IN WHICH MANIWEL AND JAGGER JOIN IN THE GAME
INMAN’S mind took holiday from the work on which his hands were
employed that day, and busied itself in shaping a course of action that
would meet the requirements of the moment. He was disturbed to find that
the machinery was not adequate to its task, that it moved slowly and
during long periods was entirely unproductive.
Nancy’s attitude puzzled him, but it did more: it gave him greater
concern than the circumstances, as he construed them, warranted. Not for
one moment would he allow himself to believe that she had followed him
to Gordale, for he was of that number of men, themselves superior to
superstitious fears and unafraid of the terror by night in its most
gruesome forms or haunts, who assume that all women are cowards in the
dark and the ready prey of silly fears; and hold them to be
constitutionally incapable of adventuring alone in Erebus.
There were moments when he persuaded himself that her own simple
explanation was the right one, and she had been merely restless, and
then he cursed himself for having shown his hand. But his reason, as
well as prejudice and apprehension, refused to entertain the thought
long; her eyes had given the lie to her lips. He dismissed, too, though
less quickly, the reflection that mere curiosity, the very natural
desire of a wife to discover what takes her husband abroad at night, had
led her to follow him. His lip curled with something like satisfaction
as it occurred to him that she perhaps suspected another intrigue!
But the revolution of the machine always brought back his thoughts to
Jagger. It was for her lover she was working—the lover whom he had
injured but neither disheartened nor destroyed, and who no doubt found
means of pouring his complaints into her sympathetic ears. It was
intuition rather than reason that led him to the right conclusion, and
told him that though he might throw dust in Stalker’s eyes and make that
credulous fool drunk with flattery and greed, he could not deceive his
wife. She knew both husband and lover too well to misjudge either.
It was characteristic of the man that in the course of his reflections
it never once crossed his mind that his policy had been mistaken.
Far-sighted as he thought himself, he was incapable of understanding how
the loyalty of a woman like Nancy would have kept her from abusing her
husband’s confidences, if they had been offered her, however distasteful
his projects might have been to her judgment and heart. He was naturally
secretive and distrustful; and like all men who scheme only for
themselves, suspicious of everybody. His cleverness was cunning; there
was always the danger that he might over-reach himself—in the common
expression he was “too clever by half.” His greatest fault was
precipitancy; he had to struggle hard against the temptation to stand
beside the snares he set in order that he might see the prey enter. The
Wise Man asserts that “he that maketh haste to be rich shall not be
unpunished.” He might have added that the punishment was likely to be
self-administered; a man cannot spur himself fiercely and constantly and
escape wounds!
Inman’s success so far had been quick and gratifying, but he was not
satisfied, and the greatest obstacles in the path of his contentment
were the Drakes—father and son. The old man he disliked not because he
was a competitor (for competition was in the nature of things and not to
be avoided), but because of his air of cheerful assurance, because of
his frank, fearless eye and the reproach of his unfailing goodwill. The
younger he hated, and with just cause (as he thought) on account of his
continued intimacy with Nancy. That a single kiss had been the extent of
their illicit connection his prurient mind rejected as incredible; and
he was like the rest of his kind in regarding as unpardonable in the
wife what was venial in the husband.
His mind had been undecided, and therefore he had locked Nancy in her
bedroom, just as he might have locked a dangerous weapon in a drawer—to
keep her from doing any mischief until the opportunity should have
passed.
There remained Keturah. Despite her tearful peevishness there was a
grain of obstinacy in the woman’s nature which made her hardly
manageable, and might prove awkward if Nancy should gain her ear and
sympathies. His quick judgment decided that she must be got out of the
way for a day or two; and when the morning post brought her a letter
that opened the floodgates wide he became inwardly elated.
“This is what Maniwel would call an answer to prayer,” he said to
himself. “My luck’s changed, I shall go on all right now.”
To Keturah he turned a gloomy face.
“Ill, is she? And what’s Nancy to do if you go traipsing off to nurse
another woman?”
“I wouldn’t ha’ cared,” wailed Keturah, “if there’d been anyone
near-hand to do for her; but to be on her back and not a soul i’ t’
house if her girds come on——! It caps me what’s ta’en Nancy. She was
right enough when she went to bed.”
“I suppose we should be able to manage,” he conceded with lessened
gruffness. “Get upstairs and put your things on, and see you don’t
disturb Nancy. You’ll not be more than two or three days, I reckon?”
“But I’d best just have a word with her before I go?” she protested.
“You’d best do as I tell you,” he snapped, “or you won’t go at all!”
It was not much better than prison fare that Inman took upstairs during
the day, and he was content with simple meals himself. When night fell
he set an inch or two of candle on the dressing table, with the curt
recommendation to get to bed and make up for the previous night’s loss
of sleep, to which she made no reply.
No sooner had the sound of his footsteps on the stairs ceased than a
change came over her. She rose with alacrity, drew down the blind and
lit the candle, after which she went up to the door and secured it on
the inside with the bolt Inman had fixed as a measure of precaution when
he had brought home Nancy’s money. A smile was in her eyes but her mouth
was determined. “What a clever fool he is!” she said to herself; “and
how thoughtful of him to send Keturah away. Every plan he makes fails!”
The recess beside the fireplace had been made into a closet which served
the purpose of a wardrobe, and was filled with Nancy’s clothes. A shelf
ran across the upper portion, filled with hat boxes and the like, and
the various skirts and coats which concealed the background were
themselves screened by similar garments that were suspended from hooks
affixed to the shelf.
This outer layer of everyday apparel Nancy proceeded to remove, together
with one or two others from the row behind. It was then possible to see
that the back of the recess was composed of a door of plain boards and
ancient workmanship which had at one time afforded a means of
communication with the next apartment.
Treading cautiously, she crossed the strip of carpet and stepped out on
to the landing. Her husband was still in the house, for she could hear
his voice below in conversation with another, which she recognised as
Stalker’s, and she had to wait awhile before the two men came out and
stood in the passage.
“I shall be back i’ t’ village by twelve at t’ latest,” the policeman
was saying. “I reckon t’ sergeant’ll meet me down Kirkby way somewhere
about eleven. I’ll be back afore Drake gets stirring—if he stirs at
all.”
“Then you think he’s given the job up?” Inman asked.
“He knows I’ve my eye on him,” the other replied. “Whether he’s stalled
or no time’ll tell.”
“I’ve to see Tom Horton at Kirkby,” Inman remarked. “He sits up late,
does Tom, and if I walk down with you we can talk things over as we go
along. When I get back I’ll keep an eye on the Drakes’ house for a bit.”
The outer door closed, and from the window Nancy saw their shadowy forms
disappear round the corner of the road. Without a moment’s hesitation
she went downstairs and unbarring the kitchen window, climbed out, and
having closed the sash behind her sped towards the beck and across the
green to the Drakes’ house. The retreating forms of her husband and his
companion could just be discerned in the faint moonlight far down the
road as she knocked at the door.
“Is Jagger in?” she whispered when Hannah came. “Tell him I want him—at
once—and come you with him.”
“Come where?” asked Hannah, in astonishment.
“Here!” said Nancy impatiently. “Bring him out and shut the door.
There’s no time to lose!”
She had one eye on the road as she spoke, and she kept it there when
Hannah and Jagger joined her; but however apprehensive she may have been
of her husband’s return, she told her story clearly and concisely.
“What’ll you do?” she asked when Jagger made no immediate comment. “I
can’t make head or tail of it.”
“I’ll go see what I can make on’t,” he said, “before he gets a chance to
get there. It’s a rum do!”
“And if he finds you there?” she asked.
“If he finds me there, there’ll happen be trouble,” he replied; “but
I’ve t’ same right to be i’ Gordel that he has. Anyway, I’m going.”
“Will you take Jack with you?” she asked anxiously. “James’ll do you a
mischief if he can.”
“Aye, take Jack,” said Hannah. “It’s as well to be on t’ safe side.”
“Two ’ud happen bungle it,” he said. “I’m a match for Jim Inman any day.
I’ll go now, before either of ’em gets back.”
Nancy returned home, and the gloom of Gordel settled on her spirits as
she bolted herself into her prison-house again. The candle had set fire
to its paper packing and burnt itself out; but when she drew up the
blind a gleam of light entered from the sky and she had no difficulty in
replacing the garments on their hooks. When the work was finished she
did not undress. A sense of weariness and hopelessness crushed her. Her
husband would know that she had tricked him and would make her pay the
penalty. What would it be? How long would this sort of thing continue?
The long vista of the road she was destined to travel with a husband who
hated her and whom she despised spread itself before her. She was
afraid, too, for Jagger, and a hundred times over upbraided herself for
having sent him into danger, without adequate cause; a hundred times
over lamented the curiosity that had moved her to do it. Once or twice
it crossed her mind that it would have been better to have seen Maniwel
instead of Jagger; he was so sane and strong and dependable—so safe,
too; for Nancy shared the prevalent belief or superstition that no real
harm could befall Maniwel Drake; but another inward counsellor brushed
the suggestion aside.
“He’d say, ‘What business is it of ours? Let him go his own gait; and
get you up to bed!’”
Troubled as she was, Nancy smiled, for the voice told her that curiosity
was stronger than reason, and that at heart it pleased her to know that
Jagger would not shirk the adventure. A moment later a shiver ran
through her, and her heart beat painfully as she pictured a struggle
between two strong men in that lonely ravine. A bank of clouds quenched
the light of the young moon, and with her imagination quickened by the
darkness that wrapped her round, the vision became so real that she
almost screamed, and the sound in her throat roused her.
“You silly fool!” she said aloud. “You’re getting hysterical. Stir
yourself!”
She went over to the window and endeavoured to look out, but there was
little to be seen except a few faint stars and the black outline of
earth that touched the sky.
“I’ll have it out with him,” she determined. “I’ll tell him we’d better
separate. He’s got most of the money, and that’s all he cares about.
It’ll be a relief to us both!”
The decision steadied her.
“I may as well go to bed,” she continued, “but I’ll keep the bolt on the
door. He’ll be fit to choke me when he comes home if he’s happened
across Jagger!”
Meantime Jagger, having taken rapid counsel with himself and Hannah, had
determined to consult his father, who had already gone upstairs and was
ready for bed.
“I thought I heard voices beneath t’ window,” he remarked when Jagger
had told his story. “And what do you reckon to make out o’ t’ job?”
“I make naught out,” he replied firmly, “but I’ll go and see what’s to
be made out on t’ spot.”
“Then you’ve no theory?” Maniwel was drawing on his trousers as he
spoke; and instead of answering Jagger inquired what his father was
dressing for.
“’Cause I’m going wi’ you,” he replied; “and it’s as Nancy says, there’s
no time to lose.”
“_You_ going?” Jagger asked in amazement. “What call is there for you to
go? You don’t think I’m afraid o’ t’ chap, do you? I shall be easier i’
my mind if you’re safe i’ bed.”
“I’m going wi’ you,” his father repeated. “There’s things to be said ’at
it’ll save time to say on t’ road.”
“But——” began Jagger. He was uneasy at the thought of leaving his
father below whilst he climbed the rocks.
“There’s no ‘buts’ about it, lad. You ought to know by this time ’at
your father’s bad to shift when he’s made his mind up. You’ll maybe none
be sorry ’at t’ old man went wi’ you before t’ night’s out!”
Jagger made no further remonstrance, and a few minutes later the two men
left the house, after instructing Hannah to keep a light in the kitchen
for another half hour and then go to bed. The door-key Maniwel put in
his pocket.
“Then you can’t fairly reckon t’ job up?” he asked again when the last
house on the Gordel Road had been left behind.
“Can you?” Jagger replied.
“Well, I don’t hardly know whether I’ve got t’ right pig by t’ ear,”
said his father slowly; “but I’ve a sort of a notion. Happen there’s
naught in it, but that’s to be tried for. Did you ever climb t’ shingle
at t’ spot Nancy tells about?”
“I can’t say ’at I ever did,” he replied. “I don’t know ’at I’ve taken
much notice of t’ place.”
“Me and Baldwin’s been up many a time when we were lads. It isn’t easy,
but there’s ways o’ getting up ’at isn’t _that_ hard, and a chap might
light o’ one by chance and think it was a soft job, then t’ next time he
tried he might find his-self bested. If Inman’s aiming to get up it’s
’cause he’s been there before, you mark my words, and he’s desp’rate
anxious to get there again.”
“But what can he want up t’ cliff side?” inquired Jagger; “it’s that ’at
puzzles me. A man doesn’t go bird-nesting in t’ dark.”
“That depends, my lad, on what sort o’ eggs there may happen to be i’ t’
nest. Suppose, now, he’s made a nest of his own i’ one o’ t’ hidey-holes
aboon t’ shingle, and wants t’ eggs in his pocket! It’s nobbut a notion
I’ve getten in my noddle, lad, but I’m going to tell you how to scram’le
up, and where to look.”
“Something o’ t’ same sort was at t’ back o’ my mind,” said Jagger, “but
it licks me what he could want to hide up there.”
“I’m saying naught,” returned his father, “’cause I’ve naught but a
notion to go by. I’m same as I’ve fun a lock that’s short of a key.
You’ll see what you make out, lad, but it wouldn’t cap me if you were to
find summat ’at’ll make your eyes bulge.”
He refused to say any more, and they crossed the fields to the ravine in
silence until Jagger laid his hand on his father’s arm.
“I could ha’ thought there was somebody i’ front of us,” he said. “Hark
you!”
They were at the very entrance to the chasm and at the foot of the rocks
with the screes above them. Both men listened intently, but there was no
sound except the flapping of a bird’s wings high above.
“It’s been one o’ t’ daws you heard,” said Maniwel.
“I didn’t hear it exactly,” replied Jagger; “I sensed it.”
“You’re nervy, lad,” said his father. “It’s as well I came wi’ you. Now
just take a bit o’ notice while I tell you which way to go.”
His voice sounded loud and Jagger remonstrated with him in a low voice,
but Maniwel was unmoved.
“We’er doing naught to be ashamed on, lad, and there’s no ’casion to
muffle t’ clappers. If you find aught ’at we’ve no concern wi’ you’ll
leave it where it is; and if you chance across summat ’at doesn’t belong
either to Inman or us you’ll bring it down and we’ll let t’ police have
it. Put this box o’ matches i’ your pocket. You’ll mebbe want a light
before you’ve finished, and I don’t know ’at it matters if anybody sees
you.”
“I’m down about your being by yourself if Inman comes,” said Jagger.
“You’ve no ’casion to fret yourself,” replied his father. “I’ll cross t’
beck and get under t’ rock. We’re a bit ahead o’ his time, I reckon;
but, anyway, I’ve a good stick i’ my hand. Now up wi’ you, lad, and
think on o’ what I’ve tell’d you!”
Jagger was soon at the foot of the screes, and his father crossed the
noisy stream and made his way to the densely-black shadows of the high
cliff that overhung his head. The gloom of the ravine had no terrors for
him, and he deliberately sought its darkest corner behind a projecting
limb of the rock.
“It’ll be as snug a cubby-hole as a man need want,” he muttered, “and I
can keep an eye both on Jagger and t’ field-path.”
Jagger was half-way up the screes by this time, and the shingle was
giving away the secret of the ascent as it clattered down into the beck.
“He’s framing all right,” thought Maniwel, “but t’ job’s only just
begun, and he’ll happen be there when t’other fellow comes. I’ll stand
here and wait to see what turns up.”
He moved forward, and the same moment a hand was placed over his mouth,
while a man’s low, firm voice said:
“Keep quite still! I shall do you no harm. My name is Harker and I’m a
police officer!”