CHAPTER XIII
_Dead Men's Shoes_
Had George Grice but known it, the defection of his daughter-in-law,Lucilla, to the rival establishment across the street had more in itthan appeared on the surface. Lucilla, after much worry and anxiousthought, had come to the conclusion that there was no more to be got outof Albert's father. She had grown doubtful, not very long after hermarriage, about the old man's financial position. George, when the brideand bridegroom had fairly settled down, had begun to throw out hintsthat her portion--two thousand pounds good money--ought to be sunk inthe business, and when she had objected, saying that she preferred tocontrol it herself, had grown grumpy and sullen. Then there had beendifficulties about paying Albert out of the business when the dissensiontook place. George had put every obstacle possible in the way, and haddelayed settlement until he was forced to it. Finally, he had forbiddenAlbert and Lucilla to darken his doors again, and the break-up of familyties had seemed complete. But, Lucilla had kept her eyes and ears open,and had seen and heard how the old man's business fell off; and, gettinga purely feminine intuition that George was going steadily downhill andonly keeping open out of sheer obstinacy and pride, she formed theopinion that he was by no means as well-off as was fancied, and,therefore, worth no more consideration. Hence the grocery book went nomore to Grice but to Farnish. It was a final sign of completeseparation, wholly due to Lucilla, who, in addition to other things, wasactuated not a little by womanish spite and malice. George had told hera few plain truths to her face when the rift opened, and she had noobjection to give him a few kicks behind his back. If she had hadpositive knowledge that the old man was wealthy she would have takengood care to keep in with him, but she had formed the impression that hewas on his last legs, and that she and Albert would, from one cause oranother, never benefit by him again.
As for Albert, he was now a gentleman; that is to say, he was agentleman in the sense in which gentility is understood by village folk.He had nothing to do, and money to do it on. He and Lucilla dwelt in avilla residence on the roadside between Savilestowe and Sicaster; thevilla was a pretentious affair of red brick with timber facings, therewas a white door with an ornamental black knocker, a flower garden withrustic seats in front, a kitchen garden behind, and in a screened yard acoach-house and a stable with a smart dog-cart in one and a good cob inthe other. There were two maidservants in the kitchen, and a pet dog inthe parlour; in the dressing-room was Lucilla's chief solace, a piano,not so good, to be sure, as that which old George had bought her (thatstill remained, with the suite of furniture, in the room over theSavilestowe shop), but more showy in appearance. Lucilla ran the entireestablishment--everyone in it, from Albert to the pet dog, was under herthumb. Albert read the newspaper after breakfast. He was then allowed towalk into Sicaster and look round the bar-parlours, but it was a strictcommandment that he was never to drink anything but bitter beer, andonly a little of that. In the afternoon he drove Lucilla out in thedog-cart. In the evening there was another newspaper to read, and he wasallowed two glasses of gin-and-water before retiring to rest. It was asimple life, and Lucilla, who managed all the money matters, saved moneyevery year.
Meanwhile old George went his way. It was a way of solitude, but he keptalong its centre, looking neither to right nor left. He sold hishay-and-corn business, and devoted himself to the shop. A certain numberof his old customers remained loyal to him; there was always sufficienttrade to warrant him in keeping open, but in time he could comfortablydo all the counter work himself, and his staff was cut down to an errandboy. He had plenty of time to talk to customers now, and, as theychiefly consisted of garrulous old women, he lounged a good deal overhis counter. What affected him chiefly was the evening solitude, and, atlast, after his fateful interview with Jeckie Farnish, he broke throughthe rule of a lifetime, and began to frequent the parlour of the"Coach-and-Four" every night, making one of a select circle wherein satthe miller, the butcher, the blacksmith, and the parish clerk. After afew experiences in this retreat he found himself cordially welcomed,for, having his own intentions as regarded the disposal of his money, hewas liberal in spending it on liquor and cigars; nay, more, he actuallygot back some trade by this new departure, for, as the miller said, itwas only reasonable that as Mr. Grice was so friendly and sociable-likethey should go back to the old shop. For that George cared little bythat time. What he chiefly valued was sympathy, and he quickly foundthat he could get plenty of it by handing round the cigar-box and payingfor his cronies' gin-and-water.
"I reckon ye've been uncommon badly treated, Mr. Grice!" said thebutcher as the five chief frequenters of the bar-parlour sat together inan atmosphere of cigar smoke and unsweetened gin one night. "It's a nicegame, an' all, when a man's attained to t'eminence 'at you had i' thishere place, when an upstart comes in and cuts him out! I should feel itmysen, I should indeed, wor it me!"
"Mr. Grice," observed the parish clerk, "has borne it all wi' Christianfortitude, gentlemen. My respects, sir; you haven't fallen off i' myestimation, Mr. Grice--nor, I'm sure, i' that of any of the rest ofthese here gentlemen."
There was a general murmur of assent; the fact was that old George hadshown himself particularly lavish that evening in insisting on payingfor everything, saying that it was his birthday.
"Aye, there's a deal i' Christian fortitude," remarked the blacksmith."It's one o' them horses 'at'll carry a man a long way wi'out brakkin'down; it 'ud weer out a good many shoes would that theer. Ye been wellfavoured to be endowed wi' such a quality, Mr. Grice."
"Now then!" said George, mollified and pleased. "Now then, say no moreabout it! I hev mi faults, and I hev mi qualities. I could say a gooddeal, but I'll say naught. All on us hes crosses to bear, and I've bornemine, patient. An' I hope all them 'at's deserted me for never mindwho'll never have cause to regret it. But i' mi time, 've give away adeal i' charity i' this place--ask t'parson if he ever knew me not toput mi hand i' mi pocket whenever him or his lady, or t'curate comewantin' summat for coals, and blankets, and t'clothing fund andsuch-like--and I don't hear 'at a certain person ever gives a penny!"
"None she!" exclaimed the miller. "She's as hard as one o' t'stones i'my mill--and if there's owt i' this world 'at's harder, I could like tohear tell on it! No, she'll none give owt away, weern't that! She's seton makkin' all t'brass 'at she can, and what she scrapes together she'llstick to. All t'same, I don't think you'll put your shutters up yet, Mr.Grice, what?"
"Not while I can draw breath!" answered Grice, with a grim look. "She'llnone beat me at that, I can tell yer!"
He had made up his mind on that point after Jeckie Farnish had motionedhim away from her shop-door on the night of his strange proposal toher. Let come what might, he would keep down the shutters to the veryend--they should never be put up until they were put up some day to showthat he was dead. Customers or no customers--he would keep the old shopopen. There would have to be a day, of course, whereon he would beunable to tie on his apron and take his stand behind the counter, butuntil that day came....
The day came with sudden swiftness. One morning the woman who did GeorgeGrice's housework arrived to find the doors open, an unusual thing, forhe usually came down to let her in. She walked through the kitchen intothe parlour, and found him lying back in his elbow-chair at the table,dead and cold. The gin and the cigars were on the table; on the carpetat his feet lay an old account-book which he had evidently been readingwhen death came upon him; it referred to the days wherein the firm ofGeorge Grice & Son had been at the height of its prosperity. So Grice'slast thoughts in this world had been of money.
The woman followed the instincts of her sort, and after one horrifiedglance at the dead man, ran out into the street, eager to spread thenews. The first person she set eyes on was Jeckie Farnish, who, alwaysup with the sun, was standing in the roadway outside her shop,vigorously scolding one of her shop-boys for his carelessness insweeping the sidewalk. Upon her objurgations the woman broke, big withtidings and already half breathless.
> "Miss Farnish! Eh, dear--such a turn as it's given me!--Miss Farnish!There's Mr. Grice--there in his parlour--sittin' i' his chair, MissFarnish, an' wi' his bottle o' sperrits i' front o' him, and all--suchan end, to be sure!--and dead--aye, and must ha' died last night, forhe's as cowd as ice. An' will you come back wi' me, Miss Farnish?--I'mfair feared to go in agen by misen!"
Jeckie turned and looked down at the woman--a little wizenedcreature--with an incredulous stare.
"What do you say?" she demanded sharply. "Grice? Dead?"
"Dead as a door-nail, Miss Farnish, as sure as I'm here--and sittin' i't'easy chair at his table----"
Jeckie looked round at the offending shop-boy; even then she consideredher own affairs first.
"You get another pail o' water, and swill them flags again this minute!"she commanded. "And mind you do it right, or else----"
She broke off at that, and without another word to the agitated womanwho was staring at her with affrighted eyes, marched straight across thestreet, through George Grice's yard and in at the side-door of thehouse. She knew her way about that house as well as its late master, andshe turned at once into the parlour in which she had never set footsince that morning, years before, on which she had gone there to begGrice's help. She saw at one glance that Grice himself was now beyondall human help, and for a moment she stood and looked at his dead facewith keen, critical eyes. Death, instead of smoothing the lines of hisnaturally sly and crafty countenance, had deepened them; it was not apleasant sight that Jeckie looked at. And the woman, who had crept inafter her, spoke in a half-frightened whisper.
"Lord save us!--he don't mak' a beautiful corpse, trew-ly, does he, MissFarnish?" she said. "He looks that hard and graspin', same as he didwhen a poor body wanted summat and----"
"He must have had a stroke and died in it," remarked Jeckie, inmatter-of-fact tones. "And I should say, as he died all alone, 'atthere'll have to be an inquest, so don't you touch aught 'at there is onthat table. You go round and tell the policeman to come here at once forhe'll have to let the coroner know. Don't say aught to anybody else tillhe's been, and I'll go and send one of my lads for Mr. Albert."
The woman hurried away, and Jeckie, waiting there with the dead manuntil the policeman arrived, hated him worse than ever. For she hadnever seen the shutters go up in his lifetime--he had held out to theend, and cheated her of her cherished revenge. Yet never mind--the Gricebusiness was over; that she knew very well; henceforth she was amonopolist. And when the policeman had come and had taken charge ofmatters, she went across to her stables, where her van-man was justputting a horse into a light cart.
"Here!" she said, "you're going up to t'top o' t'village, Watkinson.Drive on, as soon as you've delivered those parcels, to Mr. AlbertGrice's--tell him his father's dead."
The old man opened his mouth and stared.
"What, t'owd man, missis?" he exclaimed. "Nay!--I seed him all rightlast night."
"He's dead," repeated Jeckie, turning unconcernedly away. "Tell Mr.Albert he'd better come down."
Albert came within an hour, and Lucilla with him, and the smart cob andsmart dog-cart were housed in the dead man's stable. Presently, hehimself was laid out in decency on his own bed, and all the blinds weredrawn, and the shutters were up in the shop, and Albert and Lucilla,having found George's keys, began to go through his effects. But beforethey had fairly entered on this congenial task, interruption came in theshape of a Sicaster solicitor, Mr. Whitby, accompanied by a well-knownSicaster tradesman, Mr. Cransdale, who drove up in a cab, evidently inhaste, and walked uninvited into the house, to find Albert and Lucillabusied at the dead man's desk. Whitby immediately pulled out somepapers.
"Good morning, Mr. Grice--good morning, Mrs. Grice," he said, with acertain amount of disapproval shown behind a surface pleasantness."Busy, I see, already! I'm afraid I must ask you to hand those keys overto us, Mr. Grice, and to leave all my late client's effects to the careof Mr. Cransdale and myself--we're the executors and trustees of hiswill----"
"What?" exclaimed Lucilla, whose tongue was always in advance of herhusband's. "Then he made a will?"
"Here's the will," answered Whitby, producing a document and folding itin such a fashion that only the last paragraph or two could be seen."There is the late Mr. George Grice's signature; there are thesignatures of the witnesses, and there--you may see that much--is theclause appointing Mr. Cransdale and myself executors and trustees. Allin order, Mr. Grice!"
"What's in the will?" demanded Lucilla.
"All in good time, ma'am!" responded Whitby. "You'll hear everythingafter the funeral. In the meantime--those keys, if you please. Now," hecontinued, as Albert sullenly handed over the keys, "nothing whatever inthis house will be touched--no papers, no effects, nothing! Youunderstand, Mr. and Mrs. Grice? Mr. Cransdale and I are in full power.We shall arrange everything."
"So you turn my husband out of his father's house!" exclaimed Lucillaindignantly. "That's what it comes to!"
"I don't think he troubled his father's house very much of late," saidWhitby dryly. "But I repeat--Mr. Cransdale and I are in full power.After the late Mr. Grice's funeral the will shall be read."
Albert and Lucilla had to retire, and they spent the next three days inwondering what all this was about. Lucilla's father arrived fromNottingham on the evening before his brother's obsequies; he, too, wasfull of wonder. He was as busy a man as George had been in his palmiestdays, and knew little of what had been going on at Savilestowe. And whenhis daughter told him the story of recent events he frowned heavily.
"It'll be well if you haven't made a mistake, my girl!" he said. "Mybrother George was as deep and sly as ever they make 'em. Theprobability is that he'll cut up a lot better than you think, in spiteof everything. You should have kept in with him, whatever came. You waittill that will's read, and I hope you and Albert won't get a nastysurprise!"
Lucilla was surprised enough when she saw the curious assemblage which,duly marshalled by Whitby, gathered together in the dead man's parlour,after he himself had been laid in the grave, which many years before hadreceived his wife's body, and was surmounted by a handsome and weightyobelisk, whereon his own name was now to be cut in deep gilt letters.There were the relatives; herself, her husband, her father; there werealso the vicar, the squire, and Stubley, the last three all plainlywondering why they were asked to be present. But their wonder was not tolast long. In five minutes the will had been read and everybody therehad grasped the meaning of its provisions. George Grice had lefteverything of which he died possessed in trust to Whitby and Cransdale,who were to realise the whole of his estate, and with the proceeds tobuild and endow a cottage hospital at Savilestowe, to be known foreveras the George Grice Memorial Home, and the vicar, the squire, andStubley were asked to co-operate with the trustees in carrying out theinitial arrangements. For anything and anybody else--not one penny.
When all was done Lucilla's father drew Whitby aside.
"Between you and me," he said, with a knowing look, "what might mybrother's estate be likely to come to?"
"As near as I can make out," answered Whitby, "about thirty thousandpounds."
The inquirer followed his daughter and Albert out of the house, and gavethem a good deal of his tongue on the way home, and for once in her lifeLucilla had nothing to answer. Moreover, she now foresaw trouble betweenher and Albert.
And that afternoon, before leaving the village, the executors andtrustees of George Grice deceased walked across the street to see MissJecholiah Farnish. Their conversation with her was of a brief sort asfar as time was concerned, but its upshot was of an important nature.Jeckie agreed, there and then, to buy the goodwill of the business whichshe had set out to ruin, and she took care to get it dirt cheap.
END OF THE FIRST PART
_Part the Second: FALL_