IN WHICH JOHN CLEGG IS “WANTED” AND MANIWEL ISN’T
IT was exactly a month later, towards the end of the merry month of
May and within a week of Baldwin’s pay-day that news reached Mawm that
John Clegg was “wanted” by the police. No merrier day had been known
that year. Before the cocks awoke to their trumpeting a cuckoo had
proclaimed the dawn, and had continued to obtrude its strange call upon
the air that vibrated all day with the music of more melodious
songsters. Curlews, black-headed gulls and lapwings, wheeling and crying
as they felt the sweep of the mountain breeze, had brought life and
action to the desolate moors, where the pink flowers of the bilberry
washed whole tracts with sunset tints that deepened as the day advanced.
One or two swallows had been seen above the river when the sun was
hottest, but had soon flown south again leaving behind them the hope of
summer. On every hand such stunted trees as the uplands could boast were
either thick with foliage or at least bursting into leaf, and the
meadows and pastures were spangled with gay spring flowers. The merry
day had ended merrily; and when the sun went down to his couch in the
west he flung his rich trappings to the sky which let them fall upon the
mountain tops, where they lay until night cast her shadows over them.
No man from his well-padded seat in the theatre ever watched the play
with keener enjoyment than Maniwel this entertainment of Nature’s
providing, though his chair was the hard stone parapet of the bridge
beside his cottage. All through the day his soul had responded to the
call of spring, to the warm grasp of the sun. The somewhat melancholy
chanting of the moor birds had quickened his pulse; had stirred up
memories of youth and youth’s ambitions; and he had discussed the future
with Jagger in a spirit of breezy optimism that had fired the younger
man. In another week their little capital would be in their own
hands—it was not so very little after all for people in a small way.
With one or two necessary machines and a supply of loose cash they would
soon get into their stride, after which it was just a question of
steadiness and hard, good work.
Maniwel had dismissed business from his thoughts, as a man must who
would enjoy the play, and was feasting his senses on the scene before
him when a motor-car, easily recognisable as the squire’s, sped up the
road from the valley, and a hand beckoned him to approach.
Maniwel obeyed the summons and was greeted by Mr. Harris in a voice that
was lowered so that the chauffeur would not hear.
“I say, Drake; hasn’t Nancy Clegg an Uncle John of that name in Airlee?”
“She has, sir,” he replied. “John and Tom were brothers, you’ll
remember; and it’s John he always banked with, same as Baldwin does to
this day.”
Mr. Harris looked with grave eyes into the other’s face.
“I’m afraid it’s a bad look-out, in that case, for Briggs,” he said;
“and I suppose for Nancy, too. John Clegg has absconded, and the police
have possession of his office!”
He put the evening paper into Maniwel’s hand as he spoke; but the joiner
thrust it into his pocket without looking at it; and though his face
expressed concern it remained calm.
“Dear! dear! that’s a bad job, that is,” he said. “I’m thinking Nancy’ll
be hard hit, poor lass, not so much by t’ loss of her money as by t’
disgrace ’at’ll come to t’ name. It’ll be a sad blow for Baldwin. You
weren’t thinking of calling and telling him t’ news, were you, sir?”
The squire smiled. “I’m not one to play on the hole of the asp, Drake,”
he said. “I don’t envy the lot of the man who tells Briggs. If you keep
it quiet it’s not likely that anyone else will hear of it, and to-morrow
morning’s paper will be the best messenger.”
Maniwel’s face showed that he was thinking deeply. “I’m not worried
about Nancy,” he said. “I believe it isn’t a vast deal ’at she’ll have
left wi’ her uncle; but Baldwin——! It’ll be like to crush him, will
this; and to come on him all of a sudden——!”
He looked into the squire’s eyes; but Mr. Harris remained silent, and
Maniwel continued:
“I doubt if he’s a friend i’ t’ village. There was a time when I
wouldn’t ha’ thought twice about going; but now he’d happen look at it
in a wrong light. All t’ same if there’s no other way I think it ’ud
only be neighbourly to step across and soften t’ news a bit.”
“As you like, Drake,” replied the squire as he tucked the rug about his
knees. “I think myself you’ll be seeking trouble instead of softening
it. But I admire your spirit, and if you had been in Briggs’ place I
should have reminded you of the saying of the old Roman—‘Fortune can
take away riches but not courage.’ I’m afraid it would be lost on
Briggs.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Maniwel; “Jagger and me’ll maybe need to remember
it, for we’d a little matter of three hundred pounds wi’ him ourselves
’at we were expecting to draw t’ first o’ next month. But that’s neither
here nor there. T’ loss of it is bad to bide; but it leaves us just
where we were, you see, whereas wi’ Baldwin it means all t’ difference
i’ t’ world.”
The squire held out his hand and grasped Maniwel’s.
“I’m sorry, Drake, very sorry——” He seemed about to say more but
checked himself. “Tell Jagger to keep his heart up! I don’t need to tell
you.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the other smiling. “I’ll match my Jew again’ your
Roman—‘Be of good cheer!’ He said when they were distressed by t’
waves; and t’ boat got safe to land, you’ll recollect. I shall lose no
sleep over t’ job.”
The squire pressed his hand again and the car moved rapidly away, whilst
Maniwel went indoors to make himself acquainted with the story of the
disaster.
When he had read the columns twice over he sought his son. Jagger was
still working in the shop where the light was dim, and he scarcely
raised his head when his father entered.
“There’s bad news, lad!” said Maniwel abruptly; “—news you’d never
guess.”
“Nought to do wi’ John Clegg, has it?” asked Jagger, straightening
himself from the bench.
“That’s a good shot, lad! He’s run away; cleared off wi’ every penny he
could lay his hands on! I thank God from my heart ’at you an’ me hasn’t
a sin o’ that sort on our souls. There’s hundreds ruined, according to
t’ paper.”
Jagger had not moved. His hands still grasped the plane where his eyes
also rested.
“It’s naught but what I’ve expected,” he said in a hard voice. “I’ve
dreamt night after night ’at t’ money was lost, and someway I’ve never
built on it. We lose fifteen pound a year interest, and we’re where we
were before—on t’ Street called Straight.”
It was almost a sneer; but it was instantly atoned for, and with a quick
glance at his father’s face he went on:
“Nay, I’ll say naught about it. T’ devil’s won that trick, but t’ game
isn’t finished yet. I care naught about t’ money now ’at Nancy’s——”
He stopped as comprehension widened, and a new light came into his eyes.
“By Jove, it’s worth it! I never thought about Baldwin! T’ devil’s
trumped after all, for Baldwin’ll be floored. I’d ha’ paid three hundred
pounds wi’ pleasure to ha’ floored Baldwin!”
He chuckled with satisfaction, but the smile faded when he caught sight
of his father’s face.
“Jagger!” said Maniwel almost sternly. “I’m sorry to hear a son o’ mine
talk like a child o’ the devil. ‘Satan hath desired to have thee, that
he may sift thee like wheat.’ But you’re a beginner, and you’ve a deal
to learn. If Baldwin was to fall down Gordel and break his leg you’d
none let him lie to crawl home by himself; and I’m off there now to talk
things over wi’ him, if so be as he’ll let me.”
“You are?” said Jagger, with closed teeth.
“I’m off there now,” repeated his father.
“Then there’s no more to be said”; and Jagger turned to his work.
Keturah had just lit the lamp when Maniwel knocked at the door and
raised the latch in the familiar fashion of the country. Baldwin was
sitting by the hearth smoking the one pipe in which he indulged himself
of an evening. His eyebrows met in a scowl as he recognised his visitor
and the tone in which he bade him enter was anything but cordial.
“It’s thee, is it? It’s long since tha was i’ this house afore.”
Involuntarily his speech broadened into the homelier dialect which both
men had used to employ with each other in former days, and Maniwel
followed suit.
“Aye,” he replied, “and I don’t know ’at I durst ha’ come, Baldwin, if
it hadn’t been ’at I wor thrussen. But it’s a saying ’at trouble makes
strange bedmates, and there’s trouble for both on us, lad. I’ one way
happen it’s worse for me nor what it is for thee, for I stand to lose
all I’ve saved; but I’m flayed tha’ll find it harder to bide, for tha
drops from a bigger height.”
Whilst Maniwel was speaking a grey shade had spread over Baldwin’s face,
though it was the tone in which the words were spoken rather than the
words themselves that sent a chill to his heart. The scowl left his brow
and his eyes widened, like the mouth that no longer offered its
hospitality to the long, black clay, and he was dumb; unable to swear at
the intruder or to bid him quicken his explanation—dumb with a
foreboding that left him sick and helpless in the presence of his enemy.
“It’s all in t’ _Evening Post_,” Maniwel went on. He had not seated
himself, but leaned against the dresser as if his stay was likely to be
short; and Keturah was too concerned at the sight of her brother to
remember the duties of hostess—“John Clegg’s made off, taking all wi’
him, and there’s a warrant out for his arrest——”
The cold statement of fact broke the spell like the touch of a fairy’s
wand, and Baldwin jumped to his feet and snatched the paper from
Maniwel’s hand.
“Tha’rt a liar!” he shouted. “—— tha for bringing thy black lies into
my house! I won’t believe it if I see it i’ print——!” He was tearing
the paper open as he spoke and his eyes fell at once upon the record
that ran in heavy type across two columns.
“WELL-KNOWN MONEY-LENDER ABSCONDS!
IMMENSE LIABILITIES”
It was enough. The name of John Clegg met his gaze on the first line and
he threw the paper from him and sank back into his chair with a groan.
Keturah’s apron was to her eyes and she was weeping volubly when the
door of the parlour opened and Nancy appeared.
Before she had time to speak Baldwin turned round and vented his wrath
upon her.
“Curse you and all your —— lot!” he said savagely. “Thieves and
robbers, that’s what you are! You might well pay your brass into t’
bank, you sly ratten—when you knew your uncle was naught no better nor
a pick-purse. Honour among thieves! I don’t doubt but what he warned
you, —— him....”
Keturah had sunk into a chair and was holding her apron to her ears in
the usual way, but Nancy turned her white face away from the angry man
and moved towards the table where the paper was lying. All the time a
torrent of coarse abuse which nobody heeded was pouring from Baldwin’s
lips.
Maniwel laid his hand on the paper.
“Wait a minute, lass,” he said kindly. “There’s news there ’at’ll cut
you like a knife. Your uncle John’s missing, and things look black
again’ him there’s no denying. But it’ll happen all turn out better than
like, and anyway it’s not for us to judge him over hard ’at doesn’t know
all. There’s One above ’at’ll judge both him and us.”
“And you’ve lost all?” she said calmly, though her hands shook and her
face was colourless.
“We shall see,” he replied soothingly. “It’s early days yet to talk
about ‘all’. That’s what I want to say to Baldwin.” He turned his head
in the direction of the fireplace again. “We’ve got to keep up wer
hearts and wer heads, and see ’at we make t’ best of a bad job. There’ll
be summat left to share out, surely.”
Another volley of coarse abuse from Baldwin was the only reply he
received. Nancy was reading the report,—steadily—but with mouth firmly
closed; and Keturah had covered her head and was rocking her chair,
consoling herself with groans. Maniwel went over to the hearth where
Baldwin’s feet were on the ruins of his pipe.
“What a man says in his temper is easy forgi’en, Baldwin,” he said. His
eyes were almost woman-like in their tenderness, but the firmness in the
voice was that of a man and a strong man. “It’s bound to be a sad blow
for tha, but t’ ship isn’t allus wrecked when it strikes a rock, and if
there’s owt I can do to help tha tha’s nobbut to speak t’ word and we’ll
put wer heads together——”
“If tha’ll be good enough to take thy-sen off, Maniwel Drake, tha’ll be
doing me t’ only service I ask of tha,” said Baldwin, his voice
trembling with the passion he was endeavouring to restrain. “Tha’s had
what tha come for—t’ pleasure o’ seeing me knocked off o’ my feet wi’
t’ news tha brought; tha can get thee gone now and tell t’ funny tale to
Jagger. Put wer heads together, will we? Let me tell tha Baldwin
Briggs’s none done yet; and there’s a lad’ll put his head alongside mine
’at’s worth all t’ Drake fam’ly rolled into one. He seed this coming;
and if I’d ta’en a bit o’ notice tha’d happen ha’ had less ’casion to
make game o’ me.”
“You’re out of your mind——” began Nancy hotly; and it was not the
anger that flashed into Baldwin’s eyes that stopped her; but the hand
Maniwel laid on her arm.
“The lass is right,” he said sternly; “—tha’rt out o’ thy mind, or
tha’d shame to say such things to a man’s ’at’s wanted to be thi friend.
But it’s out o’ t’ abundance o’ t’ heart ’at t’ mouth speaks, and thi
heart’s so full o’ muck ’at no clean thought can get either in or out.
When a man walks crook’d he sees crook’d; and there’ll come a time when
tha’ll know what it is to lack a friend. If Nancy’s husband can help
tha, well and good; I’m glad on’t. If tha’s laid up treasure i’ any
man’s heart it’s more than tha’s ever done afore sin’ I knew tha—nay,
tha’s no ’casion to grind thi teeth; lame as I am I could throw tha on
t’ fire-back wi’ my one hand, but there’s better fuel i’ t’ bucket. I’m
going now; but I’ve one thing more to say t’ first. Tha’rt as miserable
a soul as ever drew breath, and if tha loses thi brass tha can’ scarce
be more miserable. Tha’s made it harder for me to offer tha help another
time; but what I call tha I call tha to thi face and not behind thi
back, and if tha finds ’at t’ stick tha’s trusting to fails tha,
remember tha’s still a friend i’ Maniwel Drake—tha hears me?”
“I’ll see tha blaze before I’ll ask thy help!” Baldwin almost hissed.
“Tha’s seen me blaze just now,” returned Maniwel calmly; “or anyway
tha’s heard t’ crackle. If a man doesn’t blaze i’ thi comp’ny it isn’t
for lack o’ kindling. I’m going now; but I’m sorry for tha from my soul,
and tha knows where to turn when tha comes to t’ far end.”
He let his eyes rest for a moment on Baldwin who spat disgustedly into
the fire, and with a word of farewell to Nancy left the house.
On his way home he met Inman returning from the inn.
“I fancy you’re wanted,” he said pausing in his walk. “Baldwin’s i’
trouble.”
Inman raised his eyebrows, nodded, and sauntered on.