Читать книгу The Lone Hand - Harold Bindloss - Страница 14

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Wellwin stated his plan to Mark, who promised to consider it, but asked Bob to wait. For one thing, a small, private syndicate had resolved to reopen an old wolfram mine and engaged him to start the rusty pumping-engine. Although he doubted if the engagement would stand for long, he took the post, and one evening went down a ladder to the drainage-sump.

A bucket and rake dangled at the end of a rope, and a small flat lamp was hooked to Mark's greasy hat. The dim illumination touched dripping rock and the water at his feet. A big armored hose palpitated, and at each pulsation the water sank in a gurgling hollow; then the hollow filled, the surface got level, and bubbles broke. The pump, however, did not pull as she ought. Something was under a valve-clack, or perhaps rubbish choked the suction-grid. Mark struck the bucket with his rake.

A chain tackle rattled and the big hose curved. When its end got nearer the surface the water foamed, and rotten sticks and rubbish tossed about. Mark, pushing down his rake, felt for the suction-box, and dragged away the stuff that blocked the grid.

"Have ye cleared her?" somebody shouted. "Whistle's blowing."

Mark threw the waterlogged rubbish in the bucket and raked off a fresh lot. He did not want to crawl down the sump another time, and his habit was to finish a job. For a few minutes his helper must wait. When he was satisfied, he signaled the other to lower the hose and went up the ladder.

"Whistle's gone three or four minutes," grumbled the man at the top.

They followed an inclined tunnel, where water trickled from the rock and tram-lines rusted in the mud. Rotting props and beams supported the roof, but in some places fresh fir-trunks were stacked against the wall. For some time the mine had not been worked, and before the timbering was renewed and the water pumped out Mark imagined three or four weeks would go.

The tunnel opened to the hillside. A biting wind swept the heather, and the long moor-tops were streaked by snow. The light had begun to melt, and in the cold spring evening the landscape was desolate and bleak. A group, putting on their coats by the iron boiler-house, gave Mark good-night and started down the stony path. Their homes were three or four miles off, but they were going home, and when they vanished in the heath Mark unconsciously frowned.

For the most part, his youth was lonely. His Tyneside lodgings were dreary and cheap, and since his aunt had ruled at Howbarrow he was not there much. In fact, for long the Millhouse was all the home he had known. Anyhow, he had left Howbarrow, and he was not going back.

Hailstones beat his hat and the white bents on the hillside tossed in the keen wind. The light was nearly gone, and Mark shivered and went to the boiler-house. A young fellow, sitting in a coal-barrow, studied a newspaper. Mark glanced at the pressure gauge and water-glass and gave him a nod.

"Trying to spot a winner, Frank? Well, you have got all the steam the old tubes and flues can carry. If you want me, knock on my window, but I may come in for a smoke."

He took a kettle from the furnace door and went to an iron hut, where he kicked off his wet boots and got his frugal supper. Then he pulled an old book from his kit-bag, and carried a chair to the rusty stove. A camp bed occupied a corner of the hut, the walls were corrugated iron, and the roof cracked in the wind. The pump clanged; Mark heard water splash and a beck brawl down the hill.

His pay was not good and his engagement might not last, but he was glad to get a post, and although Wellwin wanted him to go to Canada, he thought he would refuse. Anyhow, he would not start with Bob. At Howbarrow he used a room that was once his brother's, and when he packed his bag and moved some clothes from an old trunk he found an office diary. The book was planned for a farmer's use, and Mark knew Jim's hand. In fact, it looked as if Jim were more businesslike than he had thought, and he brought the book away.

Sitting by the stove, he studied the entries. One near the beginning recorded Jim's purchasing a block of one-pound shares in a cattle-auction company, and noted that Isaac had supplied most of the sum. Mark thought it queer. At one time, Isaac had something to do with the company, which prospered until the trade by which it throve was diverted to another market. Then the company was wound up, and Mark doubted if Jim had got five shillings for his shares. He wondered whether the shares were Isaac's; they might be transferred through a third party. Anyhow, although Isaac knew the company was embarrassed, he had allowed his nephew to speculate.

There was another speculation. Although the Howbarrow flock was good, Jim, with money supplied by Isaac, had bought lambs of a heavier but less hardy sort. After renting pasture and turnips, he was forced to sell the flock in a falling market, and he had noted the sum he lost.

Mark wanted to be just. Sometimes Jim was obstinate, but Isaac was a live-stock auctioneer and ought to have known prices would go down. Yet he certainly had not stopped his nephew. It was obvious he did not know the diary recording the transaction was under some old books in Jim's trunk.

Lighting his pipe, Mark turned the pages. When Jim sold sheep and cattle he noted the sum he got, and as a rule stated in a fresh line: I. C. cheque. It looked as if Isaac were an exacting creditor. Sometimes Mark pulled out his pencil and calculated. He knew more or less how much one ought to spend at Howbarrow and he pictured Jim's sinking deeper in a morass of debt.

Other payments were recorded; sums marked Cash, at irregular intervals. They were not large, but in twelve months they mounted up, and Mark did not see what they were for. Near the end of the book, Jim noted cheques received from I. C. and the interest he agreed to pay. Mark knew the interest was above the current rate, but he imagined Jim, by that time, could not borrow from a bank.

Putting up the diary, he looked straight in front. Jim's notes were illuminating. He had inherited large debts; Mark saw him struggling savagely, and perhaps recklessly, to put all straight. Isaac, whose business was to advise and control his nephew, had rather encouraged him and worked on his extravagance. In fact, he had planned to seize Howbarrow! An auctioneer was not important, but in the northern dales a statesman (yeoman farmer) so to speak is an aristocrat. Anyhow, Isaac's plans had worked, for Jim, at length, had given him a mortgage on the farm.

Mark clenched his fist. Isaac, for all his greed and cunning, had some scruples, and Mark pictured his tight-mouthed, parsimonious aunt pushing on her husband. Perhaps at the beginning she was ambitious for her son; Mark had liked his cousin, who was a Newcastle architect's pupil, but Frank was hurt at a football-match and died soon afterward. When one thought about it, tragedy seemed to haunt the Croziers, and the dalesfolk declared their house unlucky.

Well, Frank, like Jim, was gone and Isaac ruled at Howbarrow. Mark dared not imagine him accountable for his nephew's plunge from the quarry bank, but he felt Isaac knew something about it that others did not. Moreover, Mark was persuaded his aunt knew. She had not wanted him at the farm, and he had sensed a queer, suspicious antagonism.

Anyhow, it was done with some years since, and until the foundry stopped, Mark had concentrated on his occupation. Now Wellwin wanted him to go to Canada, and Madge was willing; but since he had found Jim's diary he was not keen. He ought perhaps to go. Bob was a useful friend and engaged to see him out. At the mine his pay was small and, for Madge's sake, he must push ahead. Yet Jim was his brother, and although he might find out nothing, Mark was not satisfied. He frankly did not want to meddle, but until he knew why his brother went down the quarry, he must not think for himself.

He looked up. His pipe was out and the stove burned low. The room was cold, and when he pulled out his watch it was ten o'clock. Mark resolved he would talk to Forsyth. One could trust the doctor and he knew all Mark knew about the accident. He put the diary in his bag, stretched his arms, and went to bed.

About eight o'clock next evening, he occupied an easy-chair in the doctor's surgery. Forsyth, on the other side of the fireplace, studied the diary and some notes Mark had made. At length he put up the book.

"The tale's a moving tale. Jim was rash and trustful, but he made a good fight."

"That was so," said Mark. "I expect you see Isaac exploited his trustfulness? To some extent, I imagine he exploited my father's."

"It's possible," Forsyth agreed in a thoughtful voice. "Your father was my friend, and I suspected he was embarrassed. Then, we know Isaac's greediness, and your aunt's ambition for her son. All the same, the money Isaac supplied was his, and, at the beginning, anyhow, he could not force your brother to borrow from him. I think he did plan his entanglement, but that was all, Mark."

Mark nodded. "It's much; but Isaac knows something he has not yet told. To begin with, Jim ought to have been at Howbarrow twenty minutes before he reached the quarry bank; his watch's stopping fixed the time. Turnbull implied that the liquor he got at the Packhorse might account for his losing his way, but nobody supported him. The other explanation is unthinkable. Jim was not the sort to throw himself down the bank."

"It is unthinkable," Forsyth agreed. "I believe we shall never know all about the accident, and there is not much use in your inquiring. In fact, I feel, rather strongly, that you ought to leave the thing alone."

"I would sooner leave it alone. There's the trouble, sir, because I'm somehow persuaded I must try to find out. My brother was not a drunkard, and for all his embarrassments, he was not a suicide."

Forsyth was moved to sympathy. Mark was young and ought to look hopefully in front. His shrinking from the load he perhaps felt unkind Fate had given him was natural, and in a sense healthy. Yet the Croziers were marked by a stubborn vein and could take hard knocks. The doctor knew them all, and he pictured Isaac's slow, laborious plotting, and Jim's steadfastly fighting a sort of forlorn hope. Mark might shrink, but where he thought duty called he would go.

"For some time I had hoped you were willing, or perhaps resigned, for the accident to be forgotten. Your resolve to investigate is something fresh."

Mark's face got red. "In a way, that is so, sir. Isaac's refusal to lend me the sum I wanted had something to do with it; but I'm not revengeful, and I want you to understand—Isaac is parsimonious, but had I engaged to start for Australia, I think I might have persuaded him; in fact, if I went to Chester, he was willing to risk two hundred pounds. The implication is, although it would cost him something, he wanted to be rid of me. Then Wellwin talked about his getting me a post, and I found the diary. If I went to Canada, I could find out nothing, and I was forced to choose——"

"In the meantime, you have got a post."

"The job is a workman's job, and a journeyman engineer gets less pay than the fellows who clean the streets in town. All the same, it helps me hold on, and so long as I am in Cumberland, I might find a clue."

Forsyth saw the young fellow was resolved, and said nothing. Mark resumed:

"You knew Turnbull. All I remember is, he was a queer, sullen fellow; but he started from the Packhorse soon after Jim."

"I attended him when he was hurt by a bull. He was obstinate and moody, but a good cattleman, although I believe he was properly a forester, and came to Howbarrow from a Scottish estate. The story is, he threw a meddlesome bailiff out of the sawmill."

"He vanished soon after the inquest. Do you know where he went?"

"I did know," said Forsyth, and knitted his brows. "Oh, yes, when Robertson of Greensyke went to Canada with the pedigree stock he ran into the fellow at Montreal."

Mark looked up, and Forsyth imagined his reply was rash.

"Turnbull was a forester! He'd no doubt get a job in the lumber industry."

"That does not help you. Canadian lumber is cut in the forests of Quebec and on the Pacific slope, three thousand miles off. Then, I believe there are sawmills in the pine belt north of the great plains. To search for the fellow would be ridiculous, and he'd probably tell you nothing you did not know. Leave it alone, Mark. You are young and ought not to brood about a tragedy that's better forgotten. If you did solve the puzzle, you might not be happier."

For a few moments Mark was quiet. He frowned and his mouth was firm. Then he said:

"Your object's good; but if the job is mine, I ought not to hesitate because I might get hurt. There's another thing: I am engaged to marry Madge, and she is staunch. If she knew I brooded over a job I turned down, she would not be happy. I think she'd sooner I carried my proper load, and, for her sake, when I marry I must have earned my freedom. All, so to speak, is vague, sir, and I don't yet see my line. I must try to weigh things—But, you have been on your rounds since breakfast, and I must start for my shanty."

Forsyth let him go. Madge was at a neighbor's house, and the mine was five miles off across the moors. The doctor approved his daughter's lover, but he was sorry for the young fellow.