Читать книгу Men of Mawm - William Riley - Страница 4

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TO one who had no love for them the Yorkshire moors could hardly have been less attractive than on this bleak, damp afternoon in early November, when the air was moist though no rain had fallen, and a mist that was too thin to hide more than the smaller details of the landscape made the distant hills a grey shadow against the lighter grey of the sky.

There was snow on the mountains, but only on their crowns; only there, and in the deeper fissures that faced north and so paid no toll to the sun. The nearer mountains were almost black, like the moor that stretched its weary length to the sky-line; like the dry walls, that divided the lower slopes of the moor into curiously-shaped allotments.

The road was little better than a track, but it was just distinguishable, for which mercy James Inman was thanking the gods as he strode along. He had not found much to thank them for after leaving the village of Scaleber, and his acknowledgements were not too cordial.

His one anxiety was to reach the hamlet of Mawm before darkness set in, and to find there at least warmth and possibly good fortune.

Everything was still; weirdly, painfully so. There must have been birds in the great crags that rose terrace above terrace from the grey-green grass and lost themselves in the low-lying clouds; but they had shown no sign of life. The lonely farm he passed might have been deserted, for no sound came from it—not even the inquiring bark of a dog. The moor bird’s cry is not agreeable, but the man would have welcomed anything that cut the silence. A howling wilderness was better than a wilderness of death.

He had climbed six hundred feet or more in an hour, and the exertion had put no strain on either heart or lungs. He was in excellent physical condition, and, though perhaps a little too lean to be perfectly proportioned, a fine athletic-looking man. His dress was superior to that of a labourer or even a journeyman, but it was ill-fitting as if bought ready-made for the emergency of a funeral, and it was entirely black. He carried neither stick nor baggage and was without overcoat. A bowler hat shabbier than the rest of his outer clothing, was worn low down on his head and almost concealed his hair. The face was expressive of determination and self-confidence and these qualities made it striking; but one would have needed to scan the features a second time or a third before pronouncing the man even passably good-looking. He trod firmly; yet despite his unwillingness to company with darkness on that grim waste he was not forcing the pace. Three miles an hour on such a rough upland road was enough and more than enough.

When the track became a mere stretch of grass the man paused. He was in the shadow of two high mountains whose summits were barely two hundred and fifty feet above his head. Night lurked already in the dark gullies, and he cursed the folly that had led him to risk the shorter bridle route when a third-rate road had been available, and nothing saved but a mile or two of foot-drill at the most.

With a shrug of the shoulders he went forward again; but another quarter-hour brought him to the apex of the path and the mountains ran out on to the moor. It was downhill now and he plodded on, sometimes half uncertain of his way, until the descent became abrupt, when he narrowed his eyelids and sought for signs of the village which he knew must lie some five hundred feet below. He failed to find them, however, for in the murk of advancing night it was difficult to discern grey houses against grey hillsides, and what was worse he lost the path, and was some time in finding it again.

At length he struck the road and saw the glimmer of lights in the valley.

“That’ll be Mawm,” he muttered. “The longest way round ’ud have been the shortest way home. Now which end of the village has this old hammer-slinger his shop, I wonder?”

The location could have been of little consequence, for the houses were few in number and straggled to no great distance. Fortune, however, had placed Baldwin Briggs’ woodyard at the extreme northerly end of the village, so that Inman stumbled upon it without the necessity of seeking information, being also guided by the sound of voices in altercation.

A low wall bounded the road on which the front of the two-storied shop abutted and several men of advanced years were leaning against it and giving silent audience to the disputants at the door. To these the stranger joined himself.

“You’ve changed, Mr. Briggs,” a man about Inman’s own age was saying in an emphatic but not loud voice; “I’ve heard father say ’at when you and him worked for Mr. Clegg there was nobody readier than you to ask for your wages raising. Oft and oft I’ve heard him say it, and ’at you egged the others on to stand by you. Now it’s like skinning the flint to get another penny out of you, for all you’re putting your own prices up every few months. You’ve changed, I say.”

The voice fell away and became almost plaintive and the stranger’s lip curled contemptuously.

Mr. Briggs’ hands were lost in his pockets, and his whole attitude (for in the dim light his features were scarcely visible) betokened indifference. When he spoke his voice was charged with contempt, and his sneering tone brought an approving smile to the newcomer’s face.

“Nay, I’ve none changed, Jagger; not I. I was for my-sen then and I’m for my-sen now.”

“And that’s God’s truth,” replied the other bitterly. “And your heart’s like your own grunstone too. I’m hanged if I’d stay with you if my hands weren’t tied, but needs must when the devil drives, and father’s too old to shift.”

“My hands aren’t tied,” the other replied with a sudden fierce passion that electrified the atmosphere and startled the stranger. The voice became a hiss, and the man’s face was bent forward until his cap almost touched the other’s forehead. A string of curses followed which, so far from relieving the pressure, seemed only to accentuate the master’s wrath.

“My hands aren’t tied,” he repeated, “and I’ll just manage without your help, Jagger Drake. I’m stalled of your long tongue and your milksop ways; and to be shut of you at t’ cost of a week’s wages’ll be a cheap bargain, so you can take yourself off to where they’ll do better for you. Here——:”

He pulled out a purse, and having carefully counted sundry silver coins offered them to the young man who mechanically stretched out his hand to receive them. When they were in his palm the fingers did not close over them, nor did the hand drop.

“I’m sacked, then?” he asked in a low, uncomprehending voice.

“You’re sacked,” the other answered hotly. “Do you think I’m forced to stand here to be jawed at; let alone ’at you rob me out o’ good money, nearhand as oft as you do a job for me?”

“Rob you?”

“Aye, rob me! What else is it but robbery when you spend half as long again over a job as any other man? I haven’t forgot that there bit o’ work at Lane End, and the lip you gave me.”

The man’s temper was still warm; but at the mention of Lane End the other recovered himself. He lowered his hand and thrust the coins uncounted into his trousers’ pocket, and the stunned look left his face.

“If I’ve to choose between robbing widows and robbing you, Baldwin Briggs,” he said, “I’ll none need to think twice. And widow or no widow, honest folks don’t scamp their work; and I’ve been brought up in t’ wrong school for tricks o’ that sort. So if that’s your last word I’ll get my bass and make my way home.”

He turned as he spoke and Mr. Briggs said nothing, but spat angrily after the retreating figure. Not one of the elderly men had uttered a word or moved a hand during the colloquy, and they remained motionless when the stranger crossed the road and going up to the master-carpenter laid a hand on his arm.

“Are you filling this chap’s place?” he asked.

Mr. Briggs turned with an angry gesture, but at sight of the stranger he controlled his features and took stock of the situation whilst staring into the newcomer’s face. He was naturally cautious, and his brain worked slowly. Some instinct told him that the man was a carpenter, probably skilled at his trade—“a likely lad” as he put it in his thoughts.

On the other hand Jagger Drake was a good worker and a steady,—some of his customers would have no other—with no fault worth speaking of but a ridiculous conscientiousness; and the episode which had just ended had been more than half “play-acting” designed to bring the lad to his senses and show him on what dangerous ground he was standing.

Inman bided his time but never moved his eyes from the other’s face, and in the steely concentrated gaze there was a suggestion of hypnotic power. Interpreting the master’s hesitation as a sign of wavering he went on in a firm but studiously respectful voice:

“I’ll do a job whilst yon chap’s planning it out. I’ll do in five minutes what’ll take him twenty, and do it right too. Yon chap’s too slow to go to his own funeral.”

“Where d’you come from?” Mr. Briggs growled.

“From Scaleber,” he said, offering the tag end of truth. “My name’s James Inman and luck sent me here—your luck and mine. I came to seek a job with you, and when I heard you sack yon ninny I knew I’d come in the nick of time.”

“Oh, did you?” replied Mr. Briggs sharply. “It takes two to make a bargain, young fellow, and I wouldn’t be too sure o’ that. Trade’s slack just now and I’m thinking I can do without another man for a week or two till it mends. I’ll sleep on it, anyway.”

Inman saw the mouth tighten and read the sign. He had already recognised and regretted his blunder and was feeling round for another starting point when Jagger re-appeared from the shed at the back with his “bass” over his shoulder, and without even looking in their direction walked smartly down the road.

A red flush tinged the sallow features of the master and again Inman read the sign.

“Ought to work for a woman, he did,” he observed with a sneer; “man milliner, or something o’ that sort.”

Mr. Briggs’ expression was ugly. “Come inside,” he said.

Inman’s eyes swept the workshop with a swift, comprehensive glance. “American machines,” he said to himself; “old Hotspur isn’t altogether a Rip Van Winkle.”

The office was upstairs and the master led the way there. An oil lamp was burning on a table and by its light Mr. Briggs scanned the newcomer’s face.

“You’re a joiner by trade?” he inquired.

The other nodded. “I’ve papers, if you care to see them,” he said; and tossed a packet on to the desk against which the master was leaning.

“What makes you come here if you’re such a dab hand as all that?” he asked suspiciously when he had read one or two of the documents. “Been a bit of a rolling stone, haven’t you?”

“I’m moorland born,” Inman replied, “and town life doesn’t suit me. Now I’m getting older I sort o’ want to settle down.”

Mr. Briggs scowled. He did not like glibness, and the young man was an adept in that smooth art. All strangers were under suspicion, and a stranger who turned up from nowhere in time to step into another man’s shoes—a stranger who travelled so light that he had not even a spare collar for his neck, and whose tone was domineering although under control, was doubly suspicious. Mr. Briggs stared steadily and thoughtfully at his visitor, and frowned until his eyes were almost hidden by the pepper-coloured tufts of hair that overhung them. Inman bore the scrutiny well and made his face expressionless.

“It’s a rum tale,” said the master, “and as for getting older you’ll not have topped twenty-six, I’ll warrant.”

“Barely,” replied the other. “I was six and twenty three weeks since. Now come, Mr. Briggs, I’m just the man for you. I can handle tools, as these papers tell you, and you’re wanting a man to handle ’em. I’ll fetch my bass across to-morrow and start on Monday. You shall give me what you gave yon other chap, and if I don’t satisfy you, you can sack me, same as you did him.”

He would have said more, but the change that came over the master’s face caused him to pull up abruptly. Mr. Briggs was a loosely-built, shambling man of sixty, with long legs that would not have passed the test of his own straight-edge, a neck of many hollows, and a face that was chiefly remarkable for the prominence of the cheek-bones and a peculiarly knobbed nose. Hair of the same pepper-coloured variety that thatched his eyebrows grew thickly on his cheeks and chin, but was shaved from the upper lip. In revenge, perhaps, for that slight, some seeds had rooted themselves on the end of the nose and flourished there.

In spite of this abnormality there was nothing repulsive about Baldwin Briggs’ features except when one of those sudden gusts of passion swept over them and distorted them. Then a row of large, discoloured teeth, with sundry gaps of irregular shape, was disclosed, and the pepper-coloured hair on the nose actually bristled. It was a disturbance of this kind that checked the easy flow of Inman’s speech.

He stood unmoved until the spluttered oaths had run out, but was inwardly surprised at the quick, volcanic outburst, and contemptuously amused. Not a sign of this, however, was revealed by his expression.

“Devil take you, with your ‘shalls’ and your ‘cans’,” hissed Mr. Briggs. “When I want a boss I’ll let you know. You’re a piece too clever, young fellow, for a plain man like me. You’re a cock ’at crows over loud and ’ud want all t’ yard to yourself. Here!” he tossed the envelope back to Inman, who caught it and thrust it into his pocket; then, as he turned down the lamp, he remarked gruffly:

“I’ll bid you good-night. There’s nothing here for you, young man.”

Inman allowed his eyes to drop and spoke softly.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “I’ve been used to town ways, and my tongue was a bit free, maybe. I meant no harm, and as for being boss, that’s a cap that doesn’t fit my head. If you care to try me I’ll serve you well, and you’ll get no ‘lip’ from me.”

The allusion was craftily designed to bring the master back to realities, but the tone was not aggressive, and Mr. Briggs’ features unbent.

“I let no man tell me what I ‘shall’ give him,” he growled. “That’s for me to say. You’re not in t’ town here bear in mind, with a union to stand aside you with a stick. I give a man what he’s worth to me, and if he doesn’t like it, he chucks it, or I chuck him.”

“Quite so,” Inman assented. “That’ll do for me.”

“You’re more ready to toe t’ line than I altogether care about,” the other went on. He was still suspicious, and whilst the mastery in the grey eyes fascinated it also irritated him.

“I want a job in the country,” Inman said soothingly. “I want to be among men o’ my own breed—among moormen. I’m sick to death of the little painted images of men they have in the towns. They told me in Scaleber you were a just man, Mr. Briggs—not soft, but just—and I’ll trust you to give me what I’m worth—that’s all I meant, however badly I put it.”

The master threw a keen glance at him, and seeing nothing but frankness and something not unlike humility in the face and attitude, allowed himself to be appeased.

“Well, I’ll try you for an odd week,” he said, “and see what you’re made of. I could like to teach yon lad a lesson. He’ll be back in t’ morning, like enough, with his cap in his hands; but I’ll see him blaze before I’ll stand his jaw. Where’ll you put up for to-night?”

“I’ll find a spot somewhere,” Inman replied indifferently.

“Will you step in and have a bite o’ bread before you go down t’ village?” Mr. Briggs inquired gruffly, and with no heartiness to season the invitation. “My sister’ll happen know o’ somebody ’at’ll give you a bed.”

A light came into the man’s eyes for a second or two, but he quickly curtained it.

“No thanks,” he said. “I’ll not trouble you. There’ll be an inn, I reckon. I’ll go down there.”