ON ONE FOOTING
Zita was back at Prickwillow long before the master.
She anticipated a scene with him and prepared for it. He was wont to
domineer in his house and on the farm, and she had just seen how he
domineered and enforced his will on an assemblage of men not under
subjection to him.
She was sensible that he had gradually assumed towards herself an air
of authority, but he had not hitherto addressed her in a dictatorial
tone so distinct as to provoke resistance. She had, however, perceived
that the time was approaching when some understanding must be reached
as to her position and their mutual relations. She was not a domestic
in the house, to be ordered about or to have her liberty curtailed. She
had accepted his hospitality, not entered into his service.
Zita was alive to the fact that every one in the house and on the
farm—Mrs. Tunkiss, the shaking maid-of-all-work, the herd, the
labourers, the stable-boy—all stood in awe of him. The housekeeper
was as a lamb under his reprimand; a word addressed to the girl with
St. Vitus' dance drove her into convulsions; an order given to the men
galvanised them into momentary agility and sent the boy skipping like a
flea. Zita despised them for their subserviency. She was not afraid of
Drownlands. She knew that concerning him which was sufficient to make
him quake before her.
Zita had been accustomed to face men of every description. Her father
had stood between her and coarse insult, but she had been obliged to
confront men rude, boisterous, and disposed to take advantage of her
weakness, and had acquired readiness in dealing with them, and nerve
not to show timidity.
When she had seen the cringe and cower of those whom Drownlands had
threatened, she tossed her chestnut gold head in a manner expressive of
impatience.
Drownlands had noticed this, and Zita had seen in his darkening brow
that he had observed, was surprised and offended at the contemptuous
action. The moment was not far off when he would test his strength
against hers.
'The sooner the better,' said Zita to herself; and, instead of avoiding
him, she went across the yard to meet him as he rode up the drove. She
took his horse by the bridle and said, 'I will lead him to the stable;
the men are at chapel or the beerhouse, and the boy is with the cows.'
'You won't curry favour by doing this,' said Drownlands.
'Curry favour? I curry nothing. Currycomb your horse yourself!'
'I want a word with you, Cheap Jack.'
'And I with you, Fen-tiger—we must settle terms.'
'Terms? What terms?'
'The price of my lodging.'
'I do not understand you.'
'I have a capital copper warming-pan,' said Zita, 'with George and the
Dragon on the lid. A stunner. I've reckoned up what meat I've ate, and
all I've drunk, and the wear and tear of knives, linen, dishes, and so
forth, and I think the copper warming-pan will cover it all.'
Drownlands had flung himself from his horse.
He stared at Zita; he did not in the least seize her meaning.
'If you don't care for a warming-pan,' she said, 'then there's half
a dozen red plush weskits, with gilded buttons and dogs' heads on
'em—you can't wear all six, but take your choice and I'll make up
with scrubbing-brushes, starch, and blue. I think the tiger-skin and a
red weskit under it, and them bushy eyebrows tied in a knot as they be
now, will make such a figure of you as will drive babies and girls into
fits.'
'You are mocking me! You dare to do that?'
'I'm not mocking you, though I don't say I'm not inclined to whisk a
red weskit before you, when you stamp and blare like a bull—for fun,
you know. I love fun, but I am not mocking you. I am too much obliged
to you for receiving me to do that.'
'I will turn you out—you and your van—into the winter frost.'
'When? To-morrow? I am ready to go.'
'You shall not go!' exclaimed Drownlands, coming round the head of the
horse to her and seizing her wrist. 'You shall not go; I know why you
want to leave me. I know whither you want to go.'
'Whither?'
'To Crumbland.'
'I have not been invited there; but if you turn me out, I shall find a
shakedown somewhere. There is that girl Kenappuch at the mill. She'll
have me for certain, and I'll pay her; not so high as a warming-pan,
but in currants and figs and a roll of calico. The accommodation won't
be so good as yours, nor the feeding so liberal.'
'You have got to know her also?'
'Yes.'
'And Mark Runham?'
'Yes; he has got to know me. That's the way to put it.'
'You are resolved to seek friends where I disapprove—among those who
are my enemies?'
'I know nothing and care less about your quarrels. I've got acquainted
with both, and they are the only persons in the Fens for whom I care'—
'Oh, you care only for them.'
'Outside Prickwillow. You cut me short before I had finished my
sentence. That is bad manners. If we kept manners in stock, I'd sell
you a penn'orth.'
'Ah,' said Drownlands, for a moment relaxing his iron grasp, 'you allow
me some of your regard?'
'I always care for every one who is kind to me, and you have been kind
to both me and my poor father.' At the mention of her father Zita's
lips and voice quivered, and tears filled her eyes. 'You were good to
him. I do not forget that, and I'll pay you for it in anything I have
got that you fancy. What do you say to smoked mother-of-pearl buttons?'
'Will you be quiet?' roared Drownlands, with an oath.
'Or,' continued Zita, 'there are several pounds of strong fish-glue. It
went soft and got mouldy in the van, but I got it dry in the kitchen
and wiped the mould off. It is all right now; the strength isn't taken
out of it. A shilling a pound is what it would cost you in Ely, but
as I offer it to you, I'll knock off twopence. You shall have it for
tenpence per pound—so you see I do care for you, twopence in the
shilling.'
Drownlands' face darkened; he pressed the girl's wrist so that she
uttered an exclamation of pain.
'You hurt me,' she said; 'that's something off your account.'
'You are making a jest of me!' gasped the man. 'And you dare to do so?
You are not afraid?'
'What should I be afraid of?'
'I can hurt you—worse than by nipping your wrist.'
'And I can defend myself,' she answered. '_I_ afraid of _you_? No; it
was you who trembled and screamed like a woman when I touched you on
the river bank that night we first met. It is _you_ who have reason to
be afraid of _me_.'
The colour went out of his face.
'No, I am not afraid of you,' continued Zita. 'I remember how, when you
sought to ride on, I stopped your way, and drove you where I wanted you
to go—drove you with the flail.'
He released her arm. She felt that his hand was shaking. He knew that
it shook, and he was afraid lest she should observe it.
He walked in silence to the stable with his head lowered. Zita
followed. She had gained a first advantage. She had forestalled his
attack, and now, instead of her being cowed by him, he was subdued by
her.
When they were both in the stable,—for she had followed him to show
him how little fear she entertained,—then he addressed her in an
altered tone.
'You do not intend to leave me?'
'No; if you desire me to remain, I will remain.'
'I do desire it. I could not endure that you should go.'
'That is right; but why did you threaten me? I will stay. I could
not put up old Jewel in the windmill, and I haven't been invited to
Crumbland by Mark Runham.'
He stamped his foot impatiently and set his teeth.
'Why do you speak of him again?'
'Speech is free here—in the van—in a king's palace—everywhere save
a gaol. I will speak of any one I choose, at any time, before any one,
and in any place I like.'
'Why did you go with him today?'
'Because I am free to go where I choose, and with whom I choose. This
is Sunday, and a holiday.'
'Yes; but if you have any regard for me, do not go with him at all.'
He drew a long breath, removed and put on again his broad-brimmed hat.
'Why do you speak to me of payment for the trifling things I have done
for you? of payment with warming-pans, red waistcoats, and fish-glue?'
'I am glad we are round to that point again,' said Zita, 'for speak of
that I must. No one can be expected to do things for nothing. If you
house me and Jewel, and feed us both'—
'You have worked—you have done more than that beldame Leehanna and the
girl would do in twenty years.'
'I have taken that into account. I know how many hours I have
worked at fivepence three-farthings (needles and thread included).
Nevertheless, the balance is against me. There is the warming-pan, or
the scrubbing-brushes, or the fish-glue'—
He struck his fist against the stable door to drown her words.
Zita put her hand on his arm.
'It is of no good your acting the fool,' she said. 'What is right is
right. I shouldn't feel square in my insides if the account were not
balanced. My dear father was mighty particular on that score. Every
night we balanced our accounts as true as any banker, with a stump of a
pencil as he sucked. If I don't balance I can't sleep. I'll put to my
account some pins I had set to yours, all because of that squinch of
the wrist you gave me. If I were to leave your house to-morrow, Master
Drownlands, you'd find on the shelf in my room a row of articles that I
reckoned up would belong in rights to you as balancing our account.'
He did not answer. He thrust his horse into a stall and put a halter
round its head.
Then Zita went to the corn-chest and brought out a feed. The horse
whinnied as he sniffed the oats. Drownlands was in the stall tightening
the knot at the end of the halter. As Zita turned to depart, after
having tossed the oats into the manger, he came out after her, and,
laying hold of one side of the corn-measure, said—
'Are you going?'
'Yes. I have fed Pepper.'
He shook the measure, and said, in tones of angry discouragement, 'You
will not take a bite of my bread, nor lie on a flock of my wool, nor
cover your golden head with one tile of my roof, but you must weigh
each and prize and pay me its value to the turn of a hair.'
'Not so exactly; of course, I leave a margin.'
'A margin of what?'
'Profits!'
'To whom?'
'To myself, of course. We should never get along in the world without
profits. When we come to deal among friends, as you and I, then the
profits are reasonable. But when one has to do with the general
public,—that father always called the General Jackass,—then you lay
it on thick and heavy. Without profits of some sort one can't sleep the
sleep of innocence, as father said. But it is one thing dealing with
General Jackass and another with a friend; and I want you to understand
the footing on which we deal is the latter.'
'So—the footing of buy and sell?'
'Yes. I take my small profits. When a dressmaker makes your frocks, she
charges you for a packet of needles and uses one—the rest are profits.
She charges you for a knot of tape, and uses two yards and a half—the
rest is profit. And she cuts out eight yards of lining, and puts down
twelve—four are profits; and she puts you some frilling round your
neck and cuffs, charging three yards, and she uses one—there's profits
again. I do the same with you. I couldn't sleep if I didn't. It's
feather bed and pillow and bolster to me—profits.'
'Take what you will. All you like.'
'No,' said Zita. 'Fair trade between us. We deal as friends. I respect
and regard you too greatly to treat you as if you were General Jackass.'
Then she left the empty corn-measure in his hand and walked away, with
a swing of the shoulders, a toss of the head, an elasticity in her
tread, that appertained to one who was victor—not to one defeated. And
Drownlands stood looking after her, holding the empty corn-measure, and
he wondered at himself that he had been beaten at every point by this
girl—he who had galloped home boiling with anger, resolved to break
her into meek subjection to his will.