IN WHICH NANCY DISCUSSES THE SITUATION WITH
JAGGER
IN hamlets like Mawm, which are familiarised with nothing except the
commonplace (for even the natural phenomena which arouse the wonder and
admiration of every visitor are just ordinary features of the landscape
to those who have looked upon them from their birth) an occasional
episode is welcomed as a spice that gives an agreeable flavouring to
life; but a succession of episodes, like an over-measure of spice, soon
creates distaste and even revulsion. Ever from the date of the robbery
startling events had succeeded each other with such rapidity that the
villagers were stupefied by the unaccustomed whirligig. It was as if the
earth which had always been so substantial and secure had become subject
to sudden tremors and upheavals, which had already wrought the ruin of
some familiar structures, and might for anything they knew bring the
solid mass of the mountains down upon their heads.
Swithin Marsden and Jack Pearce, drawn together at last by the strong
twofold cord of a common sorrow and a common hate, took care that the
community should trace these disturbing occurrences and disasters to
their origin in Inman, and that astute man’s star set as quickly as it
had risen. When the mourners returned from following Polly Marsden’s
body to its resting place at Kirkby Mawm it is doubtful if the man had
more than one staunch adherent in the whole neighbourhood.
One, however, there was. Police-Constable Stalker, all the more because
public opinion was now ranged definitely on the other side, persisted
that Inman was an injured man; and he set aside the wrong done to
Swithin’s granddaughter as a venial offence which many of the
master-carpenter’s critics had good reason for condoning if they would
but examine their own secret records. The suggestion that the Drakes
owed their troubles to the same agency he dismissed with the cryptic
assertion that “them ’at lives t’ longest’ll see t’ most;” and he
allowed it to be understood that he was devising a trap which would
provide the neighbourhood with a climax in sensations if all went well.
The accident which meanwhile kept Inman a prisoner was a misfortune that
individual heartily cursed. The extent of it nobody knew but himself,
for his wife’s offer of help was refused with an emphasis that forbade
repetition. In plain words she was told to keep away from his room, and
even Keturah’s ministrations were declined.
“He’s damaged his leg; that’s what he’s done,” said the woman. “He can
hardly shift himself off o’ t’ bed. It caps me he doesn’t send for t’
doctor.”
Nancy was indifferent. Although she was moving about again she was still
weak, and too dispirited to concern herself over the ailment or attitude
of a man who hated her. His rough dismissal had been, indeed, a relief,
and afforded her a sense of freedom and an opportunity for its enjoyment
which were as welcome as they were unexpected.
Her baby’s death had left her without an interest in life, and it had
done more: it had half-persuaded her that it was useless to fight
against fate.
“A Clegg wife
And it’s sorrow or strife!”
In her case the burden was double-weighted: it was sorrow and strife.
Well, she was young, and by and by would be herself again; if sorrow was
to be her lot she would bear it without complaining, and if strife—she
would not be trodden on by any man.
She was young and she was also strong; and with the coming of the bright
cold days, when the frost silvered the landscape until the warm sun
swept the white dust away into the shadows Nancy’s limbs regained their
vigour though her spirits remained low. Keturah would have kept her from
Polly’s funeral if she could; but Nancy’s mind was made up.
“I wonder you can shame to go,” the older woman said, “and your own
husband, more’s the pity, t’ cause of all t’ trouble. I should want to
hide my head i’ my apron if it was me.”
“I’ll go _because_ he’s my husband,” Nancy replied. “They all know me,
and they knew he married me for my money. If poor Polly had had money
he’d never have looked my way, and it might have saved us both. If only
I could have seen the road that lay before me she could have had mine
and welcome.”
She had made no change of dress for her baby; but she now removed the
flowers from a black hat and went to the house where the mourners were
assembled, passing through the crowd at the door, and entering the room
where the mother was sitting in her garments of heavy crêpe with the
other members of the family about her. A look of astonishment came into
the woman’s eyes as she held her handkerchief away for a moment; but
there was no animosity there, and when Nancy stooped and kissed her
forehead she said—
“Eh, lass, but my heart aches for ye!”
“And mine for you!” returned Nancy. “If I could change places with
Polly, I would!”
She looked at nobody else; but in the little passage outside the room
Hannah put her arm on her shoulder.
“You shall go home with me when they leave,” she said; and careless of
her husband’s disapproval she went.
It was then that she heard for the first time the full story of her
husband’s crimes and suspected crimes. It was then that she learned how
Jagger had punished Inman when he found him with Polly on the night
Nancy’s baby was born. Hannah’s anger was burning fiercely and Nancy’s
wrongs added fresh fuel to the flames. No sense of delicacy led her to
hide anything from her friend; and when Nancy went home she understood
why her husband hated her, and she became conscious of a change of
spirit; of a strange exhilaration that left life no longer colourless or
purposeless. From that moment her wits began to work with a cautious
intelligence that would have surprised her husband, and the Drakes had a
very alert agent within the enemy’s camp.
One afternoon of the same week she climbed the Cove road with the
deliberate intention to intercept Jagger on his homeward journey, though
a visit to Far Tarn farm was the avowed object of the journey. Her
departure was well timed, and they met at the junction of the roads
where their paths would diverge. Though both hearts were beating more
quickly than usual there was nothing lover-like in their greeting, and
Nancy speedily made known her business.
“I came on purpose to meet you, Jagger,” she said, “and there’s no time
to be lost, because though there isn’t a soul to be seen there’s never
no telling who’ll come along—and carry tales.”
Jagger nodded. “I’d say, let ’em come, if it was only me; but you’re
right, Nancy. There’s no sense in making trouble.”
“It’s a plan I’ve got in my head,” she said. “Hannah’s told me all about
James, and the low tricks he’s always playing on you; and how sometimes
you stay up most o’ t’ night to try to catch him at it. You won’t manage
it, Jagger! He’s too fly for you! He’s hobbled just now, of course; but
he’s mending fast—he was in the shop all the morning—and he’ll soon be
about again. I want you to lie low and leave me to do the watching!”
Her eyes were bright; but there was no other sign of excitement, and the
lips closed resolutely. Jagger, however, shook his head.
“Nay, nay, Nancy, that ’ud never do! He’s the dad of all for cunning and
mischief, and if he finds you at that game he’ll make you smart for it.
It’s no woman’s work, this. Jack Pearce has promised to share wi’ me, so
it’ll not come that hard on either of us to lose a night’s sleep now and
then. Leave it to us, and get your rest. I’m sorry he’s who he is,
Nancy; but I won’t have you dragged into it.”
“Listen, Jagger!” said Nancy earnestly. “He’s got Stalker on his side
and they’ve always their heads together. Stalker’s soft as putty and
James keeps him oiled and shapes him as he likes. He’s made him believe
you’re a wrong un—that much I found out, for I’ve listened: it’s a
nasty, low-down trick, but I did it, and I’ll do it again. I couldn’t
hear much, for James talks low; but I got enough to know that Stalker is
keeping his eye on you and what can you do when you’re handicapped like
that?”
Something like a smile came into Jagger’s eyes, though the face that was
upturned to his was white and anxious.
“Twelve months since, Nancy, I should have had t’ blue devils with all
this: I should have laid down and let trouble roll over me; but now I’m
hanged if I don’t find a pleasure in it. It’s same as when you hold t’
axe to t’ grunston’—rough treatment, and brings t’ fire out of you at
t’ time; but brightens you up and sharpens you wonderful. There’s a vast
difference between father and me—for he’s _over_ soft, and ’ud give his
other hand to save Inman’s soul, where I’d lend him a rope to hang
himself with;—but he’s smittled me i’ one or two ways, and I’m sticking
to t’ Straight Road; for whether there’s ought watches over me or no I’m
certain sure there’s something watches over him and we shall come out on
top.”
Nancy had glanced round the moor apprehensively more than once during
this long declaration; but finding nothing to arouse her fears was not
unwilling to prolong the conversation.
“It’s made a man of you, Jagger,” she said. “It’s naught no more than a
game with you, same as your boxing. James may fell you once or twice or
a dozen times, but you’re always looking forward to t’ time when it’ll
be your turn, and he’ll be counted out. _I_ know you; and I’m glad to
see it in a way; though it’s a poor thought that if I hadn’t married
James maybe you’d never have made much out.”
She ended so wearily that Jagger’s face saddened, and his voice lost its
note of defiance and became troubled like her own.
“It won’t bide thinking about, Nancy; better leave it. Maybe I _do_ make
a game of it; but it was either that or going to t’ dogs—”
“I’m glad you didn’t do that, Jagger!” she broke in hastily. “Once over,
when I came to myself, I wondered if you would, and I fret and prayed
about it. Oh—if you knew how often I’ve thanked God that I hadn’t
_that_, on my conscience! If I’d seen you go wrong—! But we won’t talk
about it, only, it isn’t a game to _me_; it’s just a dragging on, with
naught but a weary, miserable life stretching away, year in year out, as
flat and drab as the moor, till one or both of us drop into our graves.”
She repented the words the moment they were uttered, for the expression
on Jagger’s face told her how deeply they had sunk; but it was too late.
“Nancy, lass! you’re breaking your heart; or I’ve broken it for you!”
His voice thrilled with the sorrow and bitterness that struggled to find
expression; and he would have put his arms around her with a man’s
instinctive eagerness to protect and comfort the woman he loves; but
Nancy shrank back, and relieved the strain by changing the tone of her
voice and forcing a laugh.
Her wit was more subtle than his, which would have mistaken a sedative
for a cure. His clumsy efforts would have extended the wound he was
wishful to close: she intuitively chose the remedy that would both
soothe and heal; yet her love was as strong as his, and her heart ached
for the clasp of his arms.
“It’s same as a play, isn’t it? We shall be talking about running away
together next, same as they do in books; but there’s naught o’ that sort
on the Straight Road. Eh, Jagger; you thought I was whining like a
baby!”
His face was still clouded and she rallied him upon his gloom.
“I wondered if you were as grand as you thought you were!” she lied. “It
didn’t need as much as a tear to damp all the sparks out of your axe
when it ran against a woman’s grindstone! You ought to have known that I
should never think the moor drab. Look at it, man!”
He raised his eyes, following the direction of her arm as it swept a
half circle over the landscape. The light was yellow, for it was towards
sunset, and the moor stretched its great length before them like
burnished metal—brass and copper. The greens were washed over with
gold: there was gold in the russets, gold on the pale straws, and the
trailing roads were no longer white but faintly yellow. On the western
horizon there was a slight haze, delicately pink; and clouds of a deeper
hue slashed the blue of the sky.
“Drab!” Nancy laughed mock-mirthfully. “It’s as good as a rainbow,
Jagger! I’m like you: when trouble comes I make a game of it: I won’t be
beaten! Maybe, somewhere on ahead, life’ll be pink, like that. We’ve got
to jog on when it’s stormy and keep smiling!”
“You’re a wonder, Nancy!” said Jagger; and the cloud that still lingered
over his eyes had itself caught the sunset tints.
“I’m a fool!” she replied. “I’m wasting time and running risks instead
of saying my say and getting on with my business. Let’s leave all this
nonsense and get back to where we started. I’m going to watch James
instead of you. Let Stalker think you’ve given it up. Make out that
you’re tired of watching and finding nothing, and then when I’ve aught
to tell you they’ll be off their guard. You aren’t deep enough for
James.”
“Happen not,” he assented grudgingly; “but t’ pace is too hot to last.
He’ll trip before long, you’ll see. I don’t like t’ thought of you being
mixed up with it, Nancy. If he was to pick it out he’d raise hell, and
if he was to touch you—”
“If he was to touch me,” she said proudly, “he’d know about it, but I
doubt if he will. He’s all for himself, Jagger, and his skin’s dear to
him. He’d like to, well enough, I daresay; but he dursn’t. Don’t you
worry about me. I was born on the moor.”
She saw the danger light return to his eyes and at that signal changed
her tone.
“Get you gone!” she said quietly; “we’ve stood three times too long
already. I’ll find ways and means of letting you know if there’s aught
to tell.”
She moved away as she spoke, without a word of farewell, and never once
turned her head, so that she did not see how he stood, shading his eyes
with his hand, watching her figure grow smaller and less distinct as the
distance between them increased.
All the man’s complacency had been shattered by the interview, and he
knew that the anodyne of hard work had left the sore in his heart
untouched: that the hours he had crowded with plans and projects in the
hope of obliterating thoughts of what might have been had been to that
extent hours wasted. Yet, though he knew himself maimed and marred by
this severance from the woman he loved: though the look in her eyes and
the tone of her voice had inflamed every spirit-nerve until the sense of
pain was intolerable, he was conscious at the same time of a kind of
fierce satisfaction because the pain could not make him writhe. Whatever
Nancy had withheld from him she had at any rate given him manliness; and
he could hold up his head among other men and walk unashamed.
When he could no longer see her he walked smartly homewards, busying his
thoughts with the subject that was never far from them, of Inman’s
enmity and Stalker’s attitude of hostility. He had said nothing when
Nancy spoke of the conference between her husband and the policeman
because there had been nothing to say. Everybody knew that they were
taking place, just as everybody knew that Jagger was suspected by the
two of knowing more than any other living soul about the robbery. The
suspicion was too ridiculous to afford him a moment’s uneasiness. Why
should he worry when he had the confidence and goodwill of his
neighbours, every one of whom scouted the notion of his dishonesty as a
conceit that only the brain of an unfriendly foreigner could entertain?
It puzzled Jagger that so little attention had been paid by the police
to the occurrence, and he felt a sense of personal grievance, (though a
keener sense of amusement left the grievance without sting), at the
thought that their lack of interest and enterprise kept an innocent man
under suspicion. No doubt to these townspeople the loss of five hundred
pounds was an event of no great moment, but Inman was not to be blamed
if he refused to regard it with the same equanimity, and applied himself
to the task of which the professional detectives appeared to have tired.
Jagger laughed to himself as these thoughts passed through his mind.
“And whilst he’s following this false scent with his precious Stalker,”
he said, “the real fox is getting away. The daft fools!”
Then a grimmer smile spread over his face. “He calls _me_ a fool,” he
muttered; “but he can’t have it both ways. If I took t’ money I’ve been
too clever for them to find it. Seemingly, he thinks better of me than
he’s willing to take to. Maybe, he’ll find ’at I’m cleverer than he
thinks, for I’ll lay him by the heels yet. He’ll go a bit too far with
his underhanded night jobs, I’ll warrant.”
Thus switched back to his own concerns his thoughts naturally returned
to Nancy, and the shadow of uneasiness that had never entirely left his
face deepened again.
“I’d rather she’d kept out of it,” he said, “but she’s bad to shift when
she sets herself, same as most moor-folk; and she’s afraid o’ naught.
However, she has her wits about her, and maybe she’ll pull it off.”