NANCY’S mood alternated between a strange sense of peacefulness and extreme depression all that evening. Cold as it was she shut herself up in the parlour, away from Baldwin’s snappy ill-temper and Keturah’s tearful peevishness, and busied herself with that kind of sewing which raises in the breast of most young wives a tumult of hopes and fears. At intervals she let the little garment fall to her knee, and gazed long and steadily at the window, as if in the pale light that was upon the hills she would find healing for her soul’s sores. How often she had climbed old Cawden by moonlight in Jagger’s company! She had never doubted that they would one day marry and live happily together; it had seemed as inevitable as that Gordale beck should merge its waters with the stream that flowed from the Cove, and when memory reproduced the vivid pictures of the past, flooding the shadows with excess of light, her spirits became tranquillised and she would smile.

But an anodyne is not a cure; and when her eyes fell to her lap and her fingers took up again the work on which she was engaged, bitterness returned to her heart, and the weary way that stretched its interminable length before her was sunless as the Psalmist’s shadowed valley. Yet—Jagger loved her still, and she——!

Nancy merely skirted the borders of that forbidden ground, but to peep into a paradise that is closed to us is to invite a vision of hell, and the periods of depression grew longer and more painful, until she could endure the parlour no longer, and attributing to her head the ache that was at her heart, went early and supperless to bed.

It was not yet dark, and through her window she could see a couple of curlews wheeling in the air; their wild cries rang pleasantly in her ears; their free, erratic movements interested and amused her, now that sleep refused its office. She felt a sense of oneness with them and with the wild, untameable moor on which they rested, and she gave fancy its fling and let it sweep or hover where it would! She cherished no hopes, dreamed no false dreams; but between sleeping and waking dropped a curtain on the sombre present and walked in the sunlit past.

She was still dozing, still ruminating, when the clock downstairs struck one, and the sound had hardly died away when a handful of gravel was thrown against the window. Instantly she was out of bed. It was by this time very dark but she went confidently forward and put out her hand, conscious as she did so that one of her bare feet had been cut by a sharp fragment of spar. A voice from below that she recognised as her husband’s bade her steal down silently and open the door.

“Don’t bring a light,” he whispered. “They mustn’t see me; and take care how you draw back the bolts.”

She made no reply but fumbled for her slippers and dressing-gown and put them on. Why there should be all this need of secrecy she never asked herself; but she walked quietly and trapped her finger in trying to steady the big bolt as she drew it back—it was rusty and not easy to move.

“Shove this under the bed,” he said in a low voice as he pushed a small cigar box into her hands; “I’ll follow you in a minute when I’ve locked up.”

Without a word she obeyed, and not until he joined her and lit the candle, having first drawn down the blind, did she open her lips.

“I didn’t expect you to-night,” she said.

“I’ve walked from Keepton,” he replied. “I’m dead beat. It isn’t that the box is over heavy, though there’s five hundred pounds in gold there. Baldwin mustn’t know a word about it—nobody must. It’s yours. Your Uncle——”

He stopped, and Nancy saw that his face was grey and his breath coming in deep heaves.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “The whisky-bottle’s in the sideboard. I’ll get you a drop.”

She took the tumbler, and stole downstairs again, whilst Inman bent his head between his knees. In a minute or two she was back with the drink, and she locked the door behind her.

“That’s right,” said Inman when he had gulped the dose. “It’s a long walk, and I hurried more than I need have done; but I like a woman who keeps her head, and you’ll need to keep yours with that suspicious old devil nosing round. I don’t mind him knowing I’ve got back—the old fool’ll think I’ve rushed home to please him, but he mustn’t smoke the swag or the game’s up; he’s a scent for brass like a terrier for rats.”

Nancy was listening quite unmoved. Her foot and her finger were causing her pain; but she paid them no heed for her eyes were on her husband and she was trying to surmise what deep game he was playing.

“You’d better tell me all about it,” she said with a coldness he either did not notice or chose to ignore.

“So I will,” he replied, “but first, is there anywhere that we can lock up that box—any place Keturah doesn’t get her fingers in?”

She shook her head; then bethought herself. “What about that old portmanteau of yours. It’s on the top o’ the closet. Doesn’t it lock?”

“The very thing!” he exclaimed; and he climbed up and brought it down. Then, having fitted a key to it from a bunch he took from his pocket, he put the box inside and returned it to its place.

“That’s better!” he said in a tone of relief. “It’s safe there till we get it away, bit by bit.”

Still Nancy said nothing, but the look of inquiry in her eyes was not unmixed with suspicion, and Inman laughed.

“Your face is a picture, Nancy. Afraid I’ve turned highwayman, I suppose? You needn’t worry; there’s nobody after me, not even Uncle John. Get into bed, child; you’re shivering!”

She was too proud to examine the wound on her foot; too much afraid that he should think she was inviting his sympathy. She therefore drew on her stockings with the muttered explanation that her feet were like ice, and returned to bed.

Five minutes later Inman unfolded his story.

“The old boy’s pretty well on his last legs, or I’m no judge. What ails him? Oh, his health’s all right; don’t you trouble your head about that—in fact, don’t trouble it about anything whilst you have me to look after you. It’s Uncle John’s business, not his body, that’s tottering. He’s had a jolly good run for his money; but the weasels are after him now, and they’ll have their teeth in his neck before three months are up, mark my words!”

Nancy’s heart sank. Uncle John had always been too absorbed in his account books to have time to spare for strengthening family ties,—a duty which he would have regarded, if he had ever given it a moment’s thought, as falling within the province of his wife and daughter; but he had been kind in his own off-hand way, and he was her father’s brother; it was impossible to view his impending ruin with unconcern. Moreover, her husband’s jaunty, well-satisfied tone grated on her ears.

“He’s sailed as near the wind as any man I’ve ever known, this last ten years,” continued Inman, with a change of voice that was as noticeable as the change of metaphor. “The cutest old money-grubber in Airlee, bar none. A man who kept his conscience in his pew at church alongside his Prayer Book, and never missed it when he sat at his desk. If there’s been one man more than another that I’ve looked up to it’s been John Clegg. But he’s gone on too fast and too far—that’s where your uncle’s made his mistake. If he’d sold out five years since—but then a man like him couldn’t stop, no more’n an engine that’s jammed its brakes and is running at full steam.”

“I don’t suppose you can imagine that all this is very agreeable to me,” interposed Nancy wearily. “If Uncle John is ruined a good many other people must be ruined with him; and poor Aunt Ann and Jennie——”

Inman gave a short sneering laugh.

“You needn’t lose any sleep over your Aunt Ann and Jennie. A man who’ll provide for his loving niece’ll have a little nest egg hidden away somewhere for self and family, you bet. Your uncle’s no fool, my lass! Not that he got on his knees exactly, to ask me to bring your bit away. He’d have given you a three months’ bill or something o’ that sort if yours truly had been willing, but that wheeze didn’t work. To tell you the truth there was a time when I’d hold the stick over him; but when he saw he’d met his match he turned quite pleasant, and we parted the best o’ friends.”

“And you’ve brought all my money back with you?” Nancy asked.

“If I’d dropped it in the river you couldn’t talk grumpier,” Inman replied coldly “This is what I get for grabbing five hundred pounds out o’ the ruins!”

“Nay, I’m glad enough it’s saved, if what you say is true,” Nancy said; but still without enthusiasm. “Was that what you went for? and—what about Baldwin?”

The thought of his participation in the looked-for catastrophe had been slow to reach her, as the startled note in her voice evidenced. Inman laughed and lowered his voice still more.

“Yes, that’s what I went for; but Baldwin mustn’t guess it. He thinks, and he’s got to go on thinking, that I went to pull his chestnuts out o’ the fire; but he’ll have to be satisfied with fair words and promises. He’ll be pleased, you’ll see, with what I’ve done; or, anyway, I shall see it, for he’ll none talk about it till we get into the office—but——”

He said no more, and Nancy could not see the smile that curved about his lips: the grim smile of the fisherman who feels the line jerk and is confident that the hook has held.

“But what——?” inquired Nancy.

“I was thinking what a good motto that of his is—‘all for my-sen’”; said her husband grimly.

“What do you think will happen to Uncle John?” Nancy inquired. “I can’t help being anxious about him. He’s always treated me well, and you too.”

“Oh, he may pull through,” he replied indifferently. “There’s a thousand-to-one-chance, of course; and if he doesn’t I suppose he’ll make an arrangement with his creditors; they’re mostly widows and simple sort o’ folks with no fight in ’em, poor devils; folks that snapped at seven per cent. interest and asked no questions. Your uncle’ll be right enough. Let’s drop him now, and get to sleep; but remember you don’t know anything; not anything, if they try to pump you.”

He turned over on his side and was breathing heavily in a few minutes; but Nancy lay awake for another hour at least, weighing the situation and balancing her love of money with sympathy for her aunt and cousin, and compassion for the poor investors who were to lose their savings.

“My bit ’ud only be a drop in a bucket, anyhow,” she said to herself; and found some ease in the reflection; “I wonder what Maniwel ’ud think of it—and Jagger?”

At breakfast Baldwin could not conceal his satisfaction at Inman’s prompt return; but muttered that what had to be said would keep, and went on with his meal, stealing a glance at his foreman’s face when he thought himself unobserved, as if he would read there the result of his mission. Inman, however, gave nothing away, though he followed promptly when his master rose and left the kitchen.

“Well?” said Baldwin in the aggressive tone anxiety always put into his voice, when the office door closed upon them; “Have you wasted your journey, or were you as clever as you made out you’d be? Has he climbed down, or what?”

His eyebrows stood out fiercely; but there was fear at the man’s heart, and Inman knew it and was pleased.

“I don’t think it’s been altogether wasted,” he replied with studied hesitation, “though I could have liked to come back with an easier mind——”

“Be hanged to your easier mind!” spluttered Baldwin. “Is he going to let us have t’ brass, or isn’t he?—that’s t’ question I want answering. Are we to be shamed wi’ wer creditors, or aren’t we? I’ve no time to stand here while you’re raking your mind ower to find fine words.”

Inman looked at him steadily but gave no other sign of impatience.

“I think he’ll let you have the money,” he said calmly. “He’ll do his level best, anyway, and he’s promised not to pay Drakes or anyone till you’ve had what you want.”

“That’s what I’m waiting to get at,” growled Baldwin; “only I don’t like that word ‘think.’ If I’d ha’ gone I’d ha’ known; I wouldn’t ha’ thought; and John ’ud ha’ heard a piece o’ my mind into t’ bargain.”

“I was man, not master,” Inman explained, “that was why I should have liked it better if you’d gone yourself. I said all I dare say, seeing that I wasn’t boss; and I’d all my work cut out, I can tell you, to get him to promise.”

“It was a try-on, that’s what it was!” Angry as Baldwin showed himself there was a note of relief in his voice, and Inman knew that his master’s greatest care now was to conceal his satisfaction. “He can’t bear to part. T’ more he has and t’ more he wants,—the selfish devil. That’s one good thing you’ve worked anyway. I’ll bet he won’t try t’ same game on wi’ me again for a long time. There’s naught like letting ’em see ’at you can put your foot down.”

Inman made no comment, but looked steadily at his boots. He was skilled in all the cunning of face language; and though Baldwin had little of that lore he would have been a fool if he had not realised that his ambassador was holding something back.

“You look glum enough for a burying, spite o’ all your cleverness wi’ John,” he sneered. “What ails you?”

Inman appeared to rouse himself; but he spoke with unusual hesitation.

“Nay, it’s naught but an uneasy feeling.... It isn’t that there’s exactly aught to go by; but....”

“But what? Get it out, man, can’t you? The devil take you and your uneasy feelings! John Clegg’s safe as t’ Bank of England, I tell you. If he doesn’t die worth his hundred-thousand I’m no prophet; and he’ll ha’ scraped it up wi’ a bit o’ interest here and a bit there, where mugs have been silly enough to let him, to say naught of his money-lending, and he won’t ha’ worked that at a loss, no fear.”

Inman allowed a look of relief to creep into his expression, and a more hopeful tone sounded in his voice as he said:

“Well, certainly he ought to have made money and I always reckoned him to be very well off—not a hundred-thousand man, maybe; I wouldn’t have gone so far; but comfortable. It was just that I didn’t altogether like the look of things; and if he isn’t badly worried he’s a good play-actor. But you’re likely to know better’n me; and as I’ve naught fairly to go by, no more’n what I’ve told you, we can leave it at that.”

Baldwin frowned; and a smile developed in Inman’s eyes as he removed his coat and walked over to the bench where his work awaited him. He had dropped his seed carefully—a seed of suggestion, of suspicion, that was sure to germinate and torment his master’s soul as it grew; but he had not committed himself, and if events should shape badly, as was inevitable, he would always be able to claim that his mouth had been stopped by his master. Which was just what he had intended.

After dinner Baldwin took Inman aside out of earshot of the other men who were lounging about, waiting for the hour to strike.

“What did John say about Maniwel?” he asked. “Are you sure they’ll not get their brass when t’ time comes?”

“I’m certain of it,” Inman replied confidently. “They wouldn’t have got it in any case, if his word’s to be trusted; but they’d very likely have had part—something to be going on with. I spiked that gun, if I did naught else, and Drake’ll have to whistle for his money.”

“But what did he say about ’em starting up in opposition to Nancy, as you may say?” persisted Baldwin.

“He didn’t speak for a while, but just tapped his desk, and then he said a curious thing,” Inman replied with his eyes on his master’s face. “He said, ‘Well, he’s a right to start for himself if he wants, I reckon, and I’ve a notion that he’ll get on. I never thought myself that our Tom treated him fairly, and when a man bides his time and goes straight I’ve noticed he often gets the upper hand at the finish. He’ll perhaps sell Baldwin a pennorth yet.’ That’s pretty nearly word for word what he said.”

The older man’s face was a picture during this recital, and his eyes blazed as he turned to Inman, whose own features were almost expressionless.

“Sell me a pennorth, will he? And John Clegg could bring his-self to say that again’ a man ’at has his thousands wi’ him! I’ll give him six months notice to pay back every blessed ha’penny! I’ll see him rot afore he shall have my brass to lend to Maniwel Drake to set him on his feet. As like as not that’s what he is doing. And to have it thrown i’ one’s face ’at Maniwel wasn’t treated fair! I must say you’ve got it off very glib, young man, and’ll have turned it over i’ your mouth like a’ acid drop, I don’t doubt——”

“Mr. Briggs,” Inman interrupted quickly. “I’m Nancy’s husband, and you don’t need to be told I’m no friend of Drake’s. It’s a poor return for what I did yesterday to be bullyragged same as if I was your enemy.”

“Well, well,” said Baldwin with an impatient toss of the head; “it’s enough to make any man talk a bit wild. You’d better blow t’ whistle. It’s gone one!”