IN WHICH INMAN RECEIVES A COLD RECEPTION AND
SOME INFORMATION
A FEEBLE moon lit up the darkness that had fallen rapidly whilst he
had been engaged with the master-carpenter, and enabled Inman to find
his way without difficulty down the sloping street to the green, where
the weather-beaten inn squatted in close proximity to the purling
river—a baby stream of mysterious origin, and only a mile or two old,
if one may put it so.
A few other houses, substantially but plainly built of millstone grit
and limestone, and varying from the humble whitewashed cottages of the
labouring classes to the more pretentious dwellings of farmers and
apartment-providers faced the green on three sides. An hotel of somewhat
imposing dimensions stood back a few yards from the main road on the
west; but after one brief glance in that direction Inman turned on his
heel, and crossing the stream and the upper section of the green entered
the low door of “The Packhorse,” and found himself in a well-filled
room, where he discerned amidst the smoke the features of the phlegmatic
elders who had been silent witnesses of the scene at the carpenter’s.
His entrance interrupted the conversation for a few seconds only, and
when he had ordered and been served with a pot of ale, he rested his
chin on his hands and set himself to pick up the threads. It was quite
evident that the incident in which he had taken part had been under
discussion for some time, and he was quick to realise that his action,
the ultimate result of which was not known, had aroused some measure of
resentment. The knowledge amused without embarrassing him; but he masked
his features as carefully as he had done in the master’s office.
“A trew word, as Jagger tell’d him,” said an elderly man whose beard
bore wintry evidences of a former fiery splendour. “I mind when he wor
nowt but a wisp of a lad and laiked taws[1] wi’ t’ rest on us he wor a
rare trader; and there worn’t many he didn’t diddle out o’ all their
glass uns. Allus for his-sen, wor Baldwin, and t’ owder he gets t’ worse
he becomes.”
“It’s t’ way o’ t’ world, Swith’n,” a spare, undersized man of advanced
age observed in a thin, leaking voice that whistled at every sibilant.
“I made a verse of it when I wor a young man i’ my prime. I can’t think
o’ things same as I use to could. When I try to call ’em up it’s same as
they start a-dancin’ a polka, and I can’t pick out one from t’other. I
know ‘pelf’ came at t’ end o’ one line and ‘self’ at t’other. It wor a
good rhyme, and t’ plain meanin’ of it wor ’at it’s i’ t’ way o’ Natur’
for a man to look after his-sen. I had a gift i’ them days for puttin’
my thoughts into verse.”
“And uncommon well you did it, Ambrus; that’s a fact,” admitted Swithin,
whilst two or three others grunted approval.
“Common metre, short metre, six-lines-eights and sometimes a peculiar
metre,” said the old man with manifest gratification; “it wor all one to
me when I wor i’ that gifted mood. My mother traced it back to her
gran’father ’at ’ad been a fearful good hand at a bass fiddle i’ t’ Gurt
Revival, and could play any tune o’ Wesley’s in his cups.”
“Aye, there’s been gifts wasted i’ your family, Ambrus; there’s no
getting over that,” said Swithin with a solemn headshake, “but none o’
your lot has had t’ gift o’ making brass. Contraireywise, brass pours in
to Baldwin same as watter to t’ Cove.”
“But it doesn’t pour out i’ t’ same way,” laughed a younger man. “T’
Cove passes it on to watter t’ land, Swithin. Baldwin hugs it to
his-sen.”
“Not so fast, lad,” replied Swithin; “tha wants to make sure ’at that
egg tha’s laid isn’t a pot ’un before tha clucks so loud. Has tha never
heard tell ’at there’s tremendious deep pits behind t’ Cove ’at’s got to
be filled wi’ t’ watter from t’ Tarn before any creeps out into t’ river
bed? It serves it-sen, does t’ beck, before it spares owt for anybody
else; and all t’ land gets is t’ overflow. Same way wi’ Baldwin.”
He glanced round the company and reading approval in Inman’s eyes
allowed his own to suggest what would have been a wink in a more jocund
man.
“Nay, nay,” he continued as nobody seemed disposed either to applaud or
challenge his contention; “I’m one ’at ’ud go a long way o’ t’ same road
wi’ Baldwin ’cause it’s both natur’ and religion. Natur’ seems all for
it-sen, and I suppose them ’at set things going ordered it i’ that way.”
“Maniwel wouldn’t say so,” the young man who had spoken before ventured
to interpose.
“Maniwel’ll maybe fiddle another tune if Baldwin holds to his word and
sacks Jagger,” returned Swithin complacently. “Not but what I’m sorry
for Jagger,” he added after a short interval. “As well-meaning a lad as
there is i’ t’ village, and as handy wi’ his tools as here and there
one. Baldwin can spare Jagger as ill as any.”
It was evident that Swithin had voiced the common opinion, and each man
present offered his quota of evidence relating to the skill and even
more the conscientiousness of the dismissed workman. Only old Ambrose
and Inman remained silent, and the latter scarcely troubled to hide the
amused contempt that the recital of his predecessor’s virtues called
forth. He was on the point of speaking when there came an interruption
from Ambrose, whose features had been working convulsively for some
time.
“I’ve got the hang on it,” he said absently:
“Whether it’s pudden or parish or pelf,
He’s a noodle what doesn’t look after hisself.”
“I wouldn’t take my Bible oath, neighbours, to them two words ‘parish’
and ‘noodle’ but t’ meanin’ was t’ same, chewse how.”
Inman thought this a fitting moment for breaking silence.
“Well done, grandad,” he exclaimed. “You deserve your pot filling for
that. Take it out o’ this, landlord,” he said, tossing a half-crown to
that worthy who was standing with his back to the fire; “or rather fill
up these other pots, and let me know if I owe you ought.”
The act of generosity evoked no response, except that one or two of the
younger men grunted a “Good ’ealth!” as they raised the mug to their
lips, but Inman was in no way disconcerted.
“A moorman needs no introduction to moormen,” he said pleasantly. “I
don’t blame you for being shy o’ strangers, but that’ll wear off. We
shall neighbour kindly, I don’t doubt, for I may as well tell you I’ve
signed on for Mr. Briggs, and I shall be making my home with you.”
A chilling silence greeted this communication, and the air thickened
with the reek from a dozen pipes, diligently pulled at.
“It’s every man for himself as our friend here remarked a minute or two
ago,” he continued. “There’d be no progress if it wasn’t so. It’s the
survival of the fittest, as these science chaps put it. The weak _have_
to go to the wall, or we’d be a nation of noodles before long. You were
right, grandad; noodle’s the word.”
Even yet nobody spoke. Inman’s speech had cut across the smooth flow of
conversation like another Moses’ rod, and dried it up. Every man stared
stonily at the deal table or sand-strewn floor, and the landlord frowned
and found himself tongue-tied.
“It isn’t my fault, mind you,” Inman continued more sharply, “that this
other young fellow’s got the sack. That was just accident; just a piece
of luck. ‘Fortune favours the brave,’ and good luck comes to them who
deserve it. That’s my theory; it’s Nature’s way of ensuring progress.
There’s no mercy in Nature for the individual if he stands in the way of
progress. It cares no more for milksops—for noodles, grandad—than it
cares for the fly that’s fast in this spider’s web; no more than I care
for the spider.”
A grim smile spread over his face as he stretched out a thumb and finger
and carelessly squeezed the life out of the little creature on which his
eye had been resting for the last few moments; but there was no
responsive smile on the countenances of the grim men who watched him.
Nearly every forehead carried a frown or its shadow, and where this was
missing there was a half-hostile stolidity.
“Every man’s for himself,” he went on, with a hint of impatience in his
tone, for the frosty air of the bar-parlour was beginning to tell on
him; “but lame dogs have to pretend that they don’t like rabbits. Stuff
and nonsense! A man who isn’t for himself deserves to go under and it’s
a kindness to help him.”
He leaned back defiantly; but there was still no reply. Swithin pushed
back his chair and pulled forward his hat. “I’ll be saying ‘good-night’
neighbours,” he said, “I’ll have to be stirring i’ good time i’ t’
morning,” and several others rose and left the room with him. Ten
minutes later the rest had emptied their mugs and gone, and Inman was
left with old Ambrose and the innkeeper. There was a scowl upon the
latter’s face that caused the young man to say with a laugh:
“Come, come, landlord, the loss of a handful of coppers won’t bank you.
Mix yourself and me a whisky apiece and keep grandad’s pot filled.
There’s room for three round that fire—pull a chair up to it and bid
dull care begone.”
He crossed over himself and sat down comfortably with his legs stretched
out on the hearth. Ambrose occupied the corner seat, and the landlord,
whose brow had cleared as he perceived that the defection of his regular
customers was not likely to impoverish his till, seated himself at the
opposite end.
“A bit touchy, these neighbours of ours,” Inman suggested with a laugh.
“Don’t exactly hold out the right hand of fellowship, d’you think? But
I’m a moorman myself, though I’ve been a renegade the last ten years,
and I know their feelings for ‘offcomeduns,’ as we called newcomers in
my part of the world.”
“And what part might that ha’ been?” inquired the landlord.
“Worth way,” he answered shortly. “There’s surly dogs bred in Worth
Valley, I can tell you—dogs with a snap in their teeth; dogs that like
to be _top_ dog and intend to be.”
It was said meaningly, though it was accompanied by another laugh, and
the landlord eyed him thoughtfully.
“This man, Jagger; what sort of a fellow is he?” Inman went on. “Not one
of your best customers, I reckon?”
“He never tastes,” the landlord replied, “unless its a ginger-ale or
summat o’ that sort now and again. It isn’t oft he darkens this door,
but his father, Maniwel’ll come and sit for an hour now and then, though
he puts naught much i’ my pocket. All t’ same”—the landlord’s clan
loyalty triumphing over the narrower emotion of self-interest—“they’re
nayther of ’em a bad sort; nayther Maniwel nor Jagger.”
“Two o’ t’ best,” Ambrose added. “I mind well makin’ happen six verses
for Maniwel to recite at a teetotal meetin’—dearie me! it mun be forty
year back. Terrible bad word it is, an’ all, for verse. That wor afore
Maniwel happened his accident.”
“Afore he happened his accident!” the landlord laughed. “Why, man alive!
he was a lad when he said them verses, and it isn’t more’n ten year
since he lost his arm.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” assented Ambrose; “it was sin’ I giv’ up making
verses now I come to think of it. If I’d ha’ been i’ my prime I could
ha’ made a set o’ grand verses out o’ Maniwel’s arm.”
“Who is this Maniwel?” inquired Inman with some impatience. “Jagger’s
father, you say, and a kind of local oracle, I gather?”
“Oracle or no oracle,” replied the landlord, who was not going to commit
himself on a term with whose meaning he was unfamiliar; “he’s most
people’s good word, and if Baldwin Briggs isn’t among ’em it’s because
Maniwel won’t knuckle under to him. And why should he, when they worked
side by side at t’ same bench and saw-mill for thirty year and more, and
him t’ best man o’ t’ two? There is them ’at says ’at if he hadn’t lost
his arm Baldwin ’ud never ha’ getten t’ business; but that’s as may be.
To make matters worse there’s a lass i’ t’ case, and where there’s
lasses there’s mischief.”
Ambrose chuckled. “A trew word, Albert, and brings up a verse about
lasses I——”
“Never mind your verses,” Inman broke in. “What about this particular
lass, landlord; and how did she come to concern this Maniwel and Baldwin
Briggs?”
“Well, you see,” the landlord explained, “t’ saw-mill belonged her
father, Tom Clegg, and it was only a poorish sort of a business in Tom’s
time. Tom had part brass and only this lass to leave it to, and besides
being as queer as Dick’s hatband, he’d summat growing in his inside ’at
took all t’ sperrit out of him, as it would out o’ most men.
“Well, he tried to sell t’ business when he knew he couldn’t last much
longer but nobody’d give him his price, so he let on a new scheme.
Maniwel and Baldwin were his main hands, and he made each on ’em t’ boss
for a year. He went off down south wi’ t’ lass, and Baldwin took hold,
and varry well he did. Then, when t’ year was up and they’d ta’en their
stock, it was Maniwel’s turn and it seemed as if he were going to top
Baldwin when t’ accident happened, and t’ saw caught his thumb. It
seemed naught much at t’ time but he’d ha’ done better to ha’ seen a
doctor, for it turned to blood-poisoning and there was naught for it but
to take his arm off. Aye, and even then he near-hand lost his life.
“Of course Baldwin had to take hold again then, for by this time Tom was
at t’ last gasp, and to mend matters he died afore Maniwel came out o’
t’ hospital. When they read his will it turned out ’at he’d left all his
brass to his lass, but part on it was to stop i’ t’ business for
capital. And he left t’ goodwill o’ t’ business to him ’at ’ad made t’
most brass during t’ year he’d been i’ charge, barring ’at he’d to pay
his lass part o’ t’ profits. It was all worked out by a lawyer so as
Nancy wasn’t a partner, you understand; but she must ha’ done fairly
well, for Baldwin’s made brass, there’s no question o’ that.”
Inman’s face expressed his interest.
“Then Baldwin got the business, you say?”
“More’n that,” continued the landlord; “he’d to be guardian to t’ lass.
She wouldn’t be more’n eleven or twelve at t’ time, and Baldwin wasn’t a
married man, but he took t’ job on, I can tell you.”
“And what about Maniwel?” inquired Inman. “Was there no law over t’ job?
If it had been me I should ha’ tried to make a case out.”
“Maniwel’s no fighting man,” the landlord replied, “and he was on his
back. But there was them ’at ’ud have made a fight for him if he’d ha’
let ’em. All t’ same t’ lawyers said Baldwin was in t’ right.”
“Pigeon livers run in families,” said Inman. “I could have guessed
father when I saw son. But what of the girl, landlord? It was a mad whim
of the father to hand her over in a haphazard sort of way to the highest
bidder, and one of his own workmen at that. How did the lass take it?
Was she dove or donkey—lamb or lion?”
The landlord spat into the fire and withheld reply for some moments.
“You mun ask someb’dy ’at knows better ’n me,” he said at length
cautiously. “Nancy’s as deep as t’ Tarn, and as proud and hot-tempered
as a broody hen. She stops with him, anyway, though she’s been her own
missus a year and more. Some say they fratch like two bantams, but I’ve
never come across them ’at’s heard ’em; and as for Keturah
Briggs—that’s Baldwin’s sister ’at’s always kept house for him—she’s a
quarry you can neither pick nor blast. They keep theirselves _to_
theirselves, and give naught away, does t’ Briggses.”
“And is she content, this Nancy,” inquired Inman indifferently, “to be
shut up in a village like this? Has she no desire, think you, to see the
world and have her fling like other lasses?”
The question ended on a half-suppressed yawn; but the landlord shot an
inquiring glance before he replied:
“You said you were moorland born yourself, and hankered after t’ moors.
Maybe Nancy’s t’ same, but if you’ve signed on wi’ Baldwin you’ll be
able to ask her. She’s been away a toathri weeks in a town; but whether
it’s smittled her or no I know no more’n you. She’s back again, choose
how. Maybe there’s summat i’ t’ village she can’t get i’ t’ town?”
“Fresh air and sunshine?” queried Inman sleepily. “That’s so, I suppose;
but lasses like pictures, and the pit of a music-hall or a band in the
park in summer time, where they can see what other women carry on their
heads and backs.”
“Aye, that’s right enough,” responded the landlord; “but I’ve known when
a pair o’ corduroy breeches and a coat you couldn’t pawn has had a
bigger pull than all t’ ribbons and laces you could lay your hands on.”
A quick light leaped to Inman’s eyes, and a frown that was instantly
suppressed mounted his brow.
“I see,” he queried, with an inflection of amusement; “then Miss Nancy
has a lover?”
“That’s more’n I’ve said,” replied the landlord curtly. “She doesn’t
hand me her secrets to lock up.”
Inman laughed and rose. “I’ll have a bed with you, landlord,” he said,
“if you’ll get one ready. This good fire after a rough walk has made me
sleepy. I’ll stroll round for half an hour before turning in.”
-----
[1] Played marbles.