“He hasn’t bought it.”
But, in face of the facts, the fine exterior and the large and expensive stock this was a quibble and it was too palpable. “How did you come by all that stuff in the window then?”
“He’s helping me to run it.”
“Helping you to run it!” His face was a picture of simple incredulity.
“He paid up all we owed so that we could start fair. And he looks in every Monday morning and tells me what to buy and where to buy it.”
“Does he pay for it?”
“He does.” There was something like pride in her voice. “He pays cash. And I have to keep books—like I used to at the Duke of Wellington. Of course he’s only lending the money. I pay him back at the end of the month when I balance the accounts.”
He was dumfounded by this precise statement. The hand of his mean, narrow father-in-law was not recognizable. Somehow it seemed to alter everything, but not at once was he able to turn his mind to the new and unexpected situation.
One thing was clear, however; it would be vain to resent Josiah’s interference. He had bought the property over their heads and he could do what he liked with his own. Again Melia had been left in debt and her husband knew well enough that unless some special providence had intervened she might not have been able to carry on. Exactly why Josiah had done as he had done neither his daughter nor his son-in-law could fathom. They hated to receive these belated favors, yet as things were there was no way of escaping them.
A little reluctantly, yet with a feeling of intense relief, Bill took off his good khaki overcoat and hung it on the nail provided for the purpose on the curtained door. Melia toasted a pickelet at the clear fire, buttered it richly, set it in a dish in the fender to keep warm; then the kettle began to boil and she brewed the tea.