Part 18 (2/2)
In spite of the somewhat hermit-like life he led, he nevertheless had something of an acquaintance with his fellow-creatures. Among these fellow-creatures there was one, Job Grantley, a labourer on the home farm, possessed of a pretty, rather fragile wife, and a baby of about three months old. Antony had a kindly feeling for the fellow, and often they exchanged the time of day when meeting on the road, or when Job chanced to pa.s.s Antony's garden in the evening.
One evening Antony, busy weeding his small flagged path, saw Job in the road.
”Good evening,” said Antony; and then he perceived by the other's face, that matters were not as they might be.
”Sure, what's amiss with the world at all?” demanded Antony, going down towards the gate.
”It's that fellow Curtis,” said Job briefly, leaning on the gate.
”And what'll he have been up to now?” asked Antony. It would not be the first time he had heard tales of the agent.
Job kicked the gate.
”Says he's wanting my cottage for a chauffeur he's getting down from Bristol, and I'm to turn out at the end of August.”
”Devil take the man!” cried Antony. ”Why can't his new chauffeur be living in the room above the garage, like the old one?”
Job grunted. ”Because this one's a married man.”
”And where are you to go at all?” demanded a wrathful Antony.
”He says I can have the cottage over to Crossways,” said Job. ”He knows 'tis three mile farther from my work. But that's not all. 'Tis double the rent, and I can't afford it. And that's the long and short of it.”
Antony dug his hoe savagely into the earth.
”Why can't he be putting his own chauffeur there, and be paying him wage enough for the higher rent?” he asked.
”Why can't he?” said Job bitterly. ”Because he won't. He's had his knife into me ever since March last, when I paid up my rent which he thought I couldn't do. I'd been asking him for time; then the last day--well, I got the money. I wasn't going to tell him how I got it, and he thought I'd been crying off with no reason. See? Now he thinks he can force me to the higher rent. 'Tis a bigger cottage, but 'tis so far off, even well-to-do folk fight shy of the extra walk, and so it's stood empty a year and more. Now he's thinking he'll force my hand.”
Antony frowned.
”What'll you do?” he demanded.
”The Lord knows,” returned Job gloomily. ”If I chuck up my work here, how do I know I'll get a job elsewhere? If I go to the other place I'll be behind with my rent for dead certain, and get kicked out of that, and be at the loss of ten s.h.i.+llings or so for the move. I've not told the wife yet. But I can see nought for it but to look out for a job elsewhere.
Wish I'd never set foot in this blasted little Devons.h.i.+re village. Wish I'd stayed in my own parts.”
Antony was making a mental survey of affairs, a survey at once detailed yet rapid.
”Look here,” said he, ”I'd give a pretty good deal to get even with that old skinflint, I would that. You and your wife just s.h.i.+ft up along with me. There's an extra room upstairs with nothing in it at all. We'll manage top hole. Sure, 'twill be fine havin' me cooking done for me. You can be giving me the matter of a s.h.i.+lling a week, and let the cooking go for the rest of the rent. What'll you be thinking at all?”
Now, the offer was prompted by sheer impulsive kind-heartedness, wedded to a keen indignation at injustice. Yet it must be confessed that a sensation exceeding akin to dismay followed close on its heels. Of his own free will he was flinging his privacy from him, and hugging intrusion to his heart.
Job shook his head.
”You'll not stand it,” said he briefly. ”We don't say anything, but we know right enough you're a come down. You didn't start in the same mould as the rest of us.”
”Rubbish,” retorted Antony on a note of half-anger and wholly aghast at the other's perspicacity. ”I'm the same clay as yourself.”
<script>