Collected works of j s f.., p.459
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 459
“Well, listen,” said Jeckie. “There’s that piece o’ land o’ yours, down at t’bottom end o’ t’village. I want to buy it.”
Scholes’ thin face flushed, and he rose slowly from his chair, and for a moment turned away toward the window. When he looked round again he shook his head.
“Nay!” he said. “Nay! — I couldn’t sell yon theer! Why, it’s been i’ our family over three hundred years! Poor enough it is, and weean’t feed nowt — but as long as I have it, ye see, I’m a landowner, same as t’squire his-self! Why, as I dare say you’ve aweer, he wanted to buy that forty acres fro’ me a piece back — but I wodn’t. No! He were calculating to plant it, and to make it into a game preserve. It were no use. I couldn’t find it i’ mi heart to let it go. No!”
“Don’t be silly!” said Jeckie. “That’s all sentiment. What good is it to you? Them two cows ‘at you’ve got in it now can scarce pick up a mouthful!”
“It’s right, is that,” agreed Scholes. “If them unfortunate animals had to depend on what they get out o’ that theer they’d have empty bellies every night! But — (he dropped into his chair again and looked hard at his visitor) — since it’s as poor as it is, what might you be wantin’ it for? If it’s no good to me it’s no good to nobody.”
“I’ve got something that you haven’t got,” answered Jeckie, in her most matter-of-fact tones. “You could never do aught to improve that land, because you haven’t got the money to do it with. I have! I’ll be plain with you. I’ll tell you what I want it for. You know how I’ve developed my business since I started it — developed it in all sorts of ways. Well, I’m going in for market-gardening and fruit-growing, and that piece o’ land’ll just suit me, because it’s within half a mile o’ the shop. Sell it to me, and I’ll have it thoroughly drained. That’s what it wants; and make real good land of it, you’ll see. You can’t do that; it ‘ud cost you hundreds o’ pounds. I don’t mind spending hundreds o’ pounds on it. And — I want it!”
Scholes was evidently impressed by this line of argument. He looked round at his wife, who was gazing anxiously from him to Jeckie, and from Jeckie to him.
“Ye’re right i’ one thing,” he answered. “It would make all t’difference i’ t’world to them forty acres if they were drained. My father allus said so, and I’ve allus said so. But we never had t’money to lay out on that job.”
“I have,” said Jeckie. “Let me have it! It ‘ud be a shame on your part to deprive anybody of the chance of making bad land into good when you can’t do aught at it yourself! It’s doing you no good; I can make it do me a lot o’ good. And I’ll lay you could do with the money.”
Mrs. Scholes sighed. And Scholes gave her a sharp look.
“Aye, mi lass!” he said. “I know what ye’d say! Sell! But when all’s said and done, a man is sentimental. Three hundred year, over and above, yon theer property’s been i’ our family. I’ time o’ owd Queen Elizabeth — that’s when we got it. Lawyer Palethorpe, theer i’ Sicaster, he has all t’papers. He telled me one day ‘at of all t’landowners round here there isn’t one, not one, ‘at has land ‘at’s been held i’ one family as long as what our family’s held that. It ‘ud be like selling a piece o’ miself!”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Jeckie, utterly unmoved by Scholes’s reasonings. “I’ll give you a full receipt for your bill — close on a hundred pound it is — and a cheque for three hundred. That’s giving you nearly four hundred pound. And you know as well as I do that if you put it up to auction you’d scarce get a bid. Don’t be a fool, Ben Scholes! Three hundred pound, cash down, ‘ll be a rare help to you. And you’ll have no bill to pay me when harvest comes.”
Late that evening Mortimer tapped at the private door, and Jeckie admitted him. He followed her into the parlour.
“Well?” he said, without any word of greeting. “Anything come of it?”
“It’s all right,” answered Jeckie. “I’ve got it. Four hundred. I’m going into Sicaster with him to-morrow to settle it at the lawyer’s. So that’s managed.”
CHAPTER III
Coal
MORTIMER THREW DOWN his cap, and dropped into the easy chair which he had come to look upon as his own special reservation. He rubbed his hands together in sign of high satisfaction.
“Smart woman,” he exclaimed admiringly. “Excellent! Excellent! Didn’t I tell you that you’d be able to manage it? Good! Good!”
“Yes,” said Jeckie, almost indifferently. “I did it. I knew how to do it, you see, when I came to to think it over. And I did it there and then, and paid the price — there’s naught to do but the legal business, and that’s only a matter of form. The land’s mine, now.” She moved across the room to her safe, unlocked it, took out an envelope, drew Mortimer’s cheque from it, and quietly laid it at his elbow. “I shan’t want that, of course,” she added.
Mortimer looked up at her in surprise.
“But — I was to find the money!” he said.
“I’ve found it,” answered Jeckie. “I’ve bought the land — it’s mine, and whatever’s underneath it is mine, too. So if there’s nothing, there’s nothing — and you’ll lose nothing.”
“Oh, well,” said Mortimer, “as long as we’ve got it, it doesn’t much matter who’s bought it — we’ll make that right later.”
Jeckie gave him no reply. But in Mortimer’s sorry acceptance of her announcement she made a sudden discovery as to his character. Enthusiastic he no doubt was, and eager and full of ideas as to business. But — he was easygoing, apt to let things slide; ready to take matters as settled when they were all unsettled. Jeckie herself, had she been Mortimer, and bearing in mind the conversation of the previous evening, would have insisted on a proper and definite understanding as to the ownership of the forty acres. She smiled grimly as she relocked the door of her safe, and she said to herself when it came to a contest of brains she was one too many for this smart London fellow. The land was hers, and the mineral beneath it — so she said nothing; there was nothing to say.
“The thing is,” said Mortimer, again rubbing his hands in high glee, “the thing is, now, to get to work. We must bore!”
“How’s that set about?” asked Jeckie, who was now anxious to learn all she could. “What’s done, like?”
“Oh, you just get some men and the necessary apparatus,” replied Mortimer nonchalantly. “I’ll see to all that. And I’ll get a friend of mine down from London — I’ll take a room for him at the ‘Coach-and-Four’ — a friend who’s one of the cleverest experts of the day; he and I, between us, will jolly soon tell you what lies under that land. Of course, I haven’t the slightest doubt about it, but it’s better to have the opinion of two experts than one. My friend’s name is Farebrother — he’s well-known. He shall come down and watch the boring operations with me. I’ll get the men and the requisite machinery at once, and we’ll go to work as soon as you’ve got the legal business through — we’d better keep it dark until then.”
“All that’ll cost money, of course,” observed Jeckie.
“Oh, a few hundred’ll go a long way in the preliminaries,” answered Mortimer. “I’ll wait until Farebrother comes along before I decide which method I’ll follow — the percussive or the rotatory. But I won’t bother you with technical details; what you’ll be more interested in will be results.”
“This boring that you talk about, now?” said Jeckie. “It shows what there is underneath the surface?”
“To be sure!” assented Mortimer. “It’s like this — you select your spot, and you put in (this is the rotary method) a cutting-tool which is a sort of hollow cylinder, with saw-like teeth at its lower edge, or an edge of hard minerals — rough diamonds, sometimes — and it’s driven in by steam-power at two or three hundred revolutions a minute. As it’s hollow, a solid core is formed in the cylinder — you raise the cylinder from time to time and examine the core, which comes up several feet in length. And you know from the core what there is down there. See?”
“I understand,” said Jeckie. “I thought it must be something of that sort. Very well — I’ll pay for all that. Get to work on it.”
Mortimer again glanced at her in surprise. But she saw that there was no suspicion in his eyes as to her object.
“You seem inclined to launch out!” he said, laughing. “You were disposed the other way when I first mentioned this matter.”
“It’s my land,” reiterated Jeckie. “So, to start with, anyway, I’ll pay the expenses. As you said just now, we can make things right later. Mind you, I’m going on what you’ve said! If you hadn’t assured me, you, as a professional man, that there’s coal under that land, I shouldn’t ha’ bought it, and if there isn’t — well, I know what I shall say! But I’m willing to pay the cost o’ finding out. Only — I shall want to be certain!”
“If there isn’t coal under your forty acres, may I never see coal again!” asserted Mortimer. “I tell you there’s any amount there!”
“Then it’s all right — and when we know that it is there, for certain and sure, it’ll be time to consider matters further,” said Jeckie calmly. “Go on with your boring and I’ll pay. As you said, I say again — we can make things right later.”
Mortimer was too elated at the prospect of opening out a new and possibly magnificent enterprise to ask Jeckie what her present ideas were as to how things should be made right in the event of coal being found in sufficient quantity to warrant the making of a mine. He went away and plunged into business, and in a few days brought his friend Farebrother down to Savilestowe — a quiet, reserved man of cautious words, who impressed Jeckie much more than Mortimer had done. But, cautious and reserved as he was, Farebrother, dragged hither and thither by Mortimer over the woods and meadows, uplands and lowlands, gave it as his deliberate opinion that there were vast quantities of coal under Savilestowe, and that Jeckie’s forty acres of land probably covered a particularly rich bed.
“Get to work, then!” said Jeckie laconically. “I’ll pay for the machinery, and I’ll pay what men you want. Bring their wages bill to me, every Friday, and the money’ll be there.”
No one in Savilestowe, not even Steve Beckitt, nor any of the select company of the bar-parlour of the “Coach-and-Four,” knew what was afoot, nor what the machinery which presently arrived in the village, and was housed in a hastily constructed wooden shed in the centre of Jeckie Farnish’s forty acres, was intended for. But Ben Scholes, who had made no secret of his sale of the long-owned property, was able to enlighten his curious neighbours.
“Jecholiah Farnish,” he said, in solemn conclave at the blacksmith’s shop, shared in by several of the village wiseacres, “bowt that theer land fr’ me for a purpose. It’s her aim, d’ye see, to turn them forty acres into a fruit-orchard and a market-garden. But it’s necessary, first of all and before owt else, to drain that theer land. I should ha’ done it mysen if I’d iver hed t’brass to do it wi’. I dedn’t — shoo has. And this here machinery ‘at’s arrived on t’scene it’ll be for t’purpose o’ drainin’ — shoo’s a very wealthy woman now, is Jecholiah, and shoo’s bahn to do t’job reight. Pumpin’ and drainin’ machinery — that’s what it’ll be.”
The general company, open-mouthed, took this as gospel — save one man, a jack-of-all-trades, who had travelled in his time. He shook his head and betrayed all the marks and signs of scepticism.
“Well, I don’t know, Mestur Scholes,” he remarked. “But I see’d ’em takkin’ some o’ that machinery offen t’traction wagons ‘at it cam’ on, and I’ll swear my solemn ‘davy ‘at it’s none intended for no pumpin’ and drainin’ — nowt o’ t’sort!”
“What is it intended for, then?” demanded Scholes. “Happen ye know? Ye allus reckon to know better nor anybody else, ye do!”
“Nah thee nivver mind!” retorted the sceptic. “Ye’ll all on yer find out what it’s for afore long. But ye mark my words — it’s none for drainin’ — not it!”
Two or three weeks had gone by before the curiosity of the villagers received any appeasement. Whatever went on in the forty acres was conducted in secrecy in the big wooden shed which the carpenters had hastily run up. There, every day, Mr. Mallerbie Mortimer, his friend Mr. Farebrother, and a gang of workmen — foreigners, in the eyes of the Savilestowe folk — for whom Mortimer had taken lodgings in the village, conducted mysterious rites, unseen of any outsider. Once or twice the unduly inquisitive had endeavoured to enter the field, on one excuse or another, only to find a jealous watchman at hand who barred all approach. But the sceptic of the blacksmith’s shop was a human ferret and one morning he leaned over the wall of Ben Scholes’s yard and grinned derisively at the late owner of Savilestowe Leys.
“Now, then, Mistur Scholes!” he said triumphantly. “What did I tell yer about yon machinery ‘at’s been setten up i’ that land ‘at ye selled to Jecholiah Farnish? Pumpin’ and drainin’! I knew better! I seen a bit i’ my time, Mistur Scholes, more nor most o’ ye Savilestowers, and I knew that wor no pumpin’ and drainin’ machinery. I would ha’ tell’d yer at t’time, when we wor talkin’ at t’smithy, what it wor, but I worn’t i’ t’mind to do so. Ye don’t know what they’re up to i’ yon fields ‘at used to be yours!”
“What are they up to, then?” demanded Scholes. “I’ll lay ye’ll know!”
“I dew know!” answered the other, with arrogance. “An’ ye’ll know an’ all, to yer sorrow, afore long. They’re tryin’ for coal! I hed it fro’ one o’ t’workmen last neet; I hed a pint or two, or it might be three, wi’ him. An’ he says ‘at it’s varry like ‘at theer’s hundreds o’ thousands o’ pounds’ worth o’ coal under that land. That’s what Jeckie Farnish wanted it for. Coal!”
Scholes, who was cleaning out the ginnel in front of his stable, straightened himself, staring intently at his informant. The informant nodded, laughed sneeringly, and went off. And Scholes, casting away his manure fork with a gesture that indicated rising anger and hot indignation, went off, too, in his shirt sleeves, but in the opposite direction. He made straight down the village to Jeckie Farnish’s shop.
It was then nearly noon, and the shop was full of customers. Jeckie, who had long since given up counter work, and now did nothing beyond general and vigilant superintendence, was standing near the cashier’s desk, talking to the vicar’s wife. Scholes’s somber eyes and aggressive look told her what was afoot as soon as he crossed the threshold. She continued talking, staring back at him, as if he were no more than one of the posts which supported the ceiling. But Scholes was not to be denied, and he strode up with a pointed finger — a finger pointing straight at Jeckie’s hard eyes.
“Now then!” he burst out in loud, angry tones which made the vicar’s wife start, draw back and stare at him. “Now then, Jecholiah, I’ve a crow to pull wi’ ye! Ye telled me an’ my missis ‘at ye wanted yon land o’ mind for to mak’ a fruit orchard and a market-garden on, and I let ye hev it at a low price for that same reason. Ye’re a liar! ye wanted it for nowt o’ t’sort! Ye were after what you knew then wor liggin’ beneath it — coal! Ye’ve done me! Ye’re a cheat as well as a liar! Ye’ve done me out o’ what ‘ud ha’ made me a well-to-do man. Damn such-like!”
Jeckie turned, cool and collected, to the vicar’s wife.
“I’ll see what I can do about it,” she said quietly, continuing their conversation. “If I can put it in at a lower price, I will, though I’d already cut it as fine as I could. But, of course if it’s for the mothers’ meetings, I must do what I can.” Then she turned again — this time to the angry man in front of her. “Go away, Scholes!” she said. “I can’t have any disturbance here; go away at once!”
“Disturbance!” shouted Scholes. “I’ll larn ye to talk about disturbance! Ye’re no better nor a thief! Look ye here, all ye folk, high and low!” he went on, waving an arm at the astonished customers. “Do ye know what this here woman did? She finds out ‘at there’s coal under my land, and, wi’out sayin’ a word to me about it, she persuades me to sell her t’land for next to nowt! Is that fair doin’s? Do ye think ‘at I’d ha’ selled if I’d known what I wor sellin’? But she knew; and she’s done me and mine. Ye’re a thief, Jecholiah Farnish — same as what ye allus hev been — ye’re sort ‘at ‘ud skin a stone if theer wer owt to be made at it! Damn all such-like, I say, and say ageean — and I’ll see what t’lawyers hev to say to t’job!”
“You’ll hear what my lawyer has to say to you,” retorted Jeckie, who, the vicar’s wife having hurriedly left the shop, was now not particular about letting her tongue loose. “You get out of my shop this instant, Scholes, or I’ll have you taken out in a way you won’t like. Here, you, boy, run across the street and tell the policeman to come here! What do you mean, you fool, by coming and talking to me i’ that way? Didn’t I give you t’brass for your land, cash down? And as to coal, I’ve no more notion whether there’s coal under it than you have; there may be and there mayn’t. But I’ll tell you this — if there is, it’s mine! And you get out o’ my shop, sharp, or I’ll hand you over to t’law here and now. I’ll have none o’ your sort tryin’ to come it over me. Get out!”
Scholes looked Jeckie squarely in the face — and suddenly turned and obeyed her bidding. But he went up the street muttering, like a man possessed, and the vicar’s wife, who had stopped to speak to a group of children, shrank from him as he passed, and went home to tell her husband of what she had heard and seen, and to voice her convictions that the knowledge that he had been cheated had affected Scholes’s brain.
“Do you think she could really do such a thing?” she asked half incredulously. “If she did, it certainly looks — mean, at any rate.”
“If you want my personal opinion,” answered the vicar dryly, “I should say that Jeckie Farnish is capable of any amount of sharp practice. Coal! Dear me! Now I wonder if that’s really what she’s after, and if there is coal? Because, of course, if there’s coal under her land there’ll be coal under my glebe, and in that case — really, one’s almost afraid to think of such a possibility. Coal! I wonder when we shall get to know?”
