Collected works of j s f.., p.451
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 451
“Not a scrap of use!” said the lawyer. “Stop here while I go round to Palethorpe’s and see for myself how things are. They’ll show me those letters.”
Grice sat grunting and muttering in Camberley’s office until Camberley returned. One glance at the solicitor’s face showed him that there was no hope.
“Well?” he asked anxiously as Camberley sat down to his desk. “Well, now?”
“It’s just as I expected,” said Camberley. “Of course they’ve a perfectly good case; they couldn’t have a better. I’ve seen your son’s letters. Excellent evidence — for the plaintiff! Marriage is mentioned in every one of them — when it was to be, what arrangements were to be made afterwards, and so on. There’s no use beating about the bush, Grice; you haven’t a chance!”
“Then, there’s naught for it but payin’?” said the grocer with a deep sigh. “No way o’ gettin’ out of it?”
“There’s no way of getting out of it,” answered Camberley. “Nobody and nothing can get you out of it. Here’s a perfectly blameless, well-behaved, hard-working young woman, whom you had willingly accepted as your son’s future wife, suddenly flung off like an old glove, for no cause whatever! What do you suppose a jury would say to that? You’ll have to settle, Grice — and I’ve done my best for you. They’ll take fifteen hundred pounds and their costs.”
Grice’s big face turned white, and the sweat burst out on his forehead and rolled down his cheeks, and over the tight lip and into his beard.
“It’s either that, or the case’ll go on to trial,” said Camberley. “My own opinion,” he added, dryly, “is that if it goes to trial, she’d get two thousand. You’d far better write out a cheque and have done with it. It’s your own fault, you know.”
Grice pulled out his cheque-book and wrote slowly at Camberley’s dictation. When he had attached his signature he handed over the cheque with trembling fingers, and, without another word, went out, climbed heavily into his trap, and drove home. He maintained a strange and curious silence all the rest of that day, and that evening the strains of the new piano failed to charm him. More than once his cigar went out unnoticed; once or twice he shed tears into his gin-and-water.
CHAPTER VII
The Golden Teapot
WHILE GEORGE GRICE was driving out of Sicaster, groaning and grumbling at his ill-luck, Jeckie Farnish, in the Finkle Street lodging, was contemplating a pile of linen which had just been sent in to her for stitching. Rushie contemplated it, too, and made a face at it.
“Looks as if we should never get through it!” she said mournfully, “And it’s such dull work, sewing all day long.”
“Don’t you quarrel with your bread-and-butter, miss!” answered Jeckie, with ready sharpness. “You’d ought to be thankful we’ve got work to do rather than grumble at it.”
“There’s other work nor this that a body can do,” retorted Rushie. “And a deal pleasanter!”
“Aye, and what, miss, I should like to know?” demanded Jeckie as she thrust a length of linen into her sister’s hands. “What is there that you could do, pray?”
“Herbert Binks says Mr. Fryer wants one or two young women in his shop,” answered Rushie, diffidently. “I could try for that if I was only let. And it’s far more respectable learning the drapery and millinery than sewing sheets and things all day long.”
“Is it?” said Jeckie. “Well, I know naught about respectability, and I do know ‘at Mr. Fryer ‘ud want a nice bit o’ money paying to him if he took you as apprentice. And you mind what you’re doing with that Herbert Binks! I’ve no opinion o’ these town fellers; he’ll be turning your head with soft talk. You be thankful ‘at we’ve got work to do that keeps us out o’ the workhouse. Where should we all ha’ been now, I should like to know, if it hadn’t been for me?”
Then she sat down in her usual place by the window, and began to sew as if for dear life, while Rushie, taking refuge in poutings and silence, set to work in languid fashion. Already Jeckie was having trouble with her and with Farnish. The younger sister openly revolted against the interminable sewing. Farnish, whose pocket-money had been fixed at five shillings, found eightpence-halfpenny a day all too little for his beer, and sulked every night when he came home from the greengrocer’s. Moreover, Jeckie found it impossible to keep Rushie to heel; she could not always be watching her, and as soon as her back was turned of an evening Rushie was out and away about the town, always with some shop-boy or other in attendance. It was not easy work to manage her or Farnish, and Jeckie foresaw a day in which both would strike. Some folk, she knew, would have said let them strike and see to themselves, but Jeckie was one of those unfortunate mortals who are cursed with an exaggerated sense of personal responsibility, and she worried much more about her father and sister than about herself.
“You stick to what work we’ve got for a bit, Rushie, my lass!” she said presently, in mollifying tones. “I know well enough it’s trying, but there’ll very likely be something better to do before long; you never know what’s going to turn up!”
Something was about to turn up at that moment, though Jeckie was unconscious of it. One of Palethorpe & Overthwaite’s office boys came whistling along the street, and, catching sight of Jeckie at the open window, paused and grinned; Jeckie eyed him over with a sudden feeling of anticipation.
“Are you wanting me?” she demanded.
“Mr. Palethorpe’s compliments, and would you mind stepping round to our office, miss?” said the lad. “They want to see you, particular.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” answered Jeckie. She laid aside her sewing when the lad had turned on his heel, and looked at her sister. “Get on with your work while I’m out, Rushie,” she said. “I’ll be as quick as I can — and, maybe, I’ll have some news for you when I come back.”
Then she hurried into her best garments and hastened round to Palethorpe & Overthwaite’s, wondering all the way what they wanted. The partners smiled at her as she was shown in, and Overthwaite manifested an extra politeness in handing her a chair.
“Well, Miss Farnish!” said Palethorpe, almost jocularly. “We’ve good news for you. The enemy’s capitulated! Never made a bit of a fight, either. Clean beaten!”
Jeckie looked from one man to the other with surprised questioning eyes.
“He’s going to pay?” she suggested.
Palethorpe pointed to a cheque which lay face downwards on his desk.
“He’s paid!” he answered. “Half an hour ago. There’s the cheque. I’ll tell you all about it in a few words. I served Albert with the writ myself yesterday afternoon. Albert had nothing to say; old George blustered, and said he’d see his solicitor. I said he could do nothing better. He came in first thing this morning, and saw Camberley; Camberley came on to see us. And, of course, he knew they hadn’t a leg to stand on, so, as you’d given us full permission to settle on your behalf, he came to terms. And — there’s the money!”
Jeckie caught her breath, and looked at the cheque with a glance keen enough, as Overthwaite afterwards remarked, to go through it and the wood beneath it. It was with an obvious effort that she got out two words.
“How much?”
“Fifteen hundred pounds — and our costs,” answered Palethorpe. “I hope you’re satisfied?”
Jeckie gave him a queer, shrewd, enigmatical look.
“Aye, I’m satisfied!” she said in a low voice. “I should ha’ made Albert Grice a rare good wife and George Grice a saving daughter-in-law, but — yes, I’m satisfied. And — I know well enough what I shall do with it — as George Grice’ll find out! So — I’m worth fifteen hundred pound? That’s one thousand five hundred! Very well! And — I’m much obliged to you.”
Palethorpe turned to his partner.
“Write out a cheque for Miss Farnish for one thousand five hundred pounds,” he said. “And she’ll give us a receipt. Now Miss Farnish,” he went on, as Overthwaite produced a cheque-book, “You’ll want to bank this money, no doubt? If you like, I’ll introduce you to the Old Bank.”
“Much obliged to you,” answered Jeckie. “I have some money of my own in the Penny Bank, but of course, it’s naught much. Yes, I’ll go to the Old Bank, if you please, Mr. Palethorpe. And — don’t I owe you something?”
“Nothing!” answered Palethorpe, with a smile. “We made Grice pay your costs — every penny.”
“I hope you charged him plenty,” said Jeckie.
Palethorpe laughed, and presently handing her the cheque, took her off to the Old Bank and introduced her to its manager. Half an hour later, Jeckie, with a virgin cheque-book in her hand, burst in upon Rushie.
“There now, Rushie!” she said, “didn’t I tell you there’d happen be better times i’ store for us. You can drop that sewing — we’ve done with it. We’ll hand it over to Mrs. Thompson; she’ll finish it and be glad o’ the job an’ all. But — we’ve done wi’ that.”
Rushie dropped her needle into the folds of the linen and stared.
“Whatever’s happened?” she demanded. “You’re all red, like!”
“Never you mind if I’m blue or green,” said Jeckie. “I’ve made them Grices pay! — I never told you, but I put t’lawyers on to Albert for breach of promise. And of course there was no defence, and he’s had to pay, or old George has paid for him, and I’ve got the money, and it’s safe in the bank!”
“How much?” asked Rushie eagerly. “A lot?”
“No, I shan’t tell!” replied Jeckie, with a firm shake of her head. “Then you won’t know when father asks, for I certainly shan’t tell him. But now, Rushie, you listen here. Take all this stuff to Mrs. Thompson and ask her if she’ll finish it off. And see to your own and father’s dinner — I shan’t be in for dinner; I’ve important business to see to, and I shall be out till evening. Now don’t go trailing about the town, Rushie — be a good girl, and you’ll hear news when I come home.”
“Then we aren’t going to do any more sewing?” asked Rushie.
“We’re going to do no more sewing!” said Jeckie. “Not one stitch! We’re going to do something a deal better. You’ll see, if you behave yourself — and it’ll be a deal better, too, nor going ‘prentice to Mr. Fryer.”
She gave her sister a decisive nod as she left the house and the colour was still bright in her cheeks as she marched off in the direction of a path across the fields which lay between Sicaster and Savilestowe. It was but a very short time since she and Rushie and Farnish had come along that path, carrying their entire belongings in bundles; now, she reflected, she was retracing her steps with the proud consciousness that she had fifteen hundred pounds of solid money in the bank — the knowledge was all the sweeter to her because it had been wrung out of old George Grice.
“Aye!” she muttered, as she walked swiftly along over the quiet meadows and through the growing cornfields. “And now ‘at I’ve got a start, I’ll let George Grice see ‘at he’s not the only one ‘at can play at the game o’ makin’ money! He’s a hard and a healthy old feller, and he’ll live a good while yet, and I’d let him see ‘at I can make money as cleverly as he’s done — aye, and at his expense, too! I’ll make him and Albert rue the day ‘at they cast me aside — let ’em see if I don’t!”
The path across the fields led Jeckie out close by Applecroft, but it was indicative of her mood that she never once turned her head aside to glance at the old place. She marched straight down the lane, crossed the churchyard, and presently turned into Stubley’s trim garden. It was to see Stubley that she had come to Savilestowe.
Stubley, who had just been round his land, was entering his house when Jeckie came up. He led her inside, and, finding she would drink nothing stronger brought out a bottle of home-made wine; he himself turned to a jug of ale which stood ready on the sideboard.
“And what brings ye here, mi lass?” he asked, eyeing her inquisitively as he sat down in his big elbow chair. “Ye’re lookin’ uncommon well.”
“Mr. Stubley,” answered Jeckie, “I’ve come to see you. I’ve something to tell you, for you were always a good friend to me. You knew that I was going to marry Albert Grice, and that him and his father threw me away when my father came smash. Well, I’ve made ’em pay! Old George has paid fifteen hundred pound — and I’ve got it, all safe, in the bank.”
Stubley’s face lighted up with undisguised admiration, and he brought his big hand down on his knee with a hearty smack.
“Good lass!” he exclaimed. “Good lass! That’s the ticket! An’ right an’ all — they tret you very bad did them two! Good, that ‘ud make old George grunt and grumble! But fifteen hundred pound — that’s a sight o’ money, mi gel — mind you take care on it.”
“Trust me!” answered Jeckie, with a sharp look, “I know the value of money as well as anybody. But now, Mr. Stubley, do you know what I’m going to do with that fifteen hundred pound?”
“Nay, sure-ly!” said the farmer. “How should I know, mi lass?”
“Then, I’ll tell you,” replied Jeckie. She leaned forward across the table, looking earnestly into Stubley’s shrewd eyes. “This!” she said. “I’m going to start a grocery business here in Savilestowe — in opposition to Grice and Son! There!”
Stubley started as if somebody had suddenly trod on a corn. He stared at his visitor, rubbed his chin, and shook his head.
“You’re a bold ‘un!” he said in accents which were not without admiration. “And a clever ‘un, an’ all! Aye, there’s summat in that notion, mi lass; old George has had his own way i’ this neighbourhood i’ that line too long, and t’place ‘ud be all t’better for a bit o’ competition. But — what do ye know o’ t’trade?”
“I know how to buy and sell with anybody,” asserted Jeckie. “An’ I’m that quick at picking things up ‘at I shall know all there is to be known before I start. My mind’s made up, Mr. Stubley. I’ve reckoned and figured things. George Grice isn’t popular here, as you know; there’s lots of folks’ll give their custom to me. And I’ll warrant you I’ll have all t’poor folks away from him as soon as ever I open my doors! He’s been hard on them, and his prices is shameful, and he doesn’t lay himself out to keep what they want; as it is, most on ’em have to go to Sicaster for their stuff. Now, I’ll capture all t’lot of ’em, here and in this district; I know what they want, and what they can pay, and I’ll provide accordingly. An’ I’ll cut George Grice’s prices wherever I can; I know what I’m about! An’ I’m sure and certain that there’s lots o’ the better sort’ll give me their trade; you would yourself, now, Mr. Stubley, wouldn’t you?”
“Aye, I think I can say I should, mi lass!” asserted the farmer. “I’m none bound to no George Grice; he’s a hard, grasping old feller, and there’s no love lost between me and him. But you know ye’d want a likely shop, and — —”
“That’s just what I’ve come about,” interrupted Jeckie. “I want you to let me that empty house that old Mrs. Mapplebeck had; I know it’s yours, and I know what she paid you for it. Those two bottom front rooms’ll make a splendid shop, and I’d have ’em fitted up at once. Let it to me, Mr. Stubley, and I’ll pay you the first year’s rent in advance, just now.”
Stubley suddenly smote his knee again, and burst into laughter.
“Good; it’s right opposite old George’s!” he chuckled. “He’d have t’opposition shop straight before his eyes, right i’ front of his nose! They talk about poetic justice, what? — now that would be it, wi’ a vengeance. Gow! — I can see t’old feller’s face! Ye’re a bold ‘un, Jeckie, mi lass, ye’re a bold ‘un!”
“Let me the house!” said Jeckie. “It’s just because it’s in front of Grice’s that I do want it. Don’t you see, Mr. Stubley, that one o’ my best chances is to be right before his very door? There’s many that set out to go to him ‘ud turn into me when they saw it was better worth their while.”
Stubley chuckled again at his visitor’s eagerness, and suddenly he pulled up his chair to the table and became serious.
“Now, then, let’s go into matters,” he said, gravely. “Ye’re a smart lass, you know, Jeckie, but it’s a serious thing starting to fight an old-established firm like Grice and Son. Let’s hear a bit more about what you propose, like.”
Jeckie wished for nothing better. She talked, and explained, and outlined her schemes, and pointed out to the farmer, himself a keen man of business, where Grice & Son were hopelessly out of date and where she could hope to draw a considerable amount of trade away from them. She also showed him that she was thoroughly conversant with certain customs of the trade which she now proposed to take up, and that she had already made herself acquainted with the methods of purchase from wholesale grocers and manufacturers. Stubley was struck by her knowledge.
“You’ve been meditating this, mi lass?” he said. “You’ve been preparing for it!”
“Ever since I knew there was a chance of getting money out o’ George Grice, I have!” admitted Jeckie. “As soon as ever Palethorpe and Overthwaite told me ‘at I’d a good case, and that Albert ‘ud have to pay, I determined what I’d do with the money even if it wasn’t as much as it’s turned out to be. And I shall do well, Mr. Stubley, you’ll see!”
Stubley let her the house she wanted, and she paid him a year’s rent in advance, and went off, triumphant, to the village carpenter, and, having sworn him to secrecy, told him her plans and gave him orders for the fitting up of the two big ground-floor rooms. He, too, got a cheque on account, and promised to go to work at once and to tell nobody who it was that he was working for. But he was wise enough to know that such work as his could not be done in a corner and that there would be infinite curiosity in the shop across the way.
“Ye’ll none get that secret kept long, ye know, miss,” he said. “When t’Grices sees ‘at I’m fittin’ yon place up as a shop they’ll want to know what it’s all about like. It’ll have to come out i’now.”
