IN WHICH THE COMPANY AT THE “PACKHORSE” IS
INVITED TO DRINK A HEALTH
CHRISTMAS! The weather that ushered in the festive season was false to
all the hoary traditions of crisp air and powdery snow, and could hardly
have behaved more churlishly. When the sun turned away its red face from
the melancholy scene at the Cove on that fateful Saturday afternoon in
early December, it showed itself no more for a whole fortnight. The thin
haze, which had been beautiful as gossamer when the noon-day sun shone
through it, and resplendent as samite when the fingers of dying day
embroidered it with gold, became a clammy mist, cold as the touch of
death, that found the crevices in the human frame where aches and pains
lay dormant and stirred them to activity. Old Cawden, shirted and
night-capped, hid his great bulk from sight. Vapours rose like
water-sprites from the stream and mingled with the cloud overhead. Robin
and starling sat—who knows how miserably?—in their nests, and left
crabbed winter to its mood of peevish silence.
On Christmas Eve a Viking’s wind, the “black-north-easter,” awoke in the
caverns of the Pennines, and went out to sweep the mists from the moors
with his broom of sleet, and right well he did his work. All through the
hours of Christmas Day he carried on, and with such fierce zeal that
hailstones danced in the streets of Mawm almost without cessation, like
goblins set free by some Lord of Misrule to celebrate their Saturnalia!
Shades of Charles Dickens! There was little enough of his genial spirit
upon the moors that Christmastide!
Conditions improved a little on Boxing Day, and the wind that blustered
up the valley from the south, and barked at the heels of the
black-north-easter, was kindlier and more playful. Patches of blue
appeared among the clouds. The sun opened a sleepy eye at intervals and
smiled on the grey old village, as much as to say that this game of
hide-and-seek would not last for ever; and when evening fell the stars
came out and studded a blue-black sky from horizon to horizon, with not
a single cloud to dim the lustre of any one of them.
The sanded bar-parlour of the “Packhorse,” gaily decorated with holly
and one huge bunch of mistletoe, was full, and business brisk. The
landlord was kept on the run, but managed to find time to contribute an
occasional scrap to the conversation of his guests, which was under no
restraint. Prominent amongst the crowd because of his position near the
fire, where he occupied an arm-chair and faced old Ambrose, was Maniwel
Drake, whose custom it had always been to make the evening of Boxing Day
the occasion of one of his rare visits to the inn; and it was plain to
see that his presence had affected the drift of the elders’ talk.
“It’s nowt but what you could expect,” piped old Ambrose. “There wor a
sayin’ o’ my mother’s when I wor a young lad ’at’s trew as Holy Gospil
to this day, ’at there’s no gettin’ white meal out of a coal sack; and
by that figger o’ speech I do Baldwin no wrong, neebours; not even this
blessed Kersmas-time when we’re meant to be i’ love an’ charity, same as
it says i’ t’ Prayer Book.”
“That’s a trew word, Ambrose,” said Swithin “Kersmas or Midsummer-day, a
coal sack’s a coal sack and t’ description fits Baldwin same as a dinner
o’ broth. But by his-sen Baldwin’s no match for Maniwel, being a bit
over slow i’ t’ uptake; and what bothers me is ’at this young fellow
should ha’ turned up just i’ t’ nick o’ time, as you may put it, to fill
Jagger’s place and scheme for his maister, for there’s no getting over
it ’at he has a gift God never gave him and the devil’s own headpiece
for mischief-making.”
“Well, well,” said Maniwel cheerily; “we’re partly as we’re made,
Swithin, and partly as we make ourselves, and there’s few of us ’at
don’t carry both coal-sacks and meal-sacks about wi’ us; and it’s as
much as we can do to see ’at we don’t use one for t’other ourselves
without peeping into our neighbour’s storeholes. Baldwin isn’t all bad,
as I can bear witness ’at worked alongside of him thirty year and more.”
“Maybe not,” conceded Swithin in a doubtful voice. “There’s worse, I
dare say, if bad ’uns could all be put through t’ sieve. This here Inman
now——”
“Aye,” interrupted old Ambrose with as much energy as his feeble frame
was capable of; “but they’re both plannin’ an’ schemin’ for one end
which is nayther more nor less nor to put a spoke i’ Maniwel’s wheel;
an’ t’owd saying is reyt, ’at a man mud as weel eat the divel his-sen as
t’ broth he’s boiled in. Baldwin swallows all this young fellow puts on
his plate; and if one’s worse nor t’other it’s both on ’em. You can
trust Maniwel to see what isn’t there; but I say they’re a pair o’ ill
’uns, an’ nowt but mischief is like to come when sich a pair o’ black
crows get their ’eads together.”
“My word, but Ambrose has getten steam up,” said the landlord
admiringly, as he leaned for a moment against the mantelpiece and held
one hand towards the flame. “Since Inman came he’s had to bottle
his-self a bit; but wi’ him being away for t’ holidays he’s blowing off
i’ t’ old style.”
“He’s a black-hearted ’un,” began the old man again excitedly, but
Maniwel interposed.
“He’s no friend o’ mine, right enough, Ambrose; but i’ this country we
reckon a man innocent while he’s proved guilty, and it’s no blame to
this Inman ’at he does his best for his own master. And seeing ’at
Jagger and me know ’at we have t’ good will of all our neighbours we
don’t ruffle our feathers over their goings-on same as a hen when it
sees a hawk. Right enough, they’ve tried to rut t’ road a bit, but they
can’t block it, so you’ve no ’casion to worry about us.”
“It was Inman ’at put Baldwin up to t’ trick of holding t’ whip over Joe
Gardiner,” said one of the younger men. “Joe told me himself ’at Inman
had done it, and threatened him ’at if he carried timber for you they’d
start a dray o’ their own.”
“All right, my lad,” replied Maniwel, who knew better than any present
what ingenious plans had been prepared and executed to hamper his
business; how not only the carrier had been suborned to delay the
carriage of his goods, but the timber-merchants themselves had been
warned of the risk they were running in affording him supplies. These,
and a dozen similar annoyances he and his son had suffered in silence,
and had succeeded in countering with more or less difficulty.
“I don’t doubt but what you’re right, and no doubt he’d ha’ liked me and
Jagger to pull a face over t’ job. But I’m a pig-headed chap myself, and
bad to move when I get set; and it’s a theory o’ mine ’at a man who goes
t’ straight road’ll find fewer pits to fall into than them ’at goes
crook’d. And that being so I’ve never been one to wet my handkercher and
try to make t’ ship move wi’ groaning into t’ sails; but just keep
jogging on wi’ a good heart, and when one stick fails me, find another.”
A movement of pots and feet indicated the applause of Maniwel’s
audience, for though there was not a man among them who understood and
shared his philosophy, his uprightness and geniality had made most men
his well-wishers.
“And how be ye getting on, Maniwel, if it’s a fair question?” asked
Swithin. “If nobbut them got on ’at deserved it you’d none be long on t’
road; but it’s a trew word ’at I’ve seen the wicked i’ great prosperity,
and there’s some we could name ’at brass fair oozes out on.”
“Aye, reyt enough,” broke in the thin eager voice of old Ambrose; “but
there’s a verse I made when I wor a young man ’at puts it in a nutshell.
When a man’s in a gifted mood he sees things as clear as Cove watter,
and two o’ them lines comes back to me at this minute:
‘Too mich o’ owt
Is good for nowt’;
and it’ll ’appen turn out ’at Baldwin’ll go as dry as a gill i’ summer
time.”
“It’ll none be James Inman’s fault if he isn’t drained,” said one of the
younger men.
“Nay, but I wouldn’t go as far as that,” old Ambrose replied, shaking
his head to emphasise the negative; “hawks willn’t pick out hawks’ een,
and Baldwin is gettin’ into years and’ll maybe be thankful to have an
able-bodied young fellow o’ t’ same kidney to fetch and carry for him.”
“Aye, but not to share what he fetches,” persisted the other, “they’re
both playing for their own hand, and yon Inman’s t’ cleverest rogue o’
t’ two.”
“Nay, nay, come now!” Maniwel broke in, “it’s t’ wrong time o’ t’ year
for calling any man a rogue; and it ’ud seem most of us better to look
after our own ’tatie patch than to count t’ thistles in our neighbour’s
plot. You were asking me how we’re getting on, Swithin, and all I can
say is ’at things might be a deal worse; and we’ve good hopes ’at when
I’ve got my brass in they’ll be a deal better. As to t’ wicked
prospering—well, there’s some kinds o’ prosperity ’at ’ud be dear at a
gift.”
Swithin had laid down his pipe and cleared his throat preparatory to
answering this argument when the abrupt entrance of Inman turned all
eyes in the direction of the door. With easy deliberateness the newcomer
unwound the scarf from his neck and opened his great-coat, but removed
neither. An amused and half-contemptuous smile was on his lips, and his
dark eyes swept the company and rested for a moment with malignant
satisfaction on the undisturbed features of Maniwel.
“We’re favoured to-night, I see,” he remarked. “‘The gods have come down
in the likeness of men!’”
Nobody answered him, and he stood with his back to the closed door with
the sardonic smile deepening about his lips.
“I haven’t had the opportunity of wishing you the usual compliments,
gentlemen,” he continued. “Absence must be my apology, and my absence
can be explained in a few words. I prefer to be my own messenger when I
have any news, good or ill, to share with my neighbours, and what I have
to tell you is altogether good. I have been married whilst I was away,
and have just brought my bride home with me. She has bid me leave this
sovereign with you, Albert, so that the company may drink her
health—the health of Nancy Inman, lately Nancy Clegg. I won’t ask you
to drink mine.”
He put the coin into the astonished landlord’s hand as he spoke, and
curled his lip contemptuously as he noted the hostile silence which
greeted the communication. Only one man spoke—it was he who had
revealed his thoughts a moment before.
“A lass ’at’ll wed thee is no loss to nob’dy,” he muttered sourly.
“Indeed!” said Inman, wheeling round and fixing the speaker with an eye
that stabbed. “I’ll remember that to your credit, Jack Pearce.”
“Nay,” said Maniwel calmly; “you’d best forget it. Jack spoke before he
thought. There’s one at my house ’at’ll be sorry he’s lost her, if so be
as Mr. Inman’s speaking truth, which I don’t doubt.”
“The truth’s here, in black and white,” Inman replied with equal
calmness; “anyone can see it who wants”; and he offered a paper to the
landlord.
“Then poor Nancy’s tied a knot wi’ her tongue ’at she willn’t be able to
loosen wi’ her teeth,” wailed old Ambrose, and would have said more but
Inman interrupted him.
“I fancy you find me in the way, gentlemen, and will discuss this happy
event more freely in my absence. There are some of you I cannot expect
to honour this toast with any enthusiasm; but I won’t remain to spy on
you. I am to share my wife’s home, and you will excuse me if I now
return there to share her company.”
He spoke mockingly, like an actor who had rehearsed his part until he
knew it by heart, but when he was about to withdraw Maniwel’s voice
stopped him.
“This’ll be sore news for Jagger, Mr. Inman, and well you know it. But
disappointment comes to us all one time or another; and the lad played
his cards badly and must make t’ best on’t. Maybe he’ll come to see ’at
you were t’ best man for her; maybe she’ll come to see ’at you
weren’t—there’s no telling. But anyway I’ll drink her health, my lad,
wi’ a right good will, for I wish t’ lass naught but good, so if you
were thinking ’at I should be one to stand out you’re mista’en. And
there’s one word I’d say to you ’at it’ll do you no harm to remember—‘A
good Jack makes a good Jill,’ and it’s t’ same with a bad ’un.”
The voice and the eyes were alike sympathetic and sincere, and Inman was
disconcerted; but only for a moment.
“Much obliged, I’m sure,” he said dryly. “I hope you’ll spend a
profitable evening in this Mutual Improvement Class, gentlemen. I’m
sorry I can’t.”
When the door closed upon him Maniwel spoke again.
“This’ll be a sad blow, neighbours, for Jagger; but he’s got to keep his
feet. I should be sorry for him to hear of it from anyone else, and I’ll
step round home now, and help to buck him up. But if you’re agreeable
we’ll just drink to the lass first. God bless her! say I.”
“Aye, and God help her!” growled the protester.
* * * * *
A dim light from a storm lantern threw into strong relief the features
of father and son as they sat, the younger man on the bench; the older
on an upturned box, amid the shadows of the workshop. Jagger’s eyes were
on the ground, on the heap of shavings that he had been turning over
with his foot for half an hour; gathering them into a heap, dispersing
them, and gathering them again.
Maniwel’s eyes were fixed on his son’s face. Talking was over, or almost
over. He had said all that he could think of; and if earnest solicitude
for another’s welfare, keen anxiety that character should be hardened
and tempered by adversity, is prayer, then Maniwel was praying. The door
was barred, and there had been no interruption of any kind.
At length Jagger raised his head and met his father’s gaze. His own face
was white and weary-looking; there were lines on the brow that looked in
that feeble light like ink-smudges, and there were similar shadows at
the corners of the mouth.
He had received the communication and all his father’s comments in
absolute silence and now that he spoke his voice was hard and resolute.
“You’ll have heard, maybe, that ’Zekiel’s little lad died this
afternoon. They came down soon after you went across to Albert’s, and I
went back with ’em. They want to bury on Wednesday, so I’ll stay up and
be getting on with the job.”
“I’ll bide wi’ you, lad,” said the father. “I’ve done naught this last
three days”; but Jagger shook his head.
“Nay, get you to bed. I shall lose no sleep and you would. I’ve got
something else to coffin beside Billy.”
“Well, happen you’ll be better by yourself. But when you’ve nailed your
trouble up, lad, put it out o’ sight, and don’t let its ghost walk about
wi’ you. There’s two ways of dealing wi’ trouble—you can either lie
down and let it crush t’ sperrit out of you, or you can climb on t’ top
of it and get an uplift.”
Jagger looked steadily into his father’s eyes.
“That’s so,” he said firmly. “I’ve got to put my back into this business
now and make it move, and, by gen, I will.”