Chapter 15

Meantime affairs at Grandturzel were going from bad to worse. Reuben did not speak much about Grandturzel, but he watched it all the same, and as time wore on a look of quiet satisfaction would overspread his face when it was mentioned at the Cocks. He watched the tiles drip gradually off its barn roofs, he watched the thatch of its haggards peel and moult, he watched the oasts lose their black coats of tar, while the wind battered off their caps, and the skeleton poles stuck up forlornly from their turrets. Holes wore in the neat house-front, windows were broken and not mended, torn curtains waved signals of distress. It was only a question of waiting.

Reuben often went to the Cocks, for he had heard it[Pg 419] said that one's beer-drinking capacities diminished with old age, and he was afraid that if he stayed away, men would think it was on that account. So he went frequently, particularly if the weather was of a kind to keep old people at home. He did not talk much, preferring to listen to what was said, sitting quietly at his table in the corner, with the quart of Barclay and Perkins's mild which had been his evening drink from a boy.

It was at the Cocks that he learned most of Grandturzel's straits, though he occasionally made visits of inspection. Realf had messed his hops that autumn, and the popular verdict was that he could not possibly hold out much longer.

"Wot'll become of him, I w?onder?" asked Hilder, the new man at Socknersh.

"Someone 'ull buy him up, I reckon," and young Coalbran, who had succeeded his father at Doozes, winked at the rest of the bar, and the bar to a man turned round and stared at old Reuben, who drew himself up, but said nothing.

"Wot d'you think of Grandturzel, Mus' Backfield?" someone asked waggishly.

"Naun," said Reuben; "I'm waiting."

He did not have to wait long. A few days later he was told that somebody wanted to see him, and in the parlour found his daughter Tilly.

He had seen Tilly at intervals through the years, but as he had never allowed himself to give her more than a withering glance, he had not a very definite idea of her. She was now nearly fifty-five, and more than inclined to stoutness—indeed, her comfortable figure was almost ludicrous compared with her haggard, anxious face, scored with lines and patched with shadows. Her grey hair was thin, and straggled on her forehead, her eyes had lost their brightness; yet there was nothing wild or terrible about her face, it was just domesticity in desperation.
 
"Father," she said as Reuben came into the room.

"Well?"

"Henry d?an't know I've come," she murmured helplessly.

"Wot have you come fur?"

"To ask you—to ask you—Oh, f?ather!" she burst into tears, her broad bosom heaved under her faded gown, and she pressed her hands against it as if to keep it still.

"D?an't t?ake on lik that," said Reuben, "tell me wot you've come fur."

"I dursn't now—it's no use—you're a hard man."

"Then d?an't come sobbing and howling in my parlour. You can go if you've naun more to say."

She pulled herself together with an effort.

"I thought you might—perhaps you might help us ..."

Reuben said nothing:

"We're in a larmentable way up at Grandturzel."

Her father still said nothing.

"I d?an't know how we shall pull through another year."

"Nor do I."

"Oh, f?ather, d?an't be so hard!"

"You said I wur a hard man."

"But you'll—you'll help us jest this once. I know you're angry wud me, and maybe I've treated you badly. But after all, I'm your daughter, and my children are your grandchildren."

"How many have you got?"

"Five—the youngest's rising ten."

There was a pause. Reuben walked over to the window and looked out. Tilly stared at his back imploringly. If only he would help her with some word or sign of understanding! But he would not—he had not changed; she had forsaken him and married his rival, and he would never forget or forgive.
 
She had been a fool to come, and she moved a step or two towards the door. Then suddenly she remembered the anguish which had driven her to Odiam. She had been frantic with grief for her husband and children; only the thought of their need had made it possible for her to override her inbred fear and dislike of Reuben and beg him to help them. She had come, and since she had come it must not be in vain; the worst was over now that she was actually here, that she had actually pleaded. She would face it out.

"F?ather!" she called sharply.

He turned round.

"I thought maybe you'd lend us some money—just fur a time—till we're straight ag?un."

"You'd better ask somebody else."

"There's no one round here as can lend us wot we need—it's—it's a good deal as we'll want to see us through."

"Can't you mortgage?"

"We are mortgaged—the last foot"—and she burst into tears again.

Reuben watched her for a minute or two in silence.

"You've bin a bad daughter," he said at last, "and you've got no right to call on me. But I've had my plans for Grandturzel this long while."

She shuddered.

"This mortgage business alters 'em a bit. I'll have to think it over. Maybe I'll let you hear to-morrow mornun."

"Oh, f?ather, if only you'll do anything fur us, we'll bless you all our lives."

"I d?an't want you to bless me—and maybe you w?an't t?ake my terms."

"I reckon we haven't much choice," she said sorrowfully.

"Well, you've only got wot you desarve," said Reuben, turning to the door.
 
Tilly opened her mouth to say something, but was wise, and held her tongue.