The Root of All Evil

by J. S. Fletcher

  CHAPTER XI

  _Humble Pie_

  Those who were in close touch with Jeckie Farnish on the day of heryounger sister's revolt and defection had far from pleasant moments. Shedrove her father and shop boys about with harsh and impatient words; shewas curt and dictatorial with Bartle, one of those conscientious andfaithful souls to whom any reasonable employer would have found itimpossible to attribute laxity; for the first time since commencingbusiness she was short-tempered with some customers, snappish withothers, and openly rude to one or two whose trade was a matter ofcomplete indifference to her. The truth was that Rushie's clandestinemarriage had upset more than one of Jeckie's best-laid plans. She had nowish to take in an outsider as principal assistant--outsiders, in heropinion, were never to be trusted, and it was repugnant to her to thinkthat a smart young shopman (for saleswomen were not known in those days)should learn any of the secrets which had already begun to accumulateabout the Farnish establishment. Yet the business had already assumedsuch proportions that assistance was necessary, and Jeckie's firstimpression was that she would only get it from some young jackanapes whowould want the usual wages (or, as he would call it, salary) of hisdegree, and from whom she would be unable to keep those private detailswhich she had no objection to share with her sister. It was, sheconsidered, a gross piece of ingratitude that Rushie should havepreferred Binks to her own flesh and blood, and she made up her mind tosay so, plainly and emphatically as soon as the culprit came once morewithin reach.

  But for several days Jeckie had to cherish her wrath in silence and insecret. Rushie and her bridegroom took a short and economical honeymoonat Blackpool; they had been back in Sicaster for forty-eight hoursbefore Jeckie heard of their return. Within an hour of hearing it,however, she appeared at Mr. Herbert Bink's lodgings; it was then nearlynoon, and the bridegroom was at his place of employment; the bride,unfortunately, was discovered in idleness, reading her favourite form offiction, a cheap novelette. She paled and reddened alternately at sightof Jeckie who had cleverly gained admittance without notice, and walkedin upon her like an avenging goddess, and her eyes went straight to thecheap clock over the mantelpiece. It was twenty minutes to twelve; andHerbert would not be home until five minutes past; for twenty-fiveminutes, then, she would have to put up with Jeckie's tantrums. AndJeckie left her no doubt as to what they were to be.

  "So this is what you've come to already, my fine madam!" began the eldersister. "Lying there on a sofa, in cheap lodgings, readin' trash int'very middle o' the day, when you might ha' been and ought to ha' beenat honest work--you'll come to find work i' t'poorhouse before you'vedone! Such idle, good-for-naught ways!"

  "You mind what you say, Jecholiah Farnish!" retorted Mrs. Binks. "Myhusband'll be home before long, and if he catches you----"

  "If I'd a husband," said Jeckie, with a contemptuous snort, "I'd becooking his dinner again his comin' home. But such as you----"

  "There's no need to cook our dinner," broke in Mrs. Binks. "Until westart a house of our own, we board and lodge, so----"

  "A house o' your own!" exclaimed Jeckie. "When and where are you like toget a house o' your own--a twopenny-halfpenny draper's assistant and anidle wench like you, 'at spends her time readin' that soft stuff? You'llbe as poor as church mice all t'days o' your life! He'll never be nomore than a shopman at two or three pounds a week--where does such likestart houses o' their own? Do you know what you've thrown away, youungrateful thing?" demanded Jeckie, who was now in full torrent andmeant to go on her way unchecked. "If you'd stopped wi' me, your lawfulsister, and had done your duty, an' behaved yourself, and kept of allsuch softness as men and marryin', and shown yourself fit for it, I'dha' taken you in partnership! An' by the time we'd come to middle lifewe could ha' done what you'll see I shall do--retire wi' a fortune, andtake a fine house at Harrigate or Scarhaven, and keep servants, and havea carriage and pair, and t'best of everything! You've given up all thatfor this--poor, struggling folk you'll be, all your lives, while I growup as rich as Creesees, whoever he may ha' been, and happen I shall be adeal richer. All that for a draper's shop-lad!"

  "He isn't a draper's shop-lad!" retorted Mrs. Binks, with some spirit."And him and me loves each other, and----"

  "You gr'et soft thing!" exclaimed Jeckie, contemptuously. "Love,indeed!--that's all because you've been wed inside a week! Wait tillyou've gotten a pack o' screaming childer about you, and youdraggle-tailed and down at heel, and see how much you'll talk about lovei' them days! You're a fool, Rushie Farnish, and you'll come to rue----"

  "My name isn't Farnish!" said Mrs. Binks, "and if Herbert was here, he'dput you out o' this room, and----"

  The bride came to a sudden stop. Mr. Binks, impatient to rejoin therecently-secured object of his affection, had contrived to get away fromhis employer's shop a quarter of an hour earlier than usual, and he hadbeen listening at the keyhole for the last few minutes, his landladyhaving told him that Miss Farnish had gone up to see her sister. And nowhe stepped into the room, looking as important and dignified as such avery ordinary young man could. And, not unnaturally, he fell into thelanguage of the drapery department in which he served.

  "Oh!" he said. "Miss Farnish, I believe? And what can we have thepleasure of doing for you, ma'am? No previous favours received fromyour quarter, I believe, Miss Farnish? No transactions between usbefore--eh, ma'am?"

  Jeckie favoured her brother-in-law with a withering glance.

  "You impudent young counter-jumper!" she answered. "What do you mean byrunning away with my sister?--a feller that sells pennorths o' tape andpapers o' pins! Answer me that!"

  "Better sell anything, Miss Farnish, than be sold up!" retorted Mr.Binks with a grin. "I think that was what had just happened to yourfamily when I first became acquainted with it."

  "That's it, Bert!" said Mrs. Binks, glad to give Jeckie something inreturn for all the scoldings that she herself had suffered. "She's beengoing on at me dreadfully!"

  Jeckie pulled herself up to her full height, and slowly looked frombride to bridegroom.

  "I know what you've married on," she said, her voice becoming as calm asit had previously been furious. "You're young fools, and you'll find itout. Don't you ever come to me for anything; if you do you'll findyourselves shown the door! So there; and I've no more to say."

  Mr. Binks rubbed his hands.

  "That's well, ma'am!" he remarked, almost gaily. "For our bit ofdinner's ready downstairs. And you can go away, ma'am, assured thatRushie and me ain't afraid of nothing. You see, we prefer love to money,though we intend to do pretty well in that way, all in good time. Nooffence, ma'am, but we ain't going to be bullied by you or anybody.If," he concluded, as he opened the door for Jeckie with mockpoliteness, "if you'd come to our little shop intending to do businesson pleasant and friendly lines we might have established a connection,but as you ain't, well, all I've got to say, Miss Farnish, is--nothingdoing!"

  He felt very proud of himself, this sandy-haired, snub-nosed,commonplace young man, as he uttered this sarcasm; he knew, somehow,that he had got the better of this terrible Jecholiah. And suddenly, asJeckie was passing through the door, he had an inspiration, and felt itto be clever, very clever.

  "But we ain't above or below playing the coals-of-fire game, MissFarnish," he said. "You wouldn't ask me into your house to as much as acup of tea, but if you like to stop you're welcome to your share of asnice a bit of steak and onions as ever you set tooth into! Say the word,ma'am, and take it friendly."

  But Jeckie was marching down the stairs in dead and gloomy silence andMr. Binks turned to his bride.

  "I did it proper there, old woman!" he said. "Hand o' friendship, andthat sort o' thing--what? Her own fault if she wouldn't take it."

  "She's as hard as iron," answered Rushie. "Come down, Bert; thedinner'll be getting cold."

  Jeckie drove away from Sicaster feeling that Mr. Binks had somehow gotthe best of her. He had certainly not been frightened of her; he hadpoked fun at her. Worst of all, he had actually o
ffered her hospitality,and had been serious when he offered it. And Rushie, when it came toit, had not been afraid of her either. She was surprised at that. Rushiehad always been subservient, even if she had occasionally protested. Thefact was that Jeckie had driven into the market town under theimpression that the erring pair, having irretrievably committedthemselves, would beg her forgiveness, and ask her to help them withmoney so that Binks could set himself up in business. Now Binks'sattitude, from the time he walked into the sittingroom to the moment inwhich he invited her to the steak and onions, was that of cheerfulindependence. It was beyond Jeckie, who was no psychologist; all thatshe realised was that though bride and bridegroom knew her to be alreadya well-to-do tradeswoman they defied her.

  She was defied again before night fell, and by her own father. Farnish,so far, had kept his compact with his elder daughter. He was, in fact,in better circumstances than he had ever been in his life. He slept incomfort; he ate and drink his fill at Jeckie's well-provided table; hisallowance of money was sufficient to provide him with a few additionalglasses of ale at the village inn; moreover, it was added to byoccasional tips from the people to whom he carried the Farnish goods. Hewas waxing fat; he wore a good suit of clothes on Sundays; something ofthe glory which centered in his successful daughter shone around him,for, after all, he was the parent of the woman who had beaten GeorgeGrice and was becoming a power in the village. All this gave him acertain feeling of independence, but there had been no evidence of anyJeshurun-like spirit in him until the evening of the day on which Jeckiepaid her visit to the Binks's. Then certain words from Jeckie arousedit.

  "There's something I've got to say to you," said Jeckie, suddenly, asshe and Farnish sat by the domestic hearth that night after supper. "Youknow what our Rushie's gone and done?--made a fool of herself?"

  "I have been duly informed o' what she's done, Jecholiah," answeredFarnish. "As to whether she's made a fool of hersen, I can't say. Fromwhat bit I've seen o' t'young feller, he seems a decent, promisin' sorto' chap, and earns a very nice wage at t'drapery business. An' therewere a man I met t'other day, a Sicaster chap, 'at telled me 'at thishere Binks and our Rushie were very much in love with each other, to allaccounts, so let's hope it'll come out well."

  "Fiddle-de-dee!" sneered Jeckie. "A draper's shopman, earnin', happen,two pound a week! I've been to see 'em to-day and told 'em my mind. Iknow what they'll be after--they'll be comin' to me for money beforelong. There'll be bairns comin'--poor folks always has 'em where richfolks won't--and they'll turn to me as t'best off relative they have--Iknow!"

  "Why, why, mi lass!" said Farnish. "I'm sure ye'd none see yer ownsister want for owt i' circumstances like them theer. Flesh an' blood,ye know."

  "Flesh and blood must agree wi' flesh and blood," retorted Jeckiestolidly. "Our Rushie's set me at naught--me that's done so much forher! She's defied me--and I'll have naught no more to do with her. Ifshe'd been a good gal and behaved herself I'd ha' made a lady on her.But it's done--and neither her nor that counter-jumper's going to darkenmy doors. And I said I'd a word to say to you, and I'll tell you what itis--I'm not going to have you going there. Don't let me hear tell o' yougoing to them Binkses, or you an' me'll quarrel. Now then!"

  Farnish, who was smoking his after-supper pipe in the easy chair whichwas his special seat, stared at his daughter for a while in silence.Then he suddenly rose from his place, knocked out the ashes from hispipe, put his hands in his pockets, and shook his head.

  "Nay, nay, mi lass!" he said. "Ye're none going to force that on me,neither! I made a bargain wi' you when ye set up this business o' yours,and I've kept it, and you've nowt to complain on, I'm sure, for if yehad had owt I should ha' heard yer tongue afore now. But I'm not goingto be telled 'at I'm not to go near mi own dowter! I shall go an' seeour Rushie just as often as ever I please, and if it doesn't suit you,why, then ye can find another man to tak' my place. I'm willin' to go onas we have been doin', but if we part I can find work elsewheer. Don'tyou never say nowt no more to me o' this sort, Jecholiah, or else ye'llsee t'back side o' my coat!"

  With that Farnish turned and went off to bed, and Jecholiah stared afterhim as if he were some wonderful stranger whom she had never seenbefore. For the second time that day she, the rising and successfultradeswoman, had been defied by poor folk. She ate a considerable amountof humble pie before she laid her head on her pillow that night, andnext morning she said no more to her father, and matters went on asusual.

  There was another person in Savilestowe who, like Jeckie, was eatinghumble pie, in even larger slices, about that time. George Grice, leftalone since Albert's defection, saw his trade decline more and more.Jeckie, wherever she got it from, had a natural instinct for attractingcustom, and an almost uncanny intuition as to suiting their tastes. Bythat time nearly all the big houses in the neighbourhood were on herbooks, and the smart cart driven by Bartle had become two. Rushie wasreplaced by an experienced assistant, carefully selected by Jeckie outof many applicants; two apprentices were taken in; Bartle had anotherman to help him, and Farnish became foreman of several errand boys. Allthis meant that trade was steadily flowing from Grice on one side of thestreet to Farnish on the other. Old George used to stand in his windowand watch his former customers pass in and out of the door beneath thegolden teapot. His first anger and resentment changed slowly to afeeling of mournful acquiescence in fate, and two new lines were addedto those already set deeply on each side of the tight lip. But a newanger arose one morning, when, chancing to gaze across the street, hesaw the smart dog-cart which Albert and Lucilla had set up at theirvilla residence just outside the village arrive at Farnish's, andLucilla herself descend, bearing in her hand a sheet of paper and herpurse. George knew what that meant; his daughter-in-law, who up to thattime had traded with him, for very decency's sake, was now going to trythe opposition shop. He turned away full of new resentment andmortification.

  "Nay, nay," he muttered. "That beats all! One's own flesh and blood! ButI might ha' seen how it would be ever since yon young hussy cheeked meto my face wi' her two thousand pound! And I mun think--I mun think! AmI done, or am I not done? That's the question!"

  Over his gin-and-water--of which he now, in his solitude, took anincreased amount every evening--old George thought hard that night.Between periods of thought he had periods of consultation with hisaccount-books, his banker's pass book, his securities (carefully lockedup in a special safe) and with various memoranda relating to thebusiness and private property. When all was over he went to bed, and layawake half the night, still thinking; he continued to think during mostof the next day. And the result of all this thought was that, a night ortwo later, when shops had closed, darkness fallen, and most of theSavilestowe folk abed, George Grice slunk across the street to hisrival's private door.