CHAPTER XIII
_The Lustre Jug_
Some eight or nine years after the morning on which Jeckie Farnish andher father had walked out of their native village for the last time,never to be heard of again in those parts, a man, who had just arrivedby train at Scarhaven, the time being seven o'clock of a bitterly coldNovember evening, turned away from the railway station and betookhimself, shivering in the north-east wind that swept inland from thesea, towards a part of the town wherein cheap lodgings were to be found.In the light of the street lamps he showed himself to any who chanced tolook at him as a not over-well clad, somewhat shabby man, elderly,greyish of hair and beard, who carried an old umbrella in one hand and amuch worn hand-bag in the other. Not the sort of man, this, anyone wouldhave said, who had much money to spend--nevertheless, when, after someten minutes of hard walking, he came to the end of a badly lightedstreet in a dismal quarter, he turned into the bar-parlour of a cornertavern and ordered hot whisky and a cheap cigar. In the light of theplace his shabbiness was more apparent, yet it was shabbiness of thegenteel sort. His overcoat was threadbare, but well brushed; his boots,patched in more than one place, were sound of sole and firm of heel andhad been well cleaned and polished; his linen was clean and he woregloves. A keen observer of men and things would have said, afterinspecting him, that here was a man who had known better days.
Under the cheering influence of his whisky and his cigar, this man shookoff the chill of the streets and the sea wind and began to feel morecomfortable in flesh and bone.
He settled himself in a corner of the bar-parlour and picked up anewspaper from an adjoining table, there was a good fire in the grateclose by, and he glanced at it approvingly as at the face of an oldfriend, and occasionally stretched out a hand to it. In this fashion hespent half an hour; at the end of that time he pulled out a watch, andhere again a keen observer would have noted something of significance.The watch hung from a cheap steel chain, of the sort that you can buyanywhere for a couple of shillings, but the watch itself was a good,first-class article of solid gold, old, no doubt, but valuable. Hereplaced it in his pocket with an air of indecision; then, apparently,making up his mind about something, he had his glass replenished, andfor another half-hour he sat, gradually growing warmer and morecourageous. But soon after eight o'clock had struck from a neighbouringchurch tower, he rose, buttoned his overcoat about his throat, and,picking up bag and umbrella, made for the door. Ere he had reached itanother moment of apparent indecision came over him. It ended in hisreturning to the bar and asking to be supplied with a bottle of whisky.He counted out its price from a handful of silver which he drew from hiship pocket, and, placing the bottle in the bag, made his exit and wentout again into the night.
It was a badly-lighted street down which this man turned--a street ofsmall, mean houses, wherein there were few lights in the windows and thegas lamps were placed far apart. Consequently, he had some difficulty infinding the number he wanted, and was obliged to look closely within thedoorways to get an idea of its exact situation. But he got it at last,and knocked--to wait until a slight opening of the door revealed adimly-lighted, narrow passage, and a girl between the lamp and himself.
"Mrs. Watson in?" he asked, making as if to enter. The girl shook herhead.
"Mrs. Watson's dead, sir--died three years ago," she answered. "Name ofMarshall here now."
The inquirer appeared to be seriously taken aback.
"Sorry to hear that," he said. "I used to get a night's lodgings withher in years past. Do they let lodgings here now?"
"No, sir," said the girl, "but there's plenty of houses where they do,both sides of the street. You'll see cards in the windows, sir."
The man thanked his informant and went away--to look for the cards ofwhich the girl had spoken. There were plenty of these cards in thewindows. He could see them, dismal and ghost-like in the gloom, and verysoon he paused, irresolute.
"One's as good as another, I reckon," he muttered at last. "And whenyou can't afford an hotel----"
Then he knocked at the door by which he was just then standing. Therewas some delay there, but when the door opened there was a strong lightin the passage behind it, and he found himself confronting a tall,gaunt, white-haired woman, gowned in rusty black, over whose shoulderswere thrown an old Paisley shawl. He looked uninterestedly at her--onelandlady was pretty much as other landladies.
"Can you let me have a room and a bit of supper and breakfast?" hebegan. "I used to put up at Mrs. Watson's, lower down, but I find shedead, so----"
Then he suddenly stopped, hearing the woman catch her breath and seeinga quick start of surprise in her as she leaned forward to stare at him.And he, too, leaned nearer, and stared.
"Good Lord!" he muttered. "Jeckie! Jeckie Farnish! Well, I never!"
Jeckie held the door wider, motioning the applicant to step inside.
"I knew you, Albert Grice, as soon as you spoke," she said, in a dull,almost sullen voice. "Come in! I can find what you want. Where's yourwife?" she went on, as she pointed him to a hat-stand. "Is she here,waiting anywhere, in the town, or is it just for yourself?"
Albert set down his umbrella and bag, and began to take off his coat.
"Lucilla's dead," he replied, shortly. "Five or six years since. I'd noidea of coming across you! I was here, once or twice--business, youknow--for a night, some years since, at that Mrs. Watson's----"
"Come this way," said Jeckie. She walked before him down the narrowpassage to a living-room at the end, a homely, comfortable place, wherethere was a bright fire, something cooking on the range, and, in anelbow-chair at the side of the hearth, an old, white-bearded man whosmiled and nodded as Albert walked in. "You remember him," continuedJeckie, pointing to Farnish. "He's lost his memory--he wouldn't know youfrom Adam!--he's forgotten all about Savilestowe, and he thinks he's aretired farmer--wi' lots o' money!" she added, grimly. "Speak tohim--but take no notice of what he says--he talks all sorts o' softstuff."
Albert went up to Farnish and offered his hand.
"Ah, how do you do, sir?" he asked. "Hope I see you well, sir?"
"Ah, how do you do, sir?" responded Farnish, with another infantilesmile. "I hope you're well yourself? Friend o' my dowter's, no doubt,sir, and kindly welcome. Jecholiah, mi lass, what'll the gentleman tak'to drink--ye mun get out the sperrits--and there'll be a bit o' tobaccoin the jar, somewhere, no doubt."
"Sit you down," said Jeckie, motioning Albert to another elbow-chair."There's some hot supper in t'oven; plenty of it, and good, too, andwe'll have it in a minute, and then he'll go to his bed--he's quiet andharmless enough, but his mind's gone--at least his memory has."
"Does he ever take a glass?" asked Albert, staring curiously at Farnish."I see he's got his pipe handy."
"Oh, I give him a drop every night before he goes to bed," said Jeckie,already bustling about the hearth. "That does him no harm."
Albert went back into the passage and returned with his bottle ofwhisky. Seeing a corkscrew hanging on the delf-ledge, he drew the cork,mixed two tumblers of grog, and handed one to Farnish and offered theother to Jeckie.
"Nay, drink it yourself," said Jeckie. "I don't mind one after supper,but not now. You haven't made it over strong for him?"
"It'll not hurt him," replied Albert, pointing to the label on thebottle. "Sound stuff, that. Best respects, sir!"
"And my best respects to you, sir, and many on 'em," answered Farnish."Allers glad to see a gentleman o' your sort, sir--friends o' mydowter's."
"He thinks all my lodgers are friends 'at come to see us," observedJeckie. "Poor old feller!--he's been like that this three year."
Albert sat sipping his drink and watching father and daughter. Farnishhad become white and doddering; Jeckie's hair was as white as his, andshe was as gaunt as a scarecrow, and looked all the more so because ofher height and her strong-boned figure, but she was evidently asbustling as ever, and not without some spark of her old fire. Andbefore long she set a smoking-hot Irish stew on th
e table, and badeAlbert to fall to and eat heartily; there was always plenty of good,plain food in her house, she added, dryly, and nobody went with theirbread unbuttered. So Albert ate and grew warm and satisfied, and, when,later on, Jeckie was seeing Farnish to his bed, he sat by the fire, anddrank more whisky, and wondered, in vague, purposeless fashion, aboutthe vagaries of life.
Jeckie came back to him at last, and dropped into the chair whichFarnish had left empty. Albert indicated his bottle.
"Well, I don't mind a drop," she said. "A woman 'at works as hard as Ido can do with a glass last thing at night. I've some good stuff o' myown in that cupboard--you must try it when you've finished your glass."
"Good health, then," said Albert. He looked speculatively at her as helifted his glass. "I was never more surprised in my life," he went on,confidentially, "than when you opened that door! For--it's all a longtime ago!"
Jeckie, holding the tumbler which he had given her in both hands, staredmeditatively at the fire for some time before replying.
"Aye!" she said at last. "I've had more lives nor one i' my time! You'venever been back there?"
"Never!" answered Albert. "Have you?"
Jeckie shook her head.
"There's naught could ever make me do that," she said. "It was over anddone with. Once I thought of emigrating and starting afresh, but therewas him"--she nodded towards the stairs. "I had to think of him. So Icame here, and furnished this bit of a house, and started taking inlodgers--chance folk, like yourself. It's been--well, just a comfortableliving. T'old fellow upstairs is satisfied, especially since he lost allhis memory. And that's the main thing, anyhow, now. There's naughtelse."
Albert said nothing, and there was a long pause before Jeckie spokeagain. Then she asked a question.
"What might you be doing?"
"Bit o' travelling," replied Albert. "The old line--a patent food. Nogreat thing; but, as you say, it's, well, just a nice living. For asingle man, keeps one going; and I can manage a cigar now and then, anda drop o' that," he added, with a knowing sidelong glance at the bottle."I don't complain."
Jeckie shrugged her shoulders.
"What's the use?" she said.
Albert suddenly rose, went out into the passage, and came back with apacket in his hand, which he presented to her.
"This is the stuff," he said. "Invaluable for children, invalids, andold people. You might try it on your father; it's grand stuff for old'uns when they've lost their teeth. Lately I've done very nicely withit. What I want is to get a bigger connection with leading firms in someof these towns. I'm going to try a whole day here to-morrow. I've onlyone of these Scarhaven firms on my list at present. Now, you'll have anidea about where I should go, eh? Happen you can suggest...."
They continued talking for an hour or two, facing each other across thehearth, two broken things, with a past behind them, and a bottle betweenthem, each secretly conscious of mutual knowledge, and neither daring tospeak of it. They talked of anything but the past, any trifle of themoment; yet the consciousness of the past was there, spectre-like, andeach felt it. And, at last, as the clock struck eleven, Jeckie rose andlighted a candle.
"I'll show you your room," she said. "You can depend on the bed beingwell-aired; I'm always particular about that; and there's everythingyou'll want. And I'll have a good breakfast ready at half-past eight."
When she had shown Albert to his room she went downstairs again, and,gathering the Paisley shawl about her, sat in front of the fire, staringat it and thinking, until the red ashes grew grey, and the grey asheswhite. It was past midnight then, but she had so sat, and so heard theclocks strike twelve for many a long year.
"As sure as I'm a born woman," she muttered, she rose at last, "it wasBen Scholes's spirit 'at I saw that night! And I were none wrong when Isaid to Revis 'at I didn't know what I gave for that land! for who knowswhat I'll have to pay for it yet! But I've kept paying, and paying, andpaying, on account; but what about t'balance?"
She went slowly and heavily upstairs and looked in on Farnish. The oldman was fast asleep, his hands clasped over his breast.
"He's all right," she muttered as she left his room. "He never had anygreat love of money."
Albert found a good breakfast of eggs and bacon ready for him when hecame down in the morning, and did justice to it. Jeckie stood by thefire and talked to him while he ate, but again there was no reference tothe past. And before nine o'clock he had got into his coat and hat, tostart out on his round.
"I want to get done by four," he said. "I must go on to Kingsportto-night. So now--what do I owe?"
"Why if you give me three-and-six, it'll do," answered Jeckie. With thecoins which he gave her still in her hand, she followed him to thestreet door and looked out into a grey sea-fog that was rolling slowlyup the street. She continued to look when he had said good-bye and gonequickly away ... she watched his disappearing figure until the sea-fogswallowed it up. She went back to the living-room then, and took downfrom the mantelpiece an old lustre-jug which she had treasured allthrough her life, since the time of her girlhood at Applecroft, and inwhich she now kept her small change. And as she dropped thethree-and-six in it, the lustre-jug slipped from her fingers, and wasbroken into fragments on the hearthstone. Presently, she picked up thefragments and went out into the yard behind the house and threw themaway on the dustheap; bits of pot, not more shattered than her own self.
THE END
* * * * *
_Novels by_
J. S. FLETCHER
THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL THE SECRET OF THE BARBICAN THE MILL OF MANY WINDOWS THE COPPER BOX THE HEAVEN-KISSED HILL EXTERIOR TO THE EVIDENCE THE VALLEY OF HEADSTRONG MEN THE LOST MR. LINTHWAITE
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