The Root of All Evil

by J. S. Fletcher

  CHAPTER VII

  _The Last Throw_

  It was a conversation with Farnish that sent Jeckie, grim and resolute,into Sicaster, determined on selling the business which she had built upand developed so successfully. Until the day of that conversation theidea of giving up the shop had never entered her mind; she had more thanonce foreseen that she might have to raise ready money on the strengthof her prosperous establishment, but she had not contemplatedrelinquishing it altogether, for she knew--no one better--that as thepopulation of Savilestowe increased because of the new industry whichshe was founding in its midst, so would the trade of the Golden Teapotwax beyond her wildest dreams. But certain information given her by herfather brought matters to a crisis, and when Jeckie came to suchpassages in life she was as quick in action as she was rapid in thought.

  Farnish, since the beginning of his daughter's great adventure, hadgrown greatly in self-importance. Like Albert Grice, he believed himselfto be a sharer, even a guiding spirit, in the wonderful enterprise. Longsince promoted from his first position as a sort of glorified errand-boyto that of superintendent of transit and collector of small accounts,he now wore his second-best clothes every day, and was seen much aboutthe village and at Sicaster. Jeckie had found out that he was to betrusted if given a reasonable amount of liberty; consequently, she hadleft him pretty much to his own devices. Of late he had taken tofrequenting the bar-parlour of the "Coach-and-Four" every evening afterhis early supper, and as he never returned home in anything more than astate of quite respectable up-liftedness, Jeckie said nothing. He wasgetting on in years, she remembered, and some licence must be permittedhim; besides, she had for a long time given him an increased amount ofpocket-money, and it now mattered nothing to her how or where he laid itout so long as he behaved himself, and did his light work faithfully.They had come to be better friends, and she had allowed him, in somedegree, to make evident his parental position, and had condescended nowand then to ask his advice in small matters. And in the village, and inSicaster, he was no longer Farnish, the broken farmer, but Mr. Farnish,father of one of the wealthiest women in the neighbourhood.

  The problem of Jeckie's wealth--and how much money she really had wasonly known to her bankers and guessed at by her solicitors--had longexcited interest in Savilestowe and its immediate surroundings. It waswell known that she had extended her original business in suchsurprising fashion that her vans and carts now carried a radius of manymiles; she had been so enterprising that she had considerably damagedthe business of more than one grocer in Sicaster and Cornchester; thevolume of her trade was at least six times as great as that which GeorgeGrice had ever known in his best days. Yet the discerning knew very wellthat Miss Farnish had not made, could not have made, all the money shewas reputed to possess out of her shop, big and first-class as it was.And if Jeckie, who never told anybody everything, could have beeninduced to speak, she would have agreed with the folk who voiced thisopinion. The truth was that as she had made money she had begun tospeculate, and after some little practice in the game had becomeremarkably proficient at it; she had found her good luck following herin this risky business as splendidly as it had followed her in sellingbacon and butter. But, it was only a very few people--bankers,stockbrokers, solicitors--who knew of this side of her energetic career.What the Savilestowe folk did know was that Jecholiah Farnish had madeno end of brass; some of them were not quite sure how; some suspectedhow. Jeckie said and did nothing to throw any light on the subject. Itpleased and suited her that people knew she was wealthy, and her ownfirm belief--for she was blind enough on certain points--was that shewas believed to be a great deal richer than--as she herself knew, insecret--she really was.

  It fell to Farnish to disabuse her on this point.

  Farnish, returning home one night from the customary symposium at the"Coach-and-Four," found Jeckie peacefully mending linen by the parlourfire. It had come to be an established ceremony, since more friendlyrelations were set up between them, that father and daughter took anight-cap together before retiring, and exchanged a little pleasantconversation during its consumption; on this occasion Farnish, after thegin-and-water had relapsed into a moody quietude. He was usually onlytoo ready to talk, and Jeckie glanced at him in surprise as he satstaring at the fire, leaving his glass untouched.

  "You're very quiet to-night," she said. "Has aught happened?"

  Farnish started, stared at her, and leaned forward.

  "Aye, mi lass!" he replied. "Summat has happened! I've been hearin'summat; summat 'at's upset me; summat 'at I niver expected to hear." Heleaned still nearer, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Jecholiah, milass!" he went on, in almost awe-struck tones. "Folks is--talkin'!"

  "Folks! what folks?" exclaimed Jeckie in genuine amazement. "An'talkin'? What about?"

  "It's about you, mi lass," answered Farnish. "I heerd it to-night, i'private fro' a friend o' mine as doesn't want his name mentionin', but'sa dependable man. He tell'd me on t'quiet, i' a corner at t''Coach-and-Four'; he thowt you owt to know, this man did. He say 'atit's bein' talked on, not only i' Savilestowe here, but all roundt'neighbourhood. Dear--dear!--it's strange how long a tale tak's to getto t'ears o' t'person 'at's chiefly concerned!"

  "Now then--out with it!" commanded Jeckie. "What's it all about?"

  Farnish glanced at her a look which was half fearful, half-inquiring."They're sayin' 'at you and Lucilla Grice hes come to t'end o' yourbrass, or close on it," he whispered. "Some on 'em 'at reckons to knowsummat about it's been reckonin' up what you mun ha' laid out, andcomparin' it wi' what they knew she hed, and what they think you hed,and they say you mun be about at t'last end. An' they say, 'at it'll bemonths yet afore t'pit'll be ready for working, and 'at ye'll niver beable to keep up t'expense, and 'at ye'll eyther hev to sell to somebody'at can afford to go on wi' it, or gi' t'job up altogether, and lose allt'brass--an' it mun be a terrible amount bi' now--'at you've wared onit. That's what's bein' whispered about, mi lass!"

  "Aught else?" demanded Jeckie.

  "Well, theer is summat," admitted Farnish. "They say 'at ye never paidthem two London gentlemen 'at did such a lot at t'beginning o' things;'at they went away thro' t'place wi'out their brass, an'----"

  "That'll do!" interrupted Jeckie. "Is that all?"

  "All, mi lass," assented Farnish. "Except 'at it's a common notion 'atye'll niver be able to carry t'job through! Now, what is t'truth, milass? I'm reight fair upset, as you can see."

  "Sup your drink and go to bed and sleep sound!" said Jeckiecontemptuously. "An' tell any damned fool 'at talks such stuff again toyou 'at he'd better wait and watch things a bit. Money! I'll let 'em seewhether I haven't money! More nor anybody knows on!"

  Farnish went to bed satisfied and confident; but when he had gone Jeckiesat by the fire, motionless, staring at the embers until they died outto a white ash. She was thinking, and reckoning, and scheming, and whenat last, she too retired, it was to lie awake more than half the nightrevolving her plans. She was up again by six o'clock next morning, andat seven was with the manager of the works--a clever, capable,thoroughly-experienced man who had been recommended to her by Revis, ofHeronshawe Main, and in whom, accordingly, she had every confidence. Hestared in astonishment as Jeckie, who had wrapped head and shoulders inan old Paisley shawl, came stalking into his temporary office. "I want aword with you," said Jeckie, going straight to the point after her usualfashion. She shut the door and motioned him to sit down at his desk. "Iwant plain answers to a couple of questions. First--how long will it bebefore we get this pit into working order?"

  The manager reflected a moment.

  "Barring accidents, ten months," he answered.

  "Second," continued Jeckie, "how much money shall we want to see usthrough? Take your time; reckon it out. Carefully, now; leave a goodmargin."

  The manager nodded, took paper and pencil, and began to figure; Jeckiestood statue-like at his side, watching in silence as he worked. Tenminutes passed, then he drew a thick line beneath his last s
um total offigures, and pointed to it.

  "That," he said. "Ample!"

  Jeckie picked up the sheet of paper, folded it, slipped it under hershawl, and turned to the door.

  "That's all right," she said. "I only wanted to know. Get on!"

  This it was that sent her, dressed in her best, a fine figure of awoman, just on the right side of middle age, into Sicaster that morning.But before she reached the town she called in at Albert Grice's villa.It was still early, and Albert and Lucilla were seated at theirbreakfast table. Jeckie walked in on them, closed the door, after makingcertain that the parlour-maid was not lingering on the mat outside,declined to eat or drink, pulled a chair up to the table, and producedthe sheet of paper on which the manager had made his reckoning.

  "Look here!" she said. "You know that this--what with that buildingscheme and one thing and another--is costing us a lot more nor ever we'dreckoned on; things always does. Now then, I've made Robinson workout--carefully--exactly how much more we shall have to lay out yetbefore that pit's in full working order. Here's the amount. Look at it!"

  Albert and Lucilla bent their heads over the sheet of paper. Albert madea sound which expressed nothing; Lucilla screamed.

  "Mercy on us!" she exclaimed. "I can't find any more money; it'simpossible! Why----"

  "Never said you could," interrupted Jeckie. "I'll find it; all t'lot.But ... bear in mind, when I've found that, as I will, at once, my sharein our united capital'll be just eight times as much as yours. So, ofcourse, your share in the profits'll be according. D'you see!"

  Lucilla made no answer, but Albert immediately assumed the air of a wiseand knowing business man.

  "Oh, of course, that's right enough, Lucilla!" he said. "That'saccording to strict principles. Share in profits in relation to amountof capital held by each partner. You'll be able to find this capital?"he continued, turning to Jeckie. "It 'ud never do for things tostop--now!"

  "I'll find it--at once," declared Jeckie. "Naught's going to stop. Butyour wife must sign this memorandum that the sharing's to be as I'vejust said, and we'll have the deed of partnership altered in accordance.After all, it'll make no difference to you. You'll get your profits onyour capital just the same." She produced a typewritten document whichshe had prepared herself after her interview with the manager, and whenLucilla had signed it, went off in silence to the town. Her first visitwas to the bank, where she asked for a certain box which reposed in thestrong-room; she opened it in a waiting-room, took from it a bundle ofsecurities, gave the box back to the clerk, and going out, repaired to astock and share broker's. Within half an hour she was back at the bank,and there, in the usual grim silence in which she usually transactedsimilar business, paid in to the credit of Farnish & Grice a chequewhich represented a very heavy amount of money.

  And now came the last desperate move. She had just sold every stock andshare she possessed; she had only one thing left to sell, and that wasthe business in which she had been so successful. She walked twice roundthe old market place before she finally made up her mind. It was fifteenyears since she had caused the golden teapot to be placed over the doorof the house which she had rented from Stubley, and she had prosperedbeyond belief. There was no such business as hers in that neighbourhood.And there were folk who would be only too willing to buy it. She turnedat last and walked determinedly into the shop of the leading grocer inSicaster, a man of means, who was at that time Mayor of the old borough.If anybody was to step into her shoes he was the man.

  He was just within the shop, a big, old-fashioned place, when Jeckiewalked in, and he stared at her in surprise. Jeckie showed neithersurprise nor embarrassment; now that her mind was made up she was ascool and matter-of-fact as ever, and her voice and manner showed none ofthe agitation which she had felt ten minutes before.

  "I want a few minutes' talk with you, Mr. Bradingham," she said. "Canyou spare them?"

  "Certainly, Miss Farnish!" answered the grocer, an elderly,prosperous-looking man, who only needed his mayoral chain over his smartmorning coat to look as if he were just about to step on the bench."Come this way."

  He led her into a private office at the rear of the shop and gave her achair by his desk; Jeckie began operations before he had seated himself.

  "Mr. Bradingham!" she said. "You know what a fine business I haveyonder at Savilestowe?"

  Bradingham laughed--there was a note of humour in the sound.

  "We all know that who are in the same trade, Miss Farnish," he answered."I should think you've got all the best families, within six milesround, on your books! You're a wonderful woman, you know."

  "Mr. Bradingham," said Jeckie, "I want to sell my business as it stands.I want to devote all my time to yon colliery. I've made lots o' moneyout of the grocery trade, and lots more out o' what I made in that way,but that's naught to what I'm going to make out o' coal. So--I mustsell. Will you buy?--as it stands--stock, goodwill, book debts (allsound, you may be sure, else there wouldn't be any!), vans, carts,everything? I'd rather sell to you than to anybody, 'cause you'll carryit on as I did. You can make a branch of this business of yours, or youcan keep up the old name--whichever seems best to you."

  Bradingham looked silently at his visitor for what seemed to her a longtime.

  "That's what you really want, then?" he said at last. "To concentrate onyour new venture."

  "I don't believe in running two businesses," answered Jeckie. "I'mbeginning to feel--I do feel!--that it's got to be one or t'other.And--it's going to be coal!"

  "You've sunk a lot in that pit, already?" he remarked.

  "Aye--and more than a lot!" responded Jeckie. "But it's naught to whatI mean to pull out of it!"

  Bradingham continued to watch his visitor for a minute or two and shesaw that he was thinking and calculating.

  "I've no objection to buying your business," he said at last. "Lookhere--I'll drive out to Savilestowe this afternoon, and you can show meeverything, and the books, and so on, and then we'll talk. I'm due atthe Mayor's parlour now. Three o'clock then."

  As Jeckie drove back to Savilestowe she remembered something. Sheremembered the day on which she had run down from Applecroft to get oldGeorge Grice's help, and how he had come up and found poverty and ruin.Now, another man was coming to see and value what she had created--hewould find a splendid trade, a rich and flourishing business--all madeby herself. But it must go. The pit was yawning for money--moremoney--still more money. And as in a vision, she saw sacks of gold, andwagon loads of silver, and bundles of scrip, and handfuls of banknotesall being hastened into the blackness of the shaft and disappearingthere. It was as if Mammon, the ever-hungry, ever-demanding, sat at thefoot, refusing to be appeased.