‘The stock and goodwill! That would take much wealth. And there will be fixtures to be considered. Philip, canst thee tell me the exact amount of stock in the shop at present?’
It had only just been taken; Philip had it at his fingers' ends. ‘One thousand nine hundred and forty-one pounds, thirteen shillings and twopence.’
Coulson looked at him in a little dismay, and could not repress a sigh. The figures put into words and spoken aloud seemed to indicate so much larger an amount of money than when quickly written down in numerals. But Philip read the countenances, nay, by some process of which he was not himself aware, he read the minds of the brothers, and felt no dismay at what he saw there.
‘And the fixtures?’ asked John Foster.
‘The appraiser valued them at four hundred and thirty-five pounds three and sixpence when father died. We have added to them since, but we will reckon them at that. How much does that make with the value of the stock?’
‘Two thousand one hundred and seventy-six pounds, sixteen shil-ings and eightpence,’ said Philip.
Coulson had done the sum quicker, but was too much disheartened by the amount to speak.
‘And the goodwill?’ asked the pitiless John. ‘What dost thee set that at?’
‘I think, brother, that that would depend on who came forward with the purchase-money of the stock and fixtures. To some folks we might make it sit easy, if they were known to us, and those as we wished well to. If Philip and William here, for instance, said they'd like to purchase the business, I reckon thee and me would not ask ‘em so much as we should ask Millers' (Millers was an upstart petty rival shop at the end of the bridge in the New Town).
‘I wish Philip and William was to come after us,’ said John. ‘But that's out of the question,’ he continued, knowing all the while that, far from being out of the question, it was the very question, and that it was as good as settled at this very time.
No one spoke. Then Jeremiah went on:
‘It's out of the question, I reckon?’
He looked at the two young men. Coulson shook his head. Philip more bravely said,—
‘I have fifty-three pounds seven and fourpence in yo'r hands, Master John, and it's all I have i' the world.’
‘It's a pity,’ said John, and again they were silent. Half-past nine struck. It was time to be beginning to make an end. ‘Perhaps, brother, they have friends who could advance ‘em the money. We might make it sit light to them, for the sake of their good service?’
Philip replied,—
‘There's no one who can put forwards a penny for me: I have but few kin, and they have little to spare beyond what they need.’
Coulson said—
‘My father and mother have nine on us.’
‘Let alone, let alone!’ said John, relenting fast; for he was weary of his part of cold, stern prudence. ‘Brother, I think we have enough of this world's goods to do what we likee wi' our own.’
Jeremiah was a little scandalized at the rapid melting away of assumed character, and took a good pull at his pipe before he replied—
‘Upwards of two thousand pounds is a large sum to set on the well-being and well-doing of two lads, the elder of whom is not three-and-twenty. I fear me we must look farther a-field.’
‘Why, John,’ replied Jeremiah, ‘it was but yesterday thee saidst thee would rather have Philip and William than any men o' fifty that thee knowed. And now to bring up their youth again them.’
‘Well, well! t' half on it is thine, and thou shall do even as thou wilt. But I think as I must have security for my moiety, for it's a risk—a great risk. Have ye any security to offer? any expectations? any legacies, as other folk have a life-interest in at present?’
No; neither of them had. So Jeremiah rejoined—
‘Then, I suppose, I mun do as thee dost, John, and take the security of character. And it's a great security too, lads, and t' best o' all, and one that I couldn't ha' done without; no, not if yo'd pay me down five thousand for goodwill, and stock, and fixtures. For John Foster and Son has been a shop i' Monkshaven this eighty years and more; and I dunnot think there's a man living—or dead, for that matter—as can say Fosters wronged him of a penny, or gave short measure to a child or a Cousin Betty.’
They all four shook hands round with the same heartiness as if it had been a legal ceremony necessary to the completion of the partnership. The old men's faces were bright with smiles; the eyes of the young ones sparkled with hope.
‘But, after all,’ said Jeremiah, ‘we've not told you particulars. Yo're thanking us for a pig in a poke: but we had more forethought, and we put all down on a piece o' paper.’
He took down a folded piece of paper from the mantel-shelf, put on his horn spectacles, and began to read aloud, occasionally peering over his glasses to note the effect on the countenances of the young men. The only thing he was in the habit of reading aloud was a chapter in the Bible daily to his housekeeper servant; and, like many, he reserved a peculiar tone for that solemn occupation—a tone which he unconsciously employed for the present enumeration of pounds, shillings, and pence.
‘Average returns of the last three years, one hundred and twenty-seven pounds, three shillings, and seven penny and one-sixth a week. Profits thereupon thirty-four per cent.—as near as may be. Clear profits of the concern, after deducting all expenses except rent—for t' house is our own—one thousand two hundred and two pound a year.’
This was far more than either Hepburn or Coulson had imagined it to be; and a look of surprise, almost amounting to dismay, crept over their faces, in spite of their endeavour to keep simply motionless and attentive.
‘It's a deal of money, lads, and the Lord give you grace to guide it,’ said Jeremiah, putting down his paper for a minute.
‘Amen,’ said John, shaking his head to give effect to his word.
‘Now what we propose is this,’ continued Jeremiah, beginning afresh to refer to his paper: ‘We will call t' value of stock and fixtures two thousand one hundred and fifty. You may have John Holden, appraiser and auctioneer, in to set a price on them if yo' will; or yo' may look over books and bills; or, better still, do both, and so check one again t'other; but for t' sake o' making the ground o' the bargain, I state the sum as above; and I reckon it so much capital left in yo'r hands for the use o' which yo're bound to pay us five per cent. quarterly—that's one hundred and seven pound ten per annum at least for t' first year; and after it will be reduced by the gradual payment on our money, which must be at the rate of twenty per cent., thus paying us our principal back in five years. And the rent, including all back yards, right of wharfage, warehouse, and premises, is reckoned by us to be sixty-five pound per annum. So yo' will have to pay us, John and Jeremiah Foster, brothers, six hundred and twelve pound ten out of the profits of the first year, leaving, at the present rate of profits, about five hundred and eighty-nine pound ten, for the share to be divided between yo'.’
The plan had, in all its details, been carefully arranged by the two brothers. They were afraid lest Hepburn and Coulson should be dazzled by the amount of profits, and had so arranged the sliding-scale of payment as to reduce the first year's income to what the elder men thought a very moderate sum, but what to the younger ones appeared an amount of wealth such as they, who had neither of them ever owned much more than fifty pounds, considered almost inexhaustible. It was certainly a remarkable instance of prosperity and desert meeting together so early in life.
For a moment or two the brothers were disappointed at not hearing any reply from either of them. Then Philip stood up, for he felt as if anything he could say sitting down would not be sufficiently expressive of gratitude, and William instantly followed his example. Hepburn began in a formal manner, something the way in which he had read in the York newspapers that honourable members returned thanks when their health was given.
‘I can hardly express my feelings' (Coulson nudged him) ‘his feelings, too—of gratitude. Oh, Master John! Master Jere
miah, I thought it might come i' time; nay, I've thought it might come afore long; but I niver thought as it would be so much, or made so easy. We've got good kind friends—we have, have we not, William?—and we'll do our best, and I hope as we shall come up to their wishes.’
Philip's voice quivered a little, as some remembrance passed across his mind; at this unusual moment of expansion out it came. ‘I wish mother could ha' seen this day.’
‘She shall see a better day, my lad, when thy name and William's is painted over t' shop-door, and J. and J. Foster blacked out.’
‘Nay, master,’ said William, ‘that mun never be. I'd a'most sooner not come in for the business. Anyhow, it must be “late J. and J. Foster”, and I'm not sure as I can stomach that.’
‘Well, well, William,’ said John Foster, highly gratified, ‘there be time enough to talk over that. There was one thing more to be said, was there not, brother Jeremiah? We do not wish to have this talked over in Monkshaven until shortly before the time when yo' must enter on the business. We have our own arrangements to make wi' regard to the banking concern, and there'll be lawyer's work to do, after yo've examined books and looked over stock again together; maybe we've overstated it, or t' fixtures aren't worth so much as we said. Anyhow yo' must each on yo' give us yo'r word for to keep fra' naming this night's conversation to any one. Meantime, Jeremiah and I will have to pay accounts, and take a kind of farewell of the merchants and manufacturers with whom Fosters have had dealings this seventy or eighty year; and when and where it seems fitting to us we will take one of yo' to introduce as our successors and friends. But all that's to come. But yo' must each give us yo'r word not to name what has passed here to any one till further speech on the subject has passed between us.’
Coulson immediately gave the promise. Philip's assent came lagging. He had thought of Sylvia living, almost as much as of the dead mother, whose last words had been a committal of her child to the Father of the friendless; and now that a short delay was placed between the sight of the cup and his enjoyment of it, there was an impatient chafing in the mind of the composed and self-restrained Philip; and then repentance quick as lightning effaced the feeling, and he pledged himself to the secrecy which was enjoined. Some few more details as to their mode of procedure—of verifying the Fosters' statements, which to the younger men seemed a perfectly unnecessary piece of business—of probable journeys and introductions, and then farewell was bidden, and Hepburn and Coulson were in the passage donning their wraps, and rather to their indignation being assisted therein by Martha, who was accustomed to the office with her own master. Suddenly they were recalled into the parlour.
John Foster was fumbling with the papers a little nervously: Jeremiah spoke—
‘We have not thought it necessary to commend Hester Rose to you; if she had been a lad she would have had a third o' the business along wi' yo‘. Being a woman, it's ill troubling her with a partnership; better give her a fixed salary till such time as she marries.’
He looked a little knowingly and curiously at the faces of the young men he addressed. William Coulson seemed sheepish and uncomfortable, but said nothing, leaving it as usual to Philip to be spokesman.
‘If we hadn't cared for Hester for hersel’, master, we should ha' cared for her as being forespoken by yo‘. Yo' and Master John shall fix what we ought t' pay her; and I think I may make bold to say that, as our income rises, hers shall too—eh, Coulson?’ (a sound of assent quite distinct enough); ‘for we both look on her as a sister, and on Alice like a mother, as I told her only this very day.’
CHAPTER XV
A Difficult Question
Philip went to bed with that kind of humble penitent gratitude in his heart, which we sometimes feel after a sudden revulsion of feeling from despondency to hope. The night before it seemed as if all events were so arranged as to thwart him in his dearest wishes; he felt now as if his discontent and repining, not twenty-four hours before, had been almost impious, so great was the change in his circumstances for the better. Now all seemed promising for the fulfilment of what he most desired. He was almost convinced that he was mistaken in thinking that Kinraid had had anything more than a sailor's admiration for a pretty girl with regard to Sylvia; at any rate, he was going away to-morrow, in all probability not to return for another year (for Greenland ships left for the northern seas as soon as there was a chance of the ice being broken up), and ere then he himself might speak out openly, laying before her parents all his fortunate prospects, and before her all his deep passionate love.
So this night his prayers were more than the mere form that they had been the night before; they were a vehement expression of gratitude to God for having, as it were, interfered on his behalf, to grant him the desire of his eyes and the lust of his heart. He was like too many of us, he did not place his future life in the hands of God, and only ask for grace to do His will in whatever circumstances might arise; but he yearned in that terrible way after a blessing which, when granted under such circumstances, too often turns out to be equivalent to a curse. And that spirit brings with it the material and earthly idea that all events that favour our wishes are answers to our prayer; and so they are in one sense, but they need prayer in a deeper and higher spirit to keep us from the temptation to evil which such events invariably bring with them.
Philip little knew how Sylvia's time had been passed that day. If he had, he would have lain down this night with even a heavier heart than he had done on the last.
Charley Kinraid accompanied his cousins as far as the spot where the path to Haytersbank Farm diverged. Then he stopped his merry talk, and announced his intention of going to see farmer Robson. Bessy Corney looked disappointed and a little sulky; but her sister Molly Brunton laughed, and said,—
‘Tell truth, lad! Dannel Robson ‘d niver have a call fra' thee if he hadn't a pretty daughter.’
‘Indeed, but he would,’ replied Charley, rather annoyed; ‘when I've said a thing, I do it. I promised last night to go see him; besides, I like the old man.’
‘Well! when shall we tell mother yo're comin' whoam?’
‘Toward eight o'clock—maybe sooner.’
‘Why it's bare five now! bless t' lad, does he think o' staying theere a' neet, and they up so late last night, and Mrs Robson ailing beside? Mother 'll not think it kind on yo' either, will she, Bess?’
‘I dunno. Charley mun do as he likes; I daresay no one'll miss him if he does bide away till eight.’
‘Well, well! I can't tell what I shall do; but yo'd best not stop lingering here, for it's getting on, and there'll be a keen frost by t' look o' the stars.’
Haytersbank was closed for the night as far as it ever was closed; there were no shutters to the windows, nor did they care to draw the inside curtains, so few were the passers-by. The house door was fastened; but the shippen door a little on in the same long low block of building stood open, and a dim light made an oblong upon the snowy ground outside. As Kinraid drew near he heard talking there, and a woman's voice; he threw a passing glance through the window into the fire-lit house-place, and seeing Mrs Robson asleep by the fire-side in her easy-chair, he went on.
There was the intermittent sound of the sharp whistling of milk into the pail, and Kester, sitting on a three-legged stool, cajoling a capricious cow into letting her fragrant burden flow. Sylvia stood near the farther window-ledge, on which a horn lantern was placed, pretending to knit at a gray worsted stocking, but in reality laughing at Kester's futile endeavours, and finding quite enough to do with her eyes, in keeping herself untouched by the whisking tail, or the occasional kick. The frosty air was mellowed by the warm and odorous breath of the cattle—breath that hung about the place in faint misty clouds. There was only a dim light; such as it was, it was not clearly defined against the dark heavy shadow in which the old black rafters and manger and partitions were enveloped.
As Charley came to the door, Kester was saying, ‘Quiet wi' thee, wench! Theere now, she's a beauty, if she
'll stand still. There's niver sich a cow i' t' Riding, if she'll only behave hersel’. She's a bonny lass, she is; let down her milk, theere's a pretty!’
‘Why, Kester,’ laughed Sylvia, ‘thou'rt asking her for her milk wi' as many pretty speeches as if thou wert wooing a wife!’
‘Hey, lass!’ said Kester, turning a bit towards her, and shutting one eye to cock the other the better upon her; an operation which puckered up his already wrinkled face into a thousand new lines and folds. ‘An' how does thee know how a man woos a wife, that thee talks so knowin' about it? That's tellin'. Some un's been tryin' it on thee.’
‘There's niver a one been so impudent,’ said Sylvia, reddening and tossing her head a little; ‘I'd like to see ‘em try me!’
‘Well, well!’ said Kester, wilfully misunderstanding her meaning, ‘thou mun be patient, wench; and if thou's a good lass, maybe thy turn 'll come and they 'll try it.’
‘I wish thou'd talk of what thou's some knowledge on, Kester, i'stead of i' that silly way,’ replied Sylvia.