“Then you’ll ha’ trouble wi’ I, I warn ’ee,” responded he, almost with a groan.
Jacob Fowler kept his word, and gave the poor little rate-collector an inconceivable amount of trouble.
He took no notice whatever of her demand-notes and official reminders; and when she called to see him in person, though he received her with civility and even undisguised pleasure, he resolutely refused to part with a farthing. The friendliness with which he hailed her advent, and entered into conversation on indifferent subjects, gave place to a rigid silence as soon as she touched on the motive of her visit, and he would shake his head fiercely as often as she reverted to the point.
One day she found him in what she took to be a softened mood. It was in the spring, and the consciousness that it was grand weather for potato-setting, added to the recollection of a long and successful day’s work, had put Jacob in an unusually good humour. He was smoking in his porch when she drew near, and at once invited her to sit down and rest.
“You do look a bit tired, my maid,” he remarked; “tired and worried.”
“I am tired and worried too,” said Bethia, looking up at him appealingly. “I’m afraid of getting into trouble, Mr. Fowler.”
“Oh,” said Jacob, “how’s that?”
“They will be down on me for not sending in the money regularly,” returned the girl tremulously; “I’ve got it all in except yours.”
Jacob, instead of immediately becoming wooden of aspect, as was his wont, gazed at her searchingly. “You’d be all right if you was to get mine?” he inquired.
“Yes—oh, yes, Mr. Fowler. Couldn’t you pay up and have done with it?”