IN WHICH BALDWIN FINDS NEW LODGINGS
THE cottage by the bridge contrasted strongly with Nancy’s home. Two
or three gaily coloured mottoes suitable to the season had been tacked
to the wall, and a couple of attractive almanacks recently distributed
by enterprising tradesmen in advance of the New Year, bore them company,
and diverted attention from the framed funeral cards which grannie
regarded with an owner’s mournful pride, and Hannah with an impatient
contempt that was manifested every time she dusted them. Sprigs of
holly, bright with scarlet berries, peeped from the vases on the
mantelpiece, lay between the plates and dishes on the rack above the
dresser, and were wreathed about the faded face of the grandfather’s
clock in the corner. Grandfather’s? Great-great-grandfather’s, grannie
would have told you, for it had ticked away in her grandsire’s time, and
even then the cow upon the dial (which was now a mere ghost of a cow,
and a badly dismembered ghost, too!) was losing its horns and tail.
There were other sprigs upon the window-ledge but these could not be
seen because the blind was drawn. There was, however, no mistletoe, for
Hannah was thirty-one and the “baleful plant” was among the childish
things she had put away.
Because it was Christmas Eve, Maniwel and Jagger had knocked off work at
five o’clock, although business was brisk, and the younger man made it
his only recreation, rarely leaving the shop until the supper-hour
struck. Even now, as he sat with his head in his hands at the table, he
was studying plans, and Hannah looked across at her father, who was deep
in a book, and then turned to grannie.
“I wish to goodness t’ Sperrit ’ud move someb’dy to talk!” she said. “I
should be fain of a few more young’uns to sing for us, for all they
bring a lot o’ muck in. It’s fair wearisome sitting by t’ hour together,
same as we were a lot o’ mutes.”
“Nay, I don’t know about that, lass,” replied the old woman. “I was
never one for a deal o’ chattering myself, and there’s awlus a deal to
think about. I can pass my time nicely wi’ them ’at’s gone, for they
were a better breed i’ my young days nor what we’ve getten now.”
“And whose fault is that?” inquired Maniwel, who had not been too
absorbed in his book to overhear what was said. “Who brought these we’ve
got now into t’ world? There’s a bit i’ t’ Book ’at you must ha’ missed,
where it reads ’at we’re not to talk about t’ former days being better
than our own, ’cause there’s no sense in it. What about t’ mischief
nights ’at father used to tell about, when they lifted t’ gates off o’
their hinges, and stole t’ goose out o’ t’ larder, and such like tricks
at Christmas time? You’d look well if they were to fetch to-morrow’s
dinner while you were abed, mother.”
“I should happen miss it less nor some,” replied the old woman placidly.
“I reckon naught o’ bits o’ marlacks same as them. Lads is lads, and
mischief comes nat’ral to ’em; and if there’s less on’t now it’s ’cos
they haven’t t’ sperrit they used to have, let t’ Book say what it
will.”
Maniwel looked across at his mother with great good-humour. He knew that
her grumblings were not very sincere, and that she was probably happier
than she had been in the old days that had been drab enough until the
sunset tints of life’s eventide fell upon them. She spent the greater
part of her time now dreaming dreams, and it pleased him to rouse her,
and see the light of battle shine feebly in her eye again.
“Nay, mother,” he said; “you’ll wriggle loose choose how fast we tie you
up. I never saw such a woman—why you’re as slippy as an eel. When
there’s a bit o’ mischief goes on i’ t’ village you shake your head and
think t’ Owd Lad’s got us on his fork; and when there isn’t, you say ’at
we’re short o’ sperrit and t’ world’s going back’ards way! It’s heads
win and tails loses every time!”
“I say grannie’s right!” Jagger had turned on his chair and was
stretching out his long legs on the rug. He was a different man from the
one who had sat there so disconsolately twelve months before. Little by
little he had shaken off the melancholy that had enwrapped him and had
clothed himself in his father’s mantle of tranquillity. But even yet the
garment lacked the trimmings that beautified the older man’s and made it
conspicuous—cheerfulness and breezy optimism were missing. In their
stead was a fixed determination to take things quietly as they came, and
to push vigorously along the path he had mapped out for himself. The
encounter with Inman which had been deplored by the father as a mistake
in tactics as well as an evidence of the existence of “old Adam” had
given the son much satisfaction. Inman might sneer as he
liked—everybody for miles round knew that he had been laid out by his
rival, and the defeated man had no sympathisers. Jagger felt that it was
good for his self-respect to have that victory to his account, and he
had held himself more erect and viewed the world more hopefully ever
since.
“_I_ say grannie’s right!” he said. “Shifting gates once a year, and
lifting a goose or two for a lark, are just lads’ tricks—mischief ’at
means naught. But when grown men plan out Mischief Nights a toathri
times a month it looks as if the Old Lad _had_ somebody on his fork, and
if I could just catch him I’d shove t’ fork that far in he wouldn’t get
off again easy!”
“I’ll warrant you, lad,” said his father, and the two men’s eyes met.
“I’d like to see you with a grip on his collar myself.”
“It wouldn’t take long neither,” returned Jagger significantly. “There’s
only one in this village ’at’s as clever as the devil himself, and as
black-hearted; but he’ll go a step too far one o’ these days.”
“Sure enough! Them ’at dig pits are like to fall in ’em. If it goes on
much longer, lad, we shall have to watch.”
“Aye, but it’s more’n a man can do to work all t’ day and watch all t’
night. Let him be!” Jagger spoke as if the anticipated pleasure of
seeing Nemesis at work outweighed all the grievous afflictions which
were but for a moment.
Certainly the succession of trifling mishaps that had at first
half-amused, half-enraged the village and had latterly aroused a large
measure of resentment, had been conceived and carried out with such
impish ingenuity as to convince a small minority that the culprit must
be one of a gang of rough lads from Kirkby Mawm who were well-known to
belong to the devil’s household brigade of mischief-makers. It was hard
to believe that any grown man would take pleasure in changing the labels
on the Drakes’ oil-cans as they stood on the cart in the carrier’s shed
ready for despatch, so that the man who was waiting for boiled oil found
himself supplied with linseed, and the farmwife whose stock of paraffin
had run out stamped her foot in wrath when thick lubricating oil began
to pour from the neck of the tin. After that, of course, the carrier
boarded up his shed; but he might have saved himself the expense for the
rascal was too wise to return upon his tracks.
It looked a lad’s trick, too, when the door at the Grange which Maniwel
had painted white was seen in the morning to be covered with soot and
the sweep’s bag lying on the ground a few yards away: when Farmer
Lambert’s new cart was dragged from the Drakes’ painting shed during the
night and its coat of gorgeous scarlet ruined by the rain which had
fallen in torrents. There was some division of opinion, I repeat, on the
question of authorship; but there was none on the market value of Police
Constable Stalker as an officer of the law, which it was unanimously
agreed could hardly be lower.
Whether or no Inman was aware that he was regarded with suspicion by any
of his neighbours he bore himself at this time with a detached and
contemptuous air that was his best defence; and he offered a simple
explanation of each mishap as it occurred that always drew a waverer or
two to his side.
“Just another piece of blooming carelessness,” he would say with a shrug
of the shoulders. “They’re both of ’em half-asleep most o’ their time.”
The subtle poison worked, if only slowly; and even those who were
well-disposed to the Drakes and ready to lay the charge at Inman’s door
began to wonder if it was quite safe to entrust their jobs to a firm
whose operations were attended with such bad luck. Fortunately Mr.
Harris remained their constant friend, and work had never yet been
scant.
In the policeman Inman found a staunch ally. Every hint that was dropped
by the crafty plotter with a sportive humour that concealed itself
behind a mask of cynical unconcern was accepted and acted upon by
Stalker as if it had been a divine revelation. Nothing, of course, could
have served Inman’s purpose better; and he controlled the constable’s
movements to an extent that would have surprised the sergeant, who was
kept in blissful ignorance of these trifling occurrences. Stalker had no
qualms of conscience because he was quite certain that he was on the
track of a criminal, and that with Inman’s unobtrusive help he would one
day lay his hands upon him. For this reason the coldness or abuse of the
villagers made as little impression upon him as their scorn. He was a
dull and easily-befooled officer; but he had learned that if the law
moved slowly, it also moved majestically, and he could bide his time. He
accepted the suggestion of his prompter that these mishaps to the Drakes
were all arranged by Jagger himself to throw dust in his eyes and divert
his attention from the weightier matter of the robbery; and he was
determined to take good care that the device should not succeed.
All this, of course, was not known to the Drakes; but both father and
son had a shrewd suspicion of how matters stood, though their attitude
towards the suspect differed materially. When Jagger said, therefore:
“Let him be!” the look that accompanied the injunction was more
expressive than the words.
“Twelve months since,” said Hannah with sisterly satisfaction, “you’d
ha’ been ready to creep into your grave over t’ job. It isn’t all to t’
bad.”
“Not by a long way,” added the father. “I’m o’ Jagger’s way o’ thinking,
and I lay all t’ blame for this mischief on yon lad; but choose what
harm he’s done he’s made a man o’ Jagger, so we’ve no ’casion to be over
hard on him. He’ll tire o’ these kids’ tricks i’ time, and maybe repent
on ’em. As for getting hold of his throttle, it ’ud suit me better to
get hold of his ’at has him on t’ fork.”
“There isn’t a ha’porth o’ difference between ’em,” said Jagger
emphatically.
“Yes, there’s this much,” corrected his father; “’at t’ Old Lad’s i’ t’
sperrit and t’ young lad’s i’ t’ flesh, and while a man’s i’ t’ flesh
there’s hope for him; and I’d sooner break t’ lad off his bad ways than
I’d break his back for him. T’ devil knows a good hammer when he sees
it, and a good hammer’s a good friend if we could steal it away. I could
like to do that bit o’ thieving.”
“They’ve black hearts that comes off o’ that black moor,” said grannie,
shaking her head in deprecation of her son’s optimism; but he laughed
the implication away.
“There’s few black hearts ’at’s fast dye, mother. They’ll wash clean,
and if we could get t’ sun to ’em they’d maybe bleach.”
It was uneven warfare, for they were all against him. Grannie shook her
head and muttered to herself; Hannah told her father he didn’t know his
man, and proceeded to enlighten him by recalling incidents which she
assumed he had forgotten and Jagger listened with an expression of
tolerant amusement until his sister had finished, when he said—
“It’s Christmas time, Hannah. There’s to be peace and goodwill, you
understand! a sort of a truce: God and t’ devil sitting down at one
table!”
He spoke in a tone of good-tempered derision, but avoided his father’s
eye in which he would have seen an unexpected look of humour.
“Now, that’s smart, isn’t it? You’ve wiped the floor wi’ your old dad
this time! I suppose you never heard o’ God and t’ devil sitting down
together? Reach t’ Book across, Hannah!”
He found at once the passage he wanted and read—
“Jesus answered them. Have not I chosen you twelve, and one of you is a
devil? He spake of Judas Iscariot, the son of Simon: for he it was that
should betray Him, being one of the twelve.”
He paused and glanced across at his son; but meeting with no response,
turned over the leaves of the Book and read again—
“And when He had dipped the sop He gave it to Judas Iscariot, the son of
Simon.”
He handed the book back to Hannah, and gazed steadily at Jagger.
“That was t’ last time, lad. How oft do you think He’d supped wi’ him
before?”
“He didn’t cure him,” said Jagger who was secretly proud of his father’s
ready wit, though not willing to acknowledge defeat; “Judas was a rank
wrong ’un, same as Inman: one o’ them you can’t cure.”
“I don’t know whether He cured him or He didn’t,” replied Maniwel; “but
I’ve always had an idea ’at Judas rued when he found ’at he’d gone ower
far, and there’s never no telling what drove him to put t’ rope round
his neck.”
“I could wish Inman ’ud get as far as that,” said Jagger flippantly.
“If I thought you weren’t lying, lad,” Maniwel replied sternly after
looking at him searchingly for a moment; “I should be ashamed of you.
The Lord pity you if it’s true!”
Jagger flushed and Hannah took up arms in his defence.
“You must remember what he’s had to put up with, father; more’n you and
me. There isn’t many ’ud have taken it so quietly!”
“That may be, lass, and I’m not denying it; but it ’ud grieve me to
think ’at Jagger was a murderer in his heart—”
“Sure-_ly_ there’s someb’dy knocking!” said grannie whose head had been
bent towards the door during this admonition.
“I heard naught,” said Hannah, but she rose and went to the door. “There
is someb’dy!” she said as she raised the latch and opened it; “Why, it’s
Mr. Briggs!”
“Baldwin!” Maniwel was on his feet in an instant—“Bring him in, lass!”
It was a scared and pitiable figure that stepped hesitatingly into the
cheerful light, and leaned against the dresser. An old workshop cap
remained forgotten on his head, and the worn coat was that in which he
had been accustomed to do his roughest work. Very old and frail he
looked as his dull eyes fixed themselves on Maniwel, and the hands that
hung straight down moved tremulously.
“He’s turned me out, Maniwel!”
It was almost a cry: it was certainly an appeal, though the words were
not so eloquent as the eyes.
“Turned tha out!” repeated Maniwel incredulously. “What does tha mean
Inman?”
Hannah was still holding the door ajar; but catching her brother’s eye
she closed it. Jagger had risen too, and was standing with his back to
the fire, a frown overspreading his face.
“Turned me out, Maniwel, to fend for my-sen! I mud go to t’ Union, he
said, or to t’ devil!”
“Tha did right to come here, lad,” said Maniwel, unconscious of any
humour in the remark. “You’ve been having a toathri words I reckon.
He’ll come round, tha’ll see, after a bit. Come and sit tha down by t’
fire and tha shalt have a bit o’ supper wi’ us.”
Baldwin did not move. His eyes wandering vacantly round the room had
found Jagger and were resting there with no change of expression, but
with a fixity that made the young man uncomfortable.
“Take your cap off, Mr. Briggs, and come nearer t’ fire,” said
Hannah—though she anticipated the action by removing it herself. “Why,
you’re fair dithering wi’ cold! Come now, t’ kettle’s on t’ boil, and
I’ll soon have a cup o’ tea ready.”
He suffered her to lead him to the hearth and to place him in her
father’s chair; but he still stared at Jagger as if something beneath
his consciousness was seeking to determine whether the young man was to
be regarded as friend or foe.
Grannie looked across and smiled, for she was old enough to forget
readily grievances that were not her own.
“Nay, Baldwin,” she said; “this is like owd times!”
“So it is, mother,” said her son heartily. “He’s a bit upset just now,
and his breath’s been ta’en; but when he’s swallowed a drink o’ tea
he’ll feel himself, you’ll see!”
Baldwin removed his eyes to Maniwel’s face, and a look of returning
intelligence appeared there.
“We’ve had no words, lad,” he said. “He’s getten t’ business, that’s
all, so I’ve to shift—at my age, and it’ll be Christmas to-morrow. Damn
him, Maniwel!”
“Nay, lad,” said the other sadly, “neither thee nor me’s no ’casion to
do that, for he’s damning himself, I’m flayed. We’ll see what he’s like
i’ t’ morning: we’re none that short o’ room but what we can put tha up
for a night; aye, and for good, if it comes to that. Tha needn’t dream
about t’ Union, Baldwin, nor t’ devil, neither. What say you, Jagger?”
“He can stay for aught I care,” replied his son, though the concession
lacked graciousness.
“You hear that!” Maniwel dulled his perceptions to the want of warmth.
“My bed’ll hold two, but tha’ll happen sleep better by thiself, and t’
sofa’ll hold me nicely....”
“He’ll have my bed,” said Jagger, “so that’s settled.” Then he went over
to his father and looked hard in his face.
“Didn’t I tell you he was a devil?” he said; and Maniwel did not find
the inquiry ambiguous.