Collected works of j s f.., p.448
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 448
Just then Rushie called from the scullery that the grocer was at the garden gate in his trap, and Farnish immediately got out of his easy chair, ill at ease.
“Happen I’d better go walk i’ t’croft a bit while you hev your talk to him, Jeckie?” he suggested. “Two’s company, and three’s — —”
“And happen you’d better do naught o’ t’sort!” retorted Jeckie. “You bide where you are till you’re wanted.”
She went out to the gate to meet Grice, who, being one of those men who never walk where they can ride, had driven up to Applecroft in one of his grocery carts, and was now hitching his pony to a ring in the outer wall. He nodded silently to Jeckie as he moved heavily towards her.
“Much obliged to you for coming, Mr. Grice,” she said eagerly. “I take it very kind of you. I’ve spoken to him,” she went on, lowering her voice and nodding in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ve told him, straight, that if you and me help him out o’ this mess that he’s got into, I shall be master, so — —”
“Take your time, mi lass, take your time!” said the grocer. “Before I think o’ helping anybody I want to know where I am! Now,” he continued, as they walked into the fold and he looked round him with appraising eyes, “it may seem a queer thing me living in t’same place, my lass, but I’ve never been near this house o’ yours for many a long year — never sin’ you were a bairn, I should think — it’s out o’ t’way, d’ye see! And dear, dear, I see a difference! What! — there’s naught about t’place! No straw — no manure — no cattle — a pig or two — a few o’ fowls! — Why, there’s nowt! Looks bad, my lass, looks very, very bad. Farnish has nowt — nowt!”
Jeckie’s heart sank like lead in a well, and a sickened feeling came over her. “I know it looks pretty bad, Mr. Grice,” she admitted, almost humbly. “But it’s not so bad as it looks. There’s four right good cows, and over a hundred and fifty head o’ poultry. I know what the butter and milk and eggs bring in! — and there’s more pigs nor what you see, and there’s the crops. Come through the croft, and look at ’em. If there’s no manure in the fold, it’s on the land, anyway — we’ve never sold neither straw nor manure off this place. Come this way.”
It was mainly owing to Jeckie, Rushie, and Doadie Bartle that what arable land Farnish held was clear and free of weeds. The grocer was bound to admit that the crops looked well; his long acquaintance with a farming district had taught him how to estimate values; he agreed with Jeckie that, granted the right sort of weather for the rest of the summer and part of autumn, there was money in what he was shown.
“But then, you know, mi lass,” he said as they returned to the house, “it all depends on what Farnish is owing. This here money-lender ‘at you spoke of — he ought to be cleared off, neck and crop! Then there’s a year’s rent. And there’ll be other things. There’s forty pounds due to me. Before ever I take into consideration doing aught at all for you— ‘cause I wouldn’t do it for Farnish, were it ever so! — I shall want to know how matters stands, d’ye see? I must know of every penny ‘at’s owing — otherwise it ‘ud be throwin’ good money after bad. I’ll none deny that if what he owes is nowt much — two or three hundred or so — things might be pulled round under your management. But, there it is! What does he owe? — that’s what we want to be getting at.”
“I’ll make him tell,” said Jeckie. “We’ll have it put down on paper. Come in, Mr. Grice.” Then, as they went towards the door of the house, she added in confidential, hospitable tones, “I’ve a bottle o’ good old whisky put away, that nobody knows naught about — you shall have a glass.”
Grice muttered something about no need for his prospective daughter-in-law to trouble herself, but he followed her into the kitchen, where Farnish stood nervously awaiting them. The grocer, who felt that he could afford to be facetious as well as magnanimous, gave Farnish a sly look.
“Now then, mi lad!” he said. “We’ve come to hear a bit about what you’ve been doing o’ late! You seem to ha’ let things run down, Farnish — there’s nowt much to show outside. How is it, like?”
“Why, you see, Mr. Grice,” answered Farnish with a weak smile, “there’s times, as you’ll allow, sir, when a man gets a bit behindhand, and — —”
He suddenly paused, and his worn face turned white, and Grice, following his gaze, which was fixed on the garden outside, saw what had checked his speech. Two men were coming to the front door; in one of them Grice recognised a Sicaster auctioneer who was also a sheriff’s officer. He let out a sharp exclamation which made Jeckie, who was unlocking a corner cupboard, swing herself round in an agony of fear.
“Good God!” he said. “Bailiffs!”
The door was open to the sunshine and the scent of the garden, and the sheriff’s officer, after a glance within, stepped across the threshold and pulled out a paper.
“Afternoon, Mr. Grice!” he said cheerfully. “Fine day, sir. Now, Mr. Farnish, sorry to come on an unpleasant business, but I dare say you’ve been expecting me any time this last ten days, eh? Levinstein’s suit, Mr. Farnish — execution. Four hundred and eighty-three pounds, five shillings, and sixpence. Not convenient to settle, I dare say, so I’ll have to leave my man.”
Jeckie, who had grown as white as the linen on the lines outside, stood motionless for a moment. Then she turned on her father.
“You said it was only two hundred!” she exclaimed hoarsely. “You said — —” She paused, hearing Grice laugh, and turned to see him clap his hat on his head and stride out by the back door. In an instant she was after him, her hand, trembling like a leaf, on his arm.
“Mr. Grice! You’re not going? Stand by us — by me! Before God, I’ll see you’re right!” she cried. “Mr. Grice!”
But Grice strode on towards his trap; the tight lip tighter than ever.
“Nay!” he said. “Nay! It’s no good, my lass. It’s done wi’.”
“Mr. Grice!” she cried again. “Why — I’m promised to your Albert! Mr. Grice!”
But Mr. Grice made no answer; another moment and he had climbed into his cart and was driving away, and Jeckie, after one look at his broad back, muttered something to herself and went back into the house.
An hour later she and Rushie were mangling and ironing, in dead silence. They went on working, still in silence, far into the evening, and Doadie Bartle, after supper, turned the mangle for them. Towards dark Farnish, who had already become fast friends with the man in possession, stole up to his elder daughter, and whispered to her. Jeckie pulled the key of the beer barrel from her pocket, and flung it at him.
“Tek it, and drink t’barrel dry!” she said, fiercely. “It’s t’last ‘at’ll ever be tapped i’ this place — by you at any rate!”
CHAPTER IV
The Diplomatic Father
GRICE DROVE AWAY down the lane in a curious temper. He was angry with himself for wasting a couple of hours of his valuable time; angry with Jeckie for having induced him to do so; angry with Farnish for his incapacity and idleness; still more angry to find that it was hopeless to do what he might have done. He knew well enough that Jeckie had been right when she said that he would never find a better wife for Albert; he also knew that after what he had just witnessed he would never allow Albert to marry her. Jeckie alone would have been all right, but Jeckie, saddled with an incompetent parent, was impossible. “And if you can’t get t’best,” he muttered to himself, “you must take what comes nearest to t’best! There’s more young women i’ t’world than Jecholiah Farnish, and I mun consider about findin’ one. That ‘at I’ve left behind yonder’ll never do!”
Half-way down the lane he came across Doadie Bartle, busily engaged in mending the fence. Grice’s shrewd eyes saw how the youngster was working; here, at any rate, was no slacker. He pulled up his pony and gave Doadie a friendly nod.
“Now, mi lad!” he said. “Doin’ a bit o’ repairing, like?”
“Merritt’s cows were in there this mornin’,” answered Bartle. “They come up t’lane and got in to our clover, Mr. Grice.”
“Aye, why,” remarked Grice. “It’ll none matter much to you how oft Merritt’s cows or anybody else’s gets in to Farnish’s clover in a day or two, my lad. It’s over and done wi’ up yonder at Applecroft.”
Bartle’s blue eyes looked a question, and Grice laughed as he answered it.
“T’bailiffs is in!” he said. “Come in just now. It’s all up, lad. Farnish’ll be selled up — lock, stock, and barrel — within a week.”
Bartle drove the fork with which he had been gathering thorns together into the ground at his feet, and leaning on its handle, stared fixedly at Grice.
“Aw!” he said. “Why, I knew things were bad, but I didn’t know they were as bad as that, mister. Selled up, now! Come!”
“There’ll be nowt left, mi lad, neither in house nor barn, stye nor stable, in another week!” affirmed Grice. Then, waiting until he saw that his announcement had gone home with due effect, he added, “So you’ll be out of a place, d’ye see?”
Bartle let his gaze wander from the old grocer’s face up the lane. From where he stood he could see Applecroft, and at that moment he saw Jeckie and Rushie standing together in the orchard, evidently in close and deep conversation.
“Aye,” he said slowly. “If it’s as you say, I reckon I shall. And I been there six or seven year, an’ all!”
“And for next to nowt, no doubt,” remarked Grice, with a sly look. “Now, look here, mi lad, I’m wanting a young feller like you to go out wi’ my cart— ‘liverin’ goods, d’ye understand? If you like to take t’job on ye can start next Monday. I’ll gi’ you thirty shillin’ a week.”
He was quick to see the sudden sparkle in Bartle’s eyes, and he went on to deepen the impression.
“And there’s pickin’s an’ all,” he said. “Ye can buy owt you like out o’ my shop at cost price, and t’job’s none a heavy ‘un. Two horses to look after and this here pony, and go round wi’ t’goods. What do you say, now, Bartle?”
“Much obliged to you, mister; I’ll consider on it, and tell you to-morrow,” answered Bartle. “But” — he looked doubtfully at Grice, and then nodded towards the farm— “these here folks, what’s goin’ to become o’ them? I’ve been, as it were, one o’ t’family, d’ye see, Mr. Grice?”
“There’s no fear about t’lasses,” declared Grice, emphatically. “They’re both capable o’ doin’ well for theirsens, and I’ve no doubt Jeckie’s gotten a bit o’ brass put away safe, somewhere or other. As for Farnish, he mun turn to, and do summat ‘at he hasn’t done for years — he mun work. What ha’ ye to do with that, Bartle? Look to yersen, mi lad! Come and see me to-morrow.”
He shook up his pony’s reins and drove on. The encounter with Farnish’s man had improved his temper; he had been wanting a stout young fellow like Bartle for some time, a fellow that would lift heavy packing cases and make himself useful. Bartle was just the man. So he had, after all, got or was likely to get, something out of his afternoon’s excursion — satisfactory, that, for he was a man who objected to doing anything without profit.
But now there was Albert to consider. Of one thing George Grice was certain — there was going to be no marriage between Albert and Jecholiah Farnish. True, they were engaged; true, Albert, following the fashion of his betters, had, despite his father’s sneers, given her an engagement ring. But that was neither here nor there. Despite the fact that Albert’s name appeared in company with his father’s on the powder-blue and gold sign above the Diamond Jubilee Stores, Albert had no legal share in the business — there was no partnership; Albert was as much a paid servant as the shop-boy. Now, in old Grice’s opinion, the man who holds the purse-strings is master of the situation, and he had the pull over Albert in more ways than one. Moreover, a shrewd and astute man himself, he believed Albert to be a bit of a fool; a good-natured, amiable, weak sort of chap, easily come round. He had half a suspicion that Jeckie had come round him at some time or other. And now he would have to come round him himself, and at once.
“There’ll have to be no chance of her gettin’ at him,” he mused as he drove slowly down the village street. “He’s that soft and sentimental, is our Albert, ‘at if she had five minutes wi’ him, he’d be givin’ way to her. I mun use a bit of statesmanship.”
Occasion was never far to seek where George Grice was concerned, and before he had passed the “Coach-and-Four” he had conceived a plan of getting Albert out of the way until nightfall. As soon as he arrived at the shop he bustled in, went straight to his desk, and drawing out a letter, turned to his son.
“Albert, mi lad!” he said, as if the matter was of urgent importance, “there’s this letter here fro’ yon man at Cornchester about that horse ‘at he has to sell. Now, we could do wi’ a third horse — get yourself ready, and drive over there, and take a look at it. If it’s all right, buy it — you can go up to forty pounds for it, and tell him we’ll send t’cheque on to-morrow. Go now — t’trap’s outside there, and you can give t’pony a feed at Cornchester while you get your tea. Here, take t’letter wi’ you, and then you’ll have t’man’s address — somewhere i’ Beechgate. It’s nigh on to three o’clock now, so be off.”
Albert, who had no objection to a pleasant drive through the country lanes, was ready and gone within ten minutes, and old Grice was glad to think that he was safely absent until bed-time. During the afternoon and early evening various customers of the better sort, farmers and farmers’ wives, dropped in at the shop, and to each he assiduously broke the news of the day — Farnish had gone smash. One of these callers was Stubley, and Stubley, when he heard the news, looked at the grocer with a speculative eye.
“Then I reckon you’ll not be for Farnish’s lass weddin’ yon lad o’ yours?” he suggested. “Wouldn’t suit your ticket, that, Grice, what?”
“Now, then, what would you do if it were your case, Mr. Stubley?” demanded Grice. “Would you be for tying flesh and blood o’ yours up to owt ‘at belonged to Farnish?”
“She’s a fine lass, all t’same,” said Stubley. “I’ve kept an eye on her this last year or two. Strikes me ‘at things ‘ud ha’ come to an end sooner if it hadn’t been for her. She’s a grafter, Grice, and no waster, neither. She’d make a rare good wife for your Albert — where he’d make a penny she’d make a pound. I should think twice, mi lad, before I said owt.”
But Grice’s upper lip grew tighter than before when Stubley had gone, and by the time of his son’s return, with the new horse tied up behind the pony cart, he was ready for him. He waited until Albert had eaten his supper; then, when father and son were alone in the parlour, and each had got a tumbler of gin and water at his elbow, he opened his campaign.
“Albert, mi lad!” he said, suavely, “there’s been a fine to-do sin’ you set off Cornchester way this afternoon. Yon man Farnish has gone clean broke!”
Albert started and stared in surprise.
“It’s right, mi lad,” continued Grice. “He’s gotten t’bailiffs in — he’ll be selled up i’ less nor a week. Seems ‘at he’s been goin’ to t’money-lenders, yonder i’ Clothford — one feller’s issued an execution again him. Four hundred and eighty-three pound, five shillings, and sixpence! Did ye ever hear t’like o’ that? Him?”
Albert began to twiddle his thumbs.
“Nay!” he said, wonderingly. “I knew he were in a bad way, but I’d no idea it were as bad as that. Then he’s nought to pay with, I reckon?”
“Nowt — so to speak,” declared Grice. “Nowt ‘at ‘ll settle things, anyway. And I hear fro’ Stubley ‘at t’last half-year’s rent were never paid, and now here’s another just about due. And there’s other folk. He owes me forty pound odd. If I’d ha’ known o’ this yesterday, I’d ha’ had summat out o’ Farnish for my brass — I’d ha’ had a cow, or summat. Now, it’s too late; I mun take my chance wi’ t’rest o’ t’creditors. And when t’landlord’s been satisfied for t’rent, I lay there’ll be nowt much for nobody, money-lender nor anybody else.”
“It’s a bad job,” remarked Albert.
Grice turned to a shelf at the side of his easy chair, opened the lid of a cigar box, selected two cigars, and passed one to his son.
“Aye!” he assented presently, “it is a bad job, mi lad. Farnish promised ‘at he’d gi’ five hundred pound wi’ Jecholiah. I think we mun ha’ been soft i’ wor heads, Albert, to believe ‘at he’d ever do owt o’ t’sort. He wor havin’ us, as they say — havin’ us for mugs!”
Albert made no answer. He began to puff his cigar, watching his father through the blue smoke.
“Every man for his-self!” said old Grice after a while. “It were an understood thing, were that, Albert, and now ‘at there’s no chance o’ Farnish redeemin’ his word, there’s no need for you to stand by yours. There’s plenty o’ fine young women i’ t’world beside yon lass o’ Farnish’s. My advice to you, mi lad, is to cast your eyes elsewhere.”
Albert began to wriggle in his chair. His experience of Jeckie Farnish was that she had a will of her own; he possessed sufficient mother-wit to know that she was cleverer than he was.
“I don’t know what Jecholiah ‘ud say to that,” he murmured. “We been keeping company this twelve-month, and — —”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Grice. “What bi that! I’ll tell you what it is, mi lad — yon lass were never after you. I’ll lay owt there’s never been much o’ what they call love-makin’ between you! She were after my brass, d’yer see? Now, if it had been me ‘at had gone broke, i’stead o’ Farnish, what then? D’ye think she’d ha’ stucken to you? Nowt o’ t’sort!”
Albert sat reflecting. It was quite true that there had been little love-making between him and Jeckie. Jeckie was neither sentimental nor amorous. She and Albert had gone to church together; occasionally he had spent the evening at Farnish’s fireside; once or twice he had taken her for an outing, to a statutes-hiring fair, or a travelling circus. And he was beginning to wonder.
