THE cottage by the bridge contrasted strongly with Nancy’s home. Two or three gaily coloured mottoes suitable to the season had been tacked to the wall, and a couple of attractive almanacks recently distributed by enterprising tradesmen in advance of the New Year, bore them company, and diverted attention from the framed funeral cards which grannie regarded with an owner’s mournful pride, and Hannah with an impatient contempt that was manifested every time she dusted them. Sprigs of holly, bright with scarlet berries, peeped from the vases on the mantelpiece, lay between the plates and dishes on the rack above the dresser, and were wreathed about the faded face of the grandfather’s clock in the corner. Grandfather’s? Great-great-grandfather’s, grannie would have told you, for it had ticked away in her grandsire’s time, and even then the cow upon the dial (which was now a mere ghost of a cow, and a badly dismembered ghost, too!) was losing its horns and tail. There were other sprigs upon the window-ledge but these could not be seen because the blind was drawn. There was, however, no mistletoe, for Hannah was thirty-one and the “baleful plant” was among the childish things she had put away.

Because it was Christmas Eve, Maniwel and Jagger had knocked off work at five o’clock, although business was brisk, and the younger man made it his only recreation, rarely leaving the shop until the supper-hour struck. Even now, as he sat with his head in his hands at the table, he was studying plans, and Hannah looked across at her father, who was deep in a book, and then turned to grannie.

“I wish to goodness t’ Sperrit ’ud move someb’dy to talk!” she said. “I should be fain of a few more young’uns to sing for us, for all they bring a lot o’ muck in. It’s fair wearisome sitting by t’ hour together, same as we were a lot o’ mutes.”

“Nay, I don’t know about that, lass,” replied the old woman. “I was never one for a deal o’ chattering myself, and there’s awlus a deal to think about. I can pass my time nicely wi’ them ’at’s gone, for they were a better breed i’ my young days nor what we’ve getten now.”

“And whose fault is that?” inquired Maniwel, who had not been too absorbed in his book to overhear what was said. “Who brought these we’ve got now into t’ world? There’s a bit i’ t’ Book ’at you must ha’ missed, where it reads ’at we’re not to talk about t’ former days being better than our own, ’cause there’s no sense in it. What about t’ mischief nights ’at father used to tell about, when they lifted t’ gates off o’ their hinges, and stole t’ goose out o’ t’ larder, and such like tricks at Christmas time? You’d look well if they were to fetch to-morrow’s dinner while you were abed, mother.”

“I should happen miss it less nor some,” replied the old woman placidly. “I reckon naught o’ bits o’ marlacks same as them. Lads is lads, and mischief comes nat’ral to ’em; and if there’s less on’t now it’s ’cos they haven’t t’ sperrit they used to have, let t’ Book say what it will.”

Maniwel looked across at his mother with great good-humour. He knew that her grumblings were not very sincere, and that she was probably happier than she had been in the old days that had been drab enough until the sunset tints of life’s eventide fell upon them. She spent the greater part of her time now dreaming dreams, and it pleased him to rouse her, and see the light of battle shine feebly in her eye again.

“Nay, mother,” he said; “you’ll wriggle loose choose how fast we tie you up. I never saw such a woman—why you’re as slippy as an eel. When there’s a bit o’ mischief goes on i’ t’ village you shake your head and think t’ Owd Lad’s got us on his fork; and when there isn’t, you say ’at we’re short o’ sperrit and t’ world’s going back’ards way! It’s heads win and tails loses every time!”

“I say grannie’s right!” Jagger had turned on his chair and was stretching out his long legs on the rug. He was a different man from the one who had sat there so disconsolately twelve months before. Little by little he had shaken off the melancholy that had enwrapped him and had clothed himself in his father’s mantle of tranquillity. But even yet the garment lacked the trimmings that beautified the older man’s and made it conspicuous—cheerfulness and breezy optimism were missing. In their stead was a fixed determination to take things quietly as they came, and to push vigorously along the path he had mapped out for himself. The encounter with Inman which had been deplored by the father as a mistake in tactics as well as an evidence of the existence of “old Adam” had given the son much satisfaction. Inman might sneer as he liked—everybody for miles round knew that he had been laid out by his rival, and the defeated man had no sympathisers. Jagger felt that it was good for his self-respect to have that victory to his account, and he had held himself more erect and viewed the world more hopefully ever since.

“I say grannie’s right!” he said. “Shifting gates once a year, and lifting a goose or two for a lark, are just lads’ tricks—mischief ’at means naught. But when grown men plan out Mischief Nights a toathri times a month it looks as if the Old Lad had somebody on his fork, and if I could just catch him I’d shove t’ fork that far in he wouldn’t get off again easy!”

“I’ll warrant you, lad,” said his father, and the two men’s eyes met. “I’d like to see you with a grip on his collar myself.”

“It wouldn’t take long neither,” returned Jagger significantly. “There’s only one in this village ’at’s as clever as the devil himself, and as black-hearted; but he’ll go a step too far one o’ these days.”

“Sure enough! Them ’at dig pits are like to fall in ’em. If it goes on much longer, lad, we shall have to watch.”

“Aye, but it’s more’n a man can do to work all t’ day and watch all t’ night. Let him be!” Jagger spoke as if the anticipated pleasure of seeing Nemesis at work outweighed all the grievous afflictions which were but for a moment.

Certainly the succession of trifling mishaps that had at first half-amused, half-enraged the village and had latterly aroused a large measure of resentment, had been conceived and carried out with such impish ingenuity as to convince a small minority that the culprit must be one of a gang of rough lads from Kirkby Mawm who were well-known to belong to the devil’s household brigade of mischief-makers. It was hard to believe that any grown man would take pleasure in changing the labels on the Drakes’ oil-cans as they stood on the cart in the carrier’s shed ready for despatch, so that the man who was waiting for boiled oil found himself supplied with linseed, and the farmwife whose stock of paraffin had run out stamped her foot in wrath when thick lubricating oil began to pour from the neck of the tin. After that, of course, the carrier boarded up his shed; but he might have saved himself the expense for the rascal was too wise to return upon his tracks.

It looked a lad’s trick, too, when the door at the Grange which Maniwel had painted white was seen in the morning to be covered with soot and the sweep’s bag lying on the ground a few yards away: when Farmer Lambert’s new cart was dragged from the Drakes’ painting shed during the night and its coat of gorgeous scarlet ruined by the rain which had fallen in torrents. There was some division of opinion, I repeat, on the question of authorship; but there was none on the market value of Police Constable Stalker as an officer of the law, which it was unanimously agreed could hardly be lower.

Whether or no Inman was aware that he was regarded with suspicion by any of his neighbours he bore himself at this time with a detached and contemptuous air that was his best defence; and he offered a simple explanation of each mishap as it occurred that always drew a waverer or two to his side.

“Just another piece of blooming carelessness,” he would say with a shrug of the shoulders. “They’re both of ’em half-asleep most o’ their time.”

The subtle poison worked, if only slowly; and even those who were well-disposed to the Drakes and ready to lay the charge at Inman’s door began to wonder if it was quite safe to entrust their jobs to a firm whose operations were attended with such bad luck. Fortunately Mr. Harris remained their constant friend, and work had never yet been scant.

In the policeman Inman found a staunch ally. Every hint that was dropped by the crafty plotter with a sportive humour that concealed itself behind a mask of cynical unconcern was accepted and acted upon by Stalker as if it had been a divine revelation. Nothing, of course, could have served Inman’s purpose better; and he controlled the constable’s movements to an extent that would have surprised the sergeant, who was kept in blissful ignorance of these trifling occurrences. Stalker had no qualms of conscience because he was quite certain that he was on the track of a criminal, and that with Inman’s unobtrusive help he would one day lay his hands upon him. For this reason the coldness or abuse of the villagers made as little impression upon him as their scorn. He was a dull and easily-befooled officer; but he had learned that if the law moved slowly, it also moved majestically, and he could bide his time. He accepted the suggestion of his prompter that these mishaps to the Drakes were all arranged by Jagger himself to throw dust in his eyes and divert his attention from the weightier matter of the robbery; and he was determined to take good care that the device should not succeed.

All this, of course, was not known to the Drakes; but both father and son had a shrewd suspicion of how matters stood, though their attitude towards the suspect differed materially. When Jagger said, therefore: “Let him be!” the look that accompanied the injunction was more expressive than the words.

“Twelve months since,” said Hannah with sisterly satisfaction, “you’d ha’ been ready to creep into your grave over t’ job. It isn’t all to t’ bad.”

“Not by a long way,” added the father. “I’m o’ Jagger’s way o’ thinking, and I lay all t’ blame for this mischief on yon lad; but choose what harm he’s done he’s made a man o’ Jagger, so we’ve no ’casion to be over hard on him. He’ll tire o’ these kids’ tricks i’ time, and maybe repent on ’em. As for getting hold of his throttle, it ’ud suit me better to get hold of his ’at has him on t’ fork.”

“There isn’t a ha’porth o’ difference between ’em,” said Jagger emphatically.

“Yes, there’s this much,” corrected his father; “’at t’ Old Lad’s i’ t’ sperrit and t’ young lad’s i’ t’ flesh, and while a man’s i’ t’ flesh there’s hope for him; and I’d sooner break t’ lad off his bad ways than I’d break his back for him. T’ devil knows a good hammer when he sees it, and a good hammer’s a good friend if we could steal it away. I could like to do that bit o’ thieving.”

“They’ve black hearts that comes off o’ that black moor,” said grannie, shaking her head in deprecation of her son’s optimism; but he laughed the implication away.

“There’s few black hearts ’at’s fast dye, mother. They’ll wash clean, and if we could get t’ sun to ’em they’d maybe bleach.”

It was uneven warfare, for they were all against him. Grannie shook her head and muttered to herself; Hannah told her father he didn’t know his man, and proceeded to enlighten him by recalling incidents which she assumed he had forgotten and Jagger listened with an expression of tolerant amusement until his sister had finished, when he said—

“It’s Christmas time, Hannah. There’s to be peace and goodwill, you understand! a sort of a truce: God and t’ devil sitting down at one table!”

He spoke in a tone of good-tempered derision, but avoided his father’s eye in which he would have seen an unexpected look of humour.

“Now, that’s smart, isn’t it? You’ve wiped the floor wi’ your old dad this time! I suppose you never heard o’ God and t’ devil sitting down together? Reach t’ Book across, Hannah!”

He found at once the passage he wanted and read—

“Jesus answered them. Have not I chosen you twelve, and one of you is a devil? He spake of Judas Iscariot, the son of Simon: for he it was that should betray Him, being one of the twelve.”

He paused and glanced across at his son; but meeting with no response, turned over the leaves of the Book and read again—

“And when He had dipped the sop He gave it to Judas Iscariot, the son of Simon.”

He handed the book back to Hannah, and gazed steadily at Jagger.

“That was t’ last time, lad. How oft do you think He’d supped wi’ him before?”

“He didn’t cure him,” said Jagger who was secretly proud of his father’s ready wit, though not willing to acknowledge defeat; “Judas was a rank wrong ’un, same as Inman: one o’ them you can’t cure.”

“I don’t know whether He cured him or He didn’t,” replied Maniwel; “but I’ve always had an idea ’at Judas rued when he found ’at he’d gone ower far, and there’s never no telling what drove him to put t’ rope round his neck.”

“I could wish Inman ’ud get as far as that,” said Jagger flippantly.

“If I thought you weren’t lying, lad,” Maniwel replied sternly after looking at him searchingly for a moment; “I should be ashamed of you. The Lord pity you if it’s true!”

Jagger flushed and Hannah took up arms in his defence.

“You must remember what he’s had to put up with, father; more’n you and me. There isn’t many ’ud have taken it so quietly!”

“That may be, lass, and I’m not denying it; but it ’ud grieve me to think ’at Jagger was a murderer in his heart—”

“Sure-ly there’s someb’dy knocking!” said grannie whose head had been bent towards the door during this admonition.

“I heard naught,” said Hannah, but she rose and went to the door. “There is someb’dy!” she said as she raised the latch and opened it; “Why, it’s Mr. Briggs!”

“Baldwin!” Maniwel was on his feet in an instant—“Bring him in, lass!”

It was a scared and pitiable figure that stepped hesitatingly into the cheerful light, and leaned against the dresser. An old workshop cap remained forgotten on his head, and the worn coat was that in which he had been accustomed to do his roughest work. Very old and frail he looked as his dull eyes fixed themselves on Maniwel, and the hands that hung straight down moved tremulously.

“He’s turned me out, Maniwel!”

It was almost a cry: it was certainly an appeal, though the words were not so eloquent as the eyes.

“Turned tha out!” repeated Maniwel incredulously. “What does tha mean Inman?”

Hannah was still holding the door ajar; but catching her brother’s eye she closed it. Jagger had risen too, and was standing with his back to the fire, a frown overspreading his face.

“Turned me out, Maniwel, to fend for my-sen! I mud go to t’ Union, he said, or to t’ devil!”

“Tha did right to come here, lad,” said Maniwel, unconscious of any humour in the remark. “You’ve been having a toathri words I reckon. He’ll come round, tha’ll see, after a bit. Come and sit tha down by t’ fire and tha shalt have a bit o’ supper wi’ us.”

Baldwin did not move. His eyes wandering vacantly round the room had found Jagger and were resting there with no change of expression, but with a fixity that made the young man uncomfortable.

“Take your cap off, Mr. Briggs, and come nearer t’ fire,” said Hannah—though she anticipated the action by removing it herself. “Why, you’re fair dithering wi’ cold! Come now, t’ kettle’s on t’ boil, and I’ll soon have a cup o’ tea ready.”

He suffered her to lead him to the hearth and to place him in her father’s chair; but he still stared at Jagger as if something beneath his consciousness was seeking to determine whether the young man was to be regarded as friend or foe.

Grannie looked across and smiled, for she was old enough to forget readily grievances that were not her own.

“Nay, Baldwin,” she said; “this is like owd times!”

“So it is, mother,” said her son heartily. “He’s a bit upset just now, and his breath’s been ta’en; but when he’s swallowed a drink o’ tea he’ll feel himself, you’ll see!”

Baldwin removed his eyes to Maniwel’s face, and a look of returning intelligence appeared there.

“We’ve had no words, lad,” he said. “He’s getten t’ business, that’s all, so I’ve to shift—at my age, and it’ll be Christmas to-morrow. Damn him, Maniwel!”

“Nay, lad,” said the other sadly, “neither thee nor me’s no ’casion to do that, for he’s damning himself, I’m flayed. We’ll see what he’s like i’ t’ morning: we’re none that short o’ room but what we can put tha up for a night; aye, and for good, if it comes to that. Tha needn’t dream about t’ Union, Baldwin, nor t’ devil, neither. What say you, Jagger?”

“He can stay for aught I care,” replied his son, though the concession lacked graciousness.

“You hear that!” Maniwel dulled his perceptions to the want of warmth. “My bed’ll hold two, but tha’ll happen sleep better by thiself, and t’ sofa’ll hold me nicely....”

“He’ll have my bed,” said Jagger, “so that’s settled.” Then he went over to his father and looked hard in his face.

“Didn’t I tell you he was a devil?” he said; and Maniwel did not find the inquiry ambiguous.