CHAPTER XVIIIIN WHICH BALDWIN ALLOWS AN OPPORTUNITY TOSLIP
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 ortwo,” 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 momentor 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 wasreal 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 menwas 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!”—hisslow 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,” snappedhis 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 eyeswere 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.