"Who is it?"
"It's that Major Rockley, Jo-si-ah, and he's walking up and down,
switching his riding-whip about, and he'll be knocking down some of the
chimney if you don't make haste."
"Let him wait a minute," said Barclay, finishing a letter.
"I do 'ate that man, Jo-si-ah--that I do," said Mrs Barclay.
"I wish you wouldn't talk so, old lady, when I'm writing."
"I can't help it, Jo-si-ah. That man, whenever I meet him, makes me
begin to boil. So smooth, and polite, and smiling, and
squeeze-your-handy, while all the while he's laughing at you for being
so fat."
"Laughing at me for being so fat?"
"No, no. You know what I mean--laughing at me myself for being so fat.
I 'ate him."
"Well, I don't want you to love him, old lady."
"I should think not, indeed, with his nasty dark eyes and his long black
mustarchers. Ugh! the monster. I 'ate him."
"Handsomest man in Saltinville, my dear."
"Handsome is as handsome does, Jo-si-ah. He's a black-hearted one, if
ever there was one, I know."
"Now, you don't know anything of the kind, old girl."
"Oh, yes, I do, Jo-si-ah. I always feel it whenever he comes anigh one,
and if I had a child of my own, and that man had come and wanted to
marry her, I'd have cut her up in little pieces and scattered them all
about the garden first."
"Well, then, I suppose I ought to be very, very glad that we never had
any little ones, for, though I should be very glad to get rid of you--"
"No, you wouldn't, Jo-si-ah," said Mrs Barclay, showing her white
teeth.
"Yes, I should, but I shouldn't have liked to see you hung for murder."
"Don't talk like that, Jo-si-ah. It gives me the shivers. That word
makes me think about old Lady Teigne, and not being safe in my bed."
"Stuff and nonsense!"
"It isn't stuff and nonsense, Jo-si-ah. I declare, ever since that
dreadful affair, I never see a bolster without turning cold all down my
back; and I feel as if it wasn't safe to put my head upon my pillow of a
night. There: he's ringing because you're so long."
"Then I shall be longer," growled Barclay, putting a wafer in his mouth.
"How that poor Claire Denville can stop in that house of a night I don't
know."
"Ah, that puts me in mind of something: I wish you wouldn't be so fond
of that Claire Denville."
"Why not? I must be fond of somebody."
"Be fond of me, then, I'm ugly enough."
"So I am fond of you, Jo-si-ah, and you are not ugly, and I should like
to hear anyone say you were to my face."
"I don't like that Denville lot."
"No more do I, Jo-si-ah, only poor dear Claire. Her father ain't bad,
but she's as good as gold."
"I don't know so much about that," muttered Barclay.
"And now, Jo-si-ah, just you be careful with that Major Rockley. He
owes you a lot now."
"Yes, but I've got him tight enough."
"And if you let him have more you get him tighter. He's a bold, bad
man, always gambling and drinking, and doing worse."
"Oh, I'm very fond of him, old lady," said Barclay, chuckling. "I love
him like a son, and--there he is again. I must go now."
It was only into the next room, but there were double doors, and as
Barclay entered the Major's countenance did not look at all handsome,
but very black and forbidding.
"Come, Barclay," he cried, with a smile; "I thought you were going to
put me off. Here, I've been hard hit again. I'm as poor as Job, and I
must have a hundred."
For answer Barclay shrugged his shoulders, took out a fat pocket-book,
and began to draw out the tuck.
"Put that away," cried the Major impatiently; and he gave the book a
flick with his riding-whip, but not without cutting right across
Barclay's fingers, and making a red mark.
The money-lender did not even wince, but he mentally made a mark against
his client's name, intimating that the cut would have to be paid for
some day or another.
"I know all about that. I've had five hundred of you during the past
two months. Never mind that; the luck must turn sometime. Cards have
been dead against me lately. That Mellersh has the most extraordinary
luck; but I shall have him yet, and we'll soon be square again. Come, I
want a hundred."
"When?"
"Now, man, now."
"Can't be done, Major, really."
"Don't talk nonsense, man. I tell you I must have it."
"Your paper's getting bad, Major. Too much of it in the market."
"Look here, Barclay; do you want to insult me?"
"Not I, sir; never thought of such a thing."
"Then what do you mean?"
"I mean? Only that you've had five hundred pounds of my money during
these last three months."
"For which you hold bills for seven hundred and fifty."
"You put down five hundred pounds now in Bank of England notes, Major
Rockley, and you shall have the lot."
"Then you do mean to insult me, sir?"
"No, Major."
"What do you mean, then?"
"Only that I won't part with another five-pound note till I get some of
that money back."
Major Rockley's dark brows came down over his eyes as he glared at
Barclay with a peculiarly vindictive expression, while the money-lender
thrust his hands deep down into his drab breeches' pockets, and whistled
softly.
"I shall not forget this, Barclay," he said slowly, and, turning upon
his heels, he walked out of the place beating his boot viciously with
his whip.
"Oh, the monster!" cried Mrs Barclay, entering the room.
"Why, you've been listening."
"Well, didn't you leave the door open on purpose for me to listen,
Jo-si-ah? Oh, what a bad, evil-looking man, Jo-si-ah. I believe he
wouldn't stop at anything to get money from you now."
"Black mask and a pair of pistols, on a dark night in a country road,
eh, old lady? Stand and deliver; money or your life, eh?"
"Well, you may laugh, Jo-si-ah; but he looks just the sort of man who
wouldn't stop at anything. I am glad you wouldn't let him have any
money, for I'm sure you'd never get it back."
"I don't know so much about that, old lady, but whether or no, I wasn't
going to let him have any this morning. He has been short lately, and
no mistake. Some one I know's making a nice thing out of them at the
mess."
"Colonel Mellersh?"
"Mum!"
"Oh, there's no one to hear us now. But, I say, Jo-si-ah, why is he so
friendly with Miss Clode?"
"Because she sells packs of cards, old girl."
"Ah, but there's something more than that. I went in there one day, and
he had hold of her hand across the counter; and I could see, though she
turned it off, that she had been crying."
"Asking her to wed, and let him succeed to the business," said Barclay,
with a chuckle.
"Don't talk nonsense, Jo-si-ah. I wish I had a good, clear head like
you, and was as clever, and then perhaps I could make this out."
"What?"
"About Miss Clode. I'm sure she has seen better days."
"That she has," said Barclay, chuckling. "She looks pretty shabby now,
a newsy, gossiping old hag!"
"I don't dislike Miss Clode," said Mrs Barclay thoughtfully. "There's
much worse in Saltinville."
"I dare say," he said, laughing. "I've only one thing against her."
"What's that?"
"She hates poor Claire Denville like poison."
Volume One, Chapter XXVII.