IN WHICH BALDWIN’S SKY BECOMES
SLIGHTLY OVERCAST
DESPITE frequent tiffs and an occasional battle-royal like that which
has just been described, Inman’s influence with his master strengthened
as the days went by. However cunning and suspicious a man may be he is
in danger of being outwitted if he has no better weapons than a quick
temper and a slow brain to oppose to the coolness and acumen of an alert
adversary. And when the adversary protests friendship, and, refusing to
be provoked, offers indisputable evidences of loyalty and goodwill, the
most churlish nature must be affected, as the continual dropping of
water will in course of time smoothen the grittiest rock.
Such evidences were too conspicuous to be overlooked for Inman never
tired of devising ingenious schemes for crippling the enterprise of the
Drakes; and Baldwin stored in his memory an admiration that nothing
would have wrung from his lips, as he saw with what subtle ingenuity
Inman spread his nets and succeeded in obliterating all traces of his
operations. Suspicion there might be, but where concealment was
advisable Inman took care there should be no proof. Baldwin reconciled
his mind to what was unpalatable in his foreman’s manner because of the
Machiavelian service he was rendering to his interests. The one bitter
ingredient in the cup of his satisfaction was the knowledge that his
competitors—father and son alike—went steadily on their way,
undisturbed by all the hindrances that were set in their path.
One day towards the end of April Baldwin summoned Inman to the office.
The morning’s letters lay open on the desk, and one of them the master
held in his hand and perused a second time with a sullen look.
“There’s something here I don’t like,” he said when the foreman had
obeyed his command to close the door. “John Clegg wants me to hold back
my payments this month; says he’s hard put to it what wi’ one and
another calling their brass in, and very little new money coming forrad;
wants me to gi’ three months bills to Johnsons and Greens and put some
o’ t’others off a bit. It’s a nasty look wi’ ’t ’at I don’t fancy.”
Inman’s brows contracted. “Is it the first time this has happened?” he
asked.
“Nay, there was another some years back,” Baldwin replied, “when he wor
for holding me up i’ t’ same way; but there wasn’t so much owing then.
It’s been a heavy quarter, has this——”
“How did you go on, on that occasion?” asked Inman, edging his master
back to essentials. “It came all right in the end, I suppose?”
“It came all right at t’ time,” explained Baldwin sourly. “I got my back
up, and when he saw it he caved in. It wor naught but a try-on; a dodge
to diddle me out of a bit o’ interest, I reckon, ’at didn’t come off;
and from that day to this all’s gone square. I suppose he thinks I’m
getting old and addled now, and he can have another try; damn him.”
“He’ll be having to make provision for paying Drake his money out,” said
Inman thoughtfully. “If there’s been one or two more on the same
hop—and there may have been for aught we know—he’ll want time to turn
round, that’s all.”
“That’s all! is it?” snapped Baldwin. “Then it’s too much! Am I to have
my credit ruined to pay them two devils t’ money they’ll use again’ me?
I’ll see ’em blaze first! He can try it on wi’ someb’dy else—I aren’t
having it!”
“Hadn’t you best go over to see him?” suggested Inman, “and tell him
straight out how things stand between you and Drakes? After all, he’s
Nancy’s uncle; and when you pointed out that she’d suffer as well as you
if the firm got a bad name he’d be sure to see that it ’ud be the best
plan to put old Drake off, who’d make no bones about it, but think it
was the way Providence was leading him. Then you’d be getting a bit of
your own back at t’ same time.”
Baldwin’s eyes showed his satisfaction at this advice, for the strained
look gave place to one of cunning; but he suppressed any note of
enthusiasm as he replied:
“I should spoil t’ job if _I_ was to see him, for my temper’s that hot
it ’ud flame out t’ minute he crossed me; and I couldn’t put it into
words same as you. And you being Nancy’s husband, and a friend of his by
what you’ve told me, it ’ud come more natural ’at you should see him,
pointing out as you say ’at Nancy’s a partner in a manner o’ speaking,
and ’at Maniwel’s set on doing her a’ injury. That’s t’ card you want t’
play wi’ John; and happen you’d pull it off where I should mullock it.”
“It’s one of those jobs where they don’t expect a man to take the
master’s place,” said Inman with crafty hesitation. “I’d go in a minute
if I thought it was the best plan; but will Mr. Clegg like it?”
“Of course he will; and if he doesn’t he can lump it,” replied Baldwin,
who knew that he was no match for his foreman in a wordy argument with a
man of the world like his banker. “If you hadn’t ha’ been Nancy’s
husband it ’ud ha’ been different; but seeing as you are there’s naught
more fitting. If you could catch t’ noon train you could be back i’ t’
morning, or maybe to-night.”
“Very well,” said Inman; “but don’t expect me before morning. These are
jobs that can’t be hurried, and a bit of time lost is neither here nor
there.”
The glamour of spring sunlight was on the landscape as Inman set out
upon his six-mile tramp to the station, and even the grey hills looked
warm and hospitable, whilst the meadows of the low-lands were a mosaic
of rich greens of varied shade. Signs of new and joyous life were
everywhere. Yellow celandines and dandelions caught the sunshine on
their outspread petals and sparkled in the shadows of the dry walls and
river banks. Nor was the eye the only recipient of April’s gifts, for
the sweet scents that Nature had released at the coming of spring
greeted another sense; the delicate odours of budding trees and the good
smell of newly-turned earth. And with all these bounties another equally
good—a brave, bracing wind from the heights, sharp and sweet, charged
with the power to stimulate and purify. It was a day to make a man shout
aloud for very joy of being alive.
But let Nature do her utmost—spread her glories like a peacock,—a
man’s thoughts may curtain his senses and stifle every emotion except
that which is uppermost, so that the hills may clap their hands never so
loudly and he will be deaf as the dead to their music. Inman’s thoughts
were not of yellow sunlight but of yellow gold; and though he was
devising traps as he walked along the road with his eyes on the ground,
they were certainly not intended to catch sunbeams. Beyond the curt
statement that he was going to Airlee on the firm’s business he had
given his wife no explanation of his journey; but it was Nancy’s
interests that occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of all others, for
Nancy’s interests were now his. Baldwin might go to the devil for all he
cared; and if a push of his foot could speed him there it should be
given with great goodwill, provided always he did not lose his own
balance in the act, and that the kick should be from behind. A finer
ambassador than Inman could not have been found in all the empire if
Baldwin’s object was to save the throne regardless of who should occupy
it. “All for my-sen!” A smile flitted across the man’s hard face as the
thought occurred to him.
* * * * *
Soon after six o’clock that evening Nancy visited the Cove for the first
time since the fatal quarrel with Jagger. She had thought she would
never see the place again with pleasure—there had been one hour of
bitter repentance when she had vowed that the scene of her folly should
have no existence for her in the future—but she was surprised to find
her heart warm as she looked upon the great crag and saw the jackdaws
wheeling about in the neighbourhood of their nests. The sun would not
set for another hour, but its couch was behind the mountains and Mawm
would see it no more until the morrow, yet there was a wash of amber on
the limestone, and the rock looked genial and friendly. There was
something soul-stirring and at the same time strangely soothing in the
contemplation of the ponderous cliff that faced unmoved the most violent
storms and all the vicissitudes of the years. Cold as it was Nancy sat
down on a rock beside the stream, and the rippling water, murmuring like
an infant on its mother’s lap, turned her thoughts in another direction
and brought the hot blush to her cheeks.
Raising her eyes she became conscious that a man was descending the
lower slope a hundred yards away, and her face lost its colour as she
recognised Jagger, and saw that she was unobserved. She was not afraid
to encounter him, though they had not met in privacy before since her
marriage, and had exchanged scarcely a dozen words; rather, her senses
were numbed and she watched him incuriously, as if he had been a bird
that had dropped down to the river to drink; and when she saw him bend
his head and stand motionless, though she knew what his thoughts must
be, no emotion of pity or contempt disturbed her, and she experienced no
desire to steal away and escape his notice. Her feelings were turned to
stone, like the man who stood as rigid as the boulders at his feet.
Even when he wheeled round and came towards her with his eyes still on
the ground; when she knew that she must inevitably be discovered, her
pulse beat no more quickly; but when he brushed against her dress, and
uttered a startled exclamation of recognition as his eyes leaped to her
face she smiled.
“I’ve been watching you this last five minutes,” she said in a calm
voice, but with the weary intonation of a care-worn woman.
He was much more at a loss for words than she, yet he recovered his
self-possession in a moment.
“I’ve never been here since that day,” he began; and the girl nodded.
“Nor me, neither,” she said; “but I’m glad I came.”
“Are you? I was wondering if I hadn’t better have stayed away; if I
hadn’t better cross t’ Cove off t’ map and have done with it. It hurts,
Nancy! It’ll always hurt!”
“Hurts!” she answered with an emphasis of mockery. “Your hurt is just an
empty place, a bit of an ache, same as when you’ve fasted too long. _My_
hurt is a serpent ’at I’ve taken of my own free will and pressed to my
bosom, and it bites deeper every day.”
The despair in her voice moved him strongly but hardly more than her
calmness. There was no flash in her spirit; but there was strength and a
certain stern attractiveness, as there is in the bog; and his heart
ached with a sore longing.
“He isn’t unkind to you, is he?” he forced himself to ask, and she
laughed contemptuously.
“Unkind? What is it to be unkind?” She looked down contemplatively, as
if the question interested her. “Is he unkind?” she repeated in a low
voice. “I never thought of that. He doesn’t beat me, if that’s what you
mean, except now and again with his tongue and his looks; and two can
play at that game.”
“Beat you!” The man’s lips tightened and he spoke through his teeth; “t’
first time ’at I hear ’at he’s laid hands on you I’ll do him in! Beat
you! Devil as he is he isn’t black-hearted enough for that!”
“I don’t know that he is a devil,” she replied listlessly; “but he knows
how to raise one, and he’s so cold and sure of himself that he makes me
scream inside, though he’s never heard me and never will. I’m afraid of
him; but he doesn’t know it, and I’m not whining; I’m just telling you
how I feel. I’m like a baby in his hands. He’s a man who gets what he
wants _always_. He wanted my money so he took me, same as you must take
t’ purse with what’s inside it. And he perhaps wanted a woman, too, and
one’s as good as another to such as him.”
“And now he shoves you on one side; makes dirt of you,” said Jagger
bitterly. “Can’t I see it in his face? And he’ll take a pride in doing
it, and more by half if he thinks it ’ud hurt me, and that you’d care.
But that’s more’n I ought to have said.”
“More than I ought to let you say,” she replied, “but for this once you
shall say what you like and that must end it. It was here we fell out,
and it’s here I’ll tell you that I know it was my fault. I meant to make
it up with you; I’d thought about nothing else for hours on end; but
there’s something—I don’t know what it is, if it isn’t fate—that pulls
one way when we pull another, and pulls harder than us. And then I was
mad with you because you took me at my word; and _he_ came along and I
married him whilst I was sore—married him at a Registry; no service or
anything.”
He had never taken his eyes from her face; never sought to interrupt her
during this recital. One foot he had raised and placed on the rock where
she was sitting; and pity softened the deep lines on his forehead as the
evening light mellows the harsh brows of Gordel.
“Nay, Nancy,” he said sorrowfully; and at the sound of her name, or
perhaps at the tender note in his voice, the blood surged to her face
again; “you mustn’t blame yourself, or anyway you mustn’t take all the
blame. Father warned me, but I was too big a fool to heed him. I came
that afternoon on purpose to make friends wi’ you, and it wasn’t fate
but just hot temper ’at ruined all. It’s changed my nature, Nancy. When
father brought word ’at you were married something fell like a
thunderbolt i’ my head and has rested on my heart ever since; but I’m a
different man—whether I’m better or worse I don’t fairly know.”
“Yes, you’re changed,” she said, “and so am I; but the thunderbolt that
fells one tree lets more air in for that next to it. It’s me that’s
crushed, not you. You’ll make your way, I can see, for this mishap has
put ginger into you, and I shall be glad to see you get on. But James’ll
move heaven and earth to ruin you: there’s naught so sure as that; and
he’s a cleverer headpiece than you, Jagger.”
“He can soon have that,” said Jagger with a new note of modesty that was
entirely free from sulkiness; “but he’s welcome to do his worst as far
as I’m concerned. What’s it matter to me what he does? When we opened t’
new shop I was all for making money; but I’ve learned a hard lesson
since then, and I know now ’at money can’t buy t’ best things. I don’t
care whether we get on or we don’t so long as we can pay our way, and
there’s little fear o’ that; but work’s life, and good work’s
luxury—all t’ luxury I care about now, and Inman can’t ruin a man ’at
builds on them foundations.”
“He’ll try to,” she answered.
“Let him try!” he answered. “He can shove as he likes but he’ll never
shift t’ Cove—there’s some things too strong even for him. I’m on t’
old man’s side, Nancy, though I’m only a watcher. It’s a game between
God and t’ devil; and as long as my father lives I’ll back ’at Inman
doesn’t come out on top. Anyway, I’m walking t’ straight road, and he’s
welcome to do his worst.”
“You sound like Hannah!”
She looked up as she spoke, and the sorrow he saw in her eyes—a sorrow
shot through with yearning and pain—stabbed him to the heart and caused
him to lose control. Before she could guess his purpose he had stooped
and kissed her on the lips, and for a moment or two she yielded without
protest. The next she rose to her feet and pushed him gently away.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “If he knew he’d kill you; but
whether he knows or he doesn’t it isn’t walking t’ straight road that
you talk about. But it’s the first and last time, and there’s been
nobody to see and tell tales, so there’s no harm done. Only, never
again, remember! I’m his wife, and I’ll be no other man’s sweetheart.”
He bent his head at the rebuke; and she brightened as love and pity
stirred in her heart at the sight of his face.
“Tell your father I miss him, Jagger; and grannie too. I could like to
call in and see ’em; but it wouldn’t do. There’s no man’s word has the
same weight with me as your father’s, and you can tell him I took his
advice and bought stock with most o’ the money I had with Uncle John.
Baldwin doesn’t know because uncle made me promise not to tell him. It
was easier than I’d thought on to get round uncle, but I’ve always been
able to manage him better’n most folks, and he’s paid me out bit by bit
until I haven’t above five hundred with him now, and I’m letting that
stop.”
“Father’s never said aught o’ this to me,” said Jagger. “Was he uneasy
about the money, or what?”
“Not that I know of; but he knew I was. I can’t tell how it is; but I’ve
never been quite comfortable about Uncle John myself. There seems to be
money enough, and yet he always looks worried.”
“It’s a funny thing,” said Jagger, “’at them ’at have too much seem as
badly worried as them ’at have too little. I’ll tell father what you
say.”
“And Jagger! Ask Hannah to come to see me, I know she’ll scorn me; but
she’s a good heart and when she knows mine’s nearly broken she’ll not
bear malice. Tell her I want a friend and I haven’t one.”
“Yes, you have,” he said, “you’ve _that_, anyway!”
“Poor Jagger!” she replied in a low voice. “What a mess we’ve made of
it! I’m going now. Don’t follow till I’m out of sight.”
She turned away as she spoke and walked quickly up the hill with the
darkness gathering around her, and never once looked back. When she had
passed through the gate on to the road Jagger also moved away, but in
the other direction. Until his form mingled with the shadows on the
hillside there was silence in the glen; then a young girl rose
cautiously on the farther side of the wall and looked round before she
sought the path Nancy had taken.
It was Polly Marsden—Swithin’s granddaughter who had been there all the
time, disappointed of the company she had expected.
“It wasn’t my fault if I heard ’em,” she said to herself, perhaps to
quieten the too rapid beating of her heart. “What are ears for if not to
hear with?”