PROFITS
'What do you want? Who are you?' asked Ki Drownlands, when he had
sufficiently recovered his self-possession to see that some one was
clinging to him, and that that person was a woman.
'Help! Come back! Father is ill.'
'I don't care. Let go. You hurt me.'
She hurt him by her touch on his boot! His nerves were thrilling, and
the pressure of her fingers was unendurable in the surexcitation of
every fibre of his system.
'Oh, help! help!' She would not relax her hold.
'I cannot. I've my own concerns to attend.'
Drownlands remained silent for a moment. He was shivering as one in an
ague fit—shivering as though the marrow in his bones were touched with
frost. Presently he asked in a voice of constraint—
'How long have you been here? What have you seen?'
He stooped to his stirrup, unhitched one of the lanterns and held it
aloft, above the person who appealed for his aid.
The dim yellow light fell over a head of thick amber hair and a
pale, beautifully moulded face, with large lustrous eyes, looking up
entreatingly at him.
His hand that held the lantern was unsteady, and the light quivered.
To disguise his agitation, he gave the lantern a pendulous motion,
and the reflection glinted and went out, glinted again in those great
beseeching eyes, and glowed in that copper-gold hair, as though waves
of glory flashed up in the darkness and set again in darkness.
'What have you seen?' he repeated.
'Seen?—I see you. I want help. You will help me?'
'How long have you been here?'
'How long? I am but this instant come. I have run.'
Her bosom was heaving under a gay kerchief, her breath came in little
puffs of steam that passed as golden dust in the halo of the lantern.
Drownlands rested both his hands on the pommel of the saddle, with the
flail athwart beneath them. He put the handle of the lantern in his
mouth, and the upward glare of the light was on his sinister face.
He was considering. He did not recognise the girl. His mind was
too distraught to think whether or not he had seen her before. She
persisted—
'Help us! I have been running. I am out of breath. I saw you ride by
on the bank. I called to you, and spoke to you there, and you would
do nothing. My dear father is worse. He is dying. You must—you shall
help.'
He still looked at her. That beautiful face—the sole object shining
out of the darkness—fascinated him, in spite of his alarm, his
distress.
'I am Cheap Jack Zita. I am the daughter of the poor Cheap Jack. He is
taken ill—he cannot get on. He is on the bank—dying. My father!'
Then she burst into tears; and in the lantern light Ki saw the
sparkling drops race down the smooth cheeks, saw them rise in the great
eyes and overflow. He slowly removed the lantern handle from his teeth,
and said—
'I cannot be plagued with you. I have other matters that concern me.'
He had been alarmed at first, fearing lest his encounter with Runham
had been witnessed, lest this girl should be able to testify against
him, were he taken to task for the death of his rival and adversary.
'Oh, come! Oh, do come!' sobbed Zita, as she grasped his boot more
tightly.
'It was you who called?'
'Yes, it was I.'
'You called me?'
'Yes. There was no one else to call.'
'Oh,' said he, 'you saw no one else? No one with me?'
'No. I ran up the bank as you went by. I spoke to you, but you swore at
me.'
'I—I did that?'
There was some mistake. She had taken him for the man now beneath the
water.
'You shall not go!' cried the girl, clinging desperately to the
stirrup. 'You cannot be so heartless as to let my poor father die.'
'What is your father to me? Let go.'
'I will not let go.'
He pricked his horse on; but she held to the bridle and arrested it.
'Take care!' said Drownlands. 'I will not be stayed against my will.'
She clung to the bridle.
'You may ride over me, and kill me too. I will not let go.'
'What do you mean?' asked he, with a gasp. 'What do you mean by "kill
me too"?'
'You shall ride over me, but I shall not let go.'
'But why did you say "kill me too"?' he asked threateningly.
'I will die as well as my father. I do not care to live if he die.
How can you leave him? how can you be so cruel?' She broke forth into
vehemence that shook her whole frame, and shook the horse whose bridle
she grappled.
'What's that?' asked Drownlands, as the horse stumbled.
He held up the lantern.
On the embankment, under the horse's feet, lay the flail that had been
twisted into his tiger-skin.
'I know you—I know you,' said the girl. 'It was you who bought the
flail.' Then again, 'My father is ill. He is sitting on the bank; he
cannot walk. He will die of the cold if you do not help.'
'Let go,' shouted Drownlands, 'or I'll bring the flail down on your
hands.'
'You may break them. I will cling with my teeth.'
He brandished the flail angrily.
Then Zita bowed herself, picked up the second flail, and, planting
herself across the way, said—
'You are bad and you are cruel. I cannot get you to come to my father
for the asking. I will drive you to him—drive you with the flail; I
will force you to go.'
He tried to pass the girl, but she would not budge; and before the
whirling flapper and her threatening attitude, the horse recoiled and
almost threw himself and his rider down the embankment into the drove.
Drownlands uttered a curse, and again attempted to push past, but was
again driven back by Zita.
'Take care, or I will ride you down,' he threatened; then shivered, as
he recalled how that a few minutes previously Jake Runham had used the
same threat to him.
He considered a moment.
He could not allow this girl to retain the flail she had picked up.
It was evidence against him. Every one in Burnt Fen, every one in
Weldenhall and Soham Fens, would hear of the contest at Ely before the
Cheap Jack van. If that flail were known to have been found on the
embankment, it would be known at once where it was that Runham fell
into the Lark. It might be surmised that a struggle had there taken
place, and marks of the struggle would be looked for.
The girl who stood before Drownlands was the sole person who could
by any possibility appear as witness against him—could prove that
he had been on the spot where Runham had perished; and this girl was
now appealing to him for help. It was advisable that she should be
conciliated—be placed under an obligation to himself.
He made no further attempt to pass her; he made no attempt to fulfil
his threat that he would ride her down.
In a lowered tone he said, 'Where is your father?'
'A little way back,' answered Zita. 'How far back I cannot say. I
ran—I ran.'
'I will go with you. Give me up that flail.'
'No,' she answered; 'I do not trust you. You would ride away when you
had it.'
'I swear to you that I will not do that.'
She shook her head, retained the flail, slung it over her shoulder, and
walked at his side.
Had she seen the contest? Had she seen him beat his adversary
down—down into the river? Drownlands asked himself these questions
repeatedly, and was tempted to question her, but shrank from so doing
lest he should awake suspicions. He need not have feared that. Her
whole mind was occupied with a single thought—her dying father.
Drownlands riding, the Cheap Jack girl walking, retraced the path in
the direction of Ely. Not for a moment would she relax her hold on
the bridle, for she could not trust the good faith of the rider. The
river was stealing by, the current so sluggish that it seemed hardly to
move. It made no ripple on the bank, no lapping among the reeds. It had
no curl of a smile on its face, no undulation on its bosom. It was a
river that had gone to sleep, and was on the verge of the stagnation of
death. Ki found himself wondering how far during the night the man and
horse who had gone in would be swept down. He wondered whether it were
possible that one or other had succeeded in making his way out. He had
heard no sound; it was hardly possible that either could have escaped.
Presently a jerk on the reins roused Drownlands from his meditations,
and he felt his horse descend the bank, guided by the girl. In the
darkness he could see a still darker object, which the faint light from
a lantern on the bank partially illumined, along with a motionless
horse, which seemed of very stubbornness to be transformed to wood.
When, however, the beast heard the steps of its mistress, it turned its
head and looked stonily towards her, with a peculiar curl of the nose
and protrusion of the lower lip that was a declaration of determined
resistance to being made to move forward. Zita paid no attention to the
horse. She called to her father, and received a faint response.
'You will not leave me now? you will help?—you swear?' said she,
turning to the rider.
'No,' answered Ki; 'now that I am here, I am at your service to do for
you what I can.'
He dismounted and attached his horse by the bridle to the back of the
van, then took one of his lanterns, and went to where he heard Zita
speaking to her father.
'I be bad, Zit—bad—tremenjous. I be done for,' said the Cheap Jack.
'It's no good saying "Get along." I can't; there's the fact. I be
stuck—just as the van be. I seems to have no wish but to be let alone
and die slick off.'
'You shall not do that, father. Here is one of the gentlemen as bought
the flails of us. He will help.'
Then Drownlands came to the side of the sick man and inquired, 'What is
it? What can I do for you?'
'I don't know as I want nort,' answered the Cheap Jack; 'nort but to be
let alone to die. Don't go and worrit me, that's all.'
'My farm is not a mile distant,' said Ki. 'Get into the waggon and
drive along.'
'I can't abear the joggle,' answered the Cheap Jack. 'I wants to go
nowhere. But whatever will become of Jewel and Zit?'
He groaned, sighed, and turned over on the bank towards the scanty
grass and short moss that covered the marl, and laid his face in that.
The girl held his hand, and knelt by him. Presently he raised his head
and said, 'Arter all, Zit, we did a fine business, what wi' the tea and
what wi' the flails. Them as didn't cost us eighteenpence sold for one
pun' thirteen and six—tremenjous!'
'Now listen to me,' said Drownlands. 'This horse of yours will never be
able to get the van along. I will ride home and fetch a team, and we'll
have the whole bag of tricks conveyed to Prickwillow in a jiffy. I'll
bring help, and we'll lift you on to a feather tye.'
'You will not play me false?' asked Zita.
'Not I,' answered Ki, as he picked up the second flail; 'trust me. I
shall be back in half an hour.'
He mounted his horse and rode away. The girl watched him as he departed
with some anxiety; then, as he departed into the darkness, Zita seated
herself on the bank, and endeavoured to raise her father, that his head
might repose on her bosom. He looked at her and put his arm about her
neck.
'You've been a good gal,' said he. 'You've done your dooty to the
wan and the 'oss and me, and I bless you for it. That there tea as
we made out o' sweepins as we bought at London Docks, and out o'
blackthorn leaves as we picked off the hedges and dried on the top of
the wan—'twas a fine notion, that. Go on as I've taught you, Zit, and
you'll make a Cheap Jack o' the right sort. One pun' thirteen and six
for them flails! That's about one pun' twelve profits. What's us sent
into the world for but to make profits? I've done my dooty in it. I've
made profits. I feel a sort o' in'ard glow, just as if I wos a lantern
wi' a candle in me, when I thinks on it. One pun' twelve—I say, Zit,
what's that per cent.? I can't calkerlate it now; it's gone from me.
One pun' twelve is thirty-two. And thirty-two to one and an 'arf'—He
heaved a long sigh. 'I be bad—I can't calkerlate no more.'
Zita leaned over the sick man's face, and with the corner of her gaily
figured and coloured kerchief wiped his brow. His mind was wandering.
From silence and impatience of being spoken to and having to exert
himself to speak, he had come to talk, and talk much, in rambling
strains.
'Father, I've brought you some brandy from the van. Take a drop. It may
revive you.'
She put a flask to his lips. He found a difficulty in swallowing, and
turned his face away. He had raised his head to the flask with an
effort; it sank back on his daughter's bosom.
'Dad, how wet your hair is!'
'Things ain't as they ort to be,' said the Cheap Jack sententiously.
'I've often turned the world over in my head and seed as the wrong
side comes uppermost. Then I'm sure I was ordained to be a mimber o'
parliament, but I never got a chance to rise to it. How I could ha'
talked the electors over into believin' as black was white! How I could
ha' made 'em a'most swallow anything and believe it was apricot jam! I
could ha' told 'em lies enough to carry me to the top o' the poll by
a thumping majority. It's lies does it, all the world over—leastways
with the general public in England. It's lies sells damaged goods. It's
lies as makes 'em turn their pockets out into your lap. It's lies as
carries votes. It's lies as governs the land. The general public likes
'em. It loves 'em. They be as sweet and dear to the general public as
thistles is to asses.'
Then he lay quiet, except only that he turned his head from side to
side, as though looking at something.
'What is it, dad?'
'I thinks as I sees 'em—miles and miles, going right away into nothing
at all.'
'What, father?'
'The hawthorn hedges in full bloom, white as snow—it's our own
tea plantation, Zit, you know—touched up wi' sweepins. When the
flowers fall, then the leaves will come, and there'll be profits.
Assam, Congou, Kaisow, Darjeeling, Souchong—just what you like—and,
in truth, hawthorn leaves and sweepins—all alike. There's
profits—profits comin' in the leaves, Zit.'
A light sleet was falling, and it gleamed in the radiance of the
lantern planted on the bank near the dying man's head.
'So you see, Zit,' he said, pointing into space, 'the thorn leaves be
fallin',—scores o' thousands,—and the green leaves will come and
bring profits.'
'What you see is snow that is coming down, father.'
'No, Zit. It's the thorns sheddin' their white flowers to grow profits.
Fall, fall, fall away, white leaves.'
He remained silent for a while, and then began to pluck at his daughter
with the hand that clasped her waist.
'What is it, father?'
'I ain't easy.'
'Shall I lift your head higher?'
' 'Tain't that. It's in my mind, Zit.'
'What troubles you, dad?'
'That tin kettle wi' the hole in it. I've never stopped it. Put a bit
o' cobbler's wax into the hole and some silverin' stuff over it, and
you'll sell it quick off. Nobody won't find out till they comes to bile
water in it.'
'I'll do that, father. Hush! I hear the horses coming.'
'I don't want to go wi' them. I hears singing.'
'It is the wind whistling.'
'No, Zit. It be the quiristers chanting in Ely. Do you hear their
psalm?'
'No, we cannot hear them. They do not sing at night, and are also too
distant.'
'But I does hear 'em singing beautiful, and this is the psalm they
sing—"One pun' twelve—and hawthorn tea at four shillin'. There's
profits."'
He was sinking. He weighed heavy on her bosom.
She stooped to his ear and whispered, 'Are you happy, father?'
'Happy? In course I be. One pun' twelve on them flails,
and four shillin' on thorn leaves and sweepins—there's
profits—profits—tremenjous!'
And he spoke no more.