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THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL
BY J. S. FLETCHER
NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO SIR WILLIAM ROBERTSON NICOLL WITH MUCH GRATITUDE
CONTENTS
Part the First: RISE
I APPLECROFT 11
II THE TIGHT LIP 23
III THE BROKEN MAN 35
IV THE DIPLOMATIC FATHER 47
V THE SHAKESPEARE LINE 59
VI THE GLOVES OFF 71
VII THE GOLDEN TEAPOT 83
VIII THE BATTLE BEGINS 95
IX THE IRON ROD 107
X THE ETERNAL FEMININE 119
XI HUMBLE PIE 131
XII THE TRIPLE CHANCE 142
XIII DEAD MEN'S SHOES 153
Part the Second: FALL
I AVARICE 165
II THE BIT OF BAD LAND 177
III COAL 189
IV BIRDS OF A FEATHER 201
V THE YORKSHIRE WAY 213
VI OBSESSION 225
VII THE LAST THROW 237
VIII THE COMMINATION SERVICE 248
IX THE BELL RINGS 260
X BLACK DEPTHS 271
XI THE SENTENCE 283
XII THE SECOND EXODUS 294
XIII THE LUSTRE JUG 307
_Part the First: RISE_
CHAPTER I
_Applecroft_
Half-way along the one straggling street of Savilestowe a narrow lanesuddenly opened out between the cottages and turned abruptly towards theuplands which rose on the northern edge of the village. Its first courselay between high grey walls, overhung with ivy and snapdragon. When itemerged from their cool shadowings the church came in view on one handand the school on the other, each set on its own green knoll andstanding high above the meadows. Once past these it became narrower andmore tortuous; the banks on either side rose steeply, and were crownedby ancient oaks and elms. In the proper season of the year these bankswere thick with celandine and anemone, and the scent of hedge violetsrose from the moss among the spreading roots of the trees. Here the rutsof the lane were deep, as if no man had any particular business torepair them. The lane was, in fact, a mere occupation road, and led tonothing but an out-of-the-way farmstead, which stood, isolated andforlorn, half a mile from the village. It bore a picturesquename--Applecroft--and an artist, straying by chance up the lane andcoming suddenly upon it would have rejoiced in its queer gables, itstwisted chimneys, in the beeches and chestnuts that towered above it,and in the old-world garden and orchard which flanked one side of itsbrick walls, mellowed by time to the colour of claret. But had such apilgrim looked closer he would have seen that here were all the marks ofill-fortune and coming ruin--evident, at any rate, to practical eyes inthe neglected gates and fences, in the empty fold, in the hingeless,tumble-down doors, in the lack of that stitch in time which byanticipation would have prevented nine more. He would have seen, inshort, that this was one of those places, of which there are so many inrural England, whereat a feckless man, short of money, was vainlyendeavouring to do what no man can do without brains and capital.
Nevertheless--so powerfully will Nature assert her own wealth in theface of human poverty--the place looked bright and attractive enough ona certain morning, when, it then being May, the trees around it were inthe first glory of their leafage, and the orchard was red and white withblossom of apple and plum and cherry. There was a scent of sweetbriarand mignonette around the broken wicket gate which admitted to thegarden, and in the garden itself, ill-kept and neglected, a hundredflowers and weeds, growing together unchecked, made patches of vividcolour against the prevalent green. There were other patches of colour,of a different sort, about the place, too. Beyond the garden, and alittle to the right of the house, a level sward, open to the full lightof the sun, made an excellent drying ground for the family washing, andhere, busily hanging out various garments on lines of cord, stretchedbetween rough posts, were two young women, the daughters of WilliamFarnish, the shiftless farmer, whose hold on his house and land wasdaily becoming increasingly feeble. If any shrewd observer able torender himself invisible had looked all round Applecroft--inside houseand hedge, through granary and stable--he would have gone away sayingwith emphasis, that he had seen nothing worth having there, save the twogirls whose print gowns fluttered about their shapely limbs as theyraised their bare arms and full bosoms to the cords on which they werepegging out the wet linen.
Farnish's wife had been dead some years, and since her death his twodaughters had not only done all the work of the house, but much of whattheir father managed to carry out on his hundred acres of land. Theybore strange names--selected by Farnish and his wife, after muchsearching and reflection, from the pages of the family Bible. The elderwas named Jecholiah; the younger Jerusha. As time had gone on Jecholiahhad become Jeckie; Jerusha had been shortened to Rushie. Everybody inthe parish and the neighbourhood knew Jeckie and Rushie Farnish. Theyhad always been inseparable, these sisters, yet it needed littleparticular observation to see that there was a difference of characterand temperament between them. Jeckie, at twenty-five, was a tall,handsome, finely-developed young woman, generous in proportion, with aflashing, determined eye, and a mouth and chin which denoted purpose andobstinacy; she was the sort of woman that could love like fire, but whomit would be dangerous to cross in love. Already many of the young men ofthe district, catching one flash of her hawk-like eyes, had feltthemselves warned, and it had been a matter of astonishment to somediscerning folk when it became known that she was going to marry AlbertGrice, the only son of old George Grice, the village grocer, a somewhatcolourless, tame young man whose vices were non-existent and his virtuescommonplace, and who had nothing to recommend him but a good-humoured,weak amiability and a rather good-looking, boyish face. Some said thatJeckie was thinking of Old Grice's money-bags, but the vicar's wife, whostudied psychology in purely amateur fashion, said that Jeckie Farnishhad taken up Albert Grice in precisely the same spirit which makes achild love a legless and faceless doll, and an old maid a miserablemongrel--just in response to the mothering instinct; whether Jeckieloved him, they said, nobody would ever know, for Jeckie, with herproud, scornful lips and eyes full of sombre passion, was not the sortto tell her heart's secrets to anybody. Not so, however, with hersister Rushie, a soft, pretty, lovable, kissable, cuddlesome slip of agirl, who was all for love, and would have been run after by every ladin the village and half the shop-boys in the neighbouring market town,if it had not been that Jeckie's mothering and grandmothering eye hadalways been on her. Rushie represented one thing in femininity; hersister typified its very opposite. Rushie was of the tribe of Venus, butJeckie of the daughters of Minerva.
Something of the circumstances and character of this family might havebeen gathered from the quality of the garments which the sisters wereindustriously hanging out to dry in the sun and wind. Most of them weretheir own, and in the bulk there was nothing of the frill and lace ofthe fine lady, but rather plain linen and calico. An expert housewife,fingering whatever there was, would have said that each separate articlehad been worn to thinness. Thus, too, were the sheets and pillow-casesand towels; and of such coarse stuff as belonged to Farnish himself--allrepresented the underwear and appointments of poor folk. But while therewas patching and darning in plenty, there were no rags. If her fatherallowed a gate to fall
off its posts rather than hunt up an old hingeand a few nails, Jeckie took good care that her needle and thread cameout on the first sign of a rent; it was harder to replace than torepair, in her experience. And now, as she put the last peg in the lastscrap of damp linen, it was with the proud consciousness that if thewhole show was poverty-stricken it was at least whole and clean.
"That's the lot, Rushie!" she said, turning to her sister as she pickedup the empty linen basket. "A good drying wind, too. We'll be able toget to mangling and ironing by tea-time."
Rushie, who had no such love of labour as her sister, made no answer.She followed Jeckie across the drying-ground and into the house; it wasindicative of her nature that she immediately dropped into the nearestchair. The washing had been going on since a very early hour in themorning, broken only by a hastily-snatched breakfast; on the table inthe one living-room the dirty cups and plates still lay spread about inconfusion. And Jeckie, who had eyes all round her head, glanced at them,and at the old clock in the corner, and at her sister, sitting down, allat once.
"Nay, child!" she exclaimed. "It's over soon for that game! Elevenalready, and naught done for dinner. Get those pots washed up, Rushie,and then see to the potatoes. Father'll none be so long before he'shome; and there'll be Doadie Bartle and him for their dinners at twelveo'clock. Come on, now!"
"I'm tired," said Rushie, as she slowly rose, and began to clear up theuntidy table. "We've never done in this house!"
"So'm I," retorted Jeckie. "But what's that to do with it when there'sthings to be done? Hurry up now, while I look after those fowls; they'venever been seen to this morning."
She caught up a sieve as she spoke, filled it with waste stuff from atub in the scullery, and, going out through the back of the house,walked into the fold behind, calling as she went to the cocks and henswhich were endeavouring to find something for themselves amongst itsboulders. None knew better than Jeckie the importance and value of thatfeathered brood. For three years she had kept things going with herpoultry and eggs, and with the milk and butter which she got from thefour cows that formed Farnish's chief property. The money that she madein this fashion had found the family in food and clothing, and gone someway towards paying the rent. And as she stood there throwing handfuls offood to the fowls, scurring and snatching about her feet, she had acurious sense that outside them and the cows feeding in the adjacentmeadow there was literally nothing about the whole farmstead butpoverty. The fold was destitute of manure; half a stack of straw stooddesolate in the adjoining stack-garth; there was no hay in the loft norcorn in the granary; whatever produce he raised Farnish was alwaysobliged to sell at once. The few pigs which he possessed were at thatmoment rooting in the lane for something to swell out their lank sides;his one horse was standing disconsolate by the trough near the well,mournfully regarding its emptiness. And Jeckie, as she threw away thelast contents of her sieve and went over to the pump, had a vision ofwhat other possibilities there were on the farm--certain acres of wheatand barley, of potatoes and turnips, the welfare of which, to be sure,depended upon the weather. She had a pretty keen idea of what they wouldbring in that coming autumn in the way of money; she had an equally goodone of what Farnish would have to do with it.
The horse, a fairly decent animal, drank greedily when Jeckie had pumpedwater into the trough, and as soon as he had taken his fill of thischeap commodity she opened the gate of the fold and let him out into thelane to pick up whatever he could get--that was an equally cheap way offeeding stock. Then, always with an eye to snatching up thepotentialities of profit, she began to go round the farm buildings,looking for eggs. Hens, as all hen-wives know, are aggravatingcreatures, and will lay their eggs in any nook or corner. Jeckie knewwhere eggs were to be found--in beds of nettles, or under the stick-castin the orchard, or behind the worn-out implements in the barn. Twice aday she or Rushie searched the precincts of Applecroft high and lowrather than lose one of the precious things which went to make up somany dozen for market every Saturday, and when they had finished theirlabours it was always with the uneasy feeling that some perverse BlackSpanish or Cochin China had successfully hidden away what would havebrought in at any rate a few pence. But a few pence meant much. Thoughthere were always eggs by the score in the wicker baskets in Jeckie'sdairy, none were ever eaten by the family nor used for cooking purposes.That, indeed, would have been equivalent to eating money. Eggs meantother things--beef, bread, rent.
Jeckie's search after the morning's eggs took her up into the oldpigeon-cote of the farm--an octagon building on the roof of thegranary--wherein there had been no pigeons for a long time. Approachedby a narrow, much-worn stone stairway, set between the walls of barn andgranary, this cobwebbed and musty place was honeycombed from the brokenfloor to the dilapidated roof by nests of pigeon-holes. There werescores upon scores of them, and Jeckie never knew in which she might notfind an egg. Consequently, in order to make an exhaustive search, it wasnecessary to climb all round the place, examining every row and everyseparate chamber. In doing this she had to pass the broken window, longdestitute of the thick glass which had once been there. Looking throughit, she saw her father coming up the lane from the village. At this,leaving her search to be resumed later, she went down to the fold again,carefully carrying her eggs before her in her bunched-up apron; forJeckie knew that Farnish had been into Sicaster, the neighbouringmarket-town, that morning on a question that had to do with money, andwhenever money was concerned her instincts were immediately aroused.
Farnish was riding into the fold as she regained it, and he got off hispony as she went towards him, and silently removing its saddle andbridle, turned it loose in the lane, to keep the horse company and findits dinner for itself. Carrying its furniture, he advanced in thedirection of his daughter--a tall, lank, shambling man, with a wisp ofyellowish-grey whisker on either side of a thin, weak face--and shookhis head as he turned into the stable, where Jeckie silently followedhim. He flung saddle and bridle into an empty manger, seated himself ona corn-bin, and, swinging his long legs, shook his head again.
"Well?" demanded Jeckie.
Farnish, for a long time, had found it difficult to encounter his elderdaughter's steady and questioning gaze, and he did not meet it now. Hiseyes wandered restlessly about the stable, as if wondering out of whichparticular hole the next rat would look, and he made no show of speech.
"You may as well out with it," said Jeckie. "What is it, now?"
There was an emphasis on the last word that made Farnish look at hisdaughter for a brief second; he looked away just as quickly, and beganto drum his fingers on his bony knees.
"Aye, well, mi lass!" he answered, in a low tone. "As ye say--now! Yemay as well hear now as later. It's just like this here. Things is aboutat an end! That's the long and that's the short, as the saying goes."
"You'll have to be plainer than that," retorted Jeckie. "What is it?Money, of course! But--who's wanting it?"
Farnish made as if he swallowed something with an effort, and he kepthis eyes steadily averted.
"I didn't make ye acquainted wi' it at the time," he said, after a briefsilence. "But ye see, Jeckie, my lass, at t'last back-end I had toborrow money fro' one o' them money-lendin' fellers at Clothford--them'at advertises, like, i' t'newspapers. I were forced to it!--couldn'tha' gone on, nohow, wi'out it at t'time. And so, course, why, itsowin'!"
"How much?" demanded Jeckie.
"It were a matter o' two hundred 'at I borrowed," replied Farnish."But--there's a bit o' interest, of course. It's that thereinterest----"
"What are they going to do?" asked Jeckie. Her whole instinct was to getat the worst--to come to grips. "Let's be knowing!" she saidimpatiently. "What's the use of keeping it back?"
"They can sell me up," answered Farnish in a low tone. "They can sellaught there is. I signed papers, d'ye see, mi lass. I had to. There wereno two ways about it."
Jeckie made no answer. She saw the whole of Applecroft and its hundredacres as in a vision. Sold up! There was, indeed
, she thought, withbitter and ironic contempt, a lot to sell! Household furniture, livestock, dead stock, growing crops--was the whole lot worth two hundredpounds? Perhaps; but, then there would be nothing left. Now, out of thecows and the poultry a living could be scratched together, but....
"I been into Sicaster to see Mr. Burstlewick, th' bank manager,"continued Farnish. "I telled him all t'tale. He said he were very sorry,and he couldn't do naught. Naught at all! So, you see, my lass, that'swhere it is. An' it's a rare pity," he concluded, with a burst ofsentimental self-condolence, "for it's a good year for weather, and Ireckon 'at what we have on our land'll be worth three or four hundredpound this back-end. And all for t'want of a hundred pounds, Jeckie, milass!"
"What do you mean by a hundred pound?" exclaimed Jeckie. "You said two!"
"Aye, but ye don't understand, mi lass," answered Farnish. "If I couldgive 'em half on it d'ye see, and sign a paper to pay t'other half whenharvest's been and gone--what?"
"Would that satisfy 'em?" asked Jeckie suspiciously.
"So they telled me, t'last time I saw 'em," replied Farnish in apparentsincerity. "'Give us half on it, Mr. Farnish,' they said, 'and t'otherhalf and t'interest can run on.' So they said; but it's three weekssince, is that."
Jeckie meditated for a moment; then she suddenly turned, left thestable, and, crossing the empty fold, got rid of her eggs. She went intothe kitchen; took something from its place in the delf-ledge, and, withanother admonition to Rushie to see to the dinner, walked out into thegarden, and set off down the lane outside. Farnish, from the fold, sawher going, and as her print gown vanished he turned into the house witha sigh of mingled relief and anticipation. But as he came in sight ofthe delf-ledge the sigh changed to a groan. Jeckie, he saw, had carriedaway the key of the beer barrel, and whereas he might have had a quartin her certain absence he would now get nothing but a mere glass on herproblematical return.