The Root of All Evil

  CHAPTER XII

  _The Triple Chance_

  At the beginning of her venture Jeckie had spent all her energies on thebusiness part of her establishment, and had laid out very little moneyon the furnishing of the private rooms. A living room for meals,bedrooms for herself and Rushie and their father, had seemed to hersufficient for first needs; additions could come later, if the businessprospered. The business had prospered, and there came a time when shedetermined to have at least a parlour into which the better class ofcustomers could be shown if they wanted to see her, as they sometimesdid, in private. Accordingly, she gave orders to the best firm offurniture dealers in Sicaster to fit up a room at the side of the housein handsome, if solid, style, having previously had it, and a lobbyadjoining it, painted and decorated in corresponding manner. The door ofthe lobby opened on a little side garden; she ordered it to be painted arich dark green, and had it fitted with a fine brass knocker which oneof the shop-boys kept so constantly polished that its refulgenceexceeded that of the golden teapot at the front of the house. It was tothis door that George Grice stole, and at this knocker that he soundedhis summons, and the time was half-past nine at night.

  Jeckie--alone, for Farnish had already retired--wondered who it could bethat came knocking there at that late hour. She picked up a hand-lampand went round to the lobby and opened the door; the light of the lampfell full on George Grice's round face, and on a certain sheepish andfurtive look in his eyes. He lifted his slouched straw hat, and evensmiled faintly, but Jeckie frowned in ominous fashion.

  "What do you want?" she demanded in her least gracious manner. She hadnever heard Grice's voice since the afternoon, now long since, on whichhe had ridden away from Applecroft, turning a deaf ear to her prayers,but she remembered it well enough, and she knew that there was a newnote in it when he spoke, a note of something very like meekness, if notof positive humility.

  "I could like a word or two wi' you, if you please," said Grice. "A wordi' private."

  Jeckie knew from the very tone that this man who had once thrown heraside like an old glove, and whom she had fought with the fierceness andtenacity of a tiger, had come to acknowledge himself defeated. Without aword she motioned him to enter, closed the door, led him into the newparlour, lighted a handsome standard lamp that stood on the table, andpointing him to a chair, took one herself and stared at him.

  "Well?" she said.

  Grice drew out a big handkerchief and mopped his bald head; it was anold trick of his, well remembered by Jeckie, whenever he was moved orexcited.

  "I made a mistake i' your case," he answered, almost dully. "I--I didn'tknow it at the time, but I know it now--to my cost."

  "Aye, because I've taught you to know it!" said Jeckie. "I've bestedyou!" Grice looked at her, furtively. He had some knowledge of humannature, and he suddenly realised the woman's hard, determined spirit.

  "If I'd ha' known," he burst out suddenly, "what make of woman you are,I'd ha' taken good care that things turned out different! If you'dmarried our Albert--aye, things would indeed ha' been different! But Iwent on t'wrong side o' t'road--and he married that niece o' mine, 'at'snow made him turn agen' his own father, and I'm left there--alone!"

  "Your own fault!" said Jeckie. "Who made your bed but yourself?"

  "That makes it no better," replied Grice. "Nay, it makes it worse! I'veborne more nor I ever expected to bear. This--(he waved his hand aroundas if to include his rival's establishment and trade)--this is t'leastof it. You fought me fair and square, no doubt; and I'm beaten. Butthere's a thing I can suggest, even at this stage."

  "What?" demanded Jeckie, who was watching him keenly. "What?"

  Grice put both hands on his knees and bent forward to her.

  "I'm still a well-to-do man," he said, in a low, terse voice. "Accordin'to some standards, I'm a rich man. I had a reckonin' up t'other nighto' what I were worth. If I'd to die now I should cut up well. You'd besurprised. And I shan't leave a penny to my son! My son, AlbertGrice--not a penny!"

  Jeckie continued to stare at him; herself silent, her face fixed. Shesaw that her beaten rival had still a lot more to say, and that left tohimself he would say it.

  "Not one penny to him!" continued Grice with emphasis. "For why? I'llnot say 'at if he were a single man or a widow man I shouldn't. But he'swed and to my niece, and after what I've experienced at her hands I'lltake care 'at she handles no more money o' mine. It were her 'at forcedAlbert to dissolve partnership wi' me. I had to pay him out wi' a lot o'money. But they'll never see another penny of what I've got! An' as Isaid just now, I'm worth, first and last, a good deal."

  Jeckie suddenly opened her tightly-shut lips.

  "How much?" she asked quietly.

  Grice gave her a quick look; from her face his eyes wandered to the doorof the parlour, which Jeckie had left open. He suddenly rose from hischair, tiptoed across the floor, and looked out into the lobby.

  "There isn't a soul in the house but Farnish, and he's fast asleep,t'other side of the shop," said Jeckie, laconically. "But you can shutthe door if you like."

  Grice shut the door, slid back to his chair, and once more looked ather.

  "Five and twenty thousand pound, at least," he said in a whisper. "Onething and another, five-and-twenty thousand pound!"

  Jeckie watched him steadily through another period of silence.

  "What did you come here for?" she suddenly demanded. "It wasn't fornaught, I'll be bound! You'd an idea in your head!"

  Grice leaned an elbow on the table, and began to tap the smart clothwith his thick fingers.

  "An idea, aye--a suggestion," he answered, his small eyes still set onthe woman who sat bolt upright before him. "And I'll put it to you,Jecholiah, for I know--and I wish I'd known sooner!--'at you're as keenon brass as what I've always been. It's this here, i' oneword--marriage!"

  Jeckie heard, without moving a muscle of her face nor relaxing thesteady stare of her eyes.

  "You an' me," she said in a low voice. "You and me--that's what youmean, Grice?"

  "Me an' you," asserted Grice, nodding his bald head. "Me an' you--thatis what I mean, and I've thought it out careful. Look here! I'm acertain age, but I'm a strong and well-preserved man, and worth atleast--only at least, mind you--five-and-twenty thousand pound. Nowthen, this here business o' yours--and well you've conducted it!--isworth a lot already, goodwill, stock i' hand, and so on. Mine's stillworth a good deal--old established, and I've one trade 'at you haven'ttouched--hay and corn merchant--'at's as good as ever. Now I haven'tcounted my businesses in that five-and-twenty thousand pound. An', doyou see, supposin' you and me were to sell our businesses to a limitedliability company, I know how and where they could be sold, and if youwant to know, to one o' them firms o' that sort 'at's takin' overvillage businesses and transformin' 'em into big general stores. If, Isay, we were to do that, d'ye see what a lot o' money we should havebetween us? And--you'll already have saved a good deal, I know!"

  "Well, and what then?" asked Jeckie. There was not a trace of anythingbut hard business dealing in her voice, and her face was as fixed asever. "What then, Grice?"

  Grice put his head on one side, and seemed to be making some mentalreflections.

  "Taking one thing with another," he said, "what I have, what I can getfor my business; what you have, what you can get for this place, Ireckon we should be uncommon well off. We'd marry, and take a nicehouse, wherever you like, and keep a smart trap and horse."

  "Smarter than your Albert's?" interrupted Jeckie with a sneer so faintthat Grice failed to see it. "What?"

  "Aye, a deal!" asserted Grice. "And we'd show 'em how to do it!Albert'll none ever touch a penny o' mine, now! Say the word, and itcomes off, and I'll make a will i' your favour as soon as we're wed!What say you?"

  Jeckie, still upright and rigid, sat staring at him until he thought shewould never speak. Suddenly she rose, moved to the door, and beckonedhim.

  "Come here, Grice!" she said.

  Grice rose and foll
owed her round the end of the lobby into a passagewhich led to the shop. She opened a door, lighted a lamp, and, standingin the middle of the place, pointed round the heavily-stacked shelvesand counters.

  "You want to know what I say, Grice?" she said in low, incisive tonesthat made the old man's ears tingle. "I say this! Did ye ever see yourshop stocked like mine, did you ever do as much trade as I'm doing, didyou ever take as much brass over your counter in a fortnight as I takein a week? Never! An' I started all this wi' your money--it was yourmoney that gave me my chance o' revenge. An' when I got that chance Isaid to myself that I'd never rest, body or soul, till I'd seen yourshutters come down, and I never will! Go home!" she concluded, movingswiftly across the shop, and throwing open the street door. "Gohome!--I'd as lief think o' marryin' the devil himself as o' weddin' aman like you--I shall see you pull your shutters down yet, and--I shallha' done it!"

  Grice went out into the night without a word, and Jeckie stood in herdoorway and watched him march heavily across the road. When he haddisappeared within his own door, she closed hers, picked up a couple ofsweet biscuits out of an open box as she crossed the shop, and wentupstairs, munching them contentedly. And not even the delight of revengekept her from sleep.

  There were other men in Savilestowe who had eyes on Jeckie Farnish witha view to marriage. In spite of her strenuous pursuit of money she kepther good looks; continuous work, indeed, seemed to improve them, and ifthere was a certain hardness about her she remained the handsomest womanin the village. And not very long after her dramatic dismissal of theold grocer she was brought face to face for the second time with thenecessity of making a decision. Calling on Stubley one day to pay herrent, the farmer, after giving her a receipt, turned round from the oldbureau at which he had written it, and, leaning back in his elbow chair,gazed at her critically. He was a fine-looking, well-preserved man, abachelor, more than comfortably off, and something in his eyes broughtthe colour to his tenant's cheeks. For one second she forgot herhardness and her ambitions and felt, rather than remembered, that shewas a woman.

  "Well, mi lass!" said Stubley. "And how long's this to go on?"

  "How long's what to go on?" asked Jeckie.

  "All this tewin' and toilin' and scrattin' after brass?" he said, with ahalf-amused, half-cynical laugh. "You've been at it a good while now,and you've about done what ye set out to do. Grice'll none keep hisshutters up much longer. They say his takings have fallen to naught."

  "I know they have," assented Jeckie with a flash of her keen eyes. "He'sscarce any trade left."

  "Aye, and you have it all, and I'll lay aught you've already made a nicelittle fortune for yourself!" continued Stubley. "So--why go on? What'sthe use of wasting your life, a handsome woman like you? There'ssomething else in life than all this money-making, you know, lass. Sellyour business--and live a bit!"

  "Live a bit?" she said. "I--I don't know what you mean?"

  Stubley waved his hand towards the window. There was a beautiful andwell-kept garden outside, and beyond it a wide stretch of equallywell-kept land. And Jeckie knew what the gesture meant.

  "You know me," he said quietly. "Here's t'best farm-house and t'bestfarm in all this countryside. There's naught wanting here, mi lass--it'splenty ... and peace. And there's no mistress to it, and naught tofollow me, neither lad nor lass. Say the word, and get rid o' yon shop,and I'll marry you whenever you like. And--you'd never regret it."

  Jeckie stood up, trembling in spite of her strength. She thought of thehard, grinding, sordid, unlovely life which she was living in thepursuit of money, and then of what might be as mistress of that fine oldfarm and wife of an honest, good-natured, dependable man. But as shethought, recollection came back to her--a recollection which was withher day and night. She saw herself standing in the empty, stockless foldat Applecroft, watching George Grice drive away, deaf to her entreatiesfor help. The old demon of hatred and determination for revenge, and thelust for money and power which had sprung from his workings, rose upagain and conquered her.

  "No," she said, turning away. "I can't! I'm obliged to you, Mr.Stubley--you're a straight man, and you mean well. But--I can't do it!I've set myself to a certain thing, and I must go on--I can't stop now!"

  "What certain thing, mi lass?" asked Stubley. "What're you aimin' at?"

  Jeckie looked round her, at the old furniture, the old pictures andframed samplers on the walls of the farm-house parlour, and from them toStubley, and her eyes grew deep and sombre.

  "I'm going to be the richest woman in all these parts!" she whispered."I've set my mind to it, and it's got to be. I've no time to think ofmen--I'm after money--money!"

  Then she turned and went swiftly out, leaving the farmer staring afterher with wonder in his eyes. And he shook his head as he picked up thecheque which she had just given him and locked it in his bureau. He wasthinking of the times when Jeckie Farnish could not have put her name toa cheque for a penny piece. But now--

  There was yet one more man who wanted to marry the determined,money-grubbing woman. Bartle, who had seen Jeckie Farnish every day ofhis life since he had first come, seeking a job, to her father's door, alad of fifteen, and who had served her like a faithful dog from thebeginning of her big venture, came to feel that with him it was eithergoing to be all or nothing. He had developed into a fine, handsomefellow, whose steadiness was a by-word in the village; in looks andcharacter he was a man that any woman might well have been proud of. Andone Sunday, having occasion to see Jeckie about some business of theensuing morning, he suddenly spoke straight out, as he and she stoodamong the flowers in her garden.

  "Missis!" he said, his bronzed cheeks taking on a deep blush. "There's aword I mun either say or burst--I cannot hold it longer! I been i' lovewi' you ever sin I were a lad, and you a lass, and it grows waur andwaur! Will you wed me?--for if you weern't missis, I mun go!"

  Jeckie looked at him, and knew the reality of what he had said. And fora moment she felt something remind her that she was a woman--but in thenext she had steeled herself.

  "It's no good, lad!" she said softly. "No good! Put it away from you."

  Bartle turned white as his Sunday shirt, but he stood erect.

  "Then you mun let me go, missis, and at once," he said huskily. "I'vesaved money, and I'll go a long way off--to this here Canada 'at theytalk about. But go I will!"

  He came to say good-bye to her three days later, and Jeckie put ahundred pounds in banknotes into his hand. It was the only deed of itssort that she ever wanted to do, but Bartle would have none of it. Hiseyes looked another appeal as he said his farewell, and Jeckie shook herhead and let him go. And so he went, white-faced and dry-eyed, and withhim went the last chance of redemption that Jeckie Farnish ever had. Shehad sold herself by then, body and soul, to Mammon.