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Updated: April 30, 2025
"How did she think that out?" was Buttle's reflection. In places such as Stornham, through generation after generation, the thing she had just said was accepted as law, clung to as a possession, any divergence from it being a grievance sullenly and bitterly grumbled over.
Long outstanding bills had been paid, and in as matter-of-fact manner as if they had not been sent in and ignored, in some cases for years. The settlement of Joe Buttle's account sent him to bed at the day's end almost light-headed.
"It must be done QUICKLY," Miss Vanderpoel had said. "If ten men cannot do it quickly enough, you must have twenty or as many more as are needed. It is time which must be saved just now." Time more than money, it appeared. Buttle's experience had been that you might take time, if you did not charge for it. When time began to mean money, that was a different matter.
He stared and tried to recall things but could not, and in his bewilderment exclaimed aloud. "Well," he said, "if this ain't the limit! You may search ME!" A respectable person in a white apron came to him from the other side of the room. It was Buttle's wife, who had been hastily called in. "Sh sh," she said soothingly. "Don't you worry. Nobody ain't goin' to search you. Nobody ain't. There!
It was all going on just as before, and yet here stood a Vanderpoel in an English village street, of no more worth as far as power to aid herself went than Joe Buttle's girl with the thick waist and round red cheeks.
Jenny Buttle would have believed that her ladyship's rich American sister could do anything she chose, open any door, command any presence, sweep aside any obstacle with a wave of her hand. But of the two, Jenny Buttle's path would have laid straighter before her.
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