CHAPTER II
_The Tight Lip_
Ever since her mother's death, ten years before the events of thatmorning, Jeckie, as responsible manager of household affairs, hadcultivated an instinct which had been born in her--the instinct, if athing had to be done to do it there and then. As soon as Farnishunburdened himself of his difficulty, his daughter's quick brain beganto revolve schemes of salvation. There was nothing new in her father'ssituation; she had helped him out of similar ones more than once. Morethan once, too, she had borrowed money for him--money to pay anextra-pressing bill; money to make up the rent; money to satisfy thetaxes or rates--and she had always taken good care to see that what shehad borrowed was punctually repaid when harvest came round--a time ofthe year when Farnish usually had something to sell. Accordingly, whatshe had just heard in the stable did not particularly alarm her; shetook her father's story in all good faith, and believed that if he couldstave off the Clothford money-lender with a hundred pounds on accountall would go on in the old way until autumn, when money would be comingin. And her sole idea in setting off to the village was to borrow thenecessary sum. Once borrowed, she would see to it that it was at onceforwarded to the importunate creditor; she would see to it, too, that itwas repaid to whomever it was that she got it from. As to that lastparticular, she was canvassing certain possibilities as she walkedquickly down the lane. There was Mr. Stubley, the biggest farmer in theplace, who was also understeward for the estate. She had more than onceborrowed twenty or thirty pounds from him, and he had always had itback. Then there was Mr. Merritt, almost as well-to-do as Mr. Stubley.The same reflections applied to him, and he was a good natured man. Andthere was old George Grice, Albert's father, who was as warm a man asany tradesman of the neighbourhood. One or other of these three wouldsurely lend her a hundred pounds; she was, indeed, so certain of it thatshe felt no doubt on the matter, and her only regret at the moment wasthat her visit to the village might make her a little late for herdinner--no unimportant matter to her, a healthy young woman of goodappetite, who had breakfasted scantily at six o'clock. Jeckie took ashort cut across the churchyard and down the church lane, and came outupon the village street a little above the cross roads. There, talkingto the landlord of the "Coach-and-Four," who stood in his open doorwayholding a tray and a glass, she saw Mr. Stubley a comfortable man, whospent all his mornings on a fat old pony, ambling about his land.Stubley saw her coming along the street, and, with a nod to thelandlord, touched the pony with his ash-plant switch and steered him inher direction. Jeckie, who had a spice of the sanguine in hertemperament, took this as a good omen; she had an idea that in five moreminutes she would be with this prosperous elderly farmer in his cozyparlour, close by, watching him laboriously writing out a cheque. Andshe smiled almost gaily as the pony and its burden came to the side ofthe road along which she walked.
"Now, mi lass!" said Mr. Stubley, looking her closely over out of hissharp eyes. "What're you doing down town this time o' day? Going toGrice's, I reckon? I were wanting a word or two wi' you," he went on,before Jeckie could get in a word of her own. "A word or two i' private,you understand. You're aware, of course, mi lass," he continued, bendingdown from his saddle. "You're aware 'at t'rent day's none so far off?What?"
A sudden sense of fear sent the warm flush out of Jeckie's cheeks, andleft her pale. Her dark eyes grew darker as she looked at the man whowas regarding her so steadily and inquiringly.
"What about the rent-day Mr. Stubley?" she asked. "What do you mean?"
"I had a line from t'steward this morning," answered Stubley. "He justmentioned a matter--'at he hoped Farnish 'ud be ready with the rent; andt'last half-year's an' all. What?"
The hot blood came back to Jeckie's cheeks in a fierce wave. She felt,somehow, as if some man's hand had smitten her, right and left.
"The last half-year's rent!" she repeated. "Do--do you mean that fatherdidn't pay it?"
Stubley looked at her for an instant with speculation in his shrewdeyes. Then he nodded his head. There was a world of meaning in the nod.
"Paid nowt!" he answered. "Nowt at all. Not a penny piece, mi lass."
Jeckie's hands fell limply to her sides.
"I didn't know," she answered, helplessly. "He--he never told me. I'd noidea of it; Mr. Stubley."
"Dare say not, mi lass," said the farmer. "It 'ud be better for Farnishif he'd to tell a young woman like you more nor what he does, seemin'ly.But, now--is he going to be ready this time?"
Jeckie made no answer. She stood looking up and down the street, seeingall manner of things, real and unreal. And suddenly a look of sullenanger came into her eyes and round her red lips.
"How can I tell?" she said. "He--as you say--he doesn't tell me!"
Stubley bent still lower, and, from sheer force of habit, glanced rightand left before he spoke.
"Aye, well, Jeckie, mi lass!" he said in low tones. "Then I'll tell yousummat. Look to yourself--you an' yon sister o' yours! There's queertalk about Farnish. I've heard it, time and again, at market and whereelse. He'll none last so long, my lass--can't! It's my opinion there'llbe no rent for t'steward; nowt but excuses and begging off, and suchlike; he's hard up, is your father! It 'ud be a deal better for him togive up, Jeckie; he'll never carry on! Now, you're a sensible youngwoman; what say you?"
There was a strong, almost mulish sense of obstinacy in the Farnishblood, and it was particularly developed in Farnish's elder daughter.Jeckie stood for a moment staring across the road. She looked as if shewere gazing at the sign of the "Coach-and-Four," which had recently beendone up and embellished with a new frame. In reality she saw neither itnor the ancient hostelry behind it. What she did see was a vision of herown!
"I don't know, Mr. Stubley," she answered suddenly. "My father's likeall little farmers--no capital and always short o' ready money. Butthere's money to come in; come harvest and winter! And I know that ifI'd that farm on my hands, I'd make it pay. I could make it pay now ifI'd all my own way with it. But----"
Then, just as suddenly as she had spoken, she moved off, and wentrapidly down the street in the direction of Grice's shop. Theconversation with Stubley had given a new turn to her thoughts. What wasthe use of borrowing a hundred pounds to stave off a money-lender, whenthe last half-year's rent was owing and another half-year's nearly due?No; she would see if she could not do better than that! Now was themoment; she would try to take things clean into her own hands. Farnish,she knew, was afraid of her--afraid of her superior common sense, hergrasp of things, her almost masculine powers of contrivance andmanagement. She could put him on one side as easily as a child can pushaside the reeds on the river bank, and then she could have her own way,and pull things round, and ... she paused at that point, rememberingthat all this could only be done with money.
Noon was just striking from the church clock as Jeckie came up to thefront of Grice's shop. She never looked at this establishment withoutremembering how it had grown within her own recollection. When she was achild of five, and had gone down the street to spend a Saturday penny onsweets, Grice's shop had been housed in one of the rooms of the oldtimber-fronted house from which the new stores now projected inshameless disregard of the antiquities surrounding them. Nothing,indeed, could be in greater contrast than Grice's shop and Grice'shouse. The house had stood where it was since the time of Queen Anne;the shop, built out from one corner of it, bore the date 1897, and onits sign--a blue ground with gilt lettering--appeared the significantannouncement: "Diamond Jubilee Stores. George Grice & Son." There werefine things about the house, within and without: old furniture in oldrooms, and trim hedges and gay flowers on the smooth, velvety lawns; amere glance at the high, sloping roof was sufficient to make one thinkof Old England in its days of calm and leisure; but around the shop doorand in the shop itself there were the sights and sounds of buying andselling; boxes and packing-cases from Chicago and San Francisco; thescent of spices and of soap; it always seemed to Jeckie, who had highlysusceptible nostrils, that Albert Grice, howeve
r much he spruced andscented himself on Sundays, was never free of the curious minglingodours associated with a grocer's apron.
Albert was in the shop when she marched in, busied in taking down anorder from Mrs. Aislabie, the curate's wife, who, seated in a chair atthe counter, was meditatively examining a price list and wondering howto make thirty shillings go as far as forty. He glanced smilingly butwithout surprise at Jeckie, and inclined his head and the pen behind hislarge right ear towards a certain door at the back of the shop. Jeckieknew precisely what he meant--which was that his father had just gone todinner. They had a custom there at Grice's--the old man went to dinnerat twelve; Albert at one; there was thus always one of them in the shopto look after things in general and the assistant and two shop lads inparticular. And Albert, who knew that since Jeckie was there in hermorning gown and without headgear it must be because she wanted to seehis father, added a word or two to his signal.
"Only just gone in," he said. "Go forward."
Jeckie went down the shop to the door, tapped at the glass of the upperpanel, pushed aside a heavy curtain that hung behind, and entered uponold Grice as he sat down to his dinner. He was a biggish, round-faced,bald-headed man, bearded, save for his upper lip, which was very largeand very tight--folk who knew George Grice well, and went to him seekingfavours, watched that tight lip, and knew from it whether he was goingto accede or not. He was a prosperous-looking man, too; plump andwell-fed; and there was a fine round of cold beef and a bowl of smokingpotatoes before him, to say nothing of a freshly-cut salad, a big pieceof prime Cheddar and a tankard of foaming ale. The buxom servant-lasswho attended to the wants of the widowed father and the bachelor son,was just going out of the room by one door as Jeckie entered by theother. She glanced wonderingly at the visitor, but George Grice, pickingup the carving knife and fork, showed no surprise. He had long sincegraduated in the school of life, and well knew the signs when man orwoman came wanting something.
"Hallo!" he said in sharp, businesslike tones. "Queer time o' day tocome visiting, mi lass! What's in the wind, now?"
Jeckie, uninvited, sat down in one of the two easy chairs which flankedthe hearth, and went straight to her subject.
"Mr. Grice!" she said, having ascertained by a glance that the doorleading to the kitchen was safely closed. "I came down to see you. Now,look here, Mr. Grice; you know me, and you know I'm going to marry yourAlbert."
"Humph!" muttered Grice, busied in carving thin slices of beef forhimself. "Aye, and what then?"
"And you know I shall make him a rare good wife, too," continued Jeckie."The best wife he could find anywhere in these parts!"
"When I were a lad," remarked Grice, with the ghost of a thin smileabout his top lip, "we used to write a certain saying in thecopybook--'Self-praise is no recommendation.' I'm not so certain of itmyself, though. Some folks knows the value of their own goods betterthan anybody."
"I know the value of mine!" asserted Jeckie solemnly. "You couldn't finda better wife for Albert than I shall make him if you went all throughYorkshire with a small-tooth comb! And you know it, Mr. Grice!"
"Well, mi lass," said Grice, "and what then?"
"I want you to do something for me," answered Jeckie. She pulled thechair nearer to the table, and went on talking while the grocer steadilyate and drank. "I'll be plain with you, Mr. Grice. There's nobody knowsI've come here, nor why. But it's this--I've come to the conclusion thatit's no use my father going on any longer. He isn't fit; he's no good.I've found things out. He's been borrowing money from some, or one, o'them money-lenders at Clothford. He owes half a year's rent, and there'sanother nearly due. There's others wanting money. I think you want abit, yourself. Well, it's all got to stop. I'm going to stop it! And asI'm going to be your daughter-in-law, I want you to help me!"
Grice, carefully selecting the ripest of some conservatory-growntomatoes from the bowl in front of him, stuck a fork into it, and beganto peel it with a small silver knife which he picked up from beside hisplate. His tight lip pursed itself while he was engaged; it was notuntil he had put the peeled tomato on his plate, and added the heart ofa lettuce to it, that he looked at his caller.
"What d'ye want, mi lass?" he asked.
"I want you to lend me--me!--five or six hundred pounds, just now,"replied Jeckie readily. "Me, mind, Mr. Grice--not him. Me!"
"What for?" demanded Grice, stolidly and with no sign of surprise. "Whatfor, now?"
"I'll tell you," answered Jeckie, gaining in courage. "I want to pay offevery penny he owes. Then I'll be master! I shall have him under mythumb, and I'll make him do. I'll see to every penny that comes in andgoes out; and you mark my words, Mr. Grice, I can make that farm pay! Ifyou'll lend me what I want I'll pay you back in three years, and it'llbe then a good going concern. I know what I'm saying."
"In less nor three years you and my son Albert'll be wed," remarkedGrice.
"I can keep an eye on it, and on my father and Rushie when we are wed,"retorted Jeckie.
"And there's another thing," said Grice. "When I gave my consent to yourweddin' my son, it were an agreed thing between me an' Farnish, abargain, that you should have five hundred pound from him as a portion.Where's that?"
Jeckie gave him a swift meaning look.
"I might have yet, if I took hold o' things," she answered. "But it 'udbe me 'at would find it, Mr. Grice. My father--Lord bless you--he'dnever find five hundred pence! But--trust me!"
Grice carved himself some more cold beef, and as he seemed to beconsidering her proposal, Jeckie resumed her arguments.
"There'll be a good bit of money to come in this back-end," she said."And if we'd more cows, as I'd have, we should do better. And pigs--I'dgo in for pigs. Let me only clear off what debt he's got into, and----"
Grice suddenly laughed quietly, and, seizing his tankard, lookedknowingly at her as he lifted it to his lips.
"The question is, mi lass," he said, "the question is--how deep has hegot? You don't know that, you know!"
"Most of it, at any rate," said Jeckie. "I'll lay four or five hundred'ud clear it all off, Mr. Grice."
"Five hundred pound," observed Grice, "is a big, a very big sum o'money. It were a long time," he added reflectively, "before I couldtruly say that I were worth it!"
"You're worth a lot more now, anyway," remarked Jeckie. "And you'll bedoing a good deed if you help me. After all, I want to set things goingright; they're my own flesh and blood up yonder. Now, come, Mr. Grice!"
Grice pushed away the remains of the more solid portion of his dinner,and thoroughly dug into the prime old cheese. After eating a little andnibbling at a radish he turned to his visitor.
"I'll not say 'at I will, and I'll not say 'at I willn't," he announced."It's a matter to be considered about. But I'll say this here--I'll takea ride up Applecroft way this afternoon, and just see how thingsstands, like. And then----"
He waved Jeckie towards the door, and she, knowing his moods andtemperament, took the hint, and with no more than a word of thanks,hastened to leave him. In the shop Albert was still busily engaged withMrs. Aislabie, who found it hard to determine on Irish roll orWiltshire. With him Jeckie exchanged no more than a glance. She felt asense of relief when she got out into the street; and when, five minuteslater, she was crossing the churchyard she muttered to herself certainwords which showed that her conversation with Stubley was still in hermind.
"Yes, that's the only way--to clear him out altogether, and let me takehold! I'll put things to rights if only George Grice'll find the money!"
At that moment George Grice, having finished his dinner, was taking outof a cupboard certain of his account books. Before he did anything foranybody, he wanted to know precisely how much was owing to him atApplecroft.