Gridley lived in a comfortable house at the Home Farm, with a wife whom he regarded as a general servant, and several children. After his day’s work, he befuddled himself with beer, but he prided himself upon rising each morning perfectly sober. He was reasonably abstemious in local taverns, and attended church, making the responses in a loud voice, conscious that the approving ear of Lady Selina heard him. He was a member of the district and parish councils. He could, and did, make life hell for any beneath him in the social scale who presumed to thwart his wishes and commands.
At first he showed himself obsequious and complaisant to the new doctor. But he began to squirm under Grimshaw’s questions, wriggling out of them, evading them, trying to throw dust into eyes penetratingly clear. Grimshaw took his measure in five minutes. Nevertheless, for Lady Selina’s sake, he wished to give the fellow a chance. Possibly Gridley mistook courtesy for weakness. More than probably he took for granted that country doctors prefer to travel along lines of least resistance.
Finally, after many exasperating and unavailing interviews, Grimshaw spoke plainly:
“You are forcing me to the conclusion, Mr. Gridley, that you run Upworthy to suit yourself.”
Doctor and bailiff had met outside a cottage which held a young married woman sadly crippled by incipient arthritis. Her bed rested upon a floor eaten up by dry-rot. Putting his foot through a board, Grimshaw had discovered masses of thick, white, velvety fungus, which smelt horribly. He discovered further that the waste-pipes from the eaves were choked up; water trickled down the inside walls. When he called Gridley’s attention to this state of things, the bailiff promptly promised immediate repairs, which were not forthcoming. Grimshaw could have appealed to Lady Selina. But anything of that sort meant open war with Gridley, the precipitation of a crisis. It meant, for the lady of the manor, an instant choice between an old servant and a comparative stranger. It meant, if Grimshaw won (and the possibilities of losing obtruded itself), finding a new bailiff, breaking him in, endless worry and perplexity. To find the right man at such a time, when ability of any sort was at a tremendous premium, might be impracticable. To add to the difficulties of the case, he knew that witnesses for the prosecution of a tyrant would be hard to find. Gridley, and his father before him, had imposed silence upon Upworthy. The Extons were notable examples of what might happen to the recalcitrant. Favours, innumerable doles—coal, fire-wood, milk, clothing and small grants in aid—were distributed amongst the optimists who, when Lady Selina made her periodical rounds, presented shining faces and grateful hearts. The wise gaffers sang praises of “honest John” behind his back and to his brazen face. Nicodemus Burble, the octogenarian, piped the popular conviction: “I allers says it pays to treat bailiffs wi’ respect, for why, my sonnies? Because they can make it so danged uncomfortsome for we, if we don’t.”
Gridley, thus addressed by a young man whom he regarded hitherto as negligible, was much taken aback. Clever enough to know that procrastination would no longer avail him, he tried insolence instead:
“Do I? I’d have you to understand, Mr. Grimshaw, that I can mind my business, as my father did before me, and I’ll thank you to mind yours.”
With that he turned on his heel, glaring savagely.
“Wait!” said Grimshaw, in his quietest tone.
Gridley swung round. Grimshaw met his congested glance.