_The Diplomatic Father_
Grice drove away down the lane in a curious temper. He was angry with
himself for wasting a couple of hours of his valuable time; angry with
Jeckie for having induced him to do so; angry with Farnish for his
incapacity and idleness; still more angry to find that it was hopeless
to do what he might have done. He knew well enough that Jeckie had been
right when she said that he would never find a better wife for Albert;
he also knew that after what he had just witnessed he would never allow
Albert to marry her. Jeckie alone would have been all right, but Jeckie,
saddled with an incompetent parent, was impossible. "And if you can't
get t'best," he muttered to himself, "you must take what comes nearest
to t'best! There's more young women i' t'world than Jecholiah Farnish,
and I mun consider about findin' one. That 'at I've left behind
yonder'll never do!"
Half-way down the lane he came across Doadie Bartle, busily engaged in
mending the fence. Grice's shrewd eyes saw how the youngster was
working; here, at any rate, was no slacker. He pulled up his pony and
gave Doadie a friendly nod.
"Now, mi lad!" he said. "Doin' a bit o' repairing, like?"
"Merritt's cows were in there this mornin'," answered Bartle. "They come
up t'lane and got in to our clover, Mr. Grice."
"Aye, why," remarked Grice. "It'll none matter much to you how oft
Merritt's cows or anybody else's gets in to Farnish's clover in a day or
two, my lad. It's over and done wi' up yonder at Applecroft."
Bartle's blue eyes looked a question, and Grice laughed as he answered
it.
"T'bailiffs is in!" he said. "Come in just now. It's all up, lad.
Farnish'll be selled up--lock, stock, and barrel--within a week."
Bartle drove the fork with which he had been gathering thorns together
into the ground at his feet, and leaning on its handle, stared fixedly
at Grice.
"Aw!" he said. "Why, I knew things were bad, but I didn't know they were
as bad as that, mister. Selled up, now! Come!"
"There'll be nowt left, mi lad, neither in house nor barn, stye nor
stable, in another week!" affirmed Grice. Then, waiting until he saw
that his announcement had gone home with due effect, he added, "So
you'll be out of a place, d'ye see?"
Bartle let his gaze wander from the old grocer's face up the lane. From
where he stood he could see Applecroft, and at that moment he saw Jeckie
and Rushie standing together in the orchard, evidently in close and deep
conversation.
"Aye," he said slowly. "If it's as you say, I reckon I shall. And I
been there six or seven year, an' all!"
"And for next to nowt, no doubt," remarked Grice, with a sly look. "Now,
look here, mi lad, I'm wanting a young feller like you to go out wi' my
cart--'liverin' goods, d'ye understand? If you like to take t'job on ye
can start next Monday. I'll gi' you thirty shillin' a week."
He was quick to see the sudden sparkle in Bartle's eyes, and he went on
to deepen the impression.
"And there's pickin's an' all," he said. "Ye can buy owt you like out o'
my shop at cost price, and t'job's none a heavy 'un. Two horses to look
after and this here pony, and go round wi' t'goods. What do you say,
now, Bartle?"
"Much obliged to you, mister; I'll consider on it, and tell you
to-morrow," answered Bartle. "But"--he looked doubtfully at Grice, and
then nodded towards the farm--"these here folks, what's goin' to become
o' them? I've been, as it were, one o' t'family, d'ye see, Mr. Grice?"
"There's no fear about t'lasses," declared Grice, emphatically. "They're
both capable o' doin' well for theirsens, and I've no doubt Jeckie's
gotten a bit o' brass put away safe, somewhere or other. As for Farnish,
he mun turn to, and do summat 'at he hasn't done for years--he mun work.
What ha' ye to do with that, Bartle? Look to yersen, mi lad! Come and
see me to-morrow."
He shook up his pony's reins and drove on. The encounter with Farnish's
man had improved his temper; he had been wanting a stout young fellow
like Bartle for some time, a fellow that would lift heavy packing cases
and make himself useful. Bartle was just the man. So he had, after all,
got or was likely to get, something out of his afternoon's
excursion--satisfactory, that, for he was a man who objected to doing
anything without profit.
But now there was Albert to consider. Of one thing George Grice was
certain--there was going to be no marriage between Albert and Jecholiah
Farnish. True, they were engaged; true, Albert, following the fashion of
his betters, had, despite his father's sneers, given her an engagement
ring. But that was neither here nor there. Despite the fact that
Albert's name appeared in company with his father's on the powder-blue
and gold sign above the Diamond Jubilee Stores, Albert had no legal
share in the business--there was no partnership; Albert was as much a
paid servant as the shop-boy. Now, in old Grice's opinion, the man who
holds the purse-strings is master of the situation, and he had the pull
over Albert in more ways than one. Moreover, a shrewd and astute man
himself, he believed Albert to be a bit of a fool; a good-natured,
amiable, weak sort of chap, easily come round. He had half a suspicion
that Jeckie had come round him at some time or other. And now he would
have to come round him himself, and at once.
"There'll have to be no chance of her gettin' at him," he mused as he
drove slowly down the village street. "He's that soft and sentimental,
is our Albert, 'at if she had five minutes wi' him, he'd be givin' way
to her. I mun use a bit of statesmanship."
Occasion was never far to seek where George Grice was concerned, and
before he had passed the "Coach-and-Four" he had conceived a plan of
getting Albert out of the way until nightfall. As soon as he arrived at
the shop he bustled in, went straight to his desk, and drawing out a
letter, turned to his son.
"Albert, mi lad!" he said, as if the matter was of urgent importance,
"there's this letter here fro' yon man at Cornchester about that horse
'at he has to sell. Now, we could do wi' a third horse--get yourself
ready, and drive over there, and take a look at it. If it's all right,
buy it--you can go up to forty pounds for it, and tell him we'll send
t'cheque on to-morrow. Go now--t'trap's outside there, and you can give
t'pony a feed at Cornchester while you get your tea. Here, take t'letter
wi' you, and then you'll have t'man's address--somewhere i' Beechgate.
It's nigh on to three o'clock now, so be off."
Albert, who had no objection to a pleasant drive through the country
lanes, was ready and gone within ten minutes, and old Grice was glad to
think that he was safely absent until bed-time. During the afternoon and
early evening various customers of the better sort, farmers and farmers'
wives, dropped in at the shop, and to each he assiduously broke the news
of the day--Farnish had gone smash. One of these callers was Stubley,
and Stubley, when he heard the news, looked at the grocer with a
speculative eye.
"Then I reckon you'll not be for Farnish's lass weddin' yon lad o'
yours?" he suggested. "Wouldn't suit your ticket, that, Grice, what?"
"Now, then, what would you do if it were your case, Mr. Stubley?"
demanded Grice. "Would you be for tying flesh and blood o' yours up to
owt 'at belonged to Farnish?"
"She's a fine lass, all t'same," said Stubley. "I've kept an eye on her
this last year or two. Strikes me 'at things 'ud ha' come to an end
sooner if it hadn't been for her. She's a grafter, Grice, and no waster,
neither. She'd make a rare good wife for your Albert--where he'd make a
penny she'd make a pound. I should think twice, mi lad, before I said
owt."
But Grice's upper lip grew tighter than before when Stubley had gone,
and by the time of his son's return, with the new horse tied up behind
the pony cart, he was ready for him. He waited until Albert had eaten
his supper; then, when father and son were alone in the parlour, and
each had got a tumbler of gin and water at his elbow, he opened his
campaign.
"Albert, mi lad!" he said, suavely, "there's been a fine to-do sin' you
set off Cornchester way this afternoon. Yon man Farnish has gone clean
broke!"
Albert started and stared in surprise.
"It's right, mi lad," continued Grice. "He's gotten t'bailiffs in--he'll
be selled up i' less nor a week. Seems 'at he's been goin' to
t'money-lenders, yonder i' Clothford--one feller's issued an execution
again him. Four hundred and eighty-three pound, five shillings, and
sixpence! Did ye ever hear t'like o' that? Him?"
Albert began to twiddle his thumbs.
"Nay!" he said, wonderingly. "I knew he were in a bad way, but I'd no
idea it were as bad as that. Then he's nought to pay with, I reckon?"
"Nowt--so to speak," declared Grice. "Nowt 'at 'll settle things,
anyway. And I hear fro' Stubley 'at t'last half-year's rent were never
paid, and now here's another just about due. And there's other folk. He
owes me forty pound odd. If I'd ha' known o' this yesterday, I'd ha' had
summat out o' Farnish for my brass--I'd ha' had a cow, or summat. Now,
it's too late; I mun take my chance wi' t'rest o' t'creditors. And when
t'landlord's been satisfied for t'rent, I lay there'll be nowt much for
nobody, money-lender nor anybody else."
"It's a bad job," remarked Albert.
Grice turned to a shelf at the side of his easy chair, opened the lid of
a cigar box, selected two cigars, and passed one to his son.
"Aye!" he assented presently, "it is a bad job, mi lad. Farnish promised
'at he'd gi' five hundred pound wi' Jecholiah. I think we mun ha' been
soft i' wor heads, Albert, to believe 'at he'd ever do owt o' t'sort. He
wor havin' us, as they say--havin' us for mugs!"
Albert made no answer. He began to puff his cigar, watching his father
through the blue smoke.
"Every man for his-self!" said old Grice after a while. "It were an
understood thing, were that, Albert, and now 'at there's no chance o'
Farnish redeemin' his word, there's no need for you to stand by yours.
There's plenty o' fine young women i' t'world beside yon lass o'
Farnish's. My advice to you, mi lad, is to cast your eyes elsewhere."
Albert began to wriggle in his chair. His experience of Jeckie Farnish
was that she had a will of her own; he possessed sufficient mother-wit
to know that she was cleverer than he was.
"I don't know what Jecholiah 'ud say to that," he murmured. "We been
keeping company this twelve-month, and----"
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Grice. "What bi that! I'll tell you what it is, mi
lad--yon lass were never after you. I'll lay owt there's never been much
o' what they call love-makin' between you! She were after my brass,
d'yer see? Now, if it had been me 'at had gone broke, i'stead o'
Farnish, what then? D'ye think she'd ha' stucken to you? Nowt o'
t'sort!"
Albert sat reflecting. It was quite true that there had been little
love-making between him and Jeckie. Jeckie was neither sentimental nor
amorous. She and Albert had gone to church together; occasionally he had
spent the evening at Farnish's fireside; once or twice he had taken her
for an outing, to a statutes-hiring fair, or a travelling circus. And he
was beginning to wonder.
"I know she's very keen on money, is Jecholiah," he said at last.
"Aye, well, she's goin' to have none o' mine!" affirmed old Grice. He
was quick to see that Albert was as wax in his hands, and he accordingly
brought matters to a climax. "I'll tell you what it is, mi lad!" he
continued, replenishing his son's glass, and refilling his own. "We mun
have done wi' that lot--it 'ud never do for you, a rising young feller,
to wed into a broken man's family. It mun end, Albert!"
"She'll have a deal to say," murmured Albert. "She's an awful temper,
has Jecholiah, if things doesn't suit her, and----"
"Now then, you listen to me," interrupted Grice. "We'll give her no
chance o' sayin'--leastways, not to you, and what she says to me's
neither here nor there. Now it's high time you were wed, mi lad, but you
mun get t'right sort o' lass. And I'll tell you what--you know 'at I
went last year to see mi brother John, 'at lives i' Nottingham--keep's a
draper's shop there, does John, and he's a warm man an' all, as warm as
what I am, and that's sayin' a bit! Now John has three rare fine
lasses--your cousins, mi lad, though you've never seen 'em--and he'll
give a nice bit wi' each o' 'em when they wed. I'll tell you what you
shall do, mi lad--you shall take a fortnight's holiday, and go over
there and see 'em; I'll write a letter to John to-night 'at you can take
wi' you. And if you can't pick a wife o' t'three--why, it'll be a
pity!--a good-lookin' young feller like you, wi' money behind you. Get
your best things packed up to-night, and you shall drive into Sicaster
first thing i' t'mornin' and be off to Nottingham. I'll see 'at you
have plenty o' spendin' brass wi' you, and you can go and have your
fling and make your choice. I tell yer there's three on 'em--fine,
good-looking, healthy lasses--choose which you like, and me and her
father'll settle all t'rest. And Nottingham's a fine place for a bit of
holidayin'."
Old Grice sat up two hours later than usual that night, writing to his
brother, the Nottingham draper, and Albert went away before seven
o'clock next morning with all his best clothes and with fifty pounds in
his pocket. His father told him to do it like a gentleman, and Albert
departed in the best of spirits. After all, he had no tender memories of
Jeckie, and he remembered that once, when he had taken her to
Cornchester Fair, and wanted to have lunch at the "Angel," she had
chided him quite sharply for his extravagance and had made him satisfy
his appetite on buns and cocoa at a cheap coffee-shop. It was a small
thing, but he had smarted under it, for like all weak folk he had a vein
of mulish contrariness in him, and it vexed him to know that Jeckie,
when she was about, was stronger than he was.
Grice, left to run the business with the aid of his small staff, was
kept to the shop during Albert's absence. But he had compensations. The
first came in the shape of a letter from his brother, the draper, the
contents of which caused George Grice to chuckle and to congratulate
himself on his diplomacy; he was, in fact, so pleased by it that he
there and then put up £25 in Bank of England notes, enclosed them in a
letter to Albert, bidding him to stay in Nottingham a week longer, and
went out to register the missive himself. The second was that Bartle
came to him and took charge of the horses and carts and lost no time in
proving himself useful beyond expectation. And the third lay in knowing
that the Farnish Family had gone out of the village. Just as the grocer
had prophesied, Farnish had been sold up within a week of the execution
which the money-lenders had levied on his effects. Not a stick had been
left to him of his household goods, not even a chicken of his live
stock, and on the morning of the sale he and his daughters had risen
early, and carrying their bundles in their hands had gone into Sicaster
and taken lodgings.
"And none such cheap uns, neither!" said the blacksmith, who gave Grice
all this news, and to whom Farnish owed several pounds and odd
shillings. "Gone to lodge i' a very good house i' Finkle Street, where
they'll be paying no less nor a pound a week for t'rooms. Don't tell me!
I'll lay owt yon theer Jecholiah has a bit o' brass put by. What! She
used to sell a sight o' eggs and a vast o' butter, Mestur Grice! And
them owin' me ower nine pounds 'at I shall niver see! Such like i'
lodgins at a pound a week! They owt to be i' t'poorhouse!"
Old Grice laughed and said nothing; it mattered nothing to him whether
the Farnishes were lodged in rooms or in the wards of the workhouse, so
long as Jeckie kept away from Savilestowe until all was safely settled
about Albert. He exchanged more letters with John, the draper; John's
replies yielded him infinite delight. As he sat alone of an evening,
amusing himself with his cigars and his gin and water, he chuckled as he
gloated over his own state-craft; once or twice, when he had made his
drink rather stronger than usual, he was so impressed by his own
cleverness that he assured himself solemnly that he had missed his true
vocation, and ought to have been a Member of Parliament. He thought so
again in a quite sober moment, when, at the end of three weeks, Albert
returned, wearing lemon-coloured kid gloves, and spats over his shoes.
There was a new atmosphere about Albert, and old George almost decided
to take him into partnership there and then when he announced that he
had become engaged to his cousin Lucilla, and that her father would give
her two thousand pounds on the day of the wedding. Instead, he
signalised his gratification by furnishing and decorating, regardless of
cost, two rooms for the use of the expected bride.