_The Shakespeare Line_
The Savilestowe blacksmith had been right when he said to George Grice
that Jeckie Farnish had probably put money by. Jeckie had for some time
foreseen the coming of an evil day, and for three years she had set
aside a certain amount of the takings from her milk, butter, and eggs
sales, and had lodged it safely in the Penny Bank at Sicaster in her own
name. Her father knew nothing of this nest-egg; no one, indeed, except
Rushie, knew that she had it; not even Rushie knew its precise amount.
And when Jeckie turned away from watching George Grice's broad back
disappear down the lane, and knew that her father's downfall was at last
inevitable, she at once made up her mind what to do. She knew a widow
woman in Sicaster who had a roomy house in one of the oldest
thoroughfares, Finkle Street; to her she repaired on the day following
the levying of the Clothford money-lender's execution, and bargained
with her for the letting of three rooms. On the morning of the forced
sale she routed Farnish and Rushie out of their beds as soon as the sun
rose; before six o'clock all three, carrying their personal effects in
bundles, were making their way across the fields towards Sicaster; by
breakfast time they were settled in their lodgings. And within an hour
Jeckie had found her father a job, and had told him that unless he stuck
to it there would be neither bite nor sup for him at her expense. It was
not a grand job, and Jeckie had come across it by accident--Collindale,
the greengrocer and fruit merchant in the Market Place, with whom she
had done business in the past, selling to him the produce of the
Applecroft orchard in good years, happened to want an odd-job man about
his shop, and offered a pound a week. Jeckie led her father to
Collindale and handed him over, with a few clearly-expressed words to
master and man; by noon Farnish was carrying potatoes to one and
cauliflowers to another of the greengrocer's customers. Nor was Jeckie
less arduous in finding work for her sister and herself. They were both
good needlewomen, and she went round the town seeking employment in that
direction, and got it. Before she went to her bed that first night in
the hired lodgings, she was assured of a livelihood, and of no need to
break into the small hoard in the Penny Bank.
Over the interminable stitching which went on in the living-room of this
new abode, Jeckie brooded long and heavily over the defection of Albert
Grice. She had believed that Albert would hasten up to Applecroft when
he heard the bad news, and while her father and the man in possession
drank up the last beer in the barrel, and Rushie and Doadie Bartle
finished the mangling of the linen, she went out into the gloom of the
falling night and listened for his footsteps coming up the lane. Hard
enough though her nature was, it was unbelievable to her that the man
she had promised to marry could leave her alone at this time of trouble.
But Albert had never come, and next day, she heard that he had gone away
for a holiday. She knew then what had happened--this was all part of old
Grice's plans; old Grice meant that everything was to be broken off
between her and his son. She registered a solemn vow when the full
realisation came to her, and if George Grice had heard it he would
probably have been inclined to take Stubley's advice and think a little
before treating Jeckie so cavalierly. She would have her revenge on
Grice!--never mind how long it took, nor of what nature it was, she
would have it. And she was meditating on the beginnings and foundations
of it when Bartle came to her, wanting advice as to his own course of
proceeding.
"I reckon it's all over and done wi', as far as this here's concerned,"
he said, with a deprecating glance round the empty fold. "And I mun do
summat for misen. Now, grocer Grice, he offered me a job yesterday--when
he were drivin' down t'lane there, after he'd been here. Wants a man to
look after his horses, and go round wi' his cart, 'liverin' t'groceries.
Thirty shillin' a week. What mun I do about it?"
Jeckie's eyes lighted up.
"Take it, lad!" she answered, with unusual alacrity. "Take it! And while
you're at it, keep your eyes and ears open, and learn all you can about
t'business. It'll happen stand you in good stead some day. Take it, by
all means."
"All reight," said Bartle. "I'll stan' by what you say, Jeckie.
But--there's another matter. What?" he continued, almost shamefacedly.
"What about--yoursens? I know it's a reight smash up, is this--what's
going to be done? I'm never going to see you and Rushie i' a fix, you
know. If it's any use, there's that bit o' money 'at you made me put i'
t'bank--ye're welcome to it. What were you thinkin' o' doin' like?"
Jeckie took him into her confidence. Her plans were already laid, and
she was not afraid. So Bartle went into Grice's service when Jeckie and
Rushie started stitching in Sicaster, and thenceforward he turned up in
Finkle Street every Sunday afternoon, to see how things were going on
with his old employers. It was characteristic of him that he never came
empty-handed--now it was a piece of boiling bacon that he brought as an
offering; now a pound of tea; now a lump of cheese. And he also brought
news of the village, and particularly of his new place. But for four
Sundays in succession he had nothing to tell of Albert Grice but that he
was away, still holidaying.
On the fifth Sunday, when Bartle came, laden with a fowl (bought, a
bargain, from his village landlady) in one hand, and an enormous bunch
of flowers (carefully picked to represent every variety of colour) in
the other, Jeckie and her father were away, gone to a neighbouring
village to see a relation who was ill, and Rushie was all alone. Bartle
sat down in the easiest chair which the place afforded, spread his big
hands over his Sunday waistcoat, and nodded solemnly at her.
"There's news at our place, Rushie, mi lass!" he said gravely. "I
misdoubt how Jeckie'll tak' it when she comes to hear on't. About yon
theer Albert."
"What about him?" demanded Rushie, whom Bartle had found lolling on the
sofa, reading a penny novelette, and who still remained there, yawning.
"Has he come back home?"
"Come back t'other day, lookin' like a duke," answered Bartle. "Yaller
gloves on his hands, and a fancy walkin' stick, and things on his feet
like t'squire wears. An' it's all out now i' Savilestowe--he's goin' to
be wed, is Albert. T'owd chap's fair mad wi' glory about it."
"Who's he goin' to wed?" asked Rushie.
"A lass 'at's his cousin, wi' no end o' money," replied Bartle. "Owd
George is tellin' t'tale all ower t'place. She's to hev two thasand
pound, down on t'nail, t'day at they're wed, and there'll be more to
come, later on. And Grice is hevin' a bedroom and a sittin'-room done up
for 'em, in reight grand style--t'paperhangers starts on to-morrow, and
there's to be a pianner, and I don't know what else. They're to be wed
in a fortnight."
"She can have him!" said Rushie contemptuously. "He's nowt, is Albert
Grice!--I never could think however our Jeckie could look at him."
"Well--but that's how it's to be," remarked Bartle. Then, with a solemn
look, he added, twiddling his thumbs, "He's treated Jeckie very bad,
has Albert."
Rushie said nothing. She gave Bartle his tea, and later went for a walk
with him round the old town; in his Sunday suit of blue serge he was a
fine-looking young fellow, and Rushie saw many other girls cast admiring
looks at him. He had gone homewards when Jeckie and her father returned,
and it was accordingly left to Rushie to break the news of Albert's
defection to her sister.
Jeckie heard all of it without saying a word, or allowing a sign to show
itself in her hard, handsome face. She went on with her work in the
usual fashion the next morning, and continued at it all the week, and
when Bartle came again on the following Sunday, with more news of the
preparation at Grice's, she still remained silent. But on the next
Saturday she went out before breakfast to the nearest newsagent's shop
and bought a copy of the _Yorkshire Post_ of that morning. She opened it
in the shop, and turned to the marriage announcements. When she had
assured herself that Albert Grice had been duly married to his cousin
Lucilla at Nottingham two days previously, she put the paper in her
pocket, went back to Finkle Street, and ate an unusually hearty
breakfast. She had made it a principle from the beginning of the new
order of things to see that Farnish, Rushie, and herself never wanted
good food in plenty--folk who work hard, in Jeckie's opinion, must live
well, and her own country-bred appetite was still with her.
But she was going to do no work that Saturday morning. As soon as she
and Rushie had breakfasted she went upstairs to her room and put on her
best clothes. That done, she unlocked a tin box in which she kept
certain private belongings and took from it the engagement-ring which
Albert Grice had given her and a small packet of letters. These all went
into a hand-bag with the _Yorkshire Post_; clutching it in her right
hand, with an intensity which would have signified a good deal to any
careful observer, she marched downstairs to her sister.
"Rushie," she said, "I shall be out for an hour or two--get on with
those things for Mrs. Blenkinsop: you know we promised to let her have
'em to-day. Do as much as you can, there's a good lass--I'll set to as
soon as ever I'm back. Never mind the dinner till we've finished."
Then she went out and along the big Market Place and into Ropergate, the
street wherein the Sicaster solicitors, a keen and shrewd lot,
congregated together, in company with auctioneers, accountants, and
debt-collectors. There were at least a dozen firms of solicitors in that
street, but Jeckie, though she had never employed legal help in her
life, knew to which of them she was bound before ever she crossed the
threshold of her lodgings. She was a steady reader of the local
newspapers, especially of the police and county court news, and so had
become aware that Palethorpe & Overthwaite were the men for her money.
And into their office she walked, firm and resolute, as St. Sitha's
clock struck ten, and demanded of a yawning clerk to see one or other of
the principals.
When Jeckie was admitted into the inner regions she found herself in the
presence of both partners. Palethorpe, a sharp, keen-faced fellow sat at
one table, and Overthwaite, somewhat younger, but no less keen, at
another; both recognised Jeckie as the handsome young woman sometimes
seen in the town; both saw the look of determination in her eyes and
about her lips.
"Well, Miss Farnish," said Palethorpe, who scented business. "What can
we do for you, ma'am?"
He drew forward a chair, conveniently placed between his own and his
partner's desk, and Jeckie, seating herself, immediately drew out from
her hand-bag the various things which she had carefully placed in it.
"I dare say you gentlemen know well enough who I am," she said calmly.
"Elder daughter of William Farnish, as was lately farming at
Savilestowe. Father, he did badly this last year or two, and everybody
knows he was sold up a few weeks since by a Clothford money-lender. But
between you and me, Mr. Palethorpe and Mr. Overthwaite, I've a bit of
money put by, and I brought him and my sister into lodgings here in
Sicaster--I've got him a job, and made him stick to it. And me and my
sister's got good work and plenty of it. I'm telling you this so that
you'll know that aught that you like to charge me, you'll get--I'm not
in the habit of owing money to anybody! And I want, not so much your
advice as to give you orders to do something."
The two partners exchanged smileless glances. Here, at any rate, was a
client who possessed courage and decision.
"Everybody in Savilestowe knows that for some time before my father was
sold up I was engaged to be married to Albert Grice, only son of George
Grice, the grocer," continued Jeckie. "It was all regularly arranged. We
were to have been married next year, when Albert'll be twenty-five.
Here's the engagement ring he gave me. I was with him when he bought it,
here in Sicaster, at Mr Pilbrow's jeweller's shop; he paid four pound
fifteen and nine for it, and they gave me half-a-dozen of electroplated
spoons in with it as a sort of discount. Here's some letters; there's
eight of 'em altogether, and I've numbered and marked 'em, that Albert
wrote me from time to time; marriage is referred to in every one of 'em.
There's no doubt whatever about our engagement; it was agreed to by his
father and my father, and, as I said, everybody knew of it."
"To be sure!" said Overthwaite. "I've heard of it, Miss Farnish. Local
gossip, you know. Small world, this!"
"Well," continued Jeckie, "all that went on up to the day that the
bailiff came to our place. George Grice was there when he came; he went
straight away home, and next day he sent Albert off to Nottingham, where
they have relations. He kept him away until we were out of the village;
he took good care that Albert never came near me nor wrote one single
line to me. He got him engaged to his cousin at Nottingham, and now,"
she concluded, laying her newspaper on Palethorpe's desk and pointing
to the marriage announcements, "now you see, they're wed! Wed two days
ago; there it is, in the paper."
"I saw it this morning," said Palethorpe. He looked inquisitively at his
visitor. "And now," he added, "now, Miss Farnish, you want----"
"Now," answered Jeckie, in curiously quiet tones, "now I'll make Albert
Grice and his father pay! You'll sue Albert for breach of promise of
marriage, and he shall pay through the nose, too! I'll let George Grice
see that no man's going to trifle with me; he shall have a lesson
that'll last him his life. I want you to start on with it at once; don't
lose a moment!"
"There was never any talk about breaking it off, I suppose?" asked
Overthwaite. "I mean between you and Albert?"
"Talk!" exclaimed Jeckie. "How could there be talk? I've never even set
eyes on him since the time I'm telling you about. George Grice took care
of that!"
Palethorpe picked up the letters. In silence he read through them,
noting how Jeckie had marked certain passages with a blue pencil, and as
he finished each he passed it to his partner.
"Clear case!" he said when he had handed over the last. "No possible
defence! He'll have to pay. Now, Miss Farnish, how much do you want in
the way of damages? Have you thought it out?"
"As much as ever I can get," answered Jeckie, promptly. "Yes, I have
thought it out. The damage to me's more nor what folk could think at
first thoughts. George Grice is a very warm man. I've heard him say,
myself, more than once, that he was the warmest man in Savilestowe, and
that's saying a good deal, for both Mr. Stubley and Mr. Merritt are
well-to-do men. And Albert is an only child: he'd ha' come in--he will
come in!--for all his father's money. I reckon that if I'd married
Albert Grice I should have been a very well-off woman. So the damages
ought to be----"
"Substantial--substantial!" said Palethorpe. "Very substantial, indeed,
Miss Farnish." He glanced at his partner, who was just laying aside the
last of the letters. "It's well known that George Grice is a rich man,"
he remarked. "But, now, here's a question--is this son of his in
partnership with him?"
Jeckie was ready with an answer to that.
"No, but he will be before a week's out," she said. "In fact, he may be
now, for aught that I know. I've certain means of knowing what goes on
at Grice's. George has promised to make Albert a partner as soon as he
married. Well, now he is married, so it may have come off. He hadn't
been a partner up to now."
"We'll soon find that out," said Palethorpe. "Now, then, Miss Farnish,
leave it to us. Don't say a word to anybody, not even to your father or
sister. Just wait till we find out how things are about the partnership,
and then we'll move. What you want is to make these people pay--what?"
Jeckie rose, and from her commanding height looked down on the two men,
who, both insignificant in size, gazed up at her as if she had been an
Amazon.
"Money's like heart's blood to George Grice!" she muttered. "I want to
wring it out of him. He flung me away like an old clout! He shall see!
Do what you like; do what you think best; but make him suffer! I haven't
done with him yet." Then, without another word, she marched out of the
office, and Palethorpe smiled to his partner.
"What's that line of Shakespeare's?" he said. "Um--'A woman moved is
like a fountain troubled.' This one's pretty badly moved to vengeance, I
think, eh?"
"Aye!" agreed Overthwaite. "But she isn't, as the quotation goes on,
'bereft of beauty.' Egad, what a face and figure! Albert Grice must be a
doubly damned fool!"