CHAPTER XIII

_Dead Men's Shoes_

Had George Grice but known it, the defection of his daughter-in-law,

Lucilla, to the rival establishment across the street had more in it

than appeared on the surface. Lucilla, after much worry and anxious

thought, had come to the conclusion that there was no more to be got out

of Albert's father. She had grown doubtful, not very long after her

marriage, about the old man's financial position. George, when the bride

and bridegroom had fairly settled down, had begun to throw out hints

that her portion--two thousand pounds good money--ought to be sunk in

the business, and when she had objected, saying that she preferred to

control it herself, had grown grumpy and sullen. Then there had been

difficulties about paying Albert out of the business when the dissension

took place. George had put every obstacle possible in the way, and had

delayed settlement until he was forced to it. Finally, he had forbidden

Albert and Lucilla to darken his doors again, and the break-up of family

ties had seemed complete. But, Lucilla had kept her eyes and ears open,

and had seen and heard how the old man's business fell off; and, getting

a purely feminine intuition that George was going steadily downhill and

only keeping open out of sheer obstinacy and pride, she formed the

opinion that he was by no means as well-off as was fancied, and,

therefore, worth no more consideration. Hence the grocery book went no

more to Grice but to Farnish. It was a final sign of complete

separation, wholly due to Lucilla, who, in addition to other things, was

actuated not a little by womanish spite and malice. George had told her

a few plain truths to her face when the rift opened, and she had no

objection to give him a few kicks behind his back. If she had had

positive knowledge that the old man was wealthy she would have taken

good care to keep in with him, but she had formed the impression that he

was on his last legs, and that she and Albert would, from one cause or

another, never benefit by him again.

As for Albert, he was now a gentleman; that is to say, he was a

gentleman in the sense in which gentility is understood by village folk.

He had nothing to do, and money to do it on. He and Lucilla dwelt in a

villa residence on the roadside between Savilestowe and Sicaster; the

villa was a pretentious affair of red brick with timber facings, there

was a white door with an ornamental black knocker, a flower garden with

rustic seats in front, a kitchen garden behind, and in a screened yard a

coach-house and a stable with a smart dog-cart in one and a good cob in

the other. There were two maidservants in the kitchen, and a pet dog in

the parlour; in the dressing-room was Lucilla's chief solace, a piano,

not so good, to be sure, as that which old George had bought her (that

still remained, with the suite of furniture, in the room over the

Savilestowe shop), but more showy in appearance. Lucilla ran the entire

establishment--everyone in it, from Albert to the pet dog, was under her

thumb. Albert read the newspaper after breakfast. He was then allowed to

walk into Sicaster and look round the bar-parlours, but it was a strict

commandment that he was never to drink anything but bitter beer, and

only a little of that. In the afternoon he drove Lucilla out in the

dog-cart. In the evening there was another newspaper to read, and he was

allowed two glasses of gin-and-water before retiring to rest. It was a

simple life, and Lucilla, who managed all the money matters, saved money

every year.

Meanwhile old George went his way. It was a way of solitude, but he kept

along its centre, looking neither to right nor left. He sold his

hay-and-corn business, and devoted himself to the shop. A certain number

of his old customers remained loyal to him; there was always sufficient

trade to warrant him in keeping open, but in time he could comfortably

do all the counter work himself, and his staff was cut down to an errand

boy. He had plenty of time to talk to customers now, and, as they

chiefly consisted of garrulous old women, he lounged a good deal over

his counter. What affected him chiefly was the evening solitude, and, at

last, after his fateful interview with Jeckie Farnish, he broke through

the rule of a lifetime, and began to frequent the parlour of the

"Coach-and-Four" every night, making one of a select circle wherein sat

the miller, the butcher, the blacksmith, and the parish clerk. After a

few experiences in this retreat he found himself cordially welcomed,

for, having his own intentions as regarded the disposal of his money, he

was liberal in spending it on liquor and cigars; nay, more, he actually

got back some trade by this new departure, for, as the miller said, it

was only reasonable that as Mr. Grice was so friendly and sociable-like

they should go back to the old shop. For that George cared little by

that time. What he chiefly valued was sympathy, and he quickly found

that he could get plenty of it by handing round the cigar-box and paying

for his cronies' gin-and-water.

"I reckon ye've been uncommon badly treated, Mr. Grice!" said the

butcher as the five chief frequenters of the bar-parlour sat together in

an atmosphere of cigar smoke and unsweetened gin one night. "It's a nice

game, an' all, when a man's attained to t'eminence 'at you had i' this

here place, when an upstart comes in and cuts him out! I should feel it

mysen, I should indeed, wor it me!"

"Mr. Grice," observed the parish clerk, "has borne it all wi' Christian

fortitude, gentlemen. My respects, sir; you haven't fallen off i' my

estimation, Mr. Grice--nor, I'm sure, i' that of any of the rest of

these here gentlemen."

There was a general murmur of assent; the fact was that old George had

shown himself particularly lavish that evening in insisting on paying

for everything, saying that it was his birthday.

"Aye, there's a deal i' Christian fortitude," remarked the blacksmith.

"It's one o' them horses 'at'll carry a man a long way wi'out brakkin'

down; it 'ud weer out a good many shoes would that theer. Ye been well

favoured to be endowed wi' such a quality, Mr. Grice."

"Now then!" said George, mollified and pleased. "Now then, say no more

about it! I hev mi faults, and I hev mi qualities. I could say a good

deal, but I'll say naught. All on us hes crosses to bear, and I've borne

mine, patient. An' I hope all them 'at's deserted me for never mind

who'll never have cause to regret it. But i' mi time, 've give away a

deal i' charity i' this place--ask t'parson if he ever knew me not to

put mi hand i' mi pocket whenever him or his lady, or t'curate come

wantin' summat for coals, and blankets, and t'clothing fund and

such-like--and I don't hear 'at a certain person ever gives a penny!"

"None she!" exclaimed the miller. "She's as hard as one o' t'stones i'

my mill--and if there's owt i' this world 'at's harder, I could like to

hear tell on it! No, she'll none give owt away, weern't that! She's set

on makkin' all t'brass 'at she can, and what she scrapes together she'll

stick to. All t'same, I don't think you'll put your shutters up yet, Mr.

Grice, what?"

"Not while I can draw breath!" answered Grice, with a grim look. "She'll

none beat me at that, I can tell yer!"

He had made up his mind on that point after Jeckie Farnish had motioned

him away from her shop-door on the night of his strange proposal to

her. Let come what might, he would keep down the shutters to the very

end--they should never be put up until they were put up some day to show

that he was dead. Customers or no customers--he would keep the old shop

open. There would have to be a day, of course, whereon he would be

unable to tie on his apron and take his stand behind the counter, but

until that day came....

The day came with sudden swiftness. One morning the woman who did George

Grice's housework arrived to find the doors open, an unusual thing, for

he usually came down to let her in. She walked through the kitchen into

the parlour, and found him lying back in his elbow-chair at the table,

dead and cold. The gin and the cigars were on the table; on the carpet

at his feet lay an old account-book which he had evidently been reading

when death came upon him; it referred to the days wherein the firm of

George Grice & Son had been at the height of its prosperity. So Grice's

last thoughts in this world had been of money.

The woman followed the instincts of her sort, and after one horrified

glance at the dead man, ran out into the street, eager to spread the

news. The first person she set eyes on was Jeckie Farnish, who, always

up with the sun, was standing in the roadway outside her shop,

vigorously scolding one of her shop-boys for his carelessness in

sweeping the sidewalk. Upon her objurgations the woman broke, big with

tidings and already half breathless.

"Miss Farnish! Eh, dear--such a turn as it's given me!--Miss Farnish!

There's Mr. Grice--there in his parlour--sittin' i' his chair, Miss

Farnish, an' wi' his bottle o' sperrits i' front o' him, and all--such

an end, to be sure!--and dead--aye, and must ha' died last night, for

he's as cowd as ice. An' will you come back wi' me, Miss Farnish?--I'm

fair feared to go in agen by misen!"

Jeckie turned and looked down at the woman--a little wizened

creature--with an incredulous stare.

"What do you say?" she demanded sharply. "Grice? Dead?"

"Dead as a door-nail, Miss Farnish, as sure as I'm here--and sittin' i'

t'easy chair at his table----"

Jeckie looked round at the offending shop-boy; even then she considered

her own affairs first.

"You get another pail o' water, and swill them flags again this minute!"

she commanded. "And mind you do it right, or else----"

She broke off at that, and without another word to the agitated woman

who was staring at her with affrighted eyes, marched straight across the

street, through George Grice's yard and in at the side-door of the

house. She knew her way about that house as well as its late master, and

she turned at once into the parlour in which she had never set foot

since that morning, years before, on which she had gone there to beg

Grice's help. She saw at one glance that Grice himself was now beyond

all human help, and for a moment she stood and looked at his dead face

with keen, critical eyes. Death, instead of smoothing the lines of his

naturally sly and crafty countenance, had deepened them; it was not a

pleasant sight that Jeckie looked at. And the woman, who had crept in

after her, spoke in a half-frightened whisper.

"Lord save us!--he don't mak' a beautiful corpse, trew-ly, does he, Miss

Farnish?" she said. "He looks that hard and graspin', same as he did

when a poor body wanted summat and----"

"He must have had a stroke and died in it," remarked Jeckie, in

matter-of-fact tones. "And I should say, as he died all alone, 'at

there'll have to be an inquest, so don't you touch aught 'at there is on

that table. You go round and tell the policeman to come here at once for

he'll have to let the coroner know. Don't say aught to anybody else till

he's been, and I'll go and send one of my lads for Mr. Albert."

The woman hurried away, and Jeckie, waiting there with the dead man

until the policeman arrived, hated him worse than ever. For she had

never seen the shutters go up in his lifetime--he had held out to the

end, and cheated her of her cherished revenge. Yet never mind--the Grice

business was over; that she knew very well; henceforth she was a

monopolist. And when the policeman had come and had taken charge of

matters, she went across to her stables, where her van-man was just

putting a horse into a light cart.

"Here!" she said, "you're going up to t'top o' t'village, Watkinson.

Drive on, as soon as you've delivered those parcels, to Mr. Albert

Grice's--tell him his father's dead."

The old man opened his mouth and stared.

"What, t'owd man, missis?" he exclaimed. "Nay!--I seed him all right

last night."

"He's dead," repeated Jeckie, turning unconcernedly away. "Tell Mr.

Albert he'd better come down."

Albert came within an hour, and Lucilla with him, and the smart cob and

smart dog-cart were housed in the dead man's stable. Presently, he

himself was laid out in decency on his own bed, and all the blinds were

drawn, and the shutters were up in the shop, and Albert and Lucilla,

having found George's keys, began to go through his effects. But before

they had fairly entered on this congenial task, interruption came in the

shape of a Sicaster solicitor, Mr. Whitby, accompanied by a well-known

Sicaster tradesman, Mr. Cransdale, who drove up in a cab, evidently in

haste, and walked uninvited into the house, to find Albert and Lucilla

busied at the dead man's desk. Whitby immediately pulled out some

papers.

"Good morning, Mr. Grice--good morning, Mrs. Grice," he said, with a

certain amount of disapproval shown behind a surface pleasantness.

"Busy, I see, already! I'm afraid I must ask you to hand those keys over

to us, Mr. Grice, and to leave all my late client's effects to the care

of Mr. Cransdale and myself--we're the executors and trustees of his

will----"

"What?" exclaimed Lucilla, whose tongue was always in advance of her

husband's. "Then he made a will?"

"Here's the will," answered Whitby, producing a document and folding it

in such a fashion that only the last paragraph or two could be seen.

"There is the late Mr. George Grice's signature; there are the

signatures of the witnesses, and there--you may see that much--is the

clause appointing Mr. Cransdale and myself executors and trustees. All

in order, Mr. Grice!"

"What's in the will?" demanded Lucilla.

"All in good time, ma'am!" responded Whitby. "You'll hear everything

after the funeral. In the meantime--those keys, if you please. Now," he

continued, as Albert sullenly handed over the keys, "nothing whatever in

this house will be touched--no papers, no effects, nothing! You

understand, Mr. and Mrs. Grice? Mr. Cransdale and I are in full power.

We shall arrange everything."

"So you turn my husband out of his father's house!" exclaimed Lucilla

indignantly. "That's what it comes to!"

"I don't think he troubled his father's house very much of late," said

Whitby dryly. "But I repeat--Mr. Cransdale and I are in full power.

After the late Mr. Grice's funeral the will shall be read."

Albert and Lucilla had to retire, and they spent the next three days in

wondering what all this was about. Lucilla's father arrived from

Nottingham on the evening before his brother's obsequies; he, too, was

full of wonder. He was as busy a man as George had been in his palmiest

days, and knew little of what had been going on at Savilestowe. And when

his daughter told him the story of recent events he frowned heavily.

"It'll be well if you haven't made a mistake, my girl!" he said. "My

brother George was as deep and sly as ever they make 'em. The

probability is that he'll cut up a lot better than you think, in spite

of everything. You should have kept in with him, whatever came. You wait

till that will's read, and I hope you and Albert won't get a nasty

surprise!"

Lucilla was surprised enough when she saw the curious assemblage which,

duly marshalled by Whitby, gathered together in the dead man's parlour,

after he himself had been laid in the grave, which many years before had

received his wife's body, and was surmounted by a handsome and weighty

obelisk, whereon his own name was now to be cut in deep gilt letters.

There were the relatives; herself, her husband, her father; there were

also the vicar, the squire, and Stubley, the last three all plainly

wondering why they were asked to be present. But their wonder was not to

last long. In five minutes the will had been read and everybody there

had grasped the meaning of its provisions. George Grice had left

everything of which he died possessed in trust to Whitby and Cransdale,

who were to realise the whole of his estate, and with the proceeds to

build and endow a cottage hospital at Savilestowe, to be known forever

as the George Grice Memorial Home, and the vicar, the squire, and

Stubley were asked to co-operate with the trustees in carrying out the

initial arrangements. For anything and anybody else--not one penny.

When all was done Lucilla's father drew Whitby aside.

"Between you and me," he said, with a knowing look, "what might my

brother's estate be likely to come to?"

"As near as I can make out," answered Whitby, "about thirty thousand

pounds."

The inquirer followed his daughter and Albert out of the house, and gave

them a good deal of his tongue on the way home, and for once in her life

Lucilla had nothing to answer. Moreover, she now foresaw trouble between

her and Albert.

And that afternoon, before leaving the village, the executors and

trustees of George Grice deceased walked across the street to see Miss

Jecholiah Farnish. Their conversation with her was of a brief sort as

far as time was concerned, but its upshot was of an important nature.

Jeckie agreed, there and then, to buy the goodwill of the business which

she had set out to ruin, and she took care to get it dirt cheap.

END OF THE FIRST PART

_Part the Second: FALL_

CHAPTER I

_Avarice_

Five years after George Grice had been gathered to his fathers, by which

time Jeckie Farnish had achieved her ambition and become the richest

woman in Savilestowe, there walked into the stone-flagged hall of the

"Coach-and-Four" one fine spring morning, a gentleman who wore a smart

suit of grey tweed, a grey Homburg hat, ornamented by a black band, and

swung a handsome gold-mounted walking cane in his elegantly-gloved

fingers. There was an air of consequence and distinction about him,

though he was apparently still on the right side of thirty; the way in

which he looked around as he stepped across the threshold, showed that

he was one of those superior beings who are accustomed to give orders

and have them obeyed, and Steve Beckitt, the landlord, who chanced to be

in the hall at the time, made haste to come forward and throw open the

door of the best parlour. The stranger, who was as good-looking as he

was well-dressed, smiled genially, showing a set of fine teeth beneath a

carefully trimmed dark moustache, and removed his hat as he walked in

and glanced approvingly at the old-fashioned furniture. "You the

landlord?" he asked pleasantly, and with another smile. "Mr. Beckitt,

then?--I had your name given me by the landlady of the 'Red Lion' at

Sicaster, where I've been staying for a week or two. I've just walked

out from there--and, to begin with, I should like a glass or two of your

best bitter ale, Mr. Beckitt. Bring a jug of it--I know you've always

good ale in these country inns!--and join me. I want to have a word or

two with you."

Beckitt, a worthy and unimaginative soul, full of curiosity, fetched the

ale and poured it out; the stranger, producing a handsome silver case,

offered him a cigar and lighted one himself. And when he had tasted and

praised the ale, he dropped into an easy chair and swinging one leg over

the other, looked smilingly at the landlord, whom he had waved to a

seat.

"My name's Mortimer," he said, with almost boyish ingenuousness,

"Mallerbie Mortimer--I'm from London. I've been having a holiday in the

North here, and for the last fortnight I've been staying in Sicaster--at

'the Red Lion.' Now, I've a fancy to stay a bit longer in these parts,

Mr. Beckitt, and I have heard in Sicaster that this is a very pretty and

interesting neighbourhood. So I walked out this morning to see if you

could put me up for a week or two at the 'Coach-and-Four'? How are you

fixed?"

Beckitt, who was sure by that time that his visitor was a moneyed

gentleman, put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat--a sure sign

that he was thinking.

"Well, sir," he replied, "it isn't oft 'at we're asked for accommodation

o' that partik'lar nature, but, of course, twice a year we do entertain

t'steward--a lawyer gentleman--when he comes to collect t'rents. He has

this room for a parlour, and there's a nice big bedroom upstairs--he's

allus expressed his-self as very well satisfied wi' all 'at we do for

him. Of course, it's naught but plain cookin' at we can offer--but

t'steward, he allus takes to it."

"And so should I," affirmed the caller, who was evidently disposed to

like anything and everything. "Good, plain, homely fare and cooking, Mr.

Beckitt--that's all I want. And for whatever I have, I'll pay you

well--now, supposing you call your good lady, and let me see the

bedroom, and have a talk to her about my meals?"

Within ten minutes of his entrance Mr. Mallerbie Mortimer had settled

matters with the host and hostess of the "Coach-and-Four." He was

evidently a man who was accustomed to arrange affairs in quick time; he

told Mrs. Beckitt precisely what he wanted in a very few sentences, and

then offered her for board and lodging a certain weekly sum which was

about half as much again as she would have asked him. Immediately on her

acceptance of it, he pulled a handful of loose gold out of his trousers

pocket, paid his first week's bill in advance, and turning to the

landlord, asked him to send somebody with a trap to Sicaster to fetch

his luggage--three portmanteaux and two suit-cases. Then, arranging for

a mutton-chop at half-past one, he went out and strolled down the

village street, his Homburg hat at a jaunty angle, and his cane

swinging lightly in his gloved hand. The folk whom he met wondered at

him, and Jeckie Farnish, who happened to be standing at the door of her

shop, wondered most of all. Strangers were rare in Savilestowe, and this

one was evidently a man of far-off parts.

But before twenty-four hours had gone by, Mr. Mallerbie Mortimer had

made himself known to most people in the village. He was an eminently

sociable person, and after his first dinner at the "Coach-and-Four"--a

roast chicken, the cooking of which he praised unreservedly--he went

into the bar-parlour and fraternised with the select company which

assembled there every evening. He was generous in the matter of paying

for drinks and cigars; he was also an adept in drawing men out. Within a

night or two, he knew all the affairs of the place, and all the

principal inhabitants by name; also, he had heard, from more than one

informant, the full story of Jeckie Farnish and George Grice. He showed

himself possessed of pleasant and ingratiating manners, and might be

seen chatting in the blacksmith's forge, or lounging in the carpenter's

shop, or exchanging jokes with the miller, or hanging about the

churchyard with the sexton; he talked farming with Stubley, and smoked

an afternoon pipe with Merritt. And when he was not doing any of these

things, he was all over the place--farmers met him crossing fields and

going about meadows, and along the side of hedgerows; thus encountered,

Mr. Mallerbie Mortimer always showed his white teeth and his engaging

smile, and said he hoped he wasn't trespassing, but he had a mania for

going wherever his fancy prompted when he was in the country. Nobody, of

course, objected to so pleasant a gentleman going wherever he pleased,

and by the end of the week he had thoroughly explored the parish. And

had anybody been with him on these solitary excursions they would have

observed that the stranger took a most curious interest in the various

soils over which he walked, and that in certain places he would linger a

long time, closely inspecting marl and loam and clay and sandstone and

outcropping limestone. But the Savilestowe folk saw nothing of this; all

they saw was a very smart young gentleman who wore a different,

apparently brand-new, suit every day, put on black clothes and a dinner

jacket every evening, received piles of letters and bundles of

newspapers each morning, and, in spite of his grandeur and his

money--his abundant possession of which was soon made evident--had

no snobbishness about him, and was only too willing to be

hail-fellow-well-met with everybody from the parson to the ploughman.

Mr. Mortimer informed Mrs. Beckitt, at the end of his first week's stay

at Savilestowe, that he was so well satisfied with his quarters that he

had decided to remain where he was for a while longer--he might, he

further informed her, be having a friend down from London to stay for a

week or so in this truly delightful spot. Beckitt and his wife were only

too pleased; Mr. Mortimer was not only a very profitable lodger, but

free of his money in the bar-parlour, where he made a practice of

spending his evenings after his seven o'clock dinner. He was in that

parlour every night until nearly the second week of his visit had gone

by. Then, one night, instead of crossing the hall from his sitting room

to join the company which had grown accustomed to his genial presence,

he waited until night had fallen, put a light overcoat over his evening

clothes, drew on a soft cap, and taking some papers from a dispatch-box

which he kept, locked, in his bedroom, slipped out of the

"Coach-and-Four" and strolled down the village street. Five minutes

later found him knocking gently at the private door of Jeckie Farnish's

house.

Jeckie, by this time, kept a couple of maidservants. But it was growing

late, and they had gone to bed, and it was Jeckie herself who opened the

door and shone the light of a hand-lamp on the caller. Now up to that

time Jeckie was about the only person in Savilestowe to whom Mr.

Mallerbie Mortimer had not introduced himself; he had passed her shop

scores of times, but had never entered it. She stared wonderingly at him

as he removed his cap with one hand and offered her a card with the

other.

"May I have a few minutes' conversation with you, Miss Farnish--in

private?" he asked, favouring Jeckie with the ingratiating smile. "I

came late purposely--so that we might have our talk all to

ourselves--you are, I know, a very busy woman in the day-time."

Jeckie looked at the card suspiciously. Mr. Mallerbie Mortimer,

M.I.M.E., 281c, Victoria Street, London, S.W. The letters at the end of

the name conveyed nothing to her. "You're not a traveller?" she asked

abruptly, showing no inclination to ask the caller in. "I only see

travellers on Fridays--three to five. I can't break my rule."

"I am certainly not a traveller--of that sort," laughed the visitor. "I

am a professional man--staying here for a professional purpose. Don't

you see, ma'am, what I am, from my card?--a member of the Institute of

Mining Engineers? I want to see you alone, on a most important business

matter."

Jeckie motioned him to enter.

"I didn't know what those letters meant," she said, with emphasis on the

personal pronoun. "But come in--though upon my word, mister, I don't

know what you want to see me about, mister! This way, if you please."

Mortimer laughed as he followed her into a parlour where there was a

bright fire in the grate--coal was cheap in that neighbourhood--and a

lamp burning on the centre table. He closed the door behind him, and

when Jeckie had seated herself, dropped into an easy chair in front of

her.

"I'll tell you why I've come to see you, Miss Farnish," he said in low

suave tones. "There's nothing like going straight to the point. I came

to you because, having now been in Savilestowe, as you're aware, for

close on a fortnight, I know that you're the richest person in the

place--man or woman! Eh?"

Jeckie had heard this sort of thing before, more than once. It usually

prefaced a demand on her purse, and she looked at Mortimer with

increased suspicion.

"If it's a subscription you're wanting," she began, and then stopped,

seeing the amusement in her visitor's face. "What do you want, then?"

she demanded. "You said business."

"And I mean and intend business!" answered Mortimer. "You're a business

woman, and I'm a business man, so we shall understand each other if I

speak freely and plainly. Look here! Since I came to stay at the

'Coach-and-Four,' nearly a fortnight ago I've heard all about you, Miss

Farnish. How you beat that old fellow Grice, drove him out, and all the

rest of it. You're a smart woman, you know; you've brains, and go, and

initiative, and determination--you're just the person I want!"

"For what?" demanded Jeckie, who was not insensible to flattery. "What's

it all about?"

Mortimer edged his chair nearer to hers, and gave her a knowing look.

The hard and strenuous life she had lived had robbed Jeckie of some of

her beauty, but she was a handsome woman still, and there was

recognition of that undoubted fact in the man's bold eyes.

"You're one of the sort that wants to get rich quick!" he said. "Right!

so am I. There's a bond between us. Now, as I said, I know for a fact

you're the richest person in this place, leaving the squire out of the

question. You know that's so! but only yourself knows how well-off you

are. Yet, how would you like to be absolutely wealthy?"

"I believe in money," said Jeckie. She saw no use in denying the truth

to this persistent and plausible stranger. "I've worked for money,

naught else! What do you mean?"

"Supposing I told you of how you could make money in such a fashion that

what you're making now would be as nothing to it?" said Mortimer, still

watching her keenly. "Would you be inclined to take the chance?"

Jeckie gave her visitor a good, long look before she replied. And

Mortimer added another word or two.

"I'm talking sense!" he affirmed. "I mean what I say."

"If I saw the chance o' making money in the way you speak of," answered

Jeckie, at last, "it 'ud be a queer thing if I didn't take it. I never

missed a chance yet!"

"Don't miss this!" said Mortimer. "Listen! You don't know why I'm here;

you don't know what I mean; you don't know what I've come to see you

about. I'll tell you in one word if you'll promise to keep this to

yourself?"

"If it's aught about business and money you can be certain I shall,"

asserted Jeckie. "I'm not given to talking about my affairs."

"Very good," continued Mortimer. "Then, do you know what there is under

this village of Savilestowe, under its fields and meadows, aye,

underneath where you and I are sitting just now. Do you?"

"What?" demanded Jeckie, roused by his evident enthusiasm. "What?"

Mortimer leaned forward, laid a hand on her arm, and spoke one

word--twice.

"Coal!" he said. "Coal?"

Jeckie stared at him, silently, for awhile. And Mortimer kept his eyes

fixed on hers, as if he were exercising some hypnotic influence on her.

She stirred a little at last, and spoke, wonderingly.

"Coal?" she said, in a low voice. "You mean----"

"I mean that there's no end of coal beneath our feet!" said Mortimer.

"Listen! You know--for you must have heard--how the coal-mining

industry's been increasing and developing in this part of Yorkshire

during the last few years. Now, I'm a mining expert; here's a pocketful

of references and testimonials about me that I'll leave with you, to

look over at your leisure; and I came over to Sicaster three weeks or so

ago to have a look round this neighbourhood. From something I saw one

day when I was out for a walk in this direction I decided to come here

and go carefully over the ground. I've been carefully over it--every

yard of this village! I tell you, as an expert, there's no end of coal

under here--no end! And whoever works it'll make--a huge fortune!"

Jeckie sat, almost spellbound, listening; such imagination as she

possessed was already stirred. And when she spoke it seemed to her that

her voice sounded as if it came from a long way off.

"But--it's down there!" she said.

"But--it is there!" exclaimed Mortimer. "All that's wanted is for man to

get it out! I know how to do that. All that's wanted is money! capital!"

He got up from his chair, thrust his hands in his pocket, and jingled

the loose coins which lay in them, looking down at Jeckie with a

significant smile.

"Capital!" he repeated. "Capital! I'm so certain of what I say that I'm

willing to find a good lot myself. But not all that's wanted. And what I

want to know is--are you coming in, now that I've told you? Look here,

for every ten thousand that's put into this business there'll be a

hundred thousand within a very short time of getting to work. I'll stake

my reputation--not a bad one, as you'll learn from these papers--that

this'll be one of the richest mines, in quantity and quality, in

England. A regular gold mine! I know!"

"But--the land?" said Jeckie. "You've to buy the land first, haven't

you?"

Mortimer laughed, and picked up his cap.

"I know how to do that in this case," he said. "Not another word now:

I'll come and see you again to-morrow evening, same time. In the

meantime--strict secrecy. But take my word for it, if you come in with

me at this I'll make you a richer woman than you've ever dreamed of

being. And I think you've had some ambitions that way--what?"

Then, with a brief, almost curt, good-night, he went away, and Jeckie,

after letting him out and fastening her door, read through the papers

which he had left with her. There was a banker's reference, and a

solicitor's reference, and numerous testimonials to the great ability of

Mr. Mallerbie Mortimer as a mining expert. Jeckie knew enough of things

to estimate these papers at their proper value, especially the banker's

reference, and she went off to bed with new ideas forming in her brain.

Coal!--there, beneath her feet--black, shining stuff that could be

turned into yellow gold. It seemed to her that she hated the green

fields and red earth that lay between it and her avaricious fingers.

CHAPTER II

_The Bit of Bad Land_

Mortimer was at Jeckie Farnish's private door to the minute on the

following evening, and Jeckie hastened to admit him and to lead him to

her parlour. He went straight to the point at which he had broken off

their conversation of the night before.

"You were saying that before ever starting on the project I mentioned it

would be necessary to buy the land," he said, as he settled himself in

an easy chair. "Now, Miss Farnish, let's be plain and matter-of-fact

about one thing. Most of the land in this parish of Savilestowe belongs

to the squire. But we're not going to have him in at this business! I

don't want him even to know that anything's afoot until matters are

settled, and in full working order. For not all the land is his!--which

is fortunate. A good deal of it, as you know, is glebe land. Then,

Stubley owns a bit, and I understand those two fields by the mill are

the freehold property of the miller. And, very fortunately for my scheme

and ideas, there's a considerable piece of land here which belongs to a

man who, I should say, would be very glad to sell it--I mean the piece

down there beyond the old stone quarry, which you villagers call

Savilestowe Leys."

"Worst bit o' land in the place!" exclaimed Jeckie. "There's naught

grown there but the coarsest sort o' grass and weeds and such-like; it's

more like a wilderness than aught!"

Mortimer showed his white teeth and his eyes sparkled.

"All the better for us, my dear lady!" he said. "But it's under there

that we shall find the richest bed of coal! I know that! Seams, without

doubt, spread away from that bed in several directions, but the real

wealth of this place lies under that bad bit of land, half-marsh,

half-wilderness, as you say. Now, I understand that that particular

property--forty acres in all--belongs to that little farmer at the

Sicaster end of the village. You know the man I mean--Benjamin Scholes?"

"Yes," assented Jeckie. "It's been in Ben Scholes's family for many a

generation."

Mortimer leaned forward, gave Jeckie a sharp, meaning look, and tapped

her wrist.

"The first thing to be done is to buy these forty acres of land from

Scholes--privately," he said. "That land's the front door to a

store-house of unlimited wealth! And--you must buy it."

Jeckie shook her head.

"I say you must!" asserted Mortimer. "There's nobody but you who can do

it. It'll have to be done on the quiet. You're the person!"

"It's not that," said Jeckie. "You're a stranger; you don't know our

people. Ben Scholes is a poor man; he'd be glad enough of the money. But

that land's been in their family for two or three hundred years; he'll

none want to part with it, were it ever so. Poor as it is, the squire

wanted to buy it from him some time since; he'd a notion of planting it

with fir and pine. But Ben wouldn't sell. And, besides, what excuse

could I make for buying it?--poor land like that! He'd be suspicious."

"I've thought of all that," answered Mortimer. "I'm full of resource, as

you'll find out. Everybody knows what an enterprising woman you are, so

that what I'm going to suggest you should do would surprise nobody if

you do it--as you must. Go and see Scholes; tell him you want to start a

market garden and a fruit orchard, and that his land will just suit your

purposes when it's been thoroughly drained and prepared. Offer to buy it

outright; stick to him till you get it. Never you mind about his refusal

to the squire; you've got a better tongue in your head than the squire

has from what I've seen of him, and you'll get round Scholes. You ought

to get the forty acres, such bad land as it is, for two or three hundred

pounds. But look here--go up to that. You see, I'm not asking you to

find the money."

He drew out a pocket-book, extracted a folded slip of paper from it,

unfolded it, and dropped it on the table at Jeckie's elbow. Jeckie

looked down and saw a cheque, made payable to herself, for five hundred

pounds.

"You'll get it for less than that if you go about it the right way,"

continued Mortimer. "And, of course, when you buy it, and the

conveyancing's done, you'll have all the papers made out in your name.

I shan't appear in it at all. You and I can settle matters

later--but--there's the money. And if this chap Scholes stands out for

more you've nothing to do but ask me. Only--but! At once!"

"And if he will sell?--if I get it?" asked Jeckie. "What then?"

"Then we've got forty acres of worthless stuff on top, and many a

thousand tons of coal beneath!" said Mortimer. "It'll take a good time

to exhaust what there is beneath the forty acres. And we can get to

work. As for the rest of the land in the place--well, as need arises we

shall have to come to terms with the other property owners. We should

pay them royalties; that's all a matter of arrangement. We might lease

their land--mineral rights, you know--from them for a term of years. All

that can be settled later. What we want is a definite standing as

owners; to begin with--owners! We might have leased Scholes's forty

acres for twenty-one, forty-two, or sixty-three years, but it's far best

to buy. Then it's ours. Go and see Scholes at once--to-morrow."

Jeckie picked up the cheque, and seemed to be looking at it, but

Mortimer saw that she did not see it at all; her thoughts were

elsewhere.

"And if I buy this bit o' land?" she said, after a pause. "What then?"

"Then, my dear madam, we'll get the necessary capital together, and

proceed to make our mine!" replied Mortimer, with a laugh. "But there'll

be things to be done first. First of all, so as to make assurance doubly

sure, we should do a bit of prospecting--dig a drift into the seam (if

I find an out-crop, as I may) to prove its value, or sink a trial pit,

or do some boring. It'll probably be boring; and when that takes place

you'll soon know what to expect in the way of results."

"I should want to know a lot about that before I put money into it,"

affirmed Jeckie. "I'm not the sort to throw money away."

"Neither am I!" laughed Mortimer. He rose in his characteristically

abrupt fashion. "Well!" he said. "You'll see Scholes?--at once! Get hold

of his forty acres, and then--then we can move. And in five years--ah!"

"What?" demanded Jeckie as she followed him to the door.

"You'll be mistress of a grand country house and a town mansion in

Mayfair!" answered Mortimer, showing his teeth. "Wealth! Look beneath

your very boots! it's just waiting there to be torn out of the earth."

Jeckie put Mortimer's cheque away in her safe, and went to bed, her

avaricious spirit more excited than ever. Like all the folk in that

neighbourhood, she knew how the coal-fields of that part of Yorkshire

had been developed and extended of late; she had heard too, of the

riches which men of humble origin had amassed by their fortunate

possession of a bit of land under which lay rich seams of coal. There

was Mr. Revis, of Heronshawe Main, three miles the other side of

Sicaster, who, originally a market gardener, was now, they said, a

millionaire, all because he had happened to find out that coal lay

under an unpromising, black-surfaced piece of damp land by the river

side, which his father had left him, and had then seemed almost

valueless. There was Mr. Graveson, of the Duke of York's Colliery, on

the other side of the town--he, they said, had been a small tradesman to

begin with, but had a sharp enough nose to smell coal at a particular

place, and wit enough to buy the land which covered it--he, too, rolled

in money. And, after all, the stranger from London had shown his belief

by putting five hundred pounds in her hands--it would cost her nothing

if she made the venture. And if there was coal beneath Ben Scholes's

forty acres, why not try for the fortune which its successful getting

would represent?

After her one o'clock dinner next day, Jeckie, who by that time had a

capable manager and three assistants in her shop, assumed her best

attire and went out. She turned her face towards the Savilestowe Leys, a

desolate stretch of land at the lower end of the village, and from the

hedgerow which bordered it, looked long and speculatively across its

flat, unpromising surface. She was wondering how men like Mortimer knew

that coal lay underneath such land--all that she saw was coarse grass,

marsh marigolds, clumps of sedge and bramble, and a couple of

starved-looking cows, Scholes's property, trying to find a mouthful of

food among the prevalent poverty of the vegetation. That land, for

agistment purposes, was not worth sixpence an acre, said Jeckie to

herself; it seemed little short of amazing to think that wealth,

possibly enormous in quantity, should be beneath it. But she remembered

Mortimer's enthusiasm and his testimonials, and his cheque, and she

turned and walked through the village to Ben Scholes's farm.

There was a circumstance of which Jeckie was aware that she had not

mentioned to Mortimer when they discussed the question of buying Ben

Scholes's bit of bad land. Ben Scholes, who was only a little better off

than her own father had been in the old days at Applecroft, owed her

money. Jeckie, as time went on, had begun to give credit; she found that

it was almost necessary to do so. And that year she had let Ben Scholes

and his wife get fairly deep into her books, knowing very well that when

harvest time came round Ben would have money, and would pay up--he was

an honest, if a poor man. What with groceries and horse-corn and

hardware--for Jeckie had begun to deal in small goods of that sort,

forks, rakes, hoes and the like, since years before--Scholes owed her

nearly a hundred pounds. She remembered that, as she walked up the

street, and she busied herself in thinking how she could turn this fact

to advantage. Yet, she was not going to put the screw on her debtor; in

her time she had learnt how to be diplomatic and tactful, how to gain

her ends by other means than force. And it was not the face of the stern

creditor which she showed when she knocked at the open door of Scholes's

little farmstead.

It was then three o'clock, and Scholes and his wife were following the

usual Savilestowe custom of having an early cup of tea. They looked up

from the table at which they sat by the fire, and the wife rose in

surprise and with alacrity.

"Eh, why, if it isn't Miss Farnish!" she exclaimed. "Come your ways in,

Miss Farnish, and sit you down. Happen, now you'll be tempted to take a

cup o' tea? it's fresh made, within this last five minutes, and good and

strong--your own tea, you know, and I couldn't say no more. Now do!"

"Why, thank you," responded Jeckie. "I don't mind if I do, as you're so

kind. I just walked up to have a word or two with Ben there."

Scholes, a middle-aged, careworn-looking man, who, in spite of

everything, had a somewhat humorous twist of countenance, grinned almost

sheepishly as Jeckie took an elbow chair which his wife pulled forward

for her.

"I hope you haven't come after no brass, Miss Farnish," he said, with an

air intended to be ingratiatingly seductive. "I've nowt o' that sort to

spare till t'harvest's in, but there'll be a bit then to throw about. We

mun have a settlin' up at that time. Ye know me--I'm all right."

Jeckie took the cup of tea which Mrs. Scholes handed to her, and stirred

it thoughtfully.

"I didn't come after any brass, Ben," she answered. "It's all right,

that--as you say, I know you. I wasn't going to mention it till harvest

comes."

"Why, now, then, that's all right!" said Scholes, facetiously. "Them's

comfortable words, them is. Aye, brass is scarce i' this region, but we

carry on, you know, we carry on, somehow. We haven't all gotten t'secret

o' makin' fortunes, like you have, ye know. Us little 'uns has to be

content wi' what they call t'day o' small things."

"Aye, an' varry small an' all!" sighed Mrs. Scholes. "I'm sure! It's all

'at a body can do, nowadays, to keep soul and body together."

"Why, mi lass, why!" said Scholes. "We've managed it so far. All t'same,

I could offen find it i' mi heart to wish 'at I'd one o' these here

rellytives 'at ye sometimes read about i' t'papers--owd uncles 'at dies

i' foreign parts, and leaves fortunes, unexpected, like, to their nevvys

and nieces at home. But none o' my uncles niver had nowt to leave 'at I

iver heerd on."

"I came up to tell you how you could make a bit o' money if you want

to," said Jeckie. The conversation had taken a convenient turn, and she

was quick to seize the opportunity. "A nice bit!" she added. "Something

substantial."

Scholes pushed his cup and saucer away from him and looked sharply at

his visitor.

"Ecod!" he exclaimed. "I should be glad to hear o' that! But--wheer can

I make owt, outside o' this farm o' mine? It niver does no more nor keep

us. It does that, to be sure, seein' 'at there's nobody but me and

t'missis there, but that's all."

"Well, listen," said Jeckie. "There's that piece o' land o' yours, down

at t'bottom end o' t'village. I want to buy it."

Scholes' thin face flushed, and he rose slowly from his chair, and for a

moment turned away toward the window. When he looked round again he

shook his head.

"Nay!" he said. "Nay!--I couldn't sell yon theer! Why, it's been i' our

family over three hundred years! Poor enough it is, and weean't feed

nowt--but as long as I have it, ye see, I'm a landowner, same as

t'squire his-self! Why, as I dare say you've aweer, he wanted to buy

that forty acres fro' me a piece back--but I wodn't. No! He were

calculating to plant it, and to make it into a game preserve. It were no

use. I couldn't find it i' mi heart to let it go. No!"

"Don't be silly!" said Jeckie. "That's all sentiment. What good is it to

you? Them two cows 'at you've got in it now can scarce pick up a

mouthful!"

"It's right, is that," agreed Scholes. "If them unfortunate animals had

to depend on what they get out o' that theer they'd have empty bellies

every night! But--(he dropped into his chair again and looked hard at

his visitor)--since it's as poor as it is, what might you be wantin' it

for? If it's no good to me it's no good to nobody."

"I've got something that you haven't got," answered Jeckie, in her most

matter-of-fact tones. "You could never do aught to improve that land,

because you haven't got the money to do it with. I have! I'll be plain

with you. I'll tell you what I want it for. You know how I've developed

my business since I started it--developed it in all sorts of ways. Well,

I'm going in for market-gardening and fruit-growing, and that piece o'

land'll just suit me, because it's within half a mile o' the shop. Sell

it to me, and I'll have it thoroughly drained. That's what it wants; and

make real good land of it, you'll see. You can't do that; it 'ud cost

you hundreds o' pounds. I don't mind spending hundreds o' pounds on it.

And--I want it!"

Scholes was evidently impressed by this line of argument. He looked

round at his wife, who was gazing anxiously from him to Jeckie, and from

Jeckie to him.

"Ye're right i' one thing," he answered. "It would make all t'difference

i' t'world to them forty acres if they were drained. My father allus

said so, and I've allus said so. But we never had t'money to lay out on

that job."

"I have," said Jeckie. "Let me have it! It 'ud be a shame on your part

to deprive anybody of the chance of making bad land into good when you

can't do aught at it yourself! It's doing you no good; I can make it do

me a lot o' good. And I'll lay you could do with the money."

Mrs. Scholes sighed. And Scholes gave her a sharp look.

"Aye, mi lass!" he said. "I know what ye'd say! Sell! But when all's

said and done, a man is sentimental. Three hundred year, over and above,

yon theer property's been i' our family. I' time o' owd Queen

Elizabeth--that's when we got it. Lawyer Palethorpe, theer i' Sicaster,

he has all t'papers. He telled me one day 'at of all t'landowners round

here there isn't one, not one, 'at has land 'at's been held i' one

family as long as what our family's held that. It 'ud be like selling a

piece o' miself!"

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Jeckie, utterly unmoved by Scholes's

reasonings. "I'll give you a full receipt for your bill--close on a

hundred pound it is--and a cheque for three hundred. That's giving you

nearly four hundred pound. And you know as well as I do that if you put

it up to auction you'd scarce get a bid. Don't be a fool, Ben Scholes!

Three hundred pound, cash down, 'll be a rare help to you. And you'll

have no bill to pay me when harvest comes."

Late that evening Mortimer tapped at the private door, and Jeckie

admitted him. He followed her into the parlour.

"Well?" he said, without any word of greeting. "Anything come of it?"

"It's all right," answered Jeckie. "I've got it. Four hundred. I'm going

into Sicaster with him to-morrow to settle it at the lawyer's. So that's

managed."

CHAPTER III

_Coal_

Mortimer threw down his cap, and dropped into the easy chair which he

had come to look upon as his own special reservation. He rubbed his

hands together in sign of high satisfaction.

"Smart woman," he exclaimed admiringly. "Excellent! Excellent! Didn't I

tell you that you'd be able to manage it? Good! Good!"

"Yes," said Jeckie, almost indifferently. "I did it. I knew how to do

it, you see, when I came to to think it over. And I did it there and

then, and paid the price--there's naught to do but the legal business,

and that's only a matter of form. The land's mine, now." She moved

across the room to her safe, unlocked it, took out an envelope, drew

Mortimer's cheque from it, and quietly laid it at his elbow. "I shan't

want that, of course," she added.

Mortimer looked up at her in surprise.

"But--I was to find the money!" he said.

"I've found it," answered Jeckie. "I've bought the land--it's mine, and

whatever's underneath it is mine, too. So if there's nothing, there's

nothing--and you'll lose nothing."

"Oh, well," said Mortimer, "as long as we've got it, it doesn't much

matter who's bought it--we'll make that right later."

Jeckie gave him no reply. But in Mortimer's sorry acceptance of her

announcement she made a sudden discovery as to his character.

Enthusiastic he no doubt was, and eager and full of ideas as to

business. But--he was easygoing, apt to let things slide; ready to take

matters as settled when they were all unsettled. Jeckie herself, had she

been Mortimer, and bearing in mind the conversation of the previous

evening, would have insisted on a proper and definite understanding as

to the ownership of the forty acres. She smiled grimly as she relocked

the door of her safe, and she said to herself when it came to a contest

of brains she was one too many for this smart London fellow. The land

was hers, and the mineral beneath it--so she said nothing; there was

nothing to say.

"The thing is," said Mortimer, again rubbing his hands in high glee,

"the thing is, now, to get to work. We must bore!"

"How's that set about?" asked Jeckie, who was now anxious to learn all

she could. "What's done, like?"

"Oh, you just get some men and the necessary apparatus," replied

Mortimer nonchalantly. "I'll see to all that. And I'll get a

friend of mine down from London--I'll take a room for him at the

'Coach-and-Four'--a friend who's one of the cleverest experts of the

day; he and I, between us, will jolly soon tell you what lies under that

land. Of course, I haven't the slightest doubt about it, but it's

better to have the opinion of two experts than one. My friend's name is

Farebrother--he's well-known. He shall come down and watch the boring

operations with me. I'll get the men and the requisite machinery at

once, and we'll go to work as soon as you've got the legal business

through--we'd better keep it dark until then."

"All that'll cost money, of course," observed Jeckie.

"Oh, a few hundred'll go a long way in the preliminaries," answered

Mortimer. "I'll wait until Farebrother comes along before I decide which

method I'll follow--the percussive or the rotatory. But I won't bother

you with technical details; what you'll be more interested in will be

results."

"This boring that you talk about, now?" said Jeckie. "It shows what

there is underneath the surface?"

"To be sure!" assented Mortimer. "It's like this--you select your spot,

and you put in (this is the rotary method) a cutting-tool which is a

sort of hollow cylinder, with saw-like teeth at its lower edge, or an

edge of hard minerals--rough diamonds, sometimes--and it's driven in by

steam-power at two or three hundred revolutions a minute. As it's

hollow, a solid core is formed in the cylinder--you raise the cylinder

from time to time and examine the core, which comes up several feet in

length. And you know from the core what there is down there. See?"

"I understand," said Jeckie. "I thought it must be something of that

sort. Very well--I'll pay for all that. Get to work on it."

Mortimer again glanced at her in surprise. But she saw that there was no

suspicion in his eyes as to her object.

"You seem inclined to launch out!" he said, laughing. "You were disposed

the other way when I first mentioned this matter."

"It's my land," reiterated Jeckie. "So, to start with, anyway, I'll pay

the expenses. As you said just now, we can make things right later. Mind

you, I'm going on what you've said! If you hadn't assured me, you, as a

professional man, that there's coal under that land, I shouldn't ha'

bought it, and if there isn't--well, I know what I shall say! But I'm

willing to pay the cost o' finding out. Only--I shall want to be

certain!"

"If there isn't coal under your forty acres, may I never see coal

again!" asserted Mortimer. "I tell you there's any amount there!"

"Then it's all right--and when we know that it is there, for certain and

sure, it'll be time to consider matters further," said Jeckie calmly.

"Go on with your boring and I'll pay. As you said, I say again--we can

make things right later."

Mortimer was too elated at the prospect of opening out a new and

possibly magnificent enterprise to ask Jeckie what her present ideas

were as to how things should be made right in the event of coal being

found in sufficient quantity to warrant the making of a mine. He went

away and plunged into business, and in a few days brought his friend

Farebrother down to Savilestowe--a quiet, reserved man of cautious

words, who impressed Jeckie much more than Mortimer had done. But,

cautious and reserved as he was, Farebrother, dragged hither and thither

by Mortimer over the woods and meadows, uplands and lowlands, gave it as

his deliberate opinion that there were vast quantities of coal under

Savilestowe, and that Jeckie's forty acres of land probably covered a

particularly rich bed.

"Get to work, then!" said Jeckie laconically. "I'll pay for the

machinery, and I'll pay what men you want. Bring their wages bill to me,

every Friday, and the money'll be there."

No one in Savilestowe, not even Steve Beckitt, nor any of the select

company of the bar-parlour of the "Coach-and-Four," knew what was afoot,

nor what the machinery which presently arrived in the village, and was

housed in a hastily constructed wooden shed in the centre of Jeckie

Farnish's forty acres, was intended for. But Ben Scholes, who had made

no secret of his sale of the long-owned property, was able to enlighten

his curious neighbours.

"Jecholiah Farnish," he said, in solemn conclave at the blacksmith's

shop, shared in by several of the village wiseacres, "bowt that theer

land fr' me for a purpose. It's her aim, d'ye see, to turn them forty

acres into a fruit-orchard and a market-garden. But it's necessary,

first of all and before owt else, to drain that theer land. I should ha'

done it mysen if I'd iver hed t'brass to do it wi'. I dedn't--shoo has.

And this here machinery 'at's arrived on t'scene it'll be for t'purpose

o' drainin'--shoo's a very wealthy woman now, is Jecholiah, and shoo's

bahn to do t'job reight. Pumpin' and drainin' machinery--that's what

it'll be."

The general company, open-mouthed, took this as gospel--save one man, a

jack-of-all-trades, who had travelled in his time. He shook his head and

betrayed all the marks and signs of scepticism.

"Well, I don't know, Mestur Scholes," he remarked. "But I see'd 'em

takkin' some o' that machinery offen t'traction wagons 'at it cam' on,

and I'll swear my solemn 'davy 'at it's none intended for no pumpin' and

drainin'--nowt o' t'sort!"

"What is it intended for, then?" demanded Scholes. "Happen ye know? Ye

allus reckon to know better nor anybody else, ye do!"

"Nah thee nivver mind!" retorted the sceptic. "Ye'll all on yer find out

what it's for afore long. But ye mark my words--it's none for

drainin'--not it!"

Two or three weeks had gone by before the curiosity of the villagers

received any appeasement. Whatever went on in the forty acres was

conducted in secrecy in the big wooden shed which the carpenters had

hastily run up. There, every day, Mr. Mallerbie Mortimer, his friend Mr.

Farebrother, and a gang of workmen--foreigners, in the eyes of the

Savilestowe folk--for whom Mortimer had taken lodgings in the village,

conducted mysterious rites, unseen of any outsider. Once or twice the

unduly inquisitive had endeavoured to enter the field, on one excuse or

another, only to find a jealous watchman at hand who barred all

approach. But the sceptic of the blacksmith's shop was a human ferret

and one morning he leaned over the wall of Ben Scholes's yard and

grinned derisively at the late owner of Savilestowe Leys.

"Now, then, Mistur Scholes!" he said triumphantly. "What did I tell yer

about yon machinery 'at's been setten up i' that land 'at ye selled to

Jecholiah Farnish? Pumpin' and drainin'! I knew better! I seen a bit i'

my time, Mistur Scholes, more nor most o' ye Savilestowers, and I knew

that wor no pumpin' and drainin' machinery. I would ha' tell'd yer at

t'time, when we wor talkin' at t'smithy, what it wor, but I worn't i'

t'mind to do so. Ye don't know what they're up to i' yon fields 'at used

to be yours!"

"What are they up to, then?" demanded Scholes. "I'll lay ye'll know!"

"I dew know!" answered the other, with arrogance. "An' ye'll know an'

all, to yer sorrow, afore long. They're tryin' for coal! I hed it fro'

one o' t'workmen last neet; I hed a pint or two, or it might be three,

wi' him. An' he says 'at it's varry like 'at theer's hundreds o'

thousands o' pounds' worth o' coal under that land. That's what Jeckie

Farnish wanted it for. Coal!"

Scholes, who was cleaning out the ginnel in front of his stable,

straightened himself, staring intently at his informant. The informant

nodded, laughed sneeringly, and went off. And Scholes, casting away his

manure fork with a gesture that indicated rising anger and hot

indignation, went off, too, in his shirt sleeves, but in the opposite

direction. He made straight down the village to Jeckie Farnish's shop.

It was then nearly noon, and the shop was full of customers. Jeckie, who

had long since given up counter work, and now did nothing beyond general

and vigilant superintendence, was standing near the cashier's desk,

talking to the vicar's wife. Scholes's somber eyes and aggressive look

told her what was afoot as soon as he crossed the threshold. She

continued talking, staring back at him, as if he were no more than one

of the posts which supported the ceiling. But Scholes was not to be

denied, and he strode up with a pointed finger--a finger pointing

straight at Jeckie's hard eyes.

"Now then!" he burst out in loud, angry tones which made the vicar's

wife start, draw back and stare at him. "Now then, Jecholiah, I've a

crow to pull wi' ye! Ye telled me an' my missis 'at ye wanted yon land

o' mind for to mak' a fruit orchard and a market-garden on, and I let ye

hev it at a low price for that same reason. Ye're a liar! ye wanted it

for nowt o' t'sort! Ye were after what you knew then wor liggin' beneath

it--coal! Ye've done me! Ye're a cheat as well as a liar! Ye've done me

out o' what 'ud ha' made me a well-to-do man. Damn such-like!"

Jeckie turned, cool and collected, to the vicar's wife.

"I'll see what I can do about it," she said quietly, continuing their

conversation. "If I can put it in at a lower price, I will, though I'd

already cut it as fine as I could. But, of course if it's for the

mothers' meetings, I must do what I can." Then she turned again--this

time to the angry man in front of her. "Go away, Scholes!" she said. "I

can't have any disturbance here; go away at once!"

"Disturbance!" shouted Scholes. "I'll larn ye to talk about disturbance!

Ye're no better nor a thief! Look ye here, all ye folk, high and low!"

he went on, waving an arm at the astonished customers. "Do ye know what

this here woman did? She finds out 'at there's coal under my land, and,

wi'out sayin' a word to me about it, she persuades me to sell her t'land

for next to nowt! Is that fair doin's? Do ye think 'at I'd ha' selled if

I'd known what I wor sellin'? But she knew; and she's done me and mine.

Ye're a thief, Jecholiah Farnish--same as what ye allus hev been--ye're

sort 'at 'ud skin a stone if theer wer owt to be made at it! Damn all

such-like, I say, and say ageean--and I'll see what t'lawyers hev to say

to t'job!"

"You'll hear what my lawyer has to say to you," retorted Jeckie, who,

the vicar's wife having hurriedly left the shop, was now not particular

about letting her tongue loose. "You get out of my shop this instant,

Scholes, or I'll have you taken out in a way you won't like. Here, you,

boy, run across the street and tell the policeman to come here! What do

you mean, you fool, by coming and talking to me i' that way? Didn't I

give you t'brass for your land, cash down? And as to coal, I've no more

notion whether there's coal under it than you have; there may be and

there mayn't. But I'll tell you this--if there is, it's mine! And you

get out o' my shop, sharp, or I'll hand you over to t'law here and now.

I'll have none o' your sort tryin' to come it over me. Get out!"

Scholes looked Jeckie squarely in the face--and suddenly turned and

obeyed her bidding. But he went up the street muttering, like a man

possessed, and the vicar's wife, who had stopped to speak to a group of

children, shrank from him as he passed, and went home to tell her

husband of what she had heard and seen, and to voice her convictions

that the knowledge that he had been cheated had affected Scholes's

brain.

"Do you think she could really do such a thing?" she asked half

incredulously. "If she did, it certainly looks--mean, at any rate."

"If you want my personal opinion," answered the vicar dryly, "I should

say that Jeckie Farnish is capable of any amount of sharp practice.

Coal! Dear me! Now I wonder if that's really what she's after, and if

there is coal? Because, of course, if there's coal under her land

there'll be coal under my glebe, and in that case--really, one's almost

afraid to think of such a possibility. Coal! I wonder when we shall get

to know?"

The whole village knew within another week; indeed, from the time of

Scholes's indignant outburst at the shop, it was hopeless to conceal the

operations at the waste land. Throngs of villagers were at the hedgerow

sides from morning till night, eager for news; there, too, might be seen

the squire and the vicar, and Stubley and Merritt, as inquisitive as

the rest. The men engaged in boring forgathered of evenings at the

"Coach-and-Four," and, despite Mortimer's warnings and admonitions,

talked, more or less freely, over their beer. And one day at noon the

rumour ran from one end to the other of the village street that coal had

been found, and that there would be a rich and productive yield; before

night the rumour had become a certainty--the squire himself had it from

Mortimer and his fellow-expert that beneath Jeckie Farnish's forty acres

there was what would probably turn out to be one of the best beds of

coal in the country, and that it doubtless extended beneath the land of

the other property owners.

The one person who showed no excitement, who refused to allow herself to

be bustled or flurried, was Jeckie herself. Within twenty-four hours she

was visited by the squire, the vicar, and Stubley--each wanted to know

what she was going to do, each had a proposal for coming in. The squire

wanted to start a limited liability company for founding a colliery to

work the district, with himself as the chairman; the vicar was anxious

about royalties on the coal which no doubt lay beneath his glebe lands;

Stubley came to warn Jeckie to make sure. Jeckie listened to each and

said nothing; it was impossible to get a word out of her that gave any

indication of what she had in her mind. The only persons with whom she

held conversation at that time were Mortimer and his friend Farebrother;

with them she was closeted in secret every evening; Farnish, told off to

act as watch-dog, had strict orders that no other callers were to be

admitted. The result of the conference was that within a fortnight

Jeckie had acquired a vast mass of useful information, which she

carefully memorised. And, as Mortimer remarked, at the end of one of

these talks, there was now nothing to do but to arrange the financial

matters for beginning work. Money--capital--that was all that was needed

now. To that remark Jeckie made no answer--she already had her own ideas

about the matter, and she was resolved to keep them carefully to

herself.

CHAPTER IV

_Birds of a Feather_

Close countenance though Jeckie Farnish kept to all the world, her

thoughts had never been so many nor so varied as at this eventful stage

of her career. She spent many a sleepless night considering

possibilities, probabilities, eventualities. She thought over ways and

means; she reckoned up her resources. She tried to look ahead as far as

possible; to take everything into account. But, in all her reflections

and plans and schemings, there was one dominant note--the desire to make

money out of her lucky discovery--money, more money than she had ever

dreamed of possessing. She was in no hurry. She made Mortimer and

Farebrother continue their boring operations until she became as certain

as they were themselves. They had made these boreholes, so as to test

the whole of Jeckie's property, and had kept a careful journal of the

boring, which was punctiliously entered up--Jeckie made a point of

inspecting that journal, and of examining the cores which the boring

cylinders brought up and were duly labelled and laid out under cover.

But she was not satisfied with this, nor with merely taking the opinions

of Mortimer and his friend. At her own instance and expense she called

in two acknowledged mining experts and a professor of geology from one

of the local universities; to these three she submitted the whole

matter, only impressing upon them that she wanted an opinion that could

be relied upon. All three agreed with Mortimer and Farebrother--coal was

there, under the otherwise unpromising surface of the forty acres, in

vast quantity. So, as Mortimer was constantly saying, there was nothing

to do but to arrange the financial side of the affair, and to get to

work on the construction of the necessary mine.

Jeckie was not going to be hurried about that, either; she had her own

ideas. In spite of Mortimer's exhortations and Farebrother's hints, she

kept them to herself until she was ready to act. But upon one point she

was determined, and had been determined from the very first. Neither

squire, nor parson, nor Stubley, nor Merritt, nor any Savilestowe party

was going to come in with her--no, nor was Mortimer, of whom, all

unknown to him, she was making a convenience. She was going to keep this

El Dorado to herself as far as ever she could--to be chief controller of

its destinies, to be master. Nevertheless, knowing, after her various

consultations with Mortimer and Farebrother, that she did not possess

sufficient capital of her own to establish a colliery, she had decided

to take in one partner who could contribute what she could not find. She

had that partner in her mind's eye--Lucilla Grice.

Lucilla, as Jeckie well knew, had long been top dog in the Grice menage.

Albert, from the day of his marriage, had become more and more of a

nonentity; as years went by he grew to be of no greater importance than

one of his wife's umbrellas; a thing that had its uses now and then, but

could at any moment be tossed into a corner and disregarded for the time

being. Lucilla managed everything. Lucilla invested the money which he

got for his partnership and received the dividends; Lucilla kept the

purse; Albert had no more concern with cash than the cob in his stable;

all he knew of money was that he was allowed three-and-six a day to

spend as he liked. Jeckie Farnish knew all this, and more. She knew that

Lucilla's marriage portion of two thousand pounds, and Albert's

partnership money of five thousand, both secure and untouched in

Lucilla's hands, had been added to of late by legacies from Lucilla's

father, the Nottingham draper, and her maternal uncle, a London

solicitor, which had materially increased Mrs. Albert Grice's fortune.

The Nottingham draper had left his daughter ten thousand

pounds--one-third of his estate; the maternal uncle, an old bachelor,

regarding her as his favourite niece, had bequeathed to her all he died

possessed of, some fourteen or fifteen thousand; Lucilla, therefore

(Albert being ruled clean out of all calculations), was worth at the

very least thirty thousand pounds. And there were psychological reasons

why Jeckie fixed on Lucilla as the proper person to come in with her.

From the very first she had recognised in Lucilla, a kindred spirit--a

lover of money for money's sake. Jeckie had known it at their first

interview; she had seen signs of it in their business dealings; she had

been quick to observe that when Lucilla received her important influx

of money from her father and uncle, whose deaths had occurred about the

same time, she had not launched out into greater expenditure. She and

Albert still occupied the same villa residence, just outside Sicaster;

still kept the same modest establishment; still stuck to the one cob and

the same dog-cart; still pursued the same uneventful course of life. And

as she spent no more than she had ever spent, Lucilla, according to

Jeckie Farnish's reckoning, must, since her receipt of the family

legacies, have added considerably to her capital. But--and here was

another and more important psychological reason--Jeckie knew, by

instinct as much as by observation, that Lucilla, like herself, was one

of those persons who, having much, are always feverishly anxious to have

still more. There were few details of the life of that neighbourhood

with which Jeckie was not thoroughly familiar, and she knew intimately

the habits and customs of the Grice household. She was well aware, for

instance, that Albert, who had now grown a beard and become a somewhat

fat man, more easygoing than ever, went into Sicaster every morning to

spend his three-and-six and pass the time of day with his gossips in the

bar-parlours of the two principal hotels; he left his door punctually at

ten o'clock for this daily performance and returned--even more

punctually--at precisely one o'clock. It was, therefore, at half-past

ten one morning that Jeckie, armed with an old-fashioned reticule full

of papers, presented herself at the villa and asked to see its mistress;

Lucilla, she knew, would then be alone.

Lucilla had a certain feeling for Jeckie; a feeling closely akin to that

which Jeckie had for Lucilla; it centered, of course, in money. Lucilla

knew how Jeckie had made money, and how Jeckie could stick to money, and

for money and anything and anybody that had to do with money Lucilla had

instincts of respect which almost amounted to veneration. Accordingly,

she not only welcomed her visitor with cordiality, but showed her

pleasure at receiving her by immediately producing a decanter of port

and a sponge cake, and insisting on Jeckie's partaking of both.

"You'll have heard, no doubt, of what's been happening down our way?"

said Jeckie, plunging straight into business as soon as she had accepted

the proffered hospitality. "About finding coal under my land, I mean.

It's generally known."

"I have heard," assented Lucilla. "A sure thing, they say. Well!--if you

aren't one of the lucky ones, Miss Farnish! Everything you touch turns

to gold. Why--you'll make a fortune out of it! I suppose it's dead

certain, eh?"

Jeckie finished her port, shook her head as her hostess pointed to the

decanter, and began to pull her papers out of the old silk reticule.

"Aye, it's as dead certain as that I'm sitting here, Mrs. Grice," she

said. "That is, unless all them that ought to know is hopelessly wrong.

To tell you the truth, and between ourselves, I've come to see you about

it, and I'll give you the entire history of the whole affair. You'll ha'

seen that smart London chap that's been staying at the 'Coach-and-Four'

for some time now--Mortimer, Mr. Mallerbie Mortimer? Aye, well, it was

him put me on to it. He's a mining expert--a member of the Institute of

Mining Engineers--and he came down to these parts prospecting. He told

me, in confidence, that there was coal, no end of it, under Savilestowe,

and particularly under forty acres o' poor land that belonged to Ben

Scholes. Well, I said naught to nobody, but I bought that bit o' land

fro' Ben--I gave him next to naught for it and had it properly conveyed

to me. And then I told this here Mortimer to bore, and he got machinery

and men, and another expert fro' London--a man called Farebrother. And

they sunk these borings, at different spots' i' my land, and the result

was splendid. But I worn't going to go on their word--right as it is. I

got two independent experts, t'best I could hear of, and a professor o'

geology fro' Clothford University, and had them to go thoroughly into

the matter. And they all agreed with the other two--they tell me that

under my forty acres there's coal of the very best quality, that it'll

take many and many a year to exhaust, and that there's a regular big

fortune in it. So--there's no possible doubt. But cast your eye over

these papers yourself--you'll be quite able to understand 'em."

Lucilla readily understood the typewritten sheets which Jeckie handed to

her. They were all technical reports, signed by the five men whom Jeckie

had mentioned--differing in phraseology and in detail, all were alike in

asserting a conviction, based on the results of the borings, that coal

lay under Savilestowe Leys in vast quantity and of the best quality.

Lucilla handed them back with obvious envy.

"Well, if ye aren't lucky!" she exclaimed. "It's as I said--all turns to

gold that you handle. Then--what's going to happen next! You'll be for a

company, I suppose?"

"No!" said Jeckie grimly. "I'll ha' no more fingers in my pie than I can

keep an eye on, I'll warrant you, Mrs. Grice! I've had no end o'

suggestions o' that sort--the squire, and the parson, and Stubley, and

Merritt, they'd all like to come in--the squire wanted to get up a big

limited liability company, with him as chairman, and do great things.

But I shan't have aught to do wi' that. I know what there is under my

land, according to these papers, and as I say, it's a pie that I'm not

going to have a lot o' fingers poked into. But, I'll tell you what--and

it's why I come here--I don't mind taking in one partner, just one.

You!--if you like the notion."

Lucilla blushed as if she had been a coy maiden receiving a first

proposal of marriage.

"Me!" she exclaimed. "Lor', Miss Farnish!"

"Listen to me!" said Jeckie, bending forward across the bearskin

hearthrug. "You and me knows what's what about money matters--nobody

better. I know--for I know most o' what goes on about here--that you're

now a well-to-do woman, what with what you had and with them legacies

you've had left. Now, so am I, to a certain extent. What I propose is,

let's you and me--just ourselves and nobody else--go into partnership to

work this coal-mine. Farnish and Grice, Savilestowe Main--that's how it

would be. You and me--all to ourselves?"

"Goodness gracious! It 'ud cost an awful lot of money, wouldn't it?"

said Lucilla, in an awe-struck whisper. "To make a colliery! Why----"

"Aye, and think what we should get out of it!" interrupted Jeckie.

"It'll take many a long year, they say, to exhaust what there is just

under my land. And it'll not be so expensive as in some cases, the

making of a mine. I've gone into that, too, and had estimates. It's the

character of the, what do they call 'em--strata; that's the various

stuffs, soils, and stones, yer know, they have to get through. They say

this'll be naught like so difficult as some, and that we could be

working in less nor two years."

Lucilla, perched on her sofa, was already regarding Jeckie with dilated

and avaricious eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, but she said

nothing, and Jeckie presently bent still nearer and whispered.

"There's hundreds o' thousands o' pounds worth o' that coal!" she said.

"And we've naught to do but to get it out!"

Lucilla found her tongue.

"How much should we have to put in?" she asked faintly.

"Well, I've thought that out," answered Jeckie, readily enough.

"Supposing we put in twenty-five thousand each, to make a starting

capital o' fifty thousand? Then, as regards profits--as the land's mine,

and the coal, too, you wouldn't expect to share equally. One-third of

the profits to you, and the other two-thirds to me--that's what I think

'ud be fair, and right, and reasonable. Even then, you'd have a rare

return for your outlay. You know I could find a hundred people 'at 'ud

just jump at such an offer. The squire 'ud fair leap at it! But I came

to you because I know that you understand money, same as I do, and I'd

rather have a woman for a partner nor a man. But look here. I'm a rare

hand at figures, and I've worked this out. You come to this table, and

go into these figures wi' me."

Jeckie had only just left the villa residence, when Albert returned to

the midday dinner. His wife said nothing of her visitor, and Albert was

too full of his usual bar-parlour gossip to notice that Lucilla was

remarkably preoccupied and absent-minded. He remained innocent and

unconscious of what was going on, nor was he aware that Jeckie Farnish

visited Lucilla during several successive mornings, and that on the last

two, both women went into town, and were closeted for some time with,

first, solicitors, and, second, bankers. Albert, indeed, never entered

into the thoughts of either Lucilla or Jeckie; he was not even a

circumstance to be taken into account. There was, however, a man in the

neighbourhood who had Miss Jecholiah Farnish very much in his thoughts

at this time. This was Farebrother, a more observant man than Mortimer,

and Farebrother at last tackled his friend definitely as they sat dining

one night in the parlour of the "Coach-and-Four."

"Look here!" he said, suddenly. "It's about time you knew what this

Farnish woman's going to do. If you want the plain truth, Mortimer, I

don't trust her."

"Oh, she's all right," exclaimed Mortimer. "A keen business woman, no

doubt, but not the sort to----"

"My lad!" interrupted Farebrother, "you're always too optimistic, and

too ready to believe in people. The woman's just the sort to do anybody

out of anything--she did both you and Scholes over the land. It's

hers--and so is all that's beneath it, to the centre of the earth. You

should have bought it yourself."

"I?--a complete stranger!" protested Mortimer. "Impossible! There would

have been suspicion with a vengeance!"

"Then you should have made an arrangement with her before she got it,"

said Farebrother. "She's got it now--and all that it implies. And my

belief is that she's up to something. The last two or three times I've

been in the town I've seen her coming out of solicitors' offices--she's

at some game or another. She'll do you out of any share that you want to

get in this very promising mine unless you're careful, and if you take

my advice you'll put it straight and unmistakably to her, and ask her

what she's going to do."

Mortimer protested and explained, but when dinner was over he went round

to Jeckie's private door, and after a slight interchange of casual

remarks, asked her point-blank what she was going to do about starting

a company to work the mine. Jeckie pointed to a large, legal-looking

envelope which lay on the table.

"It's done," she said calmly. "There'll be no company. Me and a friend

of mine have gone into partnership to work it--there's the deed, duly

signed to-day. We're going to start operations very soon."

Mortimer felt his cheeks flush--more from the memory of what Farebrother

had said than with his very natural indignation.

"But what about me?" he exclaimed. "Why--I gave you the idea! I said

from the first that I'd find money towards the company and knew others

who would. It was my idea altogether--mine entirely. I only gave you the

chance of coming in--I----"

"Whose land is it?" demanded Jeckie, coolly. "Did I buy it? Is it mine?

If you wanted it why didn't you buy it? I bought it; it's my land.

And--all that's beneath it. Do you think I was going to do that for

other folks? We do nowt for nobody hereabouts, unless there's something

to be made at it, my lad! But, of course, I'll pay you and your friend

for your professional services--you must send your bill in."

Mortimer rose from his chair and looked at the woman in whom,

half-an-hour previously, he had expressed his belief.

"So you've done me, too?" he said, simply. "You know well enough what my

intentions were about this mine--of which you'd never have known, never

have dreamed, if I hadn't told you of it. Do you call that honest--to do

what you are doing?"

"Send in your bill--and tell Farebrother to send in his," said Jeckie,

in her hardest voice. "You'll both get your cheques as soon as I see

that you've charged right."

Mortimer went away, worse than chagrined, and told Farebrother of his

dismissal; Farebrother forbore to remind him of what he had prophesied.

"All right!" he said. "I see what it is. She learnt all she can from

us--now she's going to be what such a woman only can be--sole master!

All right!"

And being a practical man, he sat down to make out, what Jeckie styled,

his bill.

CHAPTER V

_The Yorkshire Way_

During the course of the next morning Jeckie received a large oblong

envelope delivered to her by the stable-boy of the "Coach-and-Four." It

was handed to her over the counter of the shop, and she opened it there

and then, in the presence of her assistants and of several customers,

all of whom were surprised to see the usually hard, unmoved face flush

as its owner glared hastily at the two enclosures which she drew out.

Within an instant Jeckie had hurried them into the envelope again, and

had turned angrily on the stable-boy.

"What're you waiting for?" she demanded sharply.

"Mestur Mortimer, he said I wor to wait for an answer," replied the lad.

"That's what he telled me."

"Then you can tell him t'answer'll come on," retorted Jeckie. "I can't

bother with it now. Off you go!"

The stable-boy stared at the angry face and made a retreat; Jeckie

retreated, too, into her private parlour, where she once more drew out

the two sheets of excellent, unruled, professional-looking paper whereon

the two mining engineers had set down their charges for services

rendered.

"Did ever anybody see the like o' that!" she muttered. "They might think

a body was made o' money! All that brass for just standin' about while

these other fellers did the work, and then tellin' me what their

opinions were! It's worse nor lawyers!"

She had no experience, nor knowledge, even by hearsay, of what

professional charges of this sort should be, for the two experts and the

professor of geology whom she had engaged, in order to get independent

opinion, had not yet rendered any account to her. But she remembered

that they would certainly come in, and that she would just as certainly

have to pay them, whatever they might amount to, for she had definitely

engaged the three men, from whom they would come, writing to request

their attendance with her own hand.

"And if them three charge as these two has," she growled, looking black

at what Mortimer demanded on one sheet of paper, and Farebrother on the

other, "it'll come to a nice lot!--a deal more nor ever I expected. And

as if they'd ever done aught for it! I'm sure that there Mortimer never

did naught but stand about them sheds, wi' his hands in his pockets,

smokin' cigars without end--why it's as if he were chargin' me so many

guineas for every cigar he smoked! And if these is what minin'

engineers' professional charges is, it's going to cost me a pretty penny

before even we've got that coal up and make aught out of it!"

No answer, verbal or otherwise, went back from Miss Farnish to the

London gentlemen at the "Coach-and-Four" that day. But, early next

morning, Jeckie, who had spent much time in thinking hard since the

previous noon, got into her pony-tray (an eminently useful if not

remarkably stylish equipage) and drove away from the village. Anyone who

had observed her closely might have seen that she was in a preoccupied

and designing mood. She drove through Sicaster, and away into the mining

district beyond, and after journeying for several miles, came to

Heronshawe Main, an exceedingly flourishing and prosperous colliery

which was the sole property of Mr. Matthew Revis, and was situated on

and beneath a piece of land of unusually black and desolate aspect.

Revis, a self-made man, bluff, downright, rough of speech, had had

business dealings with Jeckie Farnish in the past in respect of some

property in which each was interested, and of late she had consulted him

once or twice as to the prospects of her new venture; she had also

induced him to drive over to Savilestowe during the progress of the

experimental boring. She wanted his advice now, and she went straight to

his offices at the colliery. She had been there before, and on each

occasion had come away building castles in the air as regards her

projected development of Savilestowe. For to sit in Revis's handsome,

almost luxurious private room, looking out on the evidences of industry

and wealth, to see from its windows the hundreds of grimy-faced

colliers, going away from their last shift, was an encouragement in

itself to go on with her own schemes. Already she saw at Savilestowe

what she actually looked on at Heronshawe Main, and herself and Lucilla

Grice mistresses of an army of men whose arms would bear treasure out of

the earth--for them.

Revis came into his room as she sat staring out on all the unloveliness

of the colliery, a big, bearded man, keen-eyed and resolute of mouth,

and nodded smilingly at her. He already knew Jeckie for a woman who was

of a certain resemblance to himself--a grubber after money. But he had

long since made his fortune--an enormous one; she was at a stage at

which he had once been, a stage of anxious adventure, and therefore she

was interesting.

"Well, my lass!" he said. "How's things getting on? Made a start yet

with that little business o' yours? You'll never lift that coal up if

you don't get busy with it, you know!"

He dropped into an easy chair beside the hearth, pulled out his

cigar-case, and began to smoke, and Jeckie, noting his careless and

comfortable attitude, wished that she had got over the initial stages of

her adventure, and had seen her colliery in full and prosperous working

order for thirty years.

"Mr. Revis," she answered, "I wish I'd got as far as you have! You've

got all the worst of it over long since. I've got to begin. Now, you've

been very good to me in giving me bits of advice. I came to see if you'd

give me some more. What's the best and cheapest way to get this colliery

o' mine started?"

Revis laughed, evidently enjoying the directness of her question. He

knew well enough that it did not spring from simplicity.

"Why!" he answered. "You've got them two London chaps at Savilestowe

yet, haven't you? I saw 'em in Sicaster t'other day. They're mining

engineers, both of 'em. Why not go to them--I thought you were going to

employ them."

"I don't want to have naught more to do with 'em, Mr. Revis," said

Jeckie earnestly. "They're Londoners! I can't abide 'em. They seem to me

to do naught but stand about and watch--and then charge you for

watching, as if they'd been working like niggers. I don't understand

such ways. Aren't there mining engineers in Yorkshire that 'ud see the

job through. Our own folk, you know?"

"I see--I see!" said Revis, with a smile. "Want to keep work and money

amongst our own people, what? All right, my lass!--I'm a good deal that

way myself. Now, then, pull your chair up to my desk there, and get a

pen in your hand, and make a few notes--I'll tell you what to do about

all that. And," he added, with a laugh that was almost jovial, "I shan't

charge you nowt, either!"

An hour later Jeckie went away from Heronshawe Main filled to the brim

with practical advice and valuable information. It mattered nothing to

Matthew Revis if a hundred new collieries were opened within his own

immediate district; he had made his money out of his own already, and to

such an extent that no competition could touch him. Therefore, he was

willing to help a new beginner, especially seeing that that beginner was

a clever and interesting woman, still extremely handsome, who certainly

seemed to have a genius for money-making.

"Come to me when you want to know aught more," he said, as he shook

hands with his visitor. "Get hold of this firm I've told you about, and

make your own arrangements with 'em, and let 'em get on with the

sinking. With your capital, and the results o' that boring, you ought to

do well--so long as naught happens."

Jeckie started, and gave Revis a sharp, inquiring look.

"What--what could happen?" she asked.

"Well, my lass, there's always the chance of two things," answered

Revis, becoming more serious than he had been at any time during the

interview. "Water for one; sand for the other. In these north-country

coal-fields of ours, water-logged sand has always been a danger.

But--you'll have to take your chance: I had to take mine! None of us 'ud

ever do aught i' this world if we didn't face a bit o' risk, you know."

But Jeckie lingered, looking at him with some doubt in her keen eyes.

"Did you have any trouble yourself in that way?" she asked.

"Aye!" answered Revis, with a grim smile. "We came to a bed of

quicksand--a thinnish one, to be sure, but it was there. Two thousand

gallons o' water a minute came out o' that, my lass!"

"What did you have to do?" inquired Jeckie. "All that water!"

"Had to tub it with heavy cast-iron plates," replied Revis. "But you'll

not understand all these details. Leave things to this firm I've told

you about; you can depend on them."

All the way from Heronshawe Main to Sicaster, Jeckie Farnish revolved

Revis's last words. Water!--sand! Supposing all her money--she gave no

thought to Lucilla Grice's money--were swept away once for all by water,

or swallowed up for ever in sand? That would indeed be a fine end to her

ventures! But still, Revis had met with and surmounted these

difficulties; no, she meant to go on. And she had saved a lot of money

that morning by getting valuable advice and information from Revis for

nothing--nothing at all--and she meant to get out of paying something

else, too, before night came, and with that interesting design in her

mind, she drove up to Palethorpe and Overthwaite's office, and went in,

and laid before Palethorpe, whom she found alone, the charges sent in to

her the day before by Mortimer and his friend Farebrother. Palethorpe,

whose keenness had not grown less as he had grown older, elevated his

eyebrows, and pursed his lips, when he glanced at the amounts to which

Jeckie pointed.

"Whew!" he said. "These are pretty stiff charges, Miss Farnish!"

"Worse nor what yours are!" said Jeckie, showing a little sarcastic

humour. "And they're bad enough sometimes."

"Strictly according to etiquette, ma'am!" replied Palethorpe, with a

sly smile. "Strictly regular. But there----"

"Aye, there!" exclaimed Jeckie. "All that brass for just hearing them

two talk a bit, and for seeing 'em stand about watching other fellers

work! And I want to know how I can get out o' paying it?"

Palethorpe put his fingers together and got into the attitude of

consultation.

"Just give me a brief history of your transactions with these

gentlemen," he said. "Just the plain facts."

He listened carefully while Jeckie detailed her knowledge and experience

of Mr. Mallerbie Mortimer and his friend, and, when she had finished,

asked her two or three questions arising out of what she had told him.

"Now, you attend closely to what I say, Miss Farnish," he said, after

considering matters for awhile. "First of all, would you like me to see

these two, or would you rather see them yourself? You'll see them

yourself? Very well; now, then, when you go, just do and say exactly

what I'm going to tell you."

There was no apter pupil in all Yorkshire than Jeckie Farnish when it

came to learning lessons in the fine art of doing anybody out of

anything, and by the time she walked out of Palethorpe and Overthwaite's

office she had mastered all the suggestions offered to her. And it was

with an air in which cleverly assumed surprise, expostulation, and

injured innocence were curiously mingled that she walked into the

parlour of the "Coach-and-Four" that evening, just as Mortimer and

Farebrother finished dinner, and laid down on an unoccupied corner of

the table the two folded sheets of foolscap which they had sent her the

previous day.

Farebrother gave Mortimer a secret kick, and spoke before his too

easygoing friend could get in a word.

"Good evening, Miss Farnish," he said, politely. "Won't you take a

chair, and let me give you a glass of wine; it's very good. I hope you

found these accounts correct?"

"Thank you," replied Jeckie. "I'll take a chair, but I won't take no

wine. Much obliged to you. And as to these accounts, all I can say 'at I

never was so surprised in my life as when I received 'em! It's

positively shameful to send such things to me, and I can't think how you

could do it, reckoning to be gentlemen!"

Farebrother gave Mortimer another kick and looked steadily at their

visitor.

"Oh!" he said, very quietly. "Now--why?"

"Why?" exclaimed Jeckie. "What! amounts like them? You know as well as I

do 'at I never employed either of you! You haven't a single letter, nor

paper, nor nothing to show 'at I ever told you or engaged you to do

aught for me; you know you haven't. It's all the fault o' Mr. Mortimer

there if there's been any misunderstanding on your part, Mr.

Farebrother, but I'd naught to do with it. I know quite well what part

Mr. Mortimer's played!"

Mortimer received a third kick before he could speak, and Farebrother,

who was gradually becoming more and more icy in manner, asked another

question.

"Perhaps you'll give me an account of Mr. Mortimer's doing?" he

suggested. "I shall like to hear what you have to say."

Jeckie favoured both men with an injured and sullen stare.

"Well!" she said. "Mr. Mortimer came to me, unasked, mind you, and said

he was having a holiday down here, and who he was, and that he'd a

suspicion there might be coal under this village. He talked a lot about

it in my parlour, though I'm sure I never invited him to do so. I didn't

know him from Adam when he came to my house! It's quite true 'at I

bought land from Ben Scholes on the strength of what he said, but he'd

naught to do with that. I paid for it with my own money. And then he

goes and sends me in a bill like that there?--a bill three or four times

as much as yours, though, from what I've seen of both of you, I reckon

you're a more dependable man than what he is, and----"

"Mr. Mortimer has been employed by you four times as long as I had,"

interposed Farebrother. "Therefore----"

"He was never employed by me at all!" exclaimed Jeckie, emphatically.

"Where's his papers to show it? I always reckoned that he was just a

Londoner down here for a holiday--that's what he told t'landlord and his

wife when he came to this house--and that, being interested in coal, he

was telling me what he knew or thought he knew. And I never gave him

any reason to think that I was employin' his services, nor yours either,

for that matter. It's naught but imposition to send me in bills like

them!"

"Here, I can't stand this any longer!" said Mortimer, suddenly rising

from his chair. He turned on Jeckie and confronted her angrily. "You

know as well as I do that you constantly consulted me, and that you told

me to get Mr. Farebrother down from London----"

"Have you aught to prove it?" interrupted Jeckie, with a knowing look in

which she contrived to include both men. "You know you haven't! No! but

I can prove, 'cause you're a great talker and over-ready with your

tongue, mister, that you gave it out all over t'village 'at your friend

Mr. Farebrother was coming down to have a holiday, too. And he came;

and, of course, I'd no objection if you both gave me advice, and I

should ha' been a fool if I hadn't taken it, but I never employed

neither of you. Didn't I get my own advisers when the time came? I

employed them, right enough, but not you. You know quite well, if you're

business men, 'at you haven't a scrap of writing nor a shred of evidence

to show that I ever gave you any commission to do aught for me. I just

thought you were amusing and interesting yourselves, and giving me a bit

of advice and information, friendly-like. But, of course, I'm willing to

make you a payment, in reason, and if ten pound apiece 'ud be----"

Jeckie got no further. Before Mortimer could speak Farebrother suddenly

picked up the obnoxious accounts, tore them in two, flung the fragments

into the fire, and, opening the parlour door, made Jeckie a ceremonious

bow.

"We'll make you a present of all we've done for you, my good lady," he

said. "Now, go!"

Jeckie went, grumbling. She had honestly meant to part with twenty

pounds. It vexed her, temperamentally, to think of anybody doing

something for nothing. She would have liked to pay these two ten pounds

each. And she went home feeling deeply injured that they had scorned

her.

CHAPTER VI

_Obsession_

Before noon the next day the two Londoners, for whom Jeckie Farnish had

no further use, had shaken the Savilestowe dirt from off their feet, to

the sorrow of Beckitt and his wife and the frequenters of the

bar-parlour, and Jeckie told her partner, Lucilla Grice, of how cleverly

she had done them. Lucilla applauded her cleverness; what was the use,

she said, of paying money if you could get out of paying it?--especially

as there was such a lot of spending to be done that she and Jeckie could

not by any possible means avoid. The mere pointing out of that undoubted

fact made Jeckie sigh deeply.

"Aye!" she said, almost lugubriously. "That's true enough!--we're just

starting out on what can't be other than the trying and unpleasant part

of the business--laying money out in bucketfuls with no prospect of

seeing aught back for some time! However, there's no doubt about seeing

it back in cart-loads when it does start coming, and now that I've got

this advice and information from Mr. Revis--free, gratis, mind

you!--we'd best set to work. Revis, he says that these engineers and

contractors that he's recommended'll do the whole job twenty per cent.

cheaper than those London chaps would ha' done, so you see I've saved a

lot already. And now there's naught for it but to work--and wait."

"We shall have our hands full," remarked Lucilla sententiously.

"But--let's start." Savilestowe--its mouth agape and eyes wide

open--witnessed the start of the Farnish-Grice enterprise before many

weeks had gone by. Until then--save for Jeckie's boring operations,

which were, comparatively, hole-and-corner affairs--it had never been

roused out of its bucolic life since the Norman Conquest. It had always

been a typical farming village, a big and important one, to be sure, but

still a purely rural and agricultural settlement. Within the wide

boundaries of its parish--one of the largest in England--there were fine

old country-houses in their parks and pleasure grounds; roomy and

ancient farmsteads in their gardens and orchards; corn-lands,

meadow-lands, woods, coppices, streams; industry other than that of

spade and plough had never been known there. But now came a

transformation, at which the older folk stood aghast. The quiet roads

became busy and noisy with the passage of great traction engines drawing

trains of wagons filled with all manner of material in steel and iron,

wood, stone, and brick; vast and unfamiliar structures began to arise on

the forty acres wherein Ben Scholes's half-starved cattle had once tried

to add to their always limited rations; smoke and steam rose and passed

away in noisome clouds over the cottages which had hitherto known

nothing but the scent of homely herbs and flowers. And with all these

strange things came strangers--crowds upon crowds of workmen, navvies,

masons, mechanics, all wanting accommodation and food and drink. Hideous

rows of wooden shanties, hastily run up on the edge of Savilestowe Leys,

housed many of these; others, taken in by the labourer's wives, drove

away the primitive quietude of cottage life; it was, as the vicar's wife

said in her most plaintive manner, an invasion, captained by Jeckie

Farnish and Lucilla Grice. The old order of things was gone, and

Savilestowe lay at the mercy of a horde of ravagers who meant to tear

from it the wealth which its smiling fields had so long kept safely

hidden.

And now the Savilestowe folk talked of nothing but the marvellous thing

that was going on in their midst. The old subjects of fireside and

inn-kitchen conversation--births, deaths, marriages, scandals, big

gooseberries, and two-headed lambs--were forgotten. There was not a man,

woman, or child in the village who was not certain that wealth was being

created, and that its first outpourings were already in evidence. Money

was being spent in Savilestowe as it had never been spent within the

recollection of the oldest inhabitant, and there was the more glamour

about this spending in that the discerning knew whence this profusion

came.

"There niver wor such times as these here 'at we're privileged to live

in!" said one of the assembly which usually forgathered round the

blacksmith's forge and anvil of an afternoon. "Money runs like water i'

t'midst on us. I un'erstand at wheer t' 'Coach-and-Four' used to tak'

six barril o'ale it now needs eighteen, and t'landlord o' t' 'Brown

Cow,' up at t'top end o' t'village, says 'at he mun build a new tap-room

for t'workmen to sit in, for his house is filled to t'brim wi' 'em ivery

neet. An' they say 'at Farnish's shop hez more nor once been varry near

selled clear out o' all 'at there wor in it, and 'at they've hed to send

to Sicaster for new supplies. An' it's t'same wi' t'butcher--he's

killin' six or eight times as many beasts and sheep as he used to, and

t'last Frida' neet he hadn't as much as a mutton chop nor a bit o' liver

left i' t'place. Now, there is some brass about, and no mistak'!"

"Why, thou sees, it's what's called t'circulation o' money," observed

the blacksmith, leisurely leaning on his hammer. "It goes here and it

goes theer, like t'winds o' heaven. Now, ye were sayin' 'at Jecholiah

Farnish's shop's varry near been cleaned out more nor once--varry weel,

if ye'd nobbut think a bit, that means 'at Jeckie wor gettin' her own

back wi' summat added to it--that's what's meant by t'circulation o'

money. We all on us know 'at this here army o' fellers, all at their

various jobs, is paid bi Jeckie and her partner, Mrs. Albert Grice, all

on 'em. Twice a week they're paid--one half on 'em o' Mondays, and

t'other half o' Fridays. Varry weel, they get their brass--now then,

they hev to lig it out, and it goes i' various ways--and a good deal on

it goes back to Jeckie for bread and bacon and cheese and groceries,

d'ye see? She pays out wi' one hand and she tak's in wi' t'other;

they've niver had such an amount o' trade at her shop as they hev now.

Stan's to reason!--ye can't hev three or four hundred stout fellers

come workin' in a place wi'out 'em liggin' brass out. They mun ate and

drink--same as what t'rest on us does. And so t'money goes back'ard and

forrards."

"Aye, but theer's one i' t'place 'at'll tak' good care 'at some on it

sticks in' her palm!" said an individual who leaned against the door and

watched the proceedings out of a squinting eye. "Theer'll be a nice bit

o' profit for Jeckie Farnish out o' all that extry grocery trade--tak' a

bit o' notice o' that!"

"Varry like--but when all's said and done," answered the first speaker,

"theer's no denyin' t'fact 'at all this here brass 'at's bein' paid out

and spent i' t'village hes what they call its origin wi' her and t'other

woman. They hef to pay t'contractors, ye know. And a bonny-like sum it

mun be an' all, wi' all that machinery, and t'stuff 'at they've browt

here i' building material, and t'men's wages--gow, I couldn't ha' thowt

'at her and Albert Grice's wife could ha' had so much brass!"

"Now, how much will they reckon to mak' a year out o' t'job when it's

fully established, like?" asked a man who had shown his keen interest by

watching each preceding speaker with his mouth wide open and his eyes

turning and staring from one to another. "Is there a deal to be made out

o' this here coal trade? 'Cause mi mother, 'at lives close to Mestur

Revis' colliery, yonder at Heronshawe Main, as they call it, she niver

pays no more nor five shillin' a ton for her coal. I reckon ye'd hev to

sell a lot o' tons o' coal at that figure before ye'd get enew o' brass

to pay for all 'at's bein' laid out here--what?"

"Thy mother lives close to t'scenes o' operations, fathead!" retorted

the blacksmith. "She's on t'threshold, as it were--nowt to do but buy it

as it comes out o' t'pit. But if thy mother lived i' London town, what

dusta think she'd hev to pay for her coal then? I've read pieces i'

t'papers about coal bein' as much as three and four pounds a ton i'

London--what's ta think o' that?"

"Why, now, that's summat like a price!" assented the questioner. "I

shouldn't hev no objection misen to sellin' coal at four pound a ton.

But they hev to get it to London town first, hevn't they, afore they can

sell?"

Before the blacksmith could give enlightenment on this economic point,

the jack-of-all-trades, who, on a previous similar occasion, had warned

Ben Scholes of what Jeckie was after in buying his land, put in one of

his caustic remarks.

"Aye, and afore Jeckie Farnish gets her coal to London town--which there

isn't no such place, 'cause London's a city--she'll hev to get it

somewheer else!" he said. "Don't ye forget that!"

"I thowt ye'd ha' summat to say," sneered the blacksmith. "Wheer hes she

to get it, like?--ye'll knaw, of course."

"I dew knaw," affirmed the wiseacre. "She'll hev to get it to t'surface!

It's i' t'bowels o' t'earth yet, is that coal--it's none on t'top."

"What's to prevent it bein' browt to t'top, clever 'un?" demanded the

blacksmith. "Aren't they at work sinkin' t'shafts as fast as they can?"

"Aye--and I've knawn wheer they sunk t'shafts deeper nor wheer ye heerd

on!" said the clever one. "And then they niver got no coal! Not 'cause

t'coal worn't there--it wor theer, reight enough wor t'coal. But it

niver rase to t'top!"

"And for why, pray?" asked an eager listener. "What wor theer to prevent

it?"

But the hinter at evil things, having shot his shafts, was turning on

his heel, bound for the tap-room at the "Brown Cow."

"Niver ye mind!" he said darkly. "Theer's been no coal led away fro'

Jeckie Farnish's pit mouth yit! An' happen ther niver will be!"

If he really had some doubts on the matter the Jack-of-all-trades formed

a minority of one on the question of Jeckie Farnish's success. Everybody

in the village believed that within a comparatively short time the pit

would be in full working order, and coal would be coming up the winding

shaft in huge quantities. And there were not wanting those in

Savilestowe who were eager to get some share in the fortune which Jeckie

and Lucilla had so far managed to monopolise. The squire, and the vicar,

and Stubley, and Merritt as principals, and some of the lesser lights of

the community as accessories, began putting their heads together in

secret and discussing plans and schemes of money-making, all arising out

of the fact that work was going ahead rapidly at the Farnish-Grice pit.

Now, it was almost impossible for anything to be discussed, or for

anything to happen in Savilestowe without the news of it reaching

Jeckie--and one day she went to Lucilla with a face full of information

and resolve.

"It's always the case!" she began, with a dark hinting look. "Whenever a

big affair like ours is started, there's sure to be them that wants to

get a bit of picking out of it by some means or other, fair or foul.

I'll not say 'at this isn't fair, but it doesn't suit me!"

"What is it?" asked Lucilla anxiously. "Nothing wrong?"

"Not with our concern," replied Jeckie. "That's going all right, as you

know very well--we shall be getting coal in another twelve month. No,

it's this--it's come to my ears that the squire and Stubley and some

more of 'em, knowing very well that there'll have to be a bit of housing

accommodation provided, are forming themselves into a society or a

company, or something, with the idea of building what they call a model

village that'll be well outside Savilestowe but within easy reach. Now,

you and me's not going to have that!"

"But--the miners'll have to live somewhere!" said Lucilla.

Jeckie gave her partner a queer look.

"Do you think I don't know that?" she said. "Why, of course! And I've

made provision for it, though I thought we'd time enough. But

now--before ever this lot can get to work--we'll start. We'll have our

men in our own hands--on our own property."

"But how?" inquired Lucilla.

"I never told anybody until now," answered Jeckie, "but I have some land

in Savilestowe that I bought years before I got that land of Ben

Scholes's. There's about thirty acres of it--I bought it from James

Tukeby's widow for next to naught, on the condition that she was to have

the rent of it till she died. It was all properly conveyed to me, and,

of course, I can do what I like with it. Now then, we'll build three or

four rows of cottages on that--of course, as the land's mine, it's

value'll have to be reckoned in our partnership account--and we'll let

'em to our own miners, d'you see? I'll have none of our men livin' in

model villages under the squire and the parson--it's all finicking

nonsense. We'll have our chaps close to their work! Good, substantial,

brick cottages--bricks are cheap enough about here--with a good water

supply; that's all that's wanted. Model villages!--they'll be wantin' to

house workin' fellers i' palaces next!"

"It'll cost a lot of money," observed Lucilla. She had never considered

the housing of the small army of miners which would troop into

Savilestowe at the opening of the new pit. "And you know what we're

already laying out!"

"We shall get it all back in rents," said Jeckie. She pulled some papers

out of the old reticule. "See," she continued, "I've worked it out--cost

and everything; I got an estimate from Arkstone, the builder, at

Sicaster, yesterday. There's no need to employ an architect for places

like they'll be--just five roomed cottages. Come here, and I'll show you

what it'll cost, and what it'll bring in."

Lucilla was always an easy prey to Jeckie, and being already deeply

involved, was only too ready to assent to all the plans and projects

which her senior partner proposed. Moreover, Albert, when the two women

condescended to call him into counsel, invariably agreed with his

one-time sweetheart; he had the conviction that whatever Jeckie took in

hand must certainly succeed. He himself was so full of the whole scheme

that he had long since given up his daily visit to Sicaster. Ever since

the beginning of active sinking work at the pit, he had driven Lucilla

over to Savilestowe every morning after breakfast, and there they had

remained most of the day, watching operations; in time Albert came to

believe that he himself was really a sort of _ex-officio_ manager of the

whole thing, and in this belief Jeckie humoured him. And so it was easy

to gain Lucilla's consent to the cottage-building scheme (which

eventually developed into one that included the construction of houses

of the villa type for the more important officials), and once more the

two partners paid visits to solicitors and bankers.

The money was rushing away like water out of a broken reservoir. As in

most similar cases, the expenditure, when it came to it, was greater

than the spenders had reckoned for. More than once Lucilla drew back

appalled at the sums which had to be laid out; more than once the

bankers upon whom the partners were always drawing heavy cheques, took

Jeckie aside and talked seriously to her about the prospects of the

venture; Jeckie invariably replied by exhibiting the opinions of the

experts and the professor of geology, and by declaring that if she had

to mortgage her whole future, she was going on. She would point out,

too, that the work had gone on successfully and smoothly; there had been

nothing to alarm; nothing to stay the steady progress.

"I'll see it through to success!" she declared. "Cost what it may, I'm

going to put all I have into it. I've never failed yet--and I won't!"

The work in her forty acres and in the land where the rows of ugly

cottages were being built came to fascinate her. She began to neglect

her shop, leaving all its vastly increased business to a manager and

several sorely-taxed assistants, and to spend all her time with the

engineers and contractors, until she came to know almost as much about

their labours as they themselves knew. She would wander from one of the

two shafts to the other a dozen times in a day; she kept an eye on the

builders of the cottages and on the men who were making the road that

would lead from the pit to the main street of the village; she had a

good deal to say about the construction of the short stretch of railway

which would connect it with the line that ran behind the woods, whereon

she hoped to send her coal all over the country. In her imagination she

saw it going north and south, east and west, truck upon truck of it--to

return in good gold.

But meanwhile the money went. More than once she and Lucilla had to

increase their original capital. A time came when still more money was

needed, and when Lucilla could do no more. But Jeckie's resources were

by no means exhausted, and one day, after a sleepless night during which

she thought as she had never thought in her life, she went into

Sicaster, determined on doing what she had once vowed she never would

do. The shop must go.

CHAPTER VII

_The Last Throw_