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- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In 'The Root of All Evil' by J. S. Fletcher, the reader is taken on a thrilling journey through the complexities of human nature and the pursuit of wealth. Set in the early 20th century, this mystery novel follows a cast of characters as they navigate greed, deception, and betrayal in their quest for financial gain. Fletcher's literary style is characterized by its intricate plot twists, vivid descriptions, and engaging dialogue. The book is a prime example of the golden age of detective fiction, capturing the essence of the era's fascination with crime and intrigue. Readers will be kept on the edge of their seats as they try to unravel the mysterious circumstances surrounding a dubious inheritance. J. S. Fletcher's attention to detail and clever storytelling make 'The Root of All Evil' a compelling read for fans of classic detective fiction and historical mysteries. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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The Root of All Evil
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Table of Contents
Introduction
Centered on the uneasy conviction that the pursuit of money can warp judgment, loyalty, and even the plain face of truth, The Root of All Evil follows the currents of suspicion that rise when ordinary transactions begin to conceal extraordinary harm, tracing how accounts, legacies, and whispered bargains can entangle a community in peril while an inquiry presses from the edges toward the hidden heart of motive, step by step and clue by clue, reminding us that in the ledger of human conduct, figures and facts are never merely neutral, and that the desire to possess may, in the end, possess those who cherish it.
J. S. Fletcher’s The Root of All Evil is a British detective novel from the early twentieth century, composed in an era that helped set the stage for the Golden Age of mystery fiction. Drawing on recognizable institutions and streetscapes of British life, it situates crime not in exotic locales but in familiar offices, houses, and market thoroughfares where reputation and routine carry real weight. Fletcher, a former journalist and historian, brings a reporter’s eye to narrative detection, favoring clarity, momentum, and the patient accumulation of detail. The result is a story grounded in everyday spaces, where ordinary procedures shape extraordinary consequences.
Without venturing beyond its opening setup, the novel initiates its investigation with a sudden crisis and a troubling tangle of money, a combination that draws official attention even as private curiosity begins to test the edges of the case. The narrative voice is measured and practical, observing procedures, conversations, and small irregularities with steady focus rather than melodrama. Fletcher’s style privileges legible motives and concrete evidence, allowing the reader to watch deductions form from interviews, quiet rumors, and the discovery of papers that do not align. The tone is sober, quietly tense, and confident that patient reasoning will prevail.
Running throughout is a meditation on how financial power intersects with status, secrecy, and the stories people tell about themselves. The title signals a preoccupation with the moral hazards attached to windfalls, obligations, and the intoxicating nearness of gain, yet the book resists cynicism by examining responsibility case by case. It considers the fragility of respectability, the limits of institutional oversight, and the way community memory both illuminates and obscures the past. Chance occurrences are weighed against design, and the narrative repeatedly invites us to ask whether a pattern is emerging or being imposed by onlookers eager for certainty.
For contemporary readers, this remains compelling because its questions map cleanly onto modern anxieties about money’s reach into private and civic life. The plot’s careful accounting of transactions, signatures, and seemingly minor discrepancies anticipates today’s concern with paper trails, data traces, and the ethics of financial management. It also speaks to current debates about trust—what we owe our neighbors and institutions, and how confidence can be squandered or rebuilt. Fletcher’s commitment to method offers an alternative to sensational shortcuts, presenting reasoned inquiry as a civic virtue and reminding us that clear thinking is a form of social care.
As a piece of craft, the book is notable for its unfussy architecture: episodes are arranged so that each new lead revises the meaning of what came before, while misdirections arise organically from character and circumstance rather than contrivance. The prose is lucid and economical, attentive to the choreography of rooms, streets, and desk drawers where small objects assume large importance. Clues accumulate across interviews and documents, and the rhythm balances steady movement with the reflective pauses that make connections click into place. This produces a satisfying sense of discovery, the feeling that order is earned rather than imposed.
Taken as a whole, The Root of All Evil offers both a classic mystery experience and a lens on its moment, capturing the pressures of a society negotiating modern finance and old loyalties. It is a strong entry point for readers new to Fletcher and a rewarding study for admirers of early British crime fiction, precisely because it demonstrates how ordinary worlds can harbor extraordinary motives. Without relying on pyrotechnics, it achieves its effects through attention, patience, and moral acuity. To read it now is to engage a durable question: what, exactly, does money purchase, and what does it cost?
Synopsis
The Root of All Evil, a detective novel by British writer J. S. Fletcher, opens in a quiet provincial community disrupted by an abrupt, disquieting incident and whispers of missing money. Against this unsettled backdrop, routine respectability gives way to anxiety as officials and townspeople trade guarded remarks about accounts, debts, and long-standing obligations. An inquiry begins, not with spectacular revelations, but with small, telling inconsistencies: a late message, a door found unlatched, a receipt where none should be. From the outset, Fletcher frames the case as a study of how financial pressures infiltrate everyday lives, setting motive against circumstance.
As the investigation gathers pace, a determined inquirer—neither fully official nor wholly amateur—moves from shop to office, gathering testimony that often contradicts itself. Conversations about credit and partnership reveal unease beneath polite surfaces, while ledgers hint at obligations stretching farther than anyone admits. A key figure’s recent movements are reconstructed from mundane traces: a visit to a clerk, a quiet meeting in a back room, a hurried note sent at dusk. What appears at first a local misfortune begins to look like the outgrowth of entangled finances, in which several citizens might gain or lose greatly depending on what comes to light.
Fletcher then tightens the focus on a small group of respectable figures whose routines intersect with the disputed accounts. Alibis are tested against timetables and receipts; an innocuous entry in a passbook suddenly matters; a phrase in a letter opens a line of inquiry into an older transaction. The more the inquirer checks one statement against another, the more the motive narrows to advantage sought at a vulnerable moment. Yet social standing complicates the pursuit, because accusations carry civic consequences. The narrative balances courthouse procedure with street-level observation, showing how influence can delay scrutiny without finally diverting it.
Running alongside the central puzzle is a personal strand involving a younger figure whose prospects hinge on clearing a family shadow. Promises made in confidence, and small kindnesses repaid with silence, complicate the telling of truth. A modest token—something easily overlooked in daily use—assumes significance when set against the financial records, suggesting a connection between private affection and public risk. Fletcher uses these contrasts to press on questions of loyalty: who will speak if speech threatens livelihood, and who will conceal if disclosure might save another? The subplot raises the emotional stakes without displacing the steady, documentary march of facts.
As clues accumulate, the inquiry extends beyond the town’s main streets to neighboring districts and institutional corridors where signatures carry weight. A visit to a banking office sheds light on a chain of endorsements; a journey to consult an older file reveals how long the relevant obligations have endured. Motive converges on the pressure of debt and the lure of inheritance, but the story resists simple assignments of guilt. Instead, it presents a network in which each participant’s small decision abets a larger consequence. The inquirer’s method remains patient and practical, testing recollection against record until patterns harden into probability.
Approaching its climax, the novel introduces fresh urgency when a related incident exposes the stakes of delay. A document withheld, then found, reframes earlier testimony and aligns disparate timelines. With motives newly clarified, the circle of possible responsibility narrows, and the machinery of law begins to engage more decisively. Fletcher paces these developments with measured disclosures, allowing cause and effect to emerge from ordinary details rather than theatrical reveals. The concluding stretch turns on how long-held fears yield to inevitability, yet the precise allocation of culpability, and the ultimate consequence for those entangled, is reserved for the reader to discover.
In closing, The Root of All Evil stands as a characteristic Fletcher investigation into the ways money shapes conduct and community. Its emphasis on paperwork, routine settings, and measured testimony offers a grounded alternative to more flamboyant detection, while its portrait of respectable ambition shading into peril remains recognizable. The novel’s restraint with sensational detail lets questions of trust, obligation, and self-justification come forward, inviting reflection on how financial desire rationalizes risk. As an early-twentieth-century crime narrative, it links individual wrongdoing to shared structures, and its cautionary insight into the costs of gain gives the story enduring resonance without requiring explicit moralizing.
Historical Context
J. S. Fletcher (1863–1935) was an English journalist and novelist whose detective and crime stories flourished in the first decades of the twentieth century. The Root of All Evil belongs to that phase, when popular fiction increasingly organized mysteries around police procedure, legal institutions, and a clear chain of evidence. Britain’s established frameworks—county constabularies, coroners’ inquests, solicitors’ practices, and assize courts—furnish the novel’s procedural backdrop. Fletcher wrote for a mass reading public shaped by cheap reprints and circulating libraries, and he adapted journalistic habits of observation to fiction, favoring plausible motives, documentary detail, and the close interconnection of money, respectability, and criminal opportunity.
Set in early twentieth‑century England, the story unfolds within the ordinary topography of civic life: provincial market towns and small cities in conversation with metropolitan London. Nineteenth‑century municipal and county reforms—culminating in the Local Government Act 1888 and subsequent legislation—had created elected councils, treasurers, and committees overseeing local finance and policing. Such structures concentrated authority in a recognizable circle of solicitors, shopkeepers, bankers, and aldermen, whose reputations were both assets and vulnerabilities. The novel’s social world reflects this fabric of civic respectability, where private dealings, public duty, and financial temptation often intersected in observable, documentable ways.
At the turn of the century British policing was consolidating professional methods. Scotland Yard created its Fingerprint Bureau in 1901, and provincial forces increasingly coordinated records and circulated descriptions through national bulletins and the press. Coroners’ inquests—held publicly and reported in newspapers—remained a crucial early forum for assembling testimony, medical opinion, and circumstantial facts in sudden or suspicious deaths. Forensic pathology was becoming more systematic, though still dependent on local doctors and available facilities. Fletcher’s narratives draw on these realities: the staged progression from discovery, to inquest, to magistrates’ hearings, to higher courts, and the careful accumulation of small pieces of corroboration to build a prosecutable case.
Economic life in early twentieth‑century Britain rested on dense networks of joint‑stock banks, savings accounts, building societies, and insurance firms, all underpinned by the gold standard before 1914 and again after 1925. Ordinary people used passbooks, cheques, postal orders, and registered post to move funds and valuables, creating both safeguards and exploitable gaps. Estate duty introduced by the Finance Act 1894 made wills, probates, and valuations matters of close record, while forgery, embezzlement, and larceny were policed under consolidated Victorian and Edwardian statutes. Fletcher’s plot machinery relies on this paperwork‑heavy world, where ledgers, receipts, and signatures—verified or falsified—can decide reputations, fortunes, and the direction of a criminal inquiry.
Modern transport and communication broadened the horizons of crime and detection in Fletcher’s era. Britain’s railway network allowed rapid movement between provincial towns and metropolitan centers, timetabled to the minute. Telegraph and telephone services run through the General Post Office linked police stations, newspapers, and businesses, while registered mail offered secure—but not infallible—transmission of documents or cash. The Motor Car Act 1903 introduced vehicle registration and new offenses, and bicycles remained ubiquitous. Such mobility complicated alibis and timelines yet aided investigators’ pursuit. Timetables, posted correspondence, and public schedules provided verifiable anchors for motive, opportunity, and means in narratives grounded in contemporary English life.
English criminal procedure provided a recognizable pathway from suspicion to verdict. After an inquest in a death case, magistrates’ courts handled early committal proceedings, and serious offenses went to the assizes before judge and jury. The office of the Director of Public Prosecutions, established in 1879, could advise or conduct cases of public importance, while the Criminal Appeal Act 1907 created a Court of Criminal Appeal to review convictions. The division of labor between solicitors (client-facing) and barristers (courtroom advocates) shaped strategy and access to information. Fletcher leverages these structures, depicting how testimony, documentary exhibits, and expert opinion are marshaled to transform suspicion into legal proof.
Literarily, the book sits near the threshold of the Golden Age of Detective Fiction, which burgeoned in the 1920s and 1930s. Fletcher followed Arthur Conan Doyle and stood alongside R. Austin Freeman and, slightly later, Freeman Wills Crofts in emphasizing careful clue‑weighing, geography, and procedure over melodrama. His background in journalism and his authorship of regional histories—such as works on Yorkshire—ground his scenes in plausible places and institutions, favoring civic offices, counting‑houses, and newspaper rooms over exotic backdrops. The Root of All Evil echoes a contemporary taste for clue‑driven mysteries, inviting readers to assess documents and timelines alongside police and counsel.
The novel’s title foregrounds a central preoccupation of its time: the moral and social consequences of money. In an age marked by expanding credit, investment schemes, and public scrutiny of financial probity, Fletcher’s narrative examines how greed, indebtedness, and the pursuit of status can corrode civic trust. By tracing a crime through inquests, offices, and courtrooms, the book reflects confidence in rational inquiry and institutional due process, yet it also critiques the fragility of respectability when confronted with financial temptation. The Root of All Evil thus mirrors early twentieth‑century Britain’s anxieties and ideals, treating wealth as both the medium of ambition and a spur to wrongdoing.
The Root of All Evil
Part the First: RISE
CHAPTER I
Applecroft
Half-way along the one straggling street of Savilestowe a narrow lane suddenly opened out between the cottages and turned abruptly towards the uplands which rose on the northern edge of the village. Its first course lay between high grey walls, overhung with ivy and snapdragon. When it emerged from their cool shadowings the church came in view on one hand and the school on the other, each set on its own green knoll and standing high above the meadows. Once past these it became narrower and more tortuous; the banks on either side rose steeply, and were crowned by ancient oaks and elms. In the proper season of the year these banks were thick with celandine and anemone, and the scent of hedge violets rose from the moss among the spreading roots of the trees. Here the ruts of the lane were deep, as if no man had any particular business to repair them. The lane was, in fact, a mere occupation road, and led to nothing but an out-of-the-way farmstead, which stood, isolated and forlorn, half a mile from the village. It bore a picturesque name—Applecroft[1]—and an artist, straying by chance up the lane and coming suddenly upon it would have rejoiced in its queer gables, its twisted chimneys, in the beeches and chestnuts that towered above it, and in the old-world garden and orchard which flanked one side of its brick walls, mellowed by time to the colour of claret. But had such a pilgrim looked closer he would have seen that here were all the marks of ill-fortune and coming ruin—evident, at any rate, to practical eyes in the neglected gates and fences, in the empty fold, in the hingeless, tumble-down doors, in the lack of that stitch in time which by anticipation would have prevented nine more. He would have seen, in short, that this was one of those places, of which there are so many in rural England, whereat a feckless man, short of money, was vainly endeavouring to do what no man can do without brains and capital.
Nevertheless—so powerfully will Nature assert her own wealth in the face of human poverty—the place looked bright and attractive enough on a certain morning, when, it then being May, the trees around it were in the first glory of their leafage, and the orchard was red and white with blossom of apple and plum and cherry. There was a scent of sweetbriar and mignonette around the broken wicket gate which admitted to the garden, and in the garden itself, ill-kept and neglected, a hundred flowers and weeds, growing together unchecked, made patches of vivid colour against the prevalent green. There were other patches of colour, of a different sort, about the place, too. Beyond the garden, and a little to the right of the house, a level sward, open to the full light of the sun, made an excellent drying ground for the family washing, and here, busily hanging out various garments on lines of cord, stretched between rough posts, were two young women, the daughters of William Farnish, the shiftless farmer, whose hold on his house and land was daily becoming increasingly feeble. If any shrewd observer able to render himself invisible had looked all round Applecroft—inside house and hedge, through granary and stable—he would have gone away saying with emphasis, that he had seen nothing worth having there, save the two girls whose print gowns fluttered about their shapely limbs as they raised their bare arms and full bosoms to the cords on which they were pegging out the wet linen.
Farnish's wife had been dead some years, and since her death his two daughters had not only done all the work of the house, but much of what their father managed to carry out on his hundred acres of land. They bore strange names—selected by Farnish and his wife, after much searching and reflection, from the pages of the family Bible. The elder was named Jecholiah; the younger Jerusha. As time had gone on Jecholiah had become Jeckie; Jerusha had been shortened to Rushie. Everybody in the parish and the neighbourhood knew Jeckie and Rushie Farnish. They had always been inseparable, these sisters, yet it needed little particular observation to see that there was a difference of character and temperament between them. Jeckie, at twenty-five, was a tall, handsome, finely-developed young woman, generous in proportion, with a flashing, determined eye, and a mouth and chin which denoted purpose and obstinacy; she was the sort of woman that could love like fire, but whom it would be dangerous to cross in love. Already many of the young men of the district, catching one flash of her hawk-like eyes, had felt themselves warned, and it had been a matter of astonishment to some discerning folk when it became known that she was going to marry Albert Grice, the only son of old George Grice, the village grocer, a somewhat colourless, tame young man whose vices were non-existent and his virtues commonplace, and who had nothing to recommend him but a good-humoured, weak amiability and a rather good-looking, boyish face. Some said that Jeckie was thinking of Old Grice's money-bags, but the vicar's wife, who studied psychology in purely amateur fashion, said that Jeckie Farnish had taken up Albert Grice in precisely the same spirit which makes a child love a legless and faceless doll, and an old maid a miserable mongrel—just in response to the mothering instinct; whether Jeckie loved him, they said, nobody would ever know, for Jeckie, with her proud, scornful lips and eyes full of sombre passion, was not the sort to tell her heart's secrets to anybody. Not so, however, with her sister Rushie, a soft, pretty, lovable, kissable, cuddlesome slip of a girl, who was all for love, and would have been run after by every lad in the village and half the shop-boys in the neighbouring market town, if it had not been that Jeckie's mothering and grandmothering eye had always been on her. Rushie represented one thing in femininity; her sister typified its very opposite. Rushie was of the tribe of Venus, but Jeckie of the daughters of Minerva.
Something of the circumstances and character of this family might have been gathered from the quality of the garments which the sisters were industriously hanging out to dry in the sun and wind. Most of them were their own, and in the bulk there was nothing of the frill and lace of the fine lady, but rather plain linen and calico. An expert housewife, fingering whatever there was, would have said that each separate article had been worn to thinness. Thus, too, were the sheets and pillow-cases and towels; and of such coarse stuff as belonged to Farnish himself—all represented the underwear and appointments of poor folk. But while there was patching and darning in plenty, there were no rags. If her father allowed a gate to fall off its posts rather than hunt up an old hinge and a few nails, Jeckie took good care that her needle and thread came out on the first sign of a rent; it was harder to replace than to repair, in her experience. And now, as she put the last peg in the last scrap of damp linen, it was with the proud consciousness that if the whole show was poverty-stricken it was at least whole and clean.
"That's the lot, Rushie!" she said, turning to her sister as she picked up the empty linen basket[1q]. "A good drying wind, too. We'll be able to get to mangling[2] and ironing by tea-time."
Rushie, who had no such love of labour as her sister, made no answer. She followed Jeckie across the drying-ground and into the house; it was indicative of her nature that she immediately dropped into the nearest chair. The washing had been going on since a very early hour in the morning, broken only by a hastily-snatched breakfast; on the table in the one living-room the dirty cups and plates still lay spread about in confusion. And Jeckie, who had eyes all round her head, glanced at them, and at the old clock in the corner, and at her sister, sitting down, all at once.
"Nay, child!" she exclaimed. "It's over soon for that game! Eleven already, and naught done for dinner. Get those pots washed up, Rushie, and then see to the potatoes. Father'll none be so long before he's home; and there'll be Doadie Bartle and him for their dinners at twelve o'clock. Come on, now!"
"I'm tired," said Rushie, as she slowly rose, and began to clear up the untidy table[2q]. "We've never done in this house!"
"So'm I," retorted Jeckie. "But what's that to do with it when there's things to be done? Hurry up now, while I look after those fowls; they've never been seen to this morning."
She caught up a sieve as she spoke, filled it with waste stuff from a tub in the scullery, and, going out through the back of the house, walked into the fold behind, calling as she went to the cocks and hens which were endeavouring to find something for themselves amongst its boulders. None knew better than Jeckie the importance and value of that feathered brood. For three years she had kept things going with her poultry and eggs, and with the milk and butter which she got from the four cows that formed Farnish's chief property. The money that she made in this fashion had found the family in food and clothing, and gone some way towards paying the rent. And as she stood there throwing handfuls of food to the fowls, scurring and snatching about her feet, she had a curious sense that outside them and the cows feeding in the adjacent meadow there was literally nothing about the whole farmstead but poverty. The fold was destitute of manure; half a stack of straw stood desolate in the adjoining stack-garth; there was no hay in the loft nor corn in the granary; whatever produce he raised Farnish was always obliged to sell at once. The few pigs which he possessed were at that moment rooting in the lane for something to swell out their lank sides; his one horse was standing disconsolate by the trough near the well, mournfully regarding its emptiness. And Jeckie, as she threw away the last contents of her sieve and went over to the pump, had a vision of what other possibilities there were on the farm—certain acres of wheat and barley, of potatoes and turnips, the welfare of which, to be sure, depended upon the weather. She had a pretty keen idea of what they would bring in that coming autumn in the way of money; she had an equally good one of what Farnish would have to do with it.
The horse, a fairly decent animal, drank greedily when Jeckie had pumped water into the trough, and as soon as he had taken his fill of this cheap commodity she opened the gate of the fold and let him out into the lane to pick up whatever he could get—that was an equally cheap way of feeding stock. Then, always with an eye to snatching up the potentialities of profit, she began to go round the farm buildings, looking for eggs. Hens, as all hen-wives know, are aggravating creatures, and will lay their eggs in any nook or corner. Jeckie knew where eggs were to be found—in beds of nettles, or under the stick-cast in the orchard, or behind the worn-out implements in the barn. Twice a day she or Rushie searched the precincts of Applecroft high and low rather than lose one of the precious things which went to make up so many dozen for market every Saturday, and when they had finished their labours it was always with the uneasy feeling that some perverse Black Spanish or Cochin China had successfully hidden away what would have brought in at any rate a few pence. But a few pence meant much. Though there were always eggs by the score in the wicker baskets in Jeckie's dairy, none were ever eaten by the family nor used for cooking purposes. That, indeed, would have been equivalent to eating money. Eggs meant other things—beef, bread, rent.
Jeckie's search after the morning's eggs took her up into the old pigeon-cote of the farm—an octagon building on the roof of the granary—wherein there had been no pigeons for a long time. Approached by a narrow, much-worn stone stairway, set between the walls of barn and granary, this cobwebbed and musty place was honeycombed from the broken floor to the dilapidated roof by nests of pigeon-holes. There were scores upon scores of them, and Jeckie never knew in which she might not find an egg. Consequently, in order to make an exhaustive search, it was necessary to climb all round the place, examining every row and every separate chamber. In doing this she had to pass the broken window, long destitute of the thick glass which had once been there. Looking through it, she saw her father coming up the lane from the village. At this, leaving her search to be resumed later, she went down to the fold again, carefully carrying her eggs before her in her bunched-up apron; for Jeckie knew that Farnish had been into Sicaster, the neighbouring market-town, that morning on a question that had to do with money, and whenever money was concerned her instincts were immediately aroused.
Farnish was riding into the fold as she regained it, and he got off his pony as she went towards him, and silently removing its saddle and bridle, turned it loose in the lane, to keep the horse company and find its dinner for itself. Carrying its furniture, he advanced in the direction of his daughter—a tall, lank, shambling man, with a wisp of yellowish-grey whisker on either side of a thin, weak face—and shook his head as he turned into the stable, where Jeckie silently followed him. He flung saddle and bridle into an empty manger, seated himself on a corn-bin, and, swinging his long legs, shook his head again.
"Well?" demanded Jeckie.
Farnish, for a long time, had found it difficult to encounter his elder daughter's steady and questioning gaze, and he did not meet it now. His eyes wandered restlessly about the stable, as if wondering out of which particular hole the next rat would look, and he made no show of speech.
"You may as well out with it," said Jeckie[3q]. "What is it, now?"
There was an emphasis on the last word that made Farnish look at his daughter for a brief second; he looked away just as quickly, and began to drum his fingers on his bony knees.
"Aye, well, mi lass!" he answered, in a low tone. "As ye say—now! Ye may as well hear now as later. It's just like this here. Things is about at an end! That's the long and that's the short, as the saying goes."
"You'll have to be plainer than that," retorted Jeckie. "What is it? Money, of course! But—who's wanting it?"
Farnish made as if he swallowed something with an effort, and he kept his eyes steadily averted.
"I didn't make ye acquainted wi' it at the time," he said, after a brief silence. "But ye see, Jeckie, my lass, at t'last back-end I had to borrow money fro' one o' them money-lendin' fellers at Clothford—them 'at advertises, like, i' t'newspapers. I were forced to it!—couldn't ha' gone on, nohow, wi'out it at t'time. And so, course, why, its owin'!"
"How much?" demanded Jeckie.
"It were a matter o' two hundred 'at I borrowed," replied Farnish. "But—there's a bit o' interest, of course. It's that there interest——"
"What are they going to do?" asked Jeckie. Her whole instinct was to get at the worst—to come to grips. "Let's be knowing!" she said impatiently. "What's the use of keeping it back?"
"They can sell me up," answered Farnish in a low tone. "They can sell aught there is. I signed papers, d'ye see, mi lass. I had to. There were no two ways about it."
Jeckie made no answer. She saw the whole of Applecroft and its hundred acres as in a vision. Sold up! There was, indeed, she thought, with bitter and ironic contempt, a lot to sell! Household furniture, live stock, dead stock, growing crops—was the whole lot worth two hundred pounds? Perhaps; but, then there would be nothing left. Now, out of the cows and the poultry a living could be scratched together, but. …
"I been into Sicaster to see Mr.Burstlewick, th' bank manager," continued Farnish. "I telled him all t'tale. He said he were very sorry, and he couldn't do naught. Naught at all! So, you see, my lass, that's where it is. An' it's a rare pity," he concluded, with a burst of sentimental self-condolence, "for it's a good year for weather, and I reckon 'at what we have on our land'll be worth three or four hundred pound this back-end. And all for t'want of a hundred pounds, Jeckie, mi lass!"
"What do you mean by a hundred pound?" exclaimed Jeckie. "You said two!"
"Aye, but ye don't understand, mi lass," answered Farnish. "If I could give 'em half on it d'ye see, and sign a paper to pay t'other half when harvest's been and gone—what?"
"Would that satisfy 'em?" asked Jeckie suspiciously.
"So they telled me, t'last time I saw 'em," replied Farnish in apparent sincerity. "'Give us half on it, Mr.Farnish,' they said, 'and t'other half and t'interest can run on.' So they said; but it's three weeks since, is that."
Jeckie meditated for a moment; then she suddenly turned, left the stable, and, crossing the empty fold, got rid of her eggs. She went into the kitchen; took something from its place in the delf-ledge[3], and, with another admonition to Rushie to see to the dinner, walked out into the garden, and set off down the lane outside. Farnish, from the fold, saw her going, and as her print gown vanished he turned into the house with a sigh of mingled relief and anticipation. But as he came in sight of the delf-ledge the sigh changed to a groan. Jeckie, he saw, had carried away the key of the beer barrel, and whereas he might have had a quart in her certain absence he would now get nothing but a mere glass on her problematical return.
CHAPTER II
The Tight Lip
Ever since her mother's death, ten years before the events of that morning, Jeckie, as responsible manager of household affairs, had cultivated an instinct which had been born in her—the instinct, if a thing had to be done to do it there and then. As soon as Farnish unburdened himself of his difficulty, his daughter's quick brain began to revolve schemes of salvation. There was nothing new in her father's situation; she had helped him out of similar ones more than once. More than once, too, she had borrowed money for him—money to pay an extra-pressing bill; money to make up the rent; money to satisfy the taxes or rates—and she had always taken good care to see that what she had borrowed was punctually repaid when harvest came round—a time of the year when Farnish usually had something to sell. Accordingly, what she had just heard in the stable did not particularly alarm her; she took her father's story in all good faith, and believed that if he could stave off the Clothford money-lender with a hundred pounds on account all would go on in the old way until autumn, when money would be coming in. And her sole idea in setting off to the village was to borrow the necessary sum. Once borrowed, she would see to it that it was at once forwarded to the importunate creditor; she would see to it, too, that it was repaid to whomever it was that she got it from. As to that last particular, she was canvassing certain possibilities as she walked quickly down the lane. There was Mr.Stubley, the biggest farmer in the place, who was also understeward for the estate. She had more than once borrowed twenty or thirty pounds from him, and he had always had it back. Then there was Mr.Merritt, almost as well-to-do as Mr.Stubley. The same reflections applied to him, and he was a good natured man. And there was old George Grice, Albert's father, who was as warm a man as any tradesman of the neighbourhood. One or other of these three would surely lend her a hundred pounds; she was, indeed, so certain of it that she felt no doubt on the matter, and her only regret at the moment was that her visit to the village might make her a little late for her dinner—no unimportant matter to her, a healthy young woman of good appetite, who had breakfasted scantily at six o'clock. Jeckie took a short cut across the churchyard and down the church lane, and came out upon the village street a little above the cross roads. There, talking to the landlord of the "Coach-and-Four[4]," who stood in his open doorway holding a tray and a glass, she saw Mr.Stubley a comfortable man, who spent all his mornings on a fat old pony, ambling about his land. Stubley saw her coming along the street, and, with a nod to the landlord, touched the pony with his ash-plant switch and steered him in her direction. Jeckie, who had a spice of the sanguine in her temperament, took this as a good omen; she had an idea that in five more minutes she would be with this prosperous elderly farmer in his cozy parlour, close by, watching him laboriously writing out a cheque. And she smiled almost gaily as the pony and its burden came to the side of the road along which she walked.
"Now, mi lass!" said Mr.Stubley, looking her closely over out of his sharp eyes. "What're you doing down town this time o' day? Going to Grice's, I reckon? I were wanting a word or two wi' you," he went on, before Jeckie could get in a word of her own. "A word or two i' private, you understand. You're aware, of course, mi lass," he continued, bending down from his saddle. "You're aware 'at t'rent day's none so far off? What?"
A sudden sense of fear sent the warm flush out of Jeckie's cheeks, and left her pale. Her dark eyes grew darker as she looked at the man who was regarding her so steadily and inquiringly.
"What about the rent-day Mr.Stubley?" she asked. "What do you mean?"
"I had a line from t'steward this morning," answered Stubley. "He just mentioned a matter—'at he hoped Farnish 'ud be ready with the rent; and t'last half-year's an' all. What?"
The hot blood came back to Jeckie's cheeks in a fierce wave. She felt, somehow, as if some man's hand had smitten her, right and left.
"The last half-year's rent!" she repeated. "Do—do you mean that father didn't pay it?"
Stubley looked at her for an instant with speculation in his shrewd eyes. Then he nodded his head. There was a world of meaning in the nod.
"Paid nowt!" he answered. "Nowt at all. Not a penny piece, mi lass."
Jeckie's hands fell limply to her sides.
"I didn't know," she answered, helplessly. "He—he never told me. I'd no idea of it; Mr.Stubley."
"Dare say not, mi lass," said the farmer. "It 'ud be better for Farnish if he'd to tell a young woman like you more nor what he does, seemin'ly. But, now—is he going to be ready this time?"
Jeckie made no answer. She stood looking up and down the street, seeing all manner of things, real and unreal. And suddenly a look of sullen anger came into her eyes and round her red lips.
"How can I tell?" she said. "He—as you say—he doesn't tell me!"
Stubley bent still lower, and, from sheer force of habit, glanced right and left before he spoke.
"Aye, well, Jeckie, mi lass!" he said in low tones. "Then I'll tell you summat. Look to yourself—you an' yon sister o' yours! There's queer talk about Farnish. I've heard it, time and again, at market and where else. He'll none last so long, my lass—can't! It's my opinion there'll be no rent for t'steward; nowt but excuses and begging off, and such like; he's hard up, is your father! It 'ud be a deal better for him to give up, Jeckie; he'll never carry on! Now, you're a sensible young woman; what say you?"
There was a strong, almost mulish sense of obstinacy in the Farnish blood, and it was particularly developed in Farnish's elder daughter. Jeckie stood for a moment staring across the road. She looked as if she were gazing at the sign of the "Coach-and-Four," which had recently been done up and embellished with a new frame. In reality she saw neither it nor the ancient hostelry behind it. What she did see was a vision of her own!
"I don't know, Mr.Stubley," she answered suddenly. "My father's like all little farmers—no capital and always short o' ready money. But there's money to come in; come harvest and winter! And I know that if I'd that farm on my hands, I'd make it pay. I could make it pay now if I'd all my own way with it. But——"
