CHAPTER III
_The Broken Man_
While Jeckie was busied in the village and Farnish, sighing after thekey of the beer barrel, was aimlessly wandering about the farmbuildings, there came into the kitchen, where Rushie was making readythe dinner, a tall, blue-eyed, broadly-built youngster, whose firstaction was to glance inquiringly at the clock and whose second was to goto the sink in the corner to wash his brown hands. This was Joe, orDoadie Bartle, about whom nobody in those parts knew more than that hehad turned up as a lad of fifteen at Applecroft some six or seven yearspreviously; had been taken in by Farnish to do a bit of work for hismeat, drink and lodging, and had remained there ever since. According tohis own account, he was an orphan, from Lincolnshire, who had run awayfrom his last place and gone wandering about the country in search of abetter. Something in the atmosphere of Applecroft had suited him, andthere he had stayed, and was now, in fact, Farnish's sole help on thefarm outside the occasional assistance of the two girls. There were folkin the village who said that Farnish got his labour for naught, butJeckie knew that he had had twenty pounds a year ever since he waseighteen, and had regularly put by one-half of his wages under hersupervision. Doadie Bartle, chiefly conspicuous for his air of simplegood nature, had come to be a fixture. Without him and Jeckie the placewould have gone to wrack and ruin long since, for Farnish had a trick ofsitting down when he should have been afoot, and gossiping inpublic-houses when his presence was wanted elsewhere. It was because ofthis--a significant indication, had there been anyone to notice it--thatDoadie was always treated to a pint of ale at dinner and supper, whilehis master was rigorously restricted to a glass.
Doadie Bartle looked again at the clock as he finished wiping his handson the rough towel which hung from its roller behind the door. Hisglance ended at Rushie, who was sticking a fork into the potatoes on thehob.
"By gow, it's a warm 'un, this mornin'!" he said. "Where's Jeckie, like?I could do wi' my pint now better nor later."
"You'll have to wait," answered Rushie, who had seen her father'sdespairing glance at the delf-ledge. "She's gone out, and taken the keywith her."
Doadie looked disappointedly in the direction of the beer barrel, whichstood on its gantry just within the open door of the larder. Resigninghimself to the unavoidable, he walked out into the fold, where Farnishleaned against the wall of the pig-stye, hands in pockets.
"I shall have to do a bit o' mendin' up this afternoon," said Doadie."Merritt's cows has been i' our clover; there's a bad place i't'hedge."
"Aye!" assented Farnish. There was no interest in his tone, and littlemore seemed to be awakened when Rushie appeared at the kitchen windowand announced that dinner was ready. He shambled indoors, and, withoutremoving his hat, sat down at the head of his table, and began to cutslices off the big lump of cold bacon, which, with boiled potatoes andgreens, made up the dinner. "Jeckie's no reight to run off wi' t'key o't'ale barrel," he grumbled. "Them 'at tews hes a reight to sup!"
"It's not much tewin' 'at you've been doin', I'll lay!" retorted Rushie,who had long since learned the art of homely repartee from her eldersister. "Ridin' about like a lord!"
"Now then, never mind!" growled Farnish. "Happen I done more tewin' norye're aware on, mi lass! There's more sorts o' hard work than one."
Then, all three being liberally supplied, the three pairs of jaws set towork, and the steady eating went on in silence until the sheep-cur,chained outside the door to a dilapidated kennel, gave a short, sharpbark. Rushie, who knew this to be a declaration of friendliness ratherthan of enmity, ran and put the potatoes and greens on the hob to warmup.
"Jeckie!" she said. "None been so long, after all."
Jeckie came bustling into the kitchen as Farnish, who knew her appetite,pushed a well-filled plate towards her place. Without a word she took abig earthenware jug from its hook, went to the larder, and rummaged inher pocket for the key of the beer barrel. Presently the sound of thegurgling ale was heard in the kitchen. Doadie Bartle's big blue eyesglistened as he went on steadily munching. Farnish looked down at thecloth, wondering if his elder daughter meant to be generous. The roseatehopes set up in Jeckie's mind by her interview with George Griceinclined her for once to laxity. When she came back with the ale shegave her father a pint instead of a glass, and Farnish made aninvoluntary mutter of appreciation. He and his man seized their measuresand drank deep. Jeckie, pouring out glasses for herself and her sister,gave them a half-whimsical look; she had been obliged to tilt the barrela little to draw that ale, and she knew that its contents were runninglow, and that the brewer's man was not due for two days yet.
The dinner went on to its silent end; the bacon, greens, and potatoesfinished. Rushie cleared the plates in a heap, and, setting clean onesbefore each diner, produced a huge jam tart, hot and smoking from theoven. Jeckie cut this into great strips and distributed them. Bartle,still hungry, took a mouthful of his, turned scarlet, and reached forhis pot of beer.
"Gum! that's a hot 'un!" he said drinking heartily. "Like to take t'skinoffen your tongue, is that!" Then, with an apologetic glance in Rushie'sdirection, and, as if to excuse his manners, he murmured, "Jam's allushotter nor owt 'at iver comes out o' t'oven, I think, and I allusforget it; you mun excuse me!"
"Save toffee," remarked Farnish, with the air of superior knowledge."There's nowt as hot as what toffee is. I rek'lect 'at I once burntt'roof o' my mouth varry bad wi' some toffee 'at mi mother made; theyhed to oil my mouth same as they oil machines--wi' a feather."
When the last of the jam tart had vanished the two girls put theirelbows on the table, propped their chins on their interlaced fingers,and seemed to study the pattern of the coarse linen cloth. Farnish gotup slowly; took down his pipe from the corner of the mantlepiece, and,drawing some loose tobacco from his waistcoat pocket, began to smoke.Bartle, after rising and stretching himself, went over to a drawer inthe delf-ledge, and presently came back from it with a paper packet,which he began to unfold. An odour of peppermint rose above thelingering smell of the bacon and greens.
"Humbugs!" he said, with a broad grin, as he offered the packet to thetwo girls. "I bowt three-pennorth t'last time I were i' Sicaster, andI'd forgotten all abowt 'em. They're t'reight sort, these is--tasty'uns."
Munching the brown and white bull's eyes, the sisters began to clearaway the dinner things into the scullery. Presently Rushie called toBartle to bring her the kettle and help her to wash up. When he had goneinto the scullery Jeckie, who was folding up the cloth, turned to herfather.
"About what you told me this morning," she said, in low tones."Something's got to be done, and, of course, as usual, I've got to doit. I've been down to see George Grice."
Farnish started, and his thin face flushed a little. He was mortallyafraid of George Grice, who represented money and power and will force.
"Aye, well, mi lass!" he muttered slowly. "Of course there's no doubt'at Mr. George Grice has what they call th' ability to help a body--nodoubt at all. But as to whether he's gotten the will, you know, why----"
"Less talk!" commanded Jeckie. "If he helps anybody it'll be me! And youlisten here; we're not going on as we have done. You're letting thingsgo from bad to worse. And you don't tell me t'truth, neither. I metStubley, and he says you never paid t'last half-year's rent. Now, then!"
"I arranged it wi' t'steward," protested Farnish. "Him an' me understandeach other; Mr. Stubley's nowt to do wi' it."
"You had the money," asserted Jeckie. "What did you do with it?"
"It went to them money-lendin' fellers," answered Farnish. "That's whereit went; they would have it, choose how! Ye see mi lass----"
"I'll tell you what it is," interrupted Jeckie. "You'll have to let metake hold! I can pull things round. Now, you listen! Mr. George Grice iscoming up here this very afternoon, and him and me's going to get at aright idea of how matters stand. And if he helps me to pay all off andget a fresh start I'm going to be master, d'ye see? You'll just have todo all 'at I say in future. You can be maste
r in name if you like, but Ishall be t'real one. If you don't agree to that, I shall do no more! IfI put you right, in future I shall manage things; I shall take all thatcomes in, and pay all that goes out. Do you understand that?"
Farnish accepted this ultimatum with an almost tipsy gravity. Hecontinued to puff at his pipe while his daughter talked, and when shehad finished he bowed solemnly, as if he had been a judge assenting toan arrangement made between contending litigants.
"Now then," he said, in almost unctuous accents, "owt 'at suits you'llsuit me! If so be as you can put me on my legs again, Jecholiah, milass, I'm agreeable to any arrangement as you're good enough to mak'.You can tek' t'reins o' office, as the sayin' is, wi' pleasure, and doall t'paying out and takin' in. Of course," he added, with a covertglance in his daughter's direction, "you'll not be against givin' yourpoor father a few o' shillin's a week to buy a bit o' 'bacca wi?--it 'udbe again Nature, and religion, an' all, if I were left----"
"You've never been without beer or 'bacca yet, that I know of," retortedJeckie, with a flash of her eye. "Trust you! But now, when George Gricecomes, mind there's no keeping aught back. We shall want to know----"
Just then Rushie called from the scullery that the grocer was at thegarden gate in his trap, and Farnish immediately got out of his easychair, ill at ease.
"Happen I'd better go walk i' t'croft a bit while you hev your talk tohim, Jeckie?" he suggested. "Two's company, and three's----"
"And happen you'd better do naught o' t'sort!" retorted Jeckie. "Youbide where you are till you're wanted."
She went out to the gate to meet Grice, who, being one of those men whonever walk where they can ride, had driven up to Applecroft in one ofhis grocery carts, and was now hitching his pony to a ring in the outerwall. He nodded silently to Jeckie as he moved heavily towards her.
"Much obliged to you for coming, Mr. Grice," she said eagerly. "I takeit very kind of you. I've spoken to him," she went on, lowering hervoice and nodding in the direction of the kitchen. "I've told him,straight, that if you and me help him out o' this mess that he's gotinto, I shall be master, so----"
"Take your time, mi lass, take your time!" said the grocer. "Before Ithink o' helping anybody I want to know where I am! Now," he continued,as they walked into the fold and he looked round him with appraisingeyes, "it may seem a queer thing me living in t'same place, my lass, butI've never been near this house o' yours for many a long year--neversin' you were a bairn, I should think--it's out o' t'way, d'ye see! Anddear, dear, I see a difference! What!--there's naught about t'place! Nostraw--no manure--no cattle--a pig or two--a few o' fowls!--Why, there'snowt! Looks bad, my lass, looks very, very bad. Farnish hasnowt--nowt!"
Jeckie's heart sank like lead in a well, and a sickened feeling cameover her. "I know it looks pretty bad, Mr. Grice," she admitted, almosthumbly. "But it's not so bad as it looks. There's four right good cows,and over a hundred and fifty head o' poultry. I know what the butter andmilk and eggs bring in!--and there's more pigs nor what you see, andthere's the crops. Come through the croft, and look at 'em. If there'sno manure in the fold, it's on the land, anyway--we've never soldneither straw nor manure off this place. Come this way."
It was mainly owing to Jeckie, Rushie, and Doadie Bartle that whatarable land Farnish held was clear and free of weeds. The grocer wasbound to admit that the crops looked well; his long acquaintance with afarming district had taught him how to estimate values; he agreed withJeckie that, granted the right sort of weather for the rest of thesummer and part of autumn, there was money in what he was shown.
"But then, you know, mi lass," he said as they returned to the house,"it all depends on what Farnish is owing. This here money-lender 'at youspoke of--he ought to be cleared off, neck and crop! Then there's ayear's rent. And there'll be other things. There's forty pounds due tome. Before ever I take into consideration doing aught at all foryou--'cause I wouldn't do it for Farnish, were it ever so!--I shall wantto know how matters stands, d'ye see? I must know of every penny 'at'sowing--otherwise it 'ud be throwin' good money after bad. I'll none denythat if what he owes is nowt much--two or three hundred or so--thingsmight be pulled round under your management. But, there it is! What doeshe owe?--that's what we want to be getting at."
"I'll make him tell," said Jeckie. "We'll have it put down on paper.Come in, Mr. Grice." Then, as they went towards the door of the house,she added in confidential, hospitable tones, "I've a bottle o' good oldwhisky put away, that nobody knows naught about--you shall have aglass."
Grice muttered something about no need for his prospectivedaughter-in-law to trouble herself, but he followed her into thekitchen, where Farnish stood nervously awaiting them. The grocer, whofelt that he could afford to be facetious as well as magnanimous, gaveFarnish a sly look.
"Now then, mi lad!" he said. "We've come to hear a bit about what you'vebeen doing o' late! You seem to ha' let things run down,Farnish--there's nowt much to show outside. How is it, like?"
"Why, you see, Mr. Grice," answered Farnish with a weak smile, "there'stimes, as you'll allow, sir, when a man gets a bit behindhand, and----"
He suddenly paused, and his worn face turned white, and Grice, followinghis gaze, which was fixed on the garden outside, saw what had checkedhis speech. Two men were coming to the front door; in one of them Gricerecognised a Sicaster auctioneer who was also a sheriff's officer. Helet out a sharp exclamation which made Jeckie, who was unlocking acorner cupboard, swing herself round in an agony of fear.
"Good God!" he said. "Bailiffs!"
The door was open to the sunshine and the scent of the garden, and thesheriff's officer, after a glance within, stepped across the thresholdand pulled out a paper.
"Afternoon, Mr. Grice!" he said cheerfully. "Fine day, sir. Now, Mr.Farnish, sorry to come on an unpleasant business, but I dare say you'vebeen expecting me any time this last ten days, eh? Levinstein's suit,Mr. Farnish--execution. Four hundred and eighty-three pounds, fiveshillings, and sixpence. Not convenient to settle, I dare say, so I'llhave to leave my man."
Jeckie, who had grown as white as the linen on the lines outside, stoodmotionless for a moment. Then she turned on her father.
"You said it was only two hundred!" she exclaimed hoarsely. "Yousaid----" She paused, hearing Grice laugh, and turned to see him claphis hat on his head and stride out by the back door. In an instant shewas after him, her hand, trembling like a leaf, on his arm.
"Mr. Grice! You're not going? Stand by us--by me! Before God, I'll seeyou're right!" she cried. "Mr. Grice!"
But Grice strode on towards his trap; the tight lip tighter than ever.
"Nay!" he said. "Nay! It's no good, my lass. It's done wi'."
"Mr. Grice!" she cried again. "Why--I'm promised to your Albert! Mr.Grice!"
But Mr. Grice made no answer; another moment and he had climbed into hiscart and was driving away, and Jeckie, after one look at his broad back,muttered something to herself and went back into the house.
An hour later she and Rushie were mangling and ironing, in dead silence.They went on working, still in silence, far into the evening, and DoadieBartle, after supper, turned the mangle for them. Towards dark Farnish,who had already become fast friends with the man in possession, stole upto his elder daughter, and whispered to her. Jeckie pulled the key ofthe beer barrel from her pocket, and flung it at him.
"Tek it, and drink t'barrel dry!" she said, fiercely. "It's t'last'at'll ever be tapped i' this place--by you at any rate!"