IN WHICH INMAN’S POPULARITY IS SEEN TO WAVER
THERE were those in Mawm who said that with the death of his child
Inman experienced a change of heart, but what really happened was that
he seized the occasion when the sympathies of his neighbours were yet
warm towards him to ingratiate himself with them by an appearance of
thankfulness and goodwill. He was, as the clear-sighted detective had
decided, a superb actor; and he was quick to perceive that in this
misfortune there was a providential opportunity for the display of his
gifts, and that it had come in the nick of time to restore him to the
favour of the community. For the community as a body of people he cared
not one jot, it was for customers, and for them only, that he played his
part. For their sake—that is to say for his own—he composed his
features, whenever he was likely to be observed, into an expression of
resigned melancholy, that served its purpose with an unemotional but not
unkindly people, who admired, too, the way in which he put aside his
personal sorrow and interested himself in their business affairs.
It was the same in the workshop and in the home. If some subliminal
sense kept Frank and the rest from liking him, they began to recognise
his good qualities, and found life under his stern but orderly
mastership a good deal more tolerable than it had been with the looser
administration of Baldwin. Instinctively each man felt that the business
was going to prosper, and that though he was only a cog in the machine
he would be well cared for because the cog was an essential part of the
whole.
In the home Keturah suddenly found the roughness smoothed out of the
hard voice, and herself addressed in kindlier fashion than she had
experienced since Nancy’s marriage. Could she be blamed, if she thanked
the impersonal and hazy being who stood for her God, that the child had
been “ta’en?” After all, at her time of life, children running about the
house and “mucking it up” were a scarcely tolerable nuisance.
Altogether then, the first two weeks of February saw Inman’s position
strengthened. Unemotional themselves, the villagers were favourably
disposed towards a man who could “sup his gruel and say nowt.” The more
fickle remembered that Baldwin had always been a cross-grained and surly
fellow, and told themselves that he might have given Inman more cause
for resentment than outsiders could be aware of. It was with Inman as
with Gordel, when thin watery mists soften the cragged outlines and veil
its threatening features—he was no longer “fearsome” and forbidding: he
was even attractive in his own way.
There were those who held contrary opinions: stubborn souls who refused
to trim their sails to the prevailing breeze and continued to regard
Inman with a suspicion they could not justify; but there was one who
knew the truth: who knew that if the man’s heart was changed it was not
the angels who had cause to rejoice.
All the bitterness he was compelled to dissemble, all the contempt he
felt but must not show, Inman unloaded on his wife when they were alone.
As he had stood by her side, waiting for her to show signs of returning
consciousness, he had prayed that her life might be spared: that he
might not be robbed of the vengeance he had promised himself. That the
prayer was addressed to nobody in particular does not matter.
It seemed for a time as if the petition would be denied him, for Nancy
rallied from one swoon to fall into another; but she was young and
strong and her body resisted death’s claim. In a fortnight she was
sitting up in her room, and her husband’s brow was black.
“What are you whining for?” he asked her, when she looked up into his
face and cried, the first time they were alone;—“If you hadn’t been so
busy sweet-hearting your eyes and ears ’ud have been open! You’ve got
what you deserved!”
The tears dried on Nancy’s cheeks, and the feeling of pity for the
father who had been bereaved like herself gave place to a nausea that
was too physical to be called hate. She did not tell him the insinuation
was a lie, but knocked for Keturah, and fell into her arms when she
came, deathly sick. From that moment Inman had persecuted her, assuming
her guilt from the slender evidence that it was Jagger who had recovered
the child, and her own confusion, but making no inquiries lest his
suspicion should be removed, and as she grew stronger the hatred he took
no trouble to conceal spread to her own heart and revealed itself in her
face. There was then open war between them, carefully concealed,
however, from everyone but themselves.
One circumstance gave Nancy satisfaction. Her husband showed no
disposition to share her room.
“You may stay where you are!” he said to Keturah when she suggested that
Nancy no longer required her services: “I’m going to stop where I am.”
It was at this time that the Drakes experienced a more serious mishap
than had hitherto befallen them. On reaching their work at a building
which was being erected at some little distance from the village, they
found one morning to their dismay that the stays to the roof principals
had been removed, and that the whole superstructure had fallen, doing
much damage.
Father and son looked at each other in silence. Each knew that this was
a serious disaster.
“It’s no accident, father!” said Jagger, speaking through closed teeth.
“It’s no accident, lad! Them stays has been ta’en down since we left!”
“_He’ll_ give it out ’at they weren’t right fixed,” continued
Jagger;—“’at we’re too damned careless to be trusted to knock a
soap-box together. Look what he said when he set t’ timber loose!”
He referred to an occasion when timber, which they had set in the stream
to season had been found farther down the river when daylight came, and
Inman had said with a sneer that the Drakes were too damned careless to
tie a knot in a rope.
“I’ve watched his house for two nights and he never left it,” Jagger
went on. “Stalker saw me t’ second time and didn’t seem to like it. He
said he was down on fellows ’at were hiding behind walls at two o’clock
i’ t’ morning when there was so much mischief afloat. I could ha’
knocked his head off! a chap ’at can neither collar t’ rascal himself
nor let other folks have a try.”
Maniwel looked grave. “Does he know ’at we suspect Inman?”
“’Course he does. But Inman’s thrown him t’ sop, and Stalker can see
naught wrong in him. I could almost think he’d set him on to watch
_me_.”
“It’s a mess, lad! He plays a deep game and he’s ommost over clever for
you and me. He’ll do us a bigger mischief if he can, you’ll see,
especially now ’at we’ve ta’en on Baldwin. There’s a few deep ruts i’ t’
Straight Road.”
Though his face and voice were both sober there was a twinkle in the
eyes he turned to his son.
“T’ game isn’t ended yet. Bide your time!”
Jagger’s teeth were still closed and his face was set and stern; but
there was no sound of discouragement in the voice and Maniwel’s own
features relaxed.
“Aye, we’ll bide our time. ‘In quietness and confidence’—that’s a good
motto and it’ll see us through. What had best be our next move, think
you?”
“T’ next move,” replied his son, “is to get to work and do this job over
again. You’d better go down and bring one or two back with you. I shame
for anybody to see it, but that can’t be helped. It’s his trick.”
He had taken off his coat as he spoke and was folding up his sleeves. “I
wish I had him here,” he continued grimly as he bent his arm and doubled
his fist. “T’ next trick ’ud be mine. If I’d a fair chance I’d make t’
lion lie down so as t’ lamb ’ud be safe enough: I would that!”
The disaster was discussed at length the same evening in the bar parlour
of the “Packhorse” where until the entrance of Frank’s father opinion
was fairly evenly divided, the older men being warm in their assertions
of foul play, but some of the younger ones inclining to the theory that
Jagger’s workmanship must be unsound.
“You’ll have heard, I reckon, ’at t’ new boss has lamed his-self?”
Bill Holmes delivered himself of the inquiry the moment he was seated,
with the air of a man who feels sure he is imparting brand-new
information. The silence of the company whose eyes fixed themselves upon
him interrogatively, confirmed this belief, and he lit his pipe with
provoking deliberation.
“We’ve heard nowt o’ t’ sort,” said Swithin, as Bill professed to find
difficulties in making his pipe draw; “but I for one aren’t capped. What
sort of a accident is it ’at he’s happened?”
“I thowt you’d mebbe ha’ ’eard tell,” said Bill, who was elated to find
himself for once on the parliamentary front-bench and was determined to
make the most of his opportunity.
“He sent for our Frank into t’ house and telled ’im to keep ’is mouth
shut: ’at he’d fallen ’ard on t’ road when he wor goin’ into t’ shop
afore dayleet and twisted ’is ankle beside ’urtin’ his knee-cap.”
Swithin sat back in his chair, a look of satisfaction on his face, and
several of the others, including some of Inman’s defenders, exchanged
significant glances.
“There wor a black frost, reyt eniff, first thing,” said Ambrose. “It’s
hard weather, and that slippy i’ places I thowt once ower I should ha’
to bide at home—”
“It is slippy, Ambrose,” Swithin broke in. He was never happier than
when circumstances allowed him to adopt the tone and manner of an
examining counsel, and he looked round upon the company with the same
glance of command that always brought his dogs to attention when sheep
were to be shepherded. “We’re all aware o’ that fact. But I’ve a
question or two I want to put to Bill if so be ’at he’s a mind to answer
’em.” He cleared his throat, and fixed the witness with his eye. “If
Frank had to keep his mouth shut how comes it ’at he’s opened it?
“’Cos Inman’s lowsened him,” replied Bill. “He sees it’s goin’ to keep
him laid up for a day or two, so it’s n’ewse tryin’ to ’ide it.”
“I thowt as much! He didn’t leet to say, I reckon, what made him so
partic’lar to keep it quiet at first?”
“He was ’opin’ it wor nowt much,” replied Bill; “but he’s war hurt nor
he thowt on, so t’ tale wor like to come out onnyway.”
Swithin had bent forward to catch the reply; but he again sat back and
allowed his features to express his satisfaction.
“You’ve been putting two and two together, Swith’n, that’s easy seen,”
said Ambrose admiringly. “Them een o’ yours has scanned t’ moor for
stray sheep while you can see beyond ord’nary. It’s a gift ’at you’ve
made t’ most on.”
“A child ’ud put two and two together i’ this case, Ambrus,” returned
the other, “but there’s grown men ’at willn’t see what’s straight i’
front o’ their noses, and willn’t believe when they’re tell’d. You’ll
ha’getten a glimmer yoursen, I’m thinking?”
Ambrose summoned a wise look and nodded his head in a knowing way,
replying craftily—
“Owd fowk is far’er sighted nor t’ young’uns, Swith’n. Put it into words
for t’ benefit o’ t’ comp’ny.”
“I will!” said Swithin; but he drained his mug before undertaking the
task.
“Suppose a man slips on his doorst’n and hurts his-sen—I put it to you
as man to man: is there owt to be ashamed on, and to hold back? Is there
owt to make a man say ’at you mun keep your mouth shut ower t’ job? Why
t’ king his-sen could happen a’ accident o’ that sort!
“But, I’ll put it to you another way: supposing a man had been where
he’d no business i’ t’ night-time, and had catched his foot i’ t’ trap
he wor setting for someb’dy else (and that’s a figger o’ speech as Job
’ud say, for there’s things ’at it’s best not to put into words)
wouldn’t it be his first thowt to keep mum about t’ accident, till he
fun owt ’at it couldn’t be done? I’m putting two and two together,
Ambrus, but you may do t’ sum for yoursens.”
“You’re in your gifted mood at this minute, Swith’n,” the old man
replied with ungrudging admiration, “and well we all see it.”
“It’s mebbe lucky for some folks,” continued Swithin, “’at they can
crawl home wi’ a sore foot, and not be pinned to t’ ground wi’ a beam on
their belly. It’ll happen be a lesson to ’em, but I doubt there’s worse
to come.”
“I’ll say ‘Amen’ to that, Swith’n,” said Ambrose, “but you munnot brade
o’ t’ cat and start licking your mouth afore t’ trap’s oppened.”
Before Swithin could reply Bill Holmes, who had more than once sought an
opportunity to edge in another word, remarked in an aggrieved tone—
“If you weren’t all i’ such a hurry to put your own fillin’s in I sud a’
finished my tale. Swithin isn’t t’ only one ’at can put two and two
together. Our Frank picked it out ’at it wor a lame tale, for when he
went tul ’is work t’ shop wor locked up, and Keturah ’ad to tak’ t’ bolt
an’ chain off t’ ’ouse door afore she could ’and ’im t’ key. Mebbe
there’s more nor Swithin can say what that points tul.”
“It points to this,” said Swithin who evidently interpreted the feelings
of all present, “’at Inman’s a liar when he says he fell on his way tul
his work; and if Jagger’s owt about him he’ll set t’ police agate ower
t’ top o’ Stalker’s head.”
Ambrose shook his head slowly, though the movement was not intended to
indicate his personal disapproval.
“Maniwel ’ud be again’ you, Swith’n. They say Jagger was as mad as if
he’d sat on a nettle; but his fayther’s all for killing fowk wi’
kindness. There’s Baldwin, for a case i’ point. Him and Maniwel’s as
thick as two thieves, and they tell me they cahr ower t’ hearthst’n of a
night, crackin’ o’ owd times, till it’s a picter. I made a wonderful
grand verse about it i’ my head when I wor waiting for sleep i’ t’
night-time, and I thowt for sure I should call it to mind i’ t’ mornin’
but when I woke it wor as clean gone as Baldwin’s gowden sovrins. My
memory’s nowt no better nor a riddle, neebours, now ’at I’ve getten into
years.”
“It’s little use Baldwin is to Jagger,” added one of the company. “By
all ’at’s said he doesn’t earn his keep by a long way. He’s goin’ down
t’ hill fast, if you ask me.”
“It’s a true word, Sam,” replied Swithin. “Baldwin’s marked for Kingdom
Come, onnybody may see; and t’ sooner they ’liver him his papers t’
better for him and iwerybody else. Inman sent him tul his long home when
he put him to t’ door, though reyt eniff he wor on t’ road ivver after
t’ robbery. It worn’t kindness ’at killed _him_, Ambrus.”
“Nay, but it wor kindness ’at killed t’ devil in him,” persisted the old
man. “A bairn could handle him now.”
“Softenin’ o’ t’ brain, Ambrose, more nor softenin’ o’ t’ ’eart,” said
Sam.
“Be that as it may,” returned Ambrose, “he’s getten his mouth sponged
clean and that’s a merricle—”
At this moment the landlord, who had been summoned from the room whilst
the conversation was in progress, put his head in at the door.
“Swithin!” he said in such a strange voice that all present turned to
look at him and saw a look of consternation on his face, “you’re wanted
at once.”
Swithin looked startled; but rose painfully and having knocked the ashes
out of his pipe went over to the landlord.
“Who is it wants me?” he asked.
“Jack Pearce!” Albert answered. “He’s just outside.”
He closed the door behind the old man and turned to the company.
“Their Polly’s made away wi’ herself, poor lass! She couldn’t stand t’
shame on’t; and there’s Jack Pearce swearing he’ll swing for Inman!”