IN WHICH BALDWIN ALLOWS AN OPPORTUNITY TO
SLIP
HANNAH was bending over the fire stirring something in a pan when
Inman entered the kitchen, and he went straight up to her and laying a
hand on her shoulder said:
“Keturah’ll manage that, whatever it is; and if she can’t I’ll pay
somebody else to do it. Get you off home and bandage your brother; and
never set foot in this house again while I’m its master.”
Hannah flashed round, and though her eyes widened at the sight of his
swollen face she was not cowed.
“There’s work been done while you’ve been fighting,” she said; “and
there’s work yet to be done if your wife’s life is to be saved; and work
’at only women can do——”
“Have done, woman!” he commanded, “and get your things on, if you have
any. I don’t want to lay my hands on you; but, by my soul if you aren’t
out of this house in another minute I’ll throw you out!”
“Lord save us!” ejaculated Keturah, who had been frightened into silence
by Inman’s look and voice. “This is what comes o’ whisky-drinking. Eh,
dear! Eh, dear! and Nancy on her dying bed at this minute!”
“Take t’ spoon, Keturah,” said Hannah, as Inman uttered an impatient
exclamation. “We mustn’t have a row i’ t’ house, choose what else we
have. I’ll go, seeing as I must; and I hope an’ trust ’at t’ worst is
over and Nancy’ll pull through now. Maybe you’ll find time to run across
and bring me word.”
“It’s come to a bonny pass,” wailed Keturah with a spark of spirit, as
she took up the spoon and Hannah’s work; “when we’ve to be at t’ beck
and call of a man nob’dy’d set eyes on this time was a twelve-month, and
ordered about same as we was slaves, and he’d use t’ whip to wer
backs——”
“And so I would for two pins,” Inman broke in sharply. “Shut your mouth,
woman! It’s a sick house,” he added with a sneer—“and we must have
quiet! Tell your brother,” he said to Hannah as he held open the door
for her to pass out, “that I shall begin the treatment I spoke of this
very night, and he can have that thought to sleep on. And don’t forget
that this door’s closed to you!”
He went upstairs without returning to the kitchen and Keturah heard his
voice on the landing in conversation with the doctor. By and by the two
men came down together and passed into the parlour.
“I care nothing about the child’s life,” Inman said in a tone that was
strange to Keturah; “but I hope you’ll not let the mother slip through
your fingers. You don’t often hear a man talk of disappointments at a
time like this I daresay, but it’ll be a big disappointment to me if she
dies. If there’s anything else to be done; any other man you think could
help——”
“It will be settled one way or the other, my lad, before any other man
could get here,” interposed the doctor. “She’s putting up a better fight
now than I gave her credit for, and I wouldn’t say that she hasn’t a
chance. No! no! not for me,” he added as Inman produced a bottle and a
couple of tumblers. “A drop before I go to bed, maybe; but never whilst
there’s work to be done.”
“Then I ought to sign off the stuff for a month or two,” said Inman with
a hard laugh, “for I’ve work to do that I’d be sorry to spoil.”
The doctor looked up at him curiously and his eyes rested on Inman’s
swollen and discoloured face.
“You’ve been in the wars yourself, I see,” he remarked. “That’s a nasty
bruise you’ve got!”
“Yes,” said Inman, “it is”; and vouchsafed no other reply.
When he left his shake-down in the parlour the next morning he found the
doctor drinking a cup of tea in the kitchen. The old man’s eyes were
tired and he looked weary; but his voice was cheery as he said:
“I must get away for a few hours. There are others who must be seen; but
though your wife isn’t out of the wood yet, we have not worked all night
for nothing. I’ll be round again at noon.”
“I’m much obliged to you,” said Inman calmly. “I wouldn’t have her die
for the world. I want her to get well and strong—aye, by Jove, and to
have her feelings. She hasn’t been out of my thoughts all night.”
The doctor stared at him. “Very natural, of course,” he said. He was
thinking to himself that he would never have expected this reserved,
obstinate-looking young fellow to be so deeply affected by the anxiety
that throws some men off their balance at these times.
Baldwin was unbearable that morning and for once Inman was not
conciliatory. Both men felt that they were objects of interest to the
others and both knew that their affairs would have been discussed in the
public-house the night before; but whereas Baldwin was too muddled by
drink and worry to pay any attention to the idle talk of his neighbours
Inman was chafing under a sense of deep humiliation; and his ill-temper
which he had carefully cloaked from the men, found an outlet when he was
summoned to the office just before noon.
No sooner was the door closed than Baldwin let loose a flood of coarse
language on which the information he intended to impart was carried in
disjointed fragments that told Inman nothing.
“Look here, Mr. Briggs!” he said, so sharply that Baldwin stopped with
an abruptness that proved his astonishment. “If you’ve anything to say
get it said, and don’t unload all your foul talk on to me. Why the devil
should I have my ears turned into sewers for all your filth? The post
can have brought you naught you haven’t expected. If you want my help,
get to the point, and if you don’t I’ll go back. I’m in a mood to jack
the whole thing up this morning, and let you go to hell your own way.”
His tone was so surly and menacing that Baldwin, who had dropped into a
chair and was staring at him with blinking eyes that had something of
fear in them as well as wonder, found himself without words.
“If you’ve aught to say to me about the shop—aught ’at either I or the
other chaps have got to do, I’ll take your instructions. If it’s your
business affairs you’re troubled with you must fight ’em out yourself;
I’ve said all I can say.”
“Oh, you have, have you? And I must, must I?”—the spark of life in
Baldwin’s spirit manifested itself in one last kick against this
unwelcome dictatorship; but his dependence on the other’s strength made
actual opposition impossible, and the defiant tone ended in a surly
whine.
“You’ll be same as all t’ rest, I reckon. When t’ old dog’s teeth are
gone and there’s naught left but its bark, every cur’ll snap at it.”
“Every dog has its day,” commented Inman cynically. “I’ve offered to
prolong yours, and these writs you are talking about needn’t have
worried you. I can say no more.”
Baldwin’s eyes rested wearily upon the letters that strewed the table in
front of him. For a moment or two he said nothing; but his brow bent
more and more until tiny drops of moisture appeared above the coarse
pepper-coloured hairs which bristled like those of a wild boar. Inman
watched him in silence.
“Have you that brass handy?” The eyes were not raised from the table,
and the voice was a hollow echo of Baldwin’s.
“You can have it as soon as the document’s ready.”
“Then get t’ document, and be hanged to you!”
Baldwin rose and went over to the cupboard; but Inman interposed.
“There’s nothing there; you finished it last night, and it’s perhaps as
well. You’d best keep sober this afternoon and think the matter over. If
you’re in the same mind to-morrow morning I’ll go over to Keepton and
fix the thing up. I’m not going to have it said ’at I took advantage of
you. It wouldn’t take two straws to make me back out altogether, for I
tell you straight I don’t care to trust a man who drinks himself blind
every night.”
Without waiting to see what effect these words had upon his master,
Inman turned upon his heel and went out; but when Baldwin joined him at
the dinner table a few minutes later the storm—if storm there had
been—had spent itself, and both men recovered themselves a little
during the meal.
Somewhat late in the evening the nurse asked Inman if he would keep an
eye on his wife and child for a few minutes as Keturah was in the
village, and he found an opportunity he had been seeking.
They were both asleep when he entered the room, the child’s head resting
in the hollow of the mother’s arm where she had asked for it to be laid.
The most dangerous crisis was past and the doctor now thought that Nancy
would pull through. Inman just glanced at the pair, and though emotion
shone in his eyes it was not that of tenderness. When he had satisfied
himself that his wife’s slumber was real he bestowed no further thought
upon her, but quietly mounted a chair and lifted down his bag from the
top of the cupboard and placed it on the dark landing, whence he removed
it to the parlour when the nurse relieved him a few minutes later.
Keturah had not returned and the transaction had passed unobserved by
anyone. Inman smiled his self-congratulations as he slung the bag over
the moulding of the old-fashioned bookcase, where it raised a cloud of
dust that assured him the place of concealment was well-chosen. When
Keturah came hurrying in he was standing in the kitchen with his back to
the fire.
Baldwin looked up when supper was over. He had not tasted drink that day
and his mood had changed since morning.
“Maniwel’s got that job we’ve been after up at Far Tarn,” he began when
Inman accepted his suggestion that they should return to the office.
“Has he?” Inman replied indifferently.
Baldwin surveyed him with something of his old fierceness; and the look
of premature superciliousness that he thought he saw in his foreman’s
face combined with the tone of contemptuous unconcern, led to a result
which neither man had anticipated a moment before.
“I’ll do without your brass,” he said in one of his old gusts of anger
that quickly brought Inman to his senses again. “It’s plain to see who’s
to be t’ boss when you’ve ’commodated me wi’ your five hundred, for
you’re holding your head already, both i’ t’ house and t’ shop, as if
you were gaffer. You may take yourself off to another market, young man,
and as soon as you like. There’s been naught but mischief i’ t’ place
ever sin’ you set your foot in’t, and I’ll try if getting rid o’ t’
Jonah’ll save t’ ship. If it doesn’t we can but sink and ha’ done wi’t.”
It would be difficult to say which of the two men was the more surprised
by this deliverance. Baldwin had invited Inman to accompany him to the
office with the express object of accepting the unwelcome terms. He had,
indeed, dwelt upon the alternatives so long that the terms had almost
ceased to be unwelcome, and he had persuaded himself that with this
relief he would soon be able to find his feet again, when it would be no
great matter to get rid of the yoke that was so galling to his pride,
and consign the bill of sale to those blazes that were so often on his
tongue.
Inman, too, without the effort of conscious thought, had known that his
master was about to bend his head to the yoke; had been so convinced of
it from reliable inward witness that he had allowed his whole manner to
forestall the consummation and thereby jeopardise it. Even now, so
accustomed had he become to the foretaste of success and the realisation
of his strength, he hardly troubled to stoop to conciliate, choosing to
regard the outburst as a mere ebullition of temper that would expend
itself as quickly as a child’s squib.
“I meant no offence,” he said without warmth; “and of course you can
please yourself about the money.”
“Can I?” interrupted Baldwin, in quite his old style. He was surprised
at his own boldness, but was aware of an exhilaration to which he had
been a stranger for some weeks. It was as though some force outside his
own volition was egging him on to resist the cynical adviser, and abide
by the threat he had expressed to get rid of him. It was seldom that his
brain evolved a metaphor; but that of Jonah which had flashed across his
mind like an inspiration held him with a force that seemed to him almost
supernatural and that gave him new courage.
“Can I?” he repeated, frowning portentously at his companion. “I can
please myself! Well, that’s something to be thankful for, choose
how!”—his slow wits were still turning over the image that had startled
them—“I reckon I’m master o’ t’ ship even if t’ ship is sinking, and I
can chuck Jonah overboard if I like——” He was trying to hold the
conversation and examine this new thought at the same time, and he found
the task beyond his powers. The suggestion that he should dismiss
Inman—send him about his business as abruptly as he had engaged
him—was clamouring for acceptance, and he was trying to weigh it,
instead of risking the hazard. “Every bit o’ ill-luck there’s been came
wi’ you; and I’m hanged if I’ve a spoon ’at’s long enough to sup wi’ t’
devil. You can clear out, I tell you, wi’ your ‘cans’ and your ‘please
yourselves,’ and I’ll go see Green and a toathri more myself and maybe
patch matters up wi’ ’em. I’ve been a damned fool ’at I haven’t done it
afore.”
Why the thought of Maniwel insisted on obtruding itself Baldwin could
not explain, but so it was. The fact irritated him with the vague
feeling that it had a meaning he could not interpret.
The long and hesitating harangue had not been unwelcome to Inman, who
had been sending out thought-scouts in all directions during its
progress, and had determined on his line of action.
“I suppose I’m a damned fool too,” he said cunningly, and with no sudden
change of tone to quicken the other’s suspicions. “What with the worry
of the business and anxiety over Nancy——” the softening of voice that
the mention of his wife’s name occasioned could not be
misunderstood—“to say nothing of the row I had with Jagger only last
night ’ud drive most men off their heads, let alone making ’em a bit
ill-tempered.”
“What occasion had you to fall out wi’ Jagger?” snapped Baldwin, whose
curiosity allowed him to be side-tracked. “It’s no sort of a game to go
about trying to bash other men their heads in——”
“That’s so,” replied Inman, with studied calm, “but when a man’s been
interfering with your wife and admits it——! However, that’s between
him and Nancy and me, and I’m not wanting a scandal made of it. All I
say is ’at it isn’t to be wondered at if I don’t speak as civil as I
ought to do. Maybe I’ve been a fool to meddle with your business at all.
I ought to ha’ remembered it was none o’ mine, and wouldn’t put a penny
in my pocket whichever way it went.”
He both sounded and looked dejected, and Baldwin, however suspicious by
nature, was too simple to realise that all this was consummately clever
acting, and he began to soften. Yet the taste of power was pleasant; and
he could not forget that strange sense of guidance which had impelled
him to send Inman about his business, putting thoughts into his mind
which he had never framed, and ascribing his misfortunes to the man who
had seemed to be his one friend and deliverer.
It was all very puzzling and he took refuge in silence and a heavy
scowl. The desk was littered with papers, and he turned and rummaged
amongst them as if the clue by which he might release himself was to be
found there. Inman waited; and Baldwin never guessed how the cast-down
eyes searched his face in an endeavour to read the thoughts it indexed.
The attempt was less successful than usual and Inman cursed himself
inwardly for his precipitancy. Was he to lose everything, just when it
had been in his grasp? The sigh that escaped him was not entirely
theatrical.
Baldwin looked up and signified with a motion of the head that Inman
might leave; and when the sign was ignored stormed out in the familiar
way.
“I beg your pardon,” said Inman; “I didn’t understand you. Am I to take
it that I’m sacked?”
“You’re to take yourself out o’ my sight,” snapped his master. “I’ll say
naught no more while I’ve slept on’t.”
Baldwin glanced at the clock when he found himself alone. A strong
impulse bade him swallow his pride and go down to see Maniwel; but
instead of yielding to it he began to reason. It was after ten, and
Maniwel went to bed in good time—it was Jagger who sat up late.
Besides, what good would it do? Maniwel was at his wits’ end for
money—must be; he would sympathise no doubt; but an overdraft at the
bank was the sort of sympathy he wanted and Maniwel could not get one
himself. “Go!” said the persuasive voice. “To the man who’s stealing
your business from you?” another voice questioned. Baldwin listened and
hesitated until the hands of the clock pointed to eleven, and then went
to bed.
* * * * *
In his cottage by the bridge Maniwel sat over the fire alone. The Bible
was open on the table behind him, and he was thinking of the passage he
had read before the others went upstairs—“if he shall hear thee thou
hast gained thy brother.”
Jagger had been very elated at securing the contract for the work at Far
Tarn and at the accommodating attitude of the timber-merchants who were
to supply the material.
“That’ll be one in the eye for Inman,” he had said exultingly.
“Get off to bed, lad! You’ve to be up early to-morrow!” was all his
father had replied.
“Thou hast gained thy brother!” Maniwel’s thoughts worked upon that
short sentence for an hour and brought both Baldwin and Inman within
their scope. It was not to be wondered at that his first concern was for
his old workmate.
“I doubt that young man’s working tha harm, lad,” he said aloud, but in
a low voice, as if Baldwin had been seated in grannie’s chair where his
eyes were resting. “Tha played me a fouler trick than anyone knows on
and was fain to be rid of me; but I’m grieved, lad, to see tha brought
so low.”
Again he fixed his eyes on the fire, and again his lips began to move.
“I happen did wrong to leave tha; though, right enough, tha never asked
me to stop, and I know I should ha’ been i’ thi way. I fear tha’rt going
t’ wrong road, lad,—body and soul; and this young fellow’s helping tha.
The Lord deliver tha from him, and all such like! I’d give my other hand
to save tha, for it’s a sad thing when a man loses his brass, but it’s a
sadder when he loses his soul!”
There was a longer pause this time before he continued:
“It ’ud be no good going up to see tha again. It’s turned ten, and
tha’ll be ower drunk, poor lad, to be talked to. I’d like to warn tha
again’ Inman, for it’s borne in on me ’at he’s working thi ruin o’ set
purpose, and maybe if we were to put wer heads together we could pull
through. I’d give aught for an hour’s talk wi’ tha, lad, i’ thi right
mind; but when drink’s in, wit’s out——”
He continued in this strain until nearly midnight, and then went
sorrowfully to bed.