. After all, I want to set things going right; they’re my own flesh and blood up yonder. Now, come, Mr. Grice!”
Grice pushed away the remains of the more solid portion of his dinner, and thoroughly dug into the prime old cheese. After eating a little and nibbling at a radish he turned to his visitor.
“I’ll not say ‘at I will, and I’ll not say ‘at I willn’t,” he announced. “It’s a matter to be considered about. But I’ll say this here — I’ll take a ride up Applecroft way this afternoon, and just see how things stands, like. And then — —”
He waved Jeckie towards the door, and she, knowing his moods and temperament, took the hint, and with no more than a word of thanks, hastened to leave him. In the shop Albert was still busily engaged with Mrs. Aislabie, who found it hard to determine on Irish roll or Wiltshire. With him Jeckie exchanged no more than a glance. She felt a sense of relief when she got out into the street; and when, five minutes later, she was crossing the churchyard she muttered to herself certain words which showed that her conversation with Stubley was still in her mind.
“Yes, that’s the only way — to clear him out altogether, and let me take hold! I’ll put things to rights if only George Grice’ll find the money!”
At that moment George Grice, having finished his dinner, was taking out of a cupboard certain of his account books. Before he did anything for anybody, he wanted to know precisely how much was owing to him at Applecroft.
CHAPTER III
The Broken Man
WHILE JECKIE WAS busied in the village and Farnish, sighing after the key of the beer barrel, was aimlessly wandering about the farm buildings, there came into the kitchen, where Rushie was making ready the dinner, a tall, blue-eyed, broadly-built youngster, whose first action was to glance inquiringly at the clock and whose second was to go to the sink in the corner to wash his brown hands. This was Joe, or Doadie Bartle, about whom nobody in those parts knew more than that he had turned up as a lad of fifteen at Applecroft some six or seven years previously; had been taken in by Farnish to do a bit of work for his meat, drink and lodging, and had remained there ever since. According to his own account, he was an orphan, from Lincolnshire, who had run away from his last place and gone wandering about the country in search of a better. Something in the atmosphere of Applecroft had suited him, and there he had stayed, and was now, in fact, Farnish’s sole help on the farm outside the occasional assistance of the two girls. There were folk in the village who said that Farnish got his labour for naught, but Jeckie knew that he had had twenty pounds a year ever since he was eighteen, and had regularly put by one-half of his wages under her supervision. Doadie Bartle, chiefly conspicuous for his air of simple good nature, had come to be a fixture. Without him and Jeckie the place would have gone to wrack and ruin long since, for Farnish had a trick of sitting down when he should have been afoot, and gossiping in public-houses when his presence was wanted elsewhere. It was because of this — a significant indication, had there been anyone to notice it — that Doadie was always treated to a pint of ale at dinner and supper, while his master was rigorously restricted to a glass.
Doadie Bartle looked again at the clock as he finished wiping his hands on the rough towel which hung from its roller behind the door. His glance ended at Rushie, who was sticking a fork into the potatoes on the hob.
“By gow, it’s a warm ‘un, this mornin’!” he said. “Where’s Jeckie, like? I could do wi’ my pint now better nor later.”
“You’ll have to wait,” answered Rushie, who had seen her father’s despairing glance at the delf-ledge. “She’s gone out, and taken the key with her.”
Doadie looked disappointedly in the direction of the beer barrel, which stood on its gantry just within the open door of the larder. Resigning himself to the unavoidable, he walked out into the fold, where Farnish leaned against the wall of the pig-stye, hands in pockets.
“I shall have to do a bit o’ mendin’ up this afternoon,” said Doadie. “Merritt’s cows has been i’ our clover; there’s a bad place i’ t’hedge.”
“Aye!” assented Farnish. There was no interest in his tone, and little more seemed to be awakened when Rushie appeared at the kitchen window and announced that dinner was ready. He shambled indoors, and, without removing his hat, sat down at the head of his table, and began to cut slices off the big lump of cold bacon, which, with boiled potatoes and greens, made up the dinner. “Jeckie’s no reight to run off wi’ t’key o’ t’ale barrel,” he grumbled. “Them ‘at tews hes a reight to sup!”
“It’s not much tewin’ ‘at you’ve been doin’, I’ll lay!” retorted Rushie, who had long since learned the art of homely repartee from her elder sister. “Ridin’ about like a lord!”
“Now then, never mind!” growled Farnish. “Happen I done more tewin’ nor ye’re aware on, mi lass! There’s more sorts o’ hard work than one.”
Then, all three being liberally supplied, the three pairs of jaws set to work, and the steady eating went on in silence until the sheep-cur, chained outside the door to a dilapidated kennel, gave a short, sharp bark. Rushie, who knew this to be a declaration of friendliness rather than of enmity, ran and put the potatoes and greens on the hob to warm up.
“Jeckie!” she said. “None been so long, after all.”
Jeckie came bustling into the kitchen as Farnish, who knew her appetite, pushed a well-filled plate towards her place. Without a word she took a big earthenware jug from its hook, went to the larder, and rummaged in her pocket for the key of the beer barrel. Presently the sound of the gurgling ale was heard in the kitchen. Doadie Bartle’s big blue eyes glistened as he went on steadily munching. Farnish looked down at the cloth, wondering if his elder daughter meant to be generous. The roseate hopes set up in Jeckie’s mind by her interview with George Grice inclined her for once to laxity. When she came back with the ale she gave her father a pint instead of a glass, and Farnish made an involuntary mutter of appreciation. He and his man seized their measures and drank deep. Jeckie, pouring out glasses for herself and her sister, gave them a half-whimsical look; she had been obliged to tilt the barrel a little to draw that ale, and she knew that its contents were running low, and that the brewer’s man was not due for two days yet.
The dinner went on to its silent end; the bacon, greens, and potatoes finished. Rushie cleared the plates in a heap, and, setting clean ones before each diner, produced a huge jam tart, hot and smoking from the oven. Jeckie cut this into great strips and distributed them. Bartle, still hungry, took a mouthful of his, turned scarlet, and reached for his pot of beer.
“Gum! that’s a hot ‘un!” he said drinking heartily. “Like to take t’skin offen your tongue, is that!” Then, with an apologetic glance in Rushie’s direction, and, as if to excuse his manners, he murmured, “Jam’s allus hotter nor owt ‘at iver comes out o’ t’oven, I think, and I allus forget it; you mun excuse me!”
“Save toffee,” remarked Farnish, with the air of superior knowledge. “There’s nowt as hot as what toffee is. I rek’lect ‘at I once burnt t’roof o’ my mouth varry bad wi’ some toffee ‘at mi mother made; they hed to oil my mouth same as they oil machines — wi’ a feather.”
When the last of the jam tart had vanished the two girls put their elbows on the table, propped their chins on their interlaced fingers, and seemed to study the pattern of the coarse linen cloth. Farnish got up slowly; took down his pipe from the corner of the mantlepiece, and, drawing some loose tobacco from his waistcoat pocket, began to smoke. Bartle, after rising and stretching himself, went over to a drawer in the delf-ledge, and presently came back from it with a paper packet, which he began to unfold. An odour of peppermint rose above the lingering smell of the bacon and greens.
“Humbugs!” he said, with a broad grin, as he offered the packet to the two girls. “I bowt three-pennorth t’last time I were i’ Sicaster, and I’d forgotten all abowt ’em. They’re t’reight sort, these is — tasty ‘uns.”
Munching the brown and white bull’s eyes, the sisters began to clear away the dinner things into the scullery. Presently Rushie called to Bartle to bring her the kettle and help her to wash up. When he had gone into the scullery Jeckie, who was folding up the cloth, turned to her father.
“About what you told me this morning,” she said, in low tones. “Something’s got to be done, and, of course, as usual, I’ve got to do it. I’ve been down to see George Grice.”
Farnish started, and his thin face flushed a little. He was mortally afraid of George Grice, who represented money and power and will force.
“Aye, well, mi lass!” he muttered slowly. “Of course there’s no doubt ‘at Mr. George Grice has what they call th’ ability to help a body — no doubt at all. But as to whether he’s gotten the will, you know, why — —”
“Less talk!” commanded Jeckie. “If he helps anybody it’ll be me! And you listen here; we’re not going on as we have done. You’re letting things go from bad to worse. And you don’t tell me t’truth, neither. I met Stubley, and he says you never paid t’last half-year’s rent. Now, then!”
“I arranged it wi’ t’steward,” protested Farnish. “Him an’ me understand each other; Mr. Stubley’s nowt to do wi’ it.”
“You had the money,” asserted Jeckie. “What did you do with it?”
“It went to them money-lendin’ fellers,” answered Farnish. “That’s where it went; they would have it, choose how! Ye see mi lass — —”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” interrupted Jeckie. “You’ll have to let me take hold! I can pull things round. Now, you listen! Mr. George Grice is coming up here this very afternoon, and him and me’s going to get at a right idea of how matters stand. And if he helps me to pay all off and get a fresh start I’m going to be master, d’ye see? You’ll just have to do all ‘at I say in future. You can be master in name if you like, but I shall be t’real one. If you don’t agree to that, I shall do no more! If I put you right, in future I shall manage things; I shall take all that comes in, and pay all that goes out. Do you understand that?”
Farnish accepted this ultimatum with an almost tipsy gravity. He continued to puff at his pipe while his daughter talked, and when she had finished he bowed solemnly, as if he had been a judge assenting to an arrangement made between contending litigants.
“Now then,” he said, in almost unctuous accents, “owt ‘at suits you’ll suit me! If so be as you can put me on my legs again, Jecholiah, mi lass, I’m agreeable to any arrangement as you’re good enough to mak’. You can tek’ t’reins o’ office, as the sayin’ is, wi’ pleasure, and do all t’paying out and takin’ in. Of course,” he added, with a covert glance in his daughter’s direction, “you’ll not be against givin’ your poor father a few o’ shillin’s a week to buy a bit o’ ‘bacca wi? — it ‘ud be again Nature, and religion, an’ all, if I were left — —”
“You’ve never been without beer or ‘bacca yet, that I know of,” retorted Jeckie, with a flash of her eye. “Trust you! But now, when George Grice comes, mind there’s no keeping aught back. We shall want to know — —”
