IN WHICH THE VILLAGERS DISCUSS THE DISASTER
NEVER had an unfortunate business man more alert and resourceful
adviser than Baldwin found in Inman at this crisis. Promptly, yet with
no lessening of deference—nay, with a greater show of it—the mate
became captain of the ship and held the helm with a master’s hand. In
the inn and elsewhere Inman made light of the disaster. It was hard
luck, he admitted; but when a man had plenty left, and had always lived
and was content to live, as if he had nothing, there was no need to make
a fuss about the loss of a thousand or two.
“It’s his heirs who may pull long faces,” he explained lightly; “and he
damns them with a good grace, and doesn’t seem quite to know who they
are.”
Baldwin himself kept indoors, and only his workpeople saw his face and
heard his voice, and if both were a trifle sourer the difference was not
very marked.
Inman, on the other hand, was friendlier and more approachable. He
walked with a lighter step, and whistled softly as he worked, to the
satisfaction of his master who looked upon these proceedings as a
deliberate act of policy on his astute subordinate’s part; and also of
the men, who appreciated anything that lightened and sweetened the
usually sultry atmosphere of the shop. There was another reason for the
master’s gratification, though it was one that was carefully hidden from
everybody else, in the circumstance that his foreman’s energies were
employed, and with apparently equal zeal, in two directions, one of
which was to save the business from wreckage and the other to ensure the
discomfiture of the Drakes. This latter object he pursued with an
ingenuity and relentless determination that seemed almost superhuman to
the slow-witted master, who never chuckled now except when news was
brought that another scheme for his competitors’ downfall had hatched
out successfully.
“He’s nowt i’ my line, isn’t t’ lad,” said Swithin; “and never has been
from t’ first night when he stole Jagger’s job fro’ him; but one thing I
say and that I stand tul, ’at he’s turned out a rare friend for Baldwin
in his time o’ trouble.”
“Mebbee, mebbee,” Ambrose’s thin voice broke in; and from the look on
the others’ faces it was evident the two disputants were having the
field to themselves. “A hungry dog is fain of a dirty pudden,’ as t’
t’owd speyk puts it, and this young fella gives him summat he hasn’t wit
enough to get for his-sen. But when a man’s gifted same as I’ve been,
and partic’lar when he’s lived to my years, Swith’n there’s things he
can see wi’ his een shut; and I can see Baldwin harvestin’ trouble by t’
peck ’at this young fella’s scattered for seeds o’ kindness.”
The old man’s words carried conviction and Swithin himself felt their
force.
“There’s no man can say I’m a friend to either on ’em, Ambrus, and I’m
not one to deny ’at you’ve t’ gift o’ seeing farther nor most folk——”
“It wor born in me, Swithin, same as t’ talent to make verses,” broke in
Ambrose in a pleased voice. “They both run together, as you may say, and
I take no credit for’t.”
“But I gie you credit for’t,” returned Swithin, stoutly, “and I don’t
match my-sen alongside o’ you, Ambrus; not for a minute, when it comes
to seeing what’s i’ folks’ minds. I’ve never ta’en to t’ lad, and I
shouldn’t wonder if there isn’t a deal o’ trewth i’ what you say. T’
more I dwell on’t, and t’ less I like t’ lewk on’t, I will admit. They
say he’s lent Baldwin all his own brass to tide him over while he can
turn his-sen round; and if all’s to be believed ’at’s tell’d he got
Keturah to put her bit in when Baldwin couldn’t move her. Now you heard
what t’ lad said for his-sen that first night when he come into t’ bar
and crushed t’ life out o’ t’ spider: ‘there’s no mercy i’ Natur’’ he
said, ‘for the man what stands i’ t’ way o’ progress,’ I ask you if them
wasn’t his varry words; and now I’m asking my-sen, if he’s having mercy
on Baldwin, _what’s he doin’ it for_?”
“Aye, and I’ll ask you something,” interposed the same young man who had
defied Inman to his face on one occasion;—“he’s got Baldwin to sell all
his property; turned every stick and stone into brass to save t’
business, so they say; _but who’s bought all t’ property_? Now, can any
of you tell me that?”
He looked round upon the faces of those whose eyes were turned
inquiringly towards him; but there was no answer to be read on any of
them. Only old Ambrose replied:
“T’ farm our Robin leases wor bought in by some lawyer chap; but who he
was I can’t bethink me, though I seed it i’ t’ paper.”
“Aye, we’ve all seen it i’ t’ paper,” Jack went on savagely; “t’ first
lot was bought by this lawyer from Airlee; t’ next it was a’ auctioneer
from Airlee; them three cottages went to another man from Airlee, and
that other man was a clerk i’ t’ same lawyer’s office, and t’ same
lawyer’s name is on t’ bottom of all t’ auctioneer’s bills. If you can’t
smoke aught after that, I’ll help you; but them ’at’s both years and
wisdom’ll happen put two and two together.”
Swithin was eyeing the speaker unkindly, as he did any young man who
promised to score at the expense of his elders; but Ambrose was less
sensitive.
“You’ll be meanin’ I reckon ’at all t’ property has getten into t’ same
hands? Well, it’s a sayin’ ’at all things has a’ end and a pudden has
two; but what end there is i’ cloakin’ a thing up so as you don’t know
whose brass is payin’ for t’ property I don’t see just at this minute.
But it’s trew enough ’at
‘There’s things out o’ seet
What’ll come to the leet
If we nobbut have patience, and bide.’
as I once wrote when I was in my gifted mood. There was three more
lines, but they’ve clean gone out o’ my mind, and I don’t know ’at it
matters——”
“You were never more gifted nor when you made that verse, Ambrus,”
interrupted Jack; “and if we all live to see t’ end we shall see what a
cunning devil this Inman is. It’s naught to none of us who t’ property
belongs to; but I can tell you who t’ lawyer is ’at’s bought it——”
“We know who he is, so you’re telling us nowt, Swithin broke in
derisively; and Jack turned upon him with a note in his voice that the
remark hardly accounted for.
“I’m telling you what none of you’s had wit to pick out for yourselves;
’at it’s Inman’s lawyer—him ’at he’s recommended to Baldwin for this
John Clegg business,—’at’s bought up all t’ property. _Now_ do I let a
bit o’ daylight in?”
From the expression on the men’s faces it was evident that he had; but
the operation was not one that Swithin approved when he was not the
operator, and he frowned on the young man as he said:
“You’ve gone round and round, Jack, same as a pegged goat; but you’ve
just brought us back to t’ point I left off at—‘What’s he doing it
for?’ That’s what you haven’t tell’d us, and that’s what I ask?”
“Aye, there’s lots of things you can ask,” answered Jack hotly, whilst a
red flush overspread his face and his brow grew black. “I could ask what
he’s doing it for when he meets your Polly first i’ one place then i’
another, but always where he thinks they won’t be seen. ‘There’s no
mercy i’ Nature!’ No, by gen, there’s none in his; and one o’ these days
you’ll be finding it out i’ your house to your sorrow.”
Without waiting to see the effect of this outburst—perhaps because he
was too ashamed of what it revealed—he pulled forward his cap and left
the assembly. Swithin’s mouth was wide open; but except for a furtive
glance none of the men dared to look at him, save only old Ambrose.
“It’s t’ way o’ Natur’, Swithin——” he began; but by this time the
other had found his breath, and he broke forth:
“T’ way o’ Natur’; If he hurts our Polly——! but I don’t believe a word
on’t, and I’ll break yon Jack Pearce his neck for him! She’s more sense
nor to let such as Inman go near her. Why, bless her, it ’ud kill her
mother if owt happened t’ lass!”
“Don’t ye be too sure, Swithin, ’at there’s naught in it,” one of the
older men interposed quickly. “My missus has heard t’ tale, and there’s
more nor one has seen ’em together. It’s all round t’ village, anyway;
if you start a scandal it doesn’t go on crutches, you know—t’ women see
to that.”
“There’s happen nowt in it,” another added. “Jack’s a bit touchy, you
see. He’s been spreading t’ net his-self for Polly, and he’s like to be
jealous.”
The younger men laughed and Swithin experienced a sense of relief.
“I’ll net him!” he muttered; “spreading his rotten lies through all t’
village.”
“All t’ same,” said old Ambrose; “when a wed man smirks on a young lass
he owt to be watched. It’s a trew word ’at there’s nivver a foul face
but there’s a foul fancy to match it; and a foul face that lad has, wi’
mischief written deep. And when a man’s all for his-sen, even though
it’s i’ t’ way o’ Natur’, a lass’s mother counts for nowt.”
Swithin shifted uneasily on his seat; and the landlord, who had heard
most of the triologue, but had been too busy to take part, now tried to
divert the conversation into another channel.
“I feel sorry for yon two,” he said, indicating the Drakes’ dwelling
with a jerk of his head. “What they’ve had to put up with sin’ they
started ’ud try the patience o’ Job, for there’s been nasty underhanded
tricks played on ’em ’at ’ud ha’ driven some men out o’ t’ village. If
you take pleasure i’ smartness there’s no question but what Inman’s
smart, and keeps himself inside o’ t’ law into t’ bargain.”
“Aye, aye, Albert; but you’re nobbut a young man and hasn’t got your
second sight yet,” said Ambrose knowingly. “A man ’at laiks wi’ a rope
round his neck may last for a while but he’ll be throttled at t’ finish.
There’s a sayin’ about a green bay-tree ’at I can’t call to
mind—whether it’s i’ t’ Bible or one o’ my verses I couldn’t just say.
I’ve lost a deal wi’ being a poor scholar, and it grieves me to think
’at if I’d nobbut—but I’ve lost t’ track o’ what I was sayin’, for owd
age sets my head a-hummin’ like a top.”
“It caps me,” said Albert when the weak voice quavered to a standstill,
“’at Maniwel takes it all so pleasant-like; and as for Jagger, I can’t
reckon him up noway. I believe if they were to rive his shop down he’d
nayther swear nor laugh; but just set to work and build it up again.”
“He cares nowt about owt sin’ Inman wed Nancy,” commented Swithin. “That
explains Jagger, and there’s no more to be said.”
“Nay, there’s more nor that, Swithin,” said Ambrose. “You can judge t’
foal better when you know it’s sire, and Maniwel explains Jagger. T’
lad’s been a bit slow at findin’ his feet, but there’s nowt like a storm
for drivin’ a man to t’ rock, and Jagger frames to follow after his
fayther.”
“He mud do worse,” said some man whom Ambrose could not see.
“And that’s a trew word,” said Swithin, still gloomily, for his thoughts
were divided.
“Right enough,” the landlord admitted; “but whether it’s a fault or a
merit for Maniwel to take things so calm-like is a thing ’at a man can’t
easy settle in his mind. Baldwin’s spread tales about ’em while there’s
scarce a timber-yard i’ t’ country ’at’ll give ’em credit. They’ve
clipped Joe his wings so as he dursn’t carry for ’em. Any man ’at
supplies Maniwel is crossed off Baldwin’s books; and even them ’at’s
given him a bit o’ work has been warned ’at if they go there for t’
little jobs they needn’t turn to Baldwin for them ’at’s too big for
Maniwel to tackle. And now ’at he’s lost his brass, be it much or
little, what chance has he?”
Most of those present shook their heads in reluctant agreement with the
landlord, but Swithin turned so that he could look Albert in the face,
and snapped an aggressive—“Well?”
“I was only meaning,” the landlord explained, “’at it doesn’t seem sort
o’ natural for a man to be so cheerful i’ them circumstances, and to
bear no grudge——”
“Well, ’cos why is he cheerful and doesn’t bear no grudge?” questioned
Swithin, whose manner in this examination was anything but cheerful, and
who seemed to be seeking a vent for his over-charged feelings. “I’ll
tell you ’cos why! Have you never heard tell o’ God’s will? Well,
Maniwel believes ’at there’s a power at t’ back o’ that man ’at goes
straight and tries to do his duty by his neighbour ’at not all the
devils i’ hell can stand again’, let alone such little devils as this
Inman.”
His head fell as he mentioned the name, and not one of the company
needed to be told that the seed Jack Pearce had dropped was already
germinating.
Old Ambrose knew it; but his soul had been fired by this new thought,
and he broke out eagerly:
“Aye, you’ve hit t’ nail fair on t’ head this time, Swith’n. I couldn’t
ha’ put it better my-sen—not when I was i’ my gifted prime, and I
shouldn’t wonder if it comes o’ you goin’ to t’ chapil, if not reg’lar,
a toathri times i’ t’ year. I was a chapil-goer my-sen when I was a
young fella and I call to mind a famous sermon by an owd man called
Laycock—he was a local, but a grander preycher nor some ’at wore white
chokers. It was i’ t’ days when they didn’t watter t’ Gospil down same
as they do now, when they’re flayed o’ callin’ t’ devil hard names
chance he happens to hear ’em. Owd Laycock pictur’d him as a bull in a
mad hig ’at no man could stand up again’. But he tewk both t’ man and t’
bull down to t’ railway; and he set t’ man on t’ Scotchman and t’ bull
atween t’ lines; and he opened t’ Scotchman’s throttle up yonder aboon
t’ Junction; and eh, dear, there wasn’t as much wind left i’ that bull
when t’ train had passed as there is i’ my poor bellowses at this
minute. I made a set o’ grand verses, but they’re clean gone. It seems a
sad waste o’ good stuff.”
“It was a sadder waste of a good bull,” murmured one of the company
whose business made him a judge of such matters.
“T’ bull ’ud ha’ made a sad waste of a good man, wouldn’t it?” snapped
Swithin.
“It was only what you mud call a parrible—this o’ owd Laycock’s,”
Ambrose explained soothingly. “But what caps me is ’at Maniwel hasn’t so
much as a foul look for t’ bull—meanin’ by that word both Baldwin and
Nancy’s husband; but contraireywise ’ud go out of his road to do ’em a
kindness.”
Before he could complete his observation, a shower that had been
threatening for some time began to fall heavily, and the company
dispersed—some to their homes and others to the parlour of the inn
where the entrance of Inman prevented any continuation of the
discussion.
Jealousy is a good stone on which to sharpen a man’s wits; but there was
another in the village, in whom that trait was entirely wanting, who was
watching the course of events with a quick intelligence that read into
every move of Inman’s its proper significance. In one matter Maniwel was
misled, for Nancy’s name figured in the list of creditors with the sum
of £500 against it, and he was thankful that the girl’s loss was no
larger. To what extent she was still interested in the joinery business
he could not be sure; but he knew that by the terms of her father’s will
Baldwin had the option to reduce his indebtedness, and from the known
fact that the machinery was Baldwin’s own he concluded that little of
the original loan was now owing.
Baldwin’s name figured high up in the list of creditors; and the outlook
in his case was dark as the realisable assets were small, and it seemed
likely that they would be absorbed in their entirety by the expense of
collection.
Although Maniwel was naturally magnanimous, and less ready than most to
attribute selfish motives to Inman, he was too shrewd an observer to
overlook the evidences of duplicity that multiplied as the days went by;
for it is a mistake to suppose that a large heart can be indulged only
at the expense of a small brain. The wisdom of the serpent may be
usefully combined with the harmlessness of the dove, and Maniwel had
long ago reached the conclusion that Inman was working for his own ends
and hoodwinking the master who regarded him as his only friend. He was
convinced that Inman was the purchaser of all Baldwin’s property, and he
shared his convictions with his own family but with no one else.
Jagger was indifferent. The money had been Nancy’s to start with—why
shouldn’t it return to her? As for a double-dyed rascal like
Inman—well, such men were apt to over-reach themselves and he could
afford to wait. Meantime, any stick, however crooked, was good enough to
beat such a dog as Baldwin with, and the harder Inman laid it on the
better he would be pleased.
Hannah’s pity was reserved for Nancy, whose miseries had earned her
forgiveness long ago. As for Grannie, she shook her head mournfully and
said:
“Didn’t I tell you—
‘A Clegg wife
And it’s trouble or strife.’
“He comes off a black moor, does her husband. Wasn’t it there where t’
bog slid down and sought to drown ’em off t’ face o’ t’ earth, they was
that wicked, same as Sodom and Gomorrah? A race o’ cut-throats and
kidnappers, I’ve heard my father tell, where t’ men was rakes and t’
sons o’ rakes, and t’ women a set o’ trollops. What was she doing, I
wonder, to mate wi’ such-like? But sorrow was written on t’ lass’ face,
as I’ve tell’d you many a time.”
“Never heed t’ old tales, mother,” Maniwel would say, as he saw the
seamed face grow troubled. “There’s good, bad and middling on them moors
same as there is on these. You may be thankful ’at he can’t do us no
damage, choose how bad he is——!”
“Can’t he!” commented Jagger.
“No!” continued Maniwel. “I said us. I don’t deny ’at he can put a
toathri obstacles i’ t’ way o’ t’ business; but I reckon naught o’ that.
When I was a young man I didn’t set much store by flat-racing; but if
there was a hurdle race you couldn’t ha’ held me back. They put a bit o’
spice into life, does obstacles; and there’s one thing I will say: there
isn’t much chance, o’ sleeping i’ t’ daytime when Inman’s planking down
his hurdles i’ t’ road, but I lose no sleep at nights.”