_The Battle Begins_
Up to that moment George Grice had fondly and firmly believed that he
knew the secret of the house opposite--he was so certain in his
assumption, indeed, that he had taken no particular trouble to get at
the real truth about it. For some time there had been a travelling
draper, a Scotsman, coming into those parts, and doing a considerable
amount of trade; this man had often remarked to the grocer that he had a
rare good mind to set up a shop in Savilestowe, and make it the
headquarters of a further development. He had not been seen in the
neighbourhood since early spring, but George, who prided himself on his
deductive qualities, was sure that he was behind all the preparations
which were going on over the way, and said so, with a knowing chuckle,
to Albert.
"They're close, is them Scotch fellers!" he remarked, as he and his son
stood at their shop door one afternoon, watching certain material being
carried into the opposite house. "I see how it is--he's doing it all on
the quiet--made t'carpenter keep t'secret till all's ready for opening.
Then he'll be appearin' on t'scene wi' a cargo o' goods. An' I shall hev
no objection, Albert, mi lad--owt 'at keeps trade i' t'village 'll
bring trade to us, as long as it doesn't trespass on our line."
Once or twice George Grice endeavoured to sound Stubley, as owner of the
house, on the subject of the mystery. Stubley took pleasure in
heightening it, and winked knowingly at his questioner.
"Aye, ye'll be seeing summat afore long!" said Stubley. "We'm not always
going to be asleep here i' Savilestowe. This is what they call a
progressive age, mi lad, and some of you old fossils want wakenin' up a
bit. We shall be havin' all sorts o' things i' now. You'll have your
eyes opened, Grice. Keep a look out on t'windows opposite--ye'll be
seeing summat in 'em at'll make you think!"
"Drapery goods, no doubt," suggested Grice. "An' ready-made clothin'.
Happen I can see a bit already."
"I'm sayin' nowt," retorted Stubley. "Ye'll see summat--i' time."
But when George Grice saw the golden teapot elevated above the front
door, he experienced very much the same feeling which fills the breast
of a mariner, who, having sailed long in fog and mist, sees them lift,
and finds before him a rocky and perilous coast. Just as a pestle and
mortar denote the presence of a chemist, so a teapot would seem to
indicate the presence of a dealer in tea--and in like commodities. And
it was in something of a cold sweat, induced by anticipation, that he
tucked up the corner of his apron and sallied across the street to find
out, once and for all, what that glaring object meant.
"Now, mi lad!" he began, coming across the carpenter at the threshold of
the renovated house, "What's t'meanin' o' that thing ye've just fixed
up? It 'ud seem to be a imitation of a teapot, if it owt is owt. What's
it mean, like? What's this here shop going to be?"
The carpenter, a quiet, meditative man, not without a sense of humour,
had received his instructions from Jeckie the night before--at noon that
day he was to place the golden teapot in position, affix a sign beneath
it, and complete the bold announcement by draping the Union Jack over
both. So there was no longer any need for secrecy, and with a jerk of
his thumb he motioned Grice within one of the newly-fitted rooms, and
pointed to an oblong object which rested, covered with coarse sacking,
on the counter.
"Mean, eh?" he said, with a laugh. "Why, it means, Mr. Grice, 'at you're
going to hev a bit o' competition, like! They say 'at it's a good thing
for t'community, is competition, so yer mo'nt grummle. But if you want
t'exact meanin'--why, ye can look at this here, if ye like. It'll be up
ower t'door in a few o' minutes, for all t'place to see, but I'll gi'
yer a private view wi' pleasure--very neat and tasty it is. I'm sure
ye'll admit."
With that the carpenter stripped off the sacking from the oblong object
and revealed a signboard, the background whereof was of a light
apple-green, the lettering in brilliant gold. And Grice took in that
lettering in one glance, and stepped back in sickened amazement. Yet
there was only one word on the sign, only a name--but the name was
"Farnish."
"Nice bit o' sign-writin', that, Mr. Grice?" said the carpenter,
maliciously. "Done at Clothford, was that theer--so were t'golden
teapot. She'll ha' laid a nice penny out on them two, will Miss
Farnish."
Grice, who was already purple with rage, found his tongue.
"D'ye mean to tell me 'at yon woman's going to start a grocery business
reight i' front o' my very door!" he vociferated. "Her! Going to----"
"Aye, and why not, Grice?" said a hard and dry voice behind him. "D'ye
think 'at ye've gotten a monopoly o' trade i' t'place, or i' t'district,
either? Gow, I think ye'll find yer mistaken, mi lad!"
Grice turned angrily, to find Stubley standing amongst the shavings on
the floor of the shop. The farmer nodded defiantly as he met the
grocer's irate look.
"I telled you yer were wrong, Grice, when you turned yon lass off!" he
said. "I telled you to count twenty afore you did owt. Ye wouldn't--and
now she's goin' to make you smart for it. And--it must be a very nice
and pleasant reflection for you!--ye've provided her wi' t'sinews o'
war! That there fifteen hundred pound 'at she made you fork out's comin'
in very useful to t'enemy--what!"
The deep red flush which had overspread Grice's big face and thick neck
died out, and he became white as his immaculate apron. He gave Stubley a
glare of venomous hatred.
"So you've been at t'back o' this?" he exclaimed. "It's you 'at's backed
her up? What reight have you to come interferin' wi' a honest man's
trade 'at he's ta'en all these years to build up? Ye're a bad 'un
Stubley!"
"Nowt no worse nor you, ye fat owd mork!" retorted Stubley, who had
waited a long time to pay off certain old scores. "If there's been owt
bad o' late i' this place, it's been your treatment o' yon lass!--and I
hope she'll make yer suffer for it. Ye'll ha' t'pleasure o' seein' trade
come into this door 'at used to come into yours, Mr. Grice. That'll
touch you up, I know!--that'll get home to t'sore place."
Grice made another effort to speak, but before words reached his lips
his mood changed, and he turned on his heel and left the house. He went
straight across the street, through the shop, and into his private
parlour. He had a bottle of brandy in his cupboard, and he took it out
and helped himself to a strong dose with a shaking hand. The brandy
steadied him for the moment, but his rage was still there, and had to be
vented on somebody, and presently he opened the door into the shop and
called his son. Albert came in and stared at the brandy bottle.
"Is aught amiss?" asked Albert. "You're that white."
George fixed his small eyes on his son's expressionless face.
"Do you know what that shop is across t'road, and who's going to open
it?" he demanded.
"Me?--no!" answered Albert. "What is it--and who is?"
"Then I'll tell yer!" said George in low concentrated tones. "It's a
grocer's shop, and it's yon there she-devil's, Jecholiah Farnish. She
going to run it i' opposition to me, 'at's been here all these years!
An' it's wi' my money 'at it's bein' started--mind you that! Mi money,
'at I've tewed and scratted for all mi life--my fifteen hundred pound,
'at I hed to pay 'cause you were such a damned fool as to gi' that there
ring to her and write her them letters! It's all your fault, ye poor
soft thing--if yer'd never given her t'ring nor written them letters, I
would ha' snapped mi fingers at her! But yer did--and there's t'result!"
He waved a hand, with an almost imperial gesture, in the direction of
the offending shop across the way, and looked at his son with eyes full
of angry contempt.
"There's t'result!" he repeated. "A shop reight before wer very noses
'at's bound to do us damage--and all owin' to your foolishness!"
Albert put a hand to his mouth and coughed. There was something in that
cough that made George start and look more narrowly at his son. And he
suddenly realised that Albert was going to show fight.
"I'll tell you what it is!" said Albert, with the desperate courage of a
weak nature. "I'm goin' to have no more o' that sort o' talk. You seem
to think I'm naught but a mouse, but I'll show you I'm as good a man as
what you are. You forget 'at I've half o' this business--it's mine,
signed and sealed, and naught can do away wi' that--and me and Lucilla's
got her two thousand pounds safe i' t'bank and untouched--we're none
without brass, and I can claim to have t'partnership wound up any time,
and take my lawful share and go elsewhere, and so I will, if there's any
more talk. I did no more nor what any other feller 'ud ha' done when I
gave that ring and wrote them letters--and I'm none bound to stop i'
Savilestowe, neither. Me an' Lucilla----"
The door from the shop opened and Lucilla came in--and George saw at
once what had happened. Between his parlour and the shop there was a
hatchment in the wall, fitted with a small window; hastily glancing
round he saw that the window was open; Lucilla, accordingly, her
cashier's desk being close to the hatchment, had heard all that father
and son had said. And there were danger signals in her cheeks as she
turned on the old grocer.
"No, we're not bound to stop in Savilestowe!" she exclaimed angrily and
pertly. "And stop we shan't if you're going to treat Albert as you do.
You've never been right to him since you paid that money to that woman!
And it's all your fault--you should have paid her something when you
first broke it off; she'd ha' been glad to take five hundred pound then.
And, as Albert says, we've got my two thousand pounds, and his share in
this business, and I'll not have him sat on, neither by you nor anybody,
so there! You stand up to him, Albert. We've had enough of black looks
this last month--it's not our fault if he paid that woman fifteen
hundred pounds!"
Grice looked in amazement at his muttering son and the sharp-tongued
bride--and in that moment learned a good deal that he had never known
before.
"An' it were for you 'at I laid out all that brass in furniture, and
bowt a bran' new pianner!" he said reproachfully. "Well!--there's
neither gratitude nor nowt left i' this world!"
"You leave Albert alone!" retorted the bride, sullenly. "We'll have no
more of it." She drew Albert back into the shop, and George, peeping
through the window of the hatchment saw them standing together in a
corner, talking in whispers. Lucilla wore a determined air, and Albert
nodded in response to all she said--clearly, they were plotting
something. George drew back and picked up his glass--here, indeed, was a
fine situation, opposition across the street, and rebellion in his own
house! And the recollection of a certain look in his daughter-in-law's
eyes frightened him--he had suddenly seen what she was capable of.
"Nowt but trouble--nowt but trouble!" he muttered. "I should ha' done
better if I'd let our Albert stick to Jecholiah Farnish! But--it's
done!"
That day the Grice household became divided. George dined alone in his
parlour behind the shop, and the bride and bridegroom in their quarters
upstairs. Father and son only spoke to each other on matters of business
during the day, and when evening came Mr. and Mrs. Albert went off to
the theatre at Sicaster, and left George to his reflections. They were
not pleasant. In his joy at getting rid of Jeckie Farnish and at
providing Albert with a moneyed bride he had been over-generous in the
matter of the partnership, and had presented his son with a half-share
in the business as it stood. And he knew that Albert's was no vain
threat. Albert, if he liked, could have the partnership dissolved at any
time, and could insist on having his moiety paid out to him. Now,
supposing that Lucilla put her husband up to that? Terrible, terrible
trouble!--and there was that she-devil, Jeckie, about to appear on the
scene.
Jeckie was the first person George Grice saw when he drew up his blind
the following morning. She was at her shop-door, very energetic and
businesslike, superintending the unloading of two great wagon-loads of
goods. The old grocer turned sick with fury when he saw from the signs
on the sides of the wagons that they were from the best wholesale
grocers in Clothford. All that day and all the rest of the week other
wagons and carts arrived. His practised eye saw that the new shop was
going to be as well equipped, if not better, than his own. And as he
noted these things and realised that his carefully built-up business was
in danger, a deep groan burst from his lips, ever and anon, and it
invariably ended up with the bitter exclamation:
"All bein' done wi' mi money!--all bein' done with mi money! I've found
t'munitions o' battle, and they're bein' used agen me!"
Grice always paid his employees at noon on Saturday. On the Saturday of
this eventful week when he went out into the stable-yard and handed
Bartle thirty shillings, Bartle quietly handed it back.
"What's that for?" demanded George, suddenly suspecting the truth. "What
d'yer mean?"
"'Stead of a week's notice," answered Bartle. "I'm none comin' o' Monday
mornin'."
"Ye're goin' across t'road!" exclaimed George, with an angry sneer.
"Goin' back to t'owd lot, what?"
"Aye!" answered Bartle. "Allus meant to, mister, as soon as I knew.
Ye'll have no difficulty about gettin' a man i'stead o' me; there's two
or three young fellers i' t'village 'at'll take it on. But I mun go."
"All reight, mi lad!" said George. "An' I wonder how long it'll last,
ower yonder! What does she know about t'grocerin' business?"
"Why, I understand 'at ye didn't nowt about it yersen when you started,"
retorted Bartle, who was well versed in village gossip, and knew that
George had begun life as a market gardener. "An' if there's anybody 'at
has a headpiece i' these parts I reckon it's Jeckie. I'm for her,
anyway."
This was another bitter piece of bread for Grice to swallow, for he knew
that Bartle had picked up a lot of valuable information while in his
employ and would infallibly make use of it.
"Take care you tell no tales about my business!" he growled as he thrust
the thirty shillings into his pocket and turned away. "There's such a
thing as law i' this land, mi lad!"
"Aye," said Bartle, with a grin. "You've had a bit o' experience on't o'
late, Mr. Grice, what?"
The shaft went home, but Grice made no sign that he had received it.
Blow after blow was falling upon him, and he knew there were more to
come. The village folk were by that time conversant with the true
history of the case, and found elements of romance and excitement in it.
Jeckie Farnish had made George Grice pay up to the tune of fifteen
hundred pounds, and she was using the money to beat him at his own
trade! Well, to be sure, everybody must give her a turn. George had had
his way with folk long enough.
There was a small room over Grice's shop from which he could see all
that went on in the street beneath, and on the Monday morning, which saw
the formal opening of Jeckie's rival establishment, he posted himself in
its window and watched. When Jeckie's blinds were drawn up it was to
display a fine, well-arranged assortment of goods; it was a fine,
gaily-painted cart in which Bartle presently drove off and it was filled
to its edge with parcels. All that morning Grice watched, and saw many
of his usual customers turn into the new shop. Monday was a great
shopping day for the village; by noon he realised that his own trade was
going to suffer. And at night Albert curtly drew his attention to a
fact--at least half of the better class of customers had not sent in
their weekly orders; instead of there being thirty to forty lists to
make up in the morning there were no more than fifteen.
"They're going across there!" muttered Albert significantly. "They say
her prices are lower."
Grice got an indication of Jeckie's game next day, when the squire's
wife sailed into the shop carrying a smartly-got up price list in her
hand with the name, Farnish, prominent on its blue and gold cover. She
tackled George in person, wanting to know how it was that Miss Farnish's
prices were in all cases below his own, and suggesting that he should
come down. Grice grew short in temper and reply, and the squire's wife,
remarking airily that every one must have a chance, walked out and went
over the road. The wives of the vicar and the curate had made a similar
defection the day before, and that evening the one-time monopolist
foresaw a steady fall in his revenues.