Stayward's Vindication

by Harold Bindloss

 

STAYWARD'S
VINDICATION

By HAROLD BINDLOSS

 

Illustrated by Arthur Garratt

 

STAYWARD lived like a hermit at his bleak house on the moor. He was a stern North-Countryman, and tales, touched by grim humour, are told about him in farmsteads and mining villages between the fells and the sea. He ventured much and earned his money hard, but until he died nobody except his lawyers knew how rich he was.

His nephew was with him at the end, although Stayward had not seen Gregory since he was a boy. It was a wild spring night, and a western gale shook the old flagged roof of Lanthwaite Hall. Stayward lay in a big bare room, and Gregory sat by his bed, about which documents were strewn. A young doctor stood by the fire; Stayward had scornfully dismissed the nurse. An old man and woman were the only other occupants of the echoing house.

"It's all yours; you are Margaret's son," said Stayward, and frowned at the doctor, who ventured a warning. "Not talk? I'll talk while I can. I've taken your physic lang enough, and much good it's done! Gan oot and bide until I send for you."

The doctor went, for Stayward's glance was compelling, and the latter resumed: "You'll find folks who have hard words for me, but there's nane so bitter as Janet Carson. Carson, ye ken, was my partner when I built the coke ovens. I broke him."

Gregory had heard something about this. Indeed, he had heard that Stayward had stolen Carson's patent, and had thought it strange. The old man was hard, but he was just.

"Folks dinna ken that Tom Carson robbed me; the man that robs me pays," he said. "Mayhappen Janet led him on. She liked smart friends and a big hoose, and Tom was extravagant and a fool at aw but chemistry. He's dead lang sin', and she has paid as weel as him; but there's a lass——" He paused and indicated a tin box. "Ye'll find aw aboot it there."

Gregory mused, for he could not see why his uncle had told him. Stayward had taken his own line, without bothering whether others approved or not; but it looked as if he wanted to justify his deed. By and by he spoke again, faintly—

"Mind ye hold what I won. I won it hard. Took aw that was mine, but I robbed no man."

After this he was quiet, but in the early morning, when the wind shrieked about the house, he slowly moved his head, looked at his nephew dully, and turned from the light. The doctor bent over him and then signed to Gregory, who went out, knowing he was now owner of Lanthwaite and much besides.

When the funeral was over, Gregory opened the tin box and read the story of Carson's fall. Stayward had pursued him with merciless severity, but there was proof that Carson deserved punishment. Gregory wondered why Stayward had let people think him unscrupulous and kept his secret, but surmised that he would not own he had been robbed. After all, this was not important, and Gregory mused about Carson's wife and daughter. They lived not far off, although he had not seen them, and he understood the girl was very young when her father died from indulgence. Mrs. Carson was the daughter of a small landlord, and had an income that kept her on the edge of poverty. Gregory was curious about them, but it was some time before he met Alice.

He saw her name in the visitors' book at an hotel in a white village by a river of the North. Gregory had walked there across the high fells, and when he lounged on the verandah after .breakfast, three or four young men and girls, carrying pike-sticks and rucksacks, came out and began to talk about a guide who had disappointed them. It was obviously a walking party, and Gregory agreed with one who said they could cross the hills without a guide if the weather kept fine.

"In the North it does not often keep fine," a girl rejoined. "I think it will rain to-day."

"Are you much afraid of getting wet, Alice?" another asked.

Gregory studied the girl. This was Alice Carson, whom he had wanted to see. She was tall and graceful, although she wore a rather shabby short dress and thick climber's boots. Her eyes were grey and calm, and she carried herself well.

"Afraid of getting wet?" she said, with a laugh Gregory liked. "Oh, no! One gets used to the rain, but when you cross the big crags mist is awkward."

"We'll get over if we push off," a young man remarked, and Gregory joined the group.

"I am going your way, and know the fells," he said.

They hesitated. Gregory was twenty-eight, and was now richer than he had thought; but he had known poverty, and wore old, rain-shrunk shooting clothes. He did not look like a summer tourist or a sheep farmer, and he imagined the others were puzzled. Alice, however, smiled.

"Then, if it gets thick, your help might be useful," she said.

They went up a valley where a swollen stream brawled among green pastures, and white birches opened their fresh leaves. Then the pasture got stony and the birches got small, until they stopped at the bottom of a long, wet slope. At the top the party rested while they got their breath, and looked back at the plain, where lakes and a winding river shone, and woods rolled into the blue distance. In front, scarred rocks cut the threatening sky, and mist streaked the dark side of a profound gulf.

"A rugged country, but in this light it looks worse than it is," Gregory remarked. "However, we'll push on."

For some time they made good progress, although one of the men wanted to take another line, and grumbled that Gregory hurried them. Then, as they crossed a narrow ridge that ran like a knife-edge between two crags, mist rolled up the screes below and it began to rain. The stones were wet and slippery, the air got strangely cold, and the light went out. There was, perhaps, not much risk, but Gregory wanted to get the party off the ridge. Some awkward ground lay in front, and the rain was heavier.

They left the ridge, and when they took shelter by a crag, down which threads of water ran, Gregory noted that Alice's mackintosh was badly worn. He felt sorry for her, because he had got other hints of poverty, and his uncle had brought her father down. It was obvious that she did not know him, but he saw she knew the fells, because she had supported him against the other.

"We must get on," he said at length.

"You'll go down the ghyll? It's shorter," the obstinate man remarked.

"I think not," said Gregory. "The old quarry path is washed away. It's a rough scramble down the beck."

The other frowned, but said nothing, and when they started the rain and mist got worse. Dark rocks loomed vaguely in the deluge, and one could hardly see thirty yards in front. For all that, they reached a rough track, and presently the other man stopped where a gully opened beside the path.

"We are not going round by Alderdale; the girls have had enough," he said. "This is the top of Red Ghyll, and there is a path of a sort."

Gregory glanced at Alice. The ghyll was the shorter way, and she looked very wet—her old mackintosh did not keep out the rain. All the same, the drop to the ghyll did not look inviting. There was a very steep gravel bank, from which the floods had washed the path, a few yards of boggy heather, slanting down in a narrow ledge, and then a precipitous slab of rock. The obstinate man went first, a girl followed, and his companion helped another down. As they crossed the ledge, the heather broke away, and they rolled down the slab. It was something of a relief to see them get up; but the first two had vanished round a bend, and the others did not seem to remember that they had left two behind. They went round a corner, a wave of thick mist rolled up, and there was a rattle of disturbed stones.

"They've gone, and I don't imagine they could get up again," Gregory remarked. "In fact, I doubt if we could now get down. What do you think about pushing across the gap for Alderdale?"

Alice hesitated for a moment. The man was a stranger, but he knew the fells, and his manner gave her confidence. She admitted that she liked his face.

"Perhaps it would be the best plan," she said. "There has hardly been rain enough to flood the Alderbeck, although it rises fast."

They set off, and presently toiled up a narrow gap between two dark hills. The stones were rough, and water flowed through the channel they followed; but Gregory was cautious about offering help, and Alice did not need much. He noted her light step when she jumped across awkward spots, her fine poise, and her confidence. She had pluck, for although she gasped when they reached the top, and the descent in front looked daunting, she did not hesitate.

One could see nothing but rolling mist; the deep, rock-walled valley boiled like a cauldron. The roar of falling water and the dreary wail of wind among the crags rose from its steaming depths.

"We must find the Green Tongue," said Gregory; and, pushing across a bog, they came to a bank of stones, half covered by moss and grass, that dropped steeply into the pit.

As they went down he began to talk about the Tongue. The stones had been left there by ice long since. Although he knew something about rocks, he was not a geologist, and the wind blew his voice away. It did not look as if the girl heard much, but he thought she was getting tired, and so long as he talked she might forget he was a stranger; he had noted her hesitation when the others vanished. To some extent he felt embarrassed, because he knew her, and their meeting was not altogether by chance. He had stopped at the hotel, at which he had called for lunch, because he saw her name in the book. She, however, must not know this.

It was raining very hard when they reached the head of the deep valley. Banks of gravel, washed down the hills, lay about, water foamed in ragged gullies, and there were belts of fresh, muddy soil.

"It looks like the bed of an American hydraulic mine," Gregory remarked. "I hope we won't have trouble when we strike the main beck."

A few minutes afterwards they stopped at the edge of an angry flood that plunged into a ravine where wet rocks loomed in the mist. Alice turned and looked at Gregory. Her glance was level, but he knew she was disturbed.

"The path goes down the other side," she said. "I can't climb back to the gap."

"There's another crossing farther on, but I doubt if we could find it now," he said. "Somehow, I don't think the rain will last. Besides, you're tired and probably hungry."

She laughed, a puzzled and rather spiritless laugh. "I don't see much shelter here."

"There's the old shieling," Gregory replied. "The shepherds bring up stuff to make a fire, and we could stop until we see if the rain's going off."

Alice followed him, and in a few minutes he pushed back the broken door of a rude stone hut.

"We're in luck," he said, indicating some bundles of dry fern and a pile of dead branches and peat. "They've been up here not long since, watching the lambs."

She agreed, and sat down on the fern while he made a fire. In spring, when the rock foxes come down, shepherds sometimes guard their flocks with guns. Gregory threw on fuel, and soon a comfortable warmth spread about the hut. Alice took off her dripping mackintosh, and her wet dress began to steam.

"Will you give me my sack? I am as hungry as you supposed," she said. "You rather hurried us, and we didn't stop for lunch."

"Let's pool the food," said Gregory, who opened his sack; and they began to talk.

"Aren't you burning the peat extravagantly?" Alice asked. "I expect the shepherds had some trouble to bring up the load on a plough sledge."

"You must get dry before we start," Gregory replied. "I'll see the farmer about the peat; I don't expect he'll grumble about my using the stuff——"

He stopped, for Alice did not know the farmer was his tenant, and he did not want her to know yet. No doubt she believed Stayward had robbed Carson.

"You talked about an American hydraulic mine," she remarked by and by. "Have you seen these mines?"

"Oh, yes. I helped build a flume to bring the water to the pipe-head. This was among the ranges on the Pacific slope. We were driven pretty hard, although the pay was good."

Alice was puzzled and curious. She thought a flume was a big wooden trough, but he did not look like a carpenter.

"Did you give up the work because it was hard?" she asked.

"Not altogether. I wanted to see the East, and shipped from Vancouver to Japan."

"But——" she said, and stopped.

"You mean, it's difficult to travel without money?" he suggested, with a twinkle. "Well, if one is not fastidious, one generally finds a job; but I had some trouble to do so in Japan. In fact, I soon left for Australia, where I worked in the stockyards and bought some sheep. They died when the grass burned up."

Alice liked his humorous frankness; in fact, she rather liked him, and ventured to indulge her curiosity.

"A strenuous life, wasn't it? What do you do now?"

"In a sense, I do nothing—look after some property, but I find it harder than I thought," he replied, and paused, feeling that he had said enough about himself. "You are steady among the rocks," he resumed. "It's plain that you can climb."

"I get tired sooner than I ought. It's some time since I was much upon the fells, and one grows slack in town."

"Then you live in a town?" he remarked with surprise, for Mrs. Carson had a cottage at the foot of the hills.

"Yes. I took a holiday because my mother, who lives not far off, is ill. In a few days the holiday must end."

"You imply you have an occupation."

"I teach children music."

Gregory mused and felt disturbed. Mrs. Carson was obviously poorer than he had imagined, and to some extent his uncle was responsible for this. The girl had a strange charm; he was sorry for her.

"Rather dreary, isn't it?" he suggested. "Why did you choose teaching?"

"Because I had studied music abroad," she said. "I was ambitious, but when I came home and got a few concert engagements, critics said my voice was weak and had not been thoroughly trained. Real training by famous masters is expensive."

She stopped, and wondered why she had been so frank. It was strange, but Gregory's sympathy had somehow led her on. She thought he was tactful when he began to talk about something else. After a time the splash of rain upon the roof slackened, and Gregory went out. The mist was thinner, and began to roll up the hills, and, glancing at his watch, he called Alice.

"We must start. I think I know a spot where we can cross the ghyll."

They left the hut and, scrambling down the ravine, reached a shelf, below which the stream plunged into a dark pool. There was a narrow ledge on the other side, and a small mountain ash grew on the stony bank. Gregory jumped across and, grasping the trunk, leaned forward.

"I can catch you. It is not as hard as it looks," he said.

Alice hesitated. If she missed the ledge, she would be swept down the fall into the angry pool; but she braced herself and jumped, and as her foot touched the ledge Gregory seized her. She heard him gasp, and the tree bent and cracked, but next moment he pushed her up the bank.

"We will have no trouble now," he said. "The path gets better as it goes down the dale."

For all that, the path was long, and Alice was tired when they reached the dale-foot and saw in the distance the angry sunset shining on the sea. Gregory left her and went on to Lanthwaite in a thoughtful mood. He had long wanted to see her, and she had pluck and charm. Perhaps it was ridiculous, and he was a romantic fool, but he felt he must see her again.

They met at a little slate village on a moor that looks down on the smoke trails of the ironworks by the sea. She seemed to hesitate, and he thought she meant to turn back, but she advanced, and he ventured to take off his hat.

"I really haven't much claim to your acknowledgment," he remarked. "If you like, I'll go the other way."

Alice smiled. "You have some claim. I should not have got home without your help; the others were on the hills much of the night."

"Well," he said, "I imagine you have found out who I am. If you had known when we were at Red Ghyll, you would have followed the others?"

"Yes," she said, and he liked the way she met his glance, "I think that is so. But it looks as if you knew me!"

"I did," he admitted. "I don't know if it's strange, but I wanted to see you. It's really not my fault I'm John Stayward's nephew——" He stopped, and then resumed: "However, I mustn't talk like this. I am his nephew and owe him much."

"I made no charge against John Stayward," Alice rejoined, with proud coldness.

"Oh, well," he said, "you expected to go away. How is it you are here?"

"My mother is rather worse. I may not go for some time."

Gregory was silent for a moment, and then looked up. "I'm sorry. After all, I'm a neighbour, and although your mother thinks she has some ground for hating my uncle, you have none for hating me. We must meet now and then, and I don't see why we shouldn't meet like friends."

"Perhaps it would be less embarrassing," Alice agreed, and went off.

They met again, and afterwards, when Alice went to the village or took the wood path on the hillside, Gregory was somewhere about. He studied her habits, and now and then half-consciously she gave him a hint. At length, as he walked home with her one afternoon, he said: "Things can't go on like this. I must see your mother."

Alice stopped, and the colour came to her skin.

"It will be of no use," she said. "She is very bitter; I'm afraid she cannot be moved."

"All the same, I mean to go. In a way, the thing's ridiculous. If my uncle injured her, the injury was done twenty years since." .

"Ah," said Alice, "she has borne much for those twenty years—disappointment, poverty, and illness caused by grief. It cost her much to send me abroad, and it hurts to know the sacrifice was wasted. Now she is ill again, I must indulge her. Sometimes I, too, feel I hate John Stayward."

"Yet you don't hate me," Gregory said, and, when she was silent, went on: "Well, I will ask for an interview."

Alice turned her head for a moment and then looked up. "After all, I think you ought. I have been dishonest. She does not know I have met you."

"But you wish me luck?"

"Yes," she said quietly, and left him.

Gregory wrote to Mrs. Carson, and not long afterwards went to her cottage. She received him in a small morning-room, where a man was waiting.

"My brother, Mr. Rigg, whom I asked to meet you," she said. "You demanded to see me. I cannot give you long."

Gregory bowed. Rigg was a lawyer, and came from a neighbouring colliery town. Then, standing by the table, he studied Mrs. Carson. She looked ill, her hair was going grey, and her pinched face was hard. Her thin mouth was firm, and she gave him a cold, unfriendly glance. Her bitterness was not logical, but it was strong. Yet he was sorry for her.

"Perhaps you will be surprised, because I want your permission to marry Alice," he said.

Mrs. Carson smiled mockingly. "I must refuse, but I am not surprised."

"Then you knew!" Gregory exclaimed.

"I did know. You taught my daughter to cheat me, but she will not marry you unless I consent. I let you go on because I meant you to pay for your deceit."

Gregory braced himself. Her grudge had grown into a mania. She was willing to hurt Alice if she could hurt him. It was plain he could not be pitiful; he must use his power.

"I imagine you meant me to pay for my uncle's supposititious fault," he said. "Very well! You claim John Stay ward stole your husband's patent, and brought him and you to poverty?"

Rigg looked up and interposed. "My sister claims that Stayward took advantage of his partner's carelessness. There was a vagueness about the badly-worded specification that allowed the patent to be infringed, and Stayward won the law-suit on the technical point. His cause was bad in ethics; it was a shabby trick."

"We'll let this go," said Gregory. "When Stayward built the coke ovens, he was not rich. He risked all that was his on the venture, and borrowed his working capital on a mortgage."

He glanced at Mrs. Carson. Her face was tense, but he got a hint of fear in her fixed eyes.

"When money was needed, Stayward found Carson had drawn out and squandered much of his capital," Gregory resumed. "He had no redress by law—Carson was his partner—but he had been robbed and brought to the edge of ruin by the other's extravagance. He was a hard man, and punished Carson by the only way that was open."

"You ask us to believe this?" Mrs. Carson said in a strained voice.

"I do not," said Gregory, who took out some documents and gave them to Rigg. "I bring you proof."

Rigg took the papers. Gregory waited, and Mrs. Carson did not move. She was very pale now, and Gregory thought her lips trembled. All was quiet except for the faint rustle when Rigg folded a document. At length he looked at his sister.

"Mr. Stayward's statement is justified; I do not think it could be disputed," he said. "There are two letters from Tom admitting he used the money. Will you read them?"

"No," she said faintly, and leaned back for some moments with half-closed eyes, while Gregory wondered whether she had known about the letters. He imagined she had known much.

Then she roused herself and turned to Gregory. "Well," she said, "what are you going to do about it?"

Gregory saw he must be firm, although he took a shabby line. He thought she had not hated Stayward less because her husband's punishment was just.

"I have asked your consent to my marrying Alice, and hope you will agree," he said. "I could not risk a damaging story being told about my wife's father, and when she is my wife I will burn the documents."

"And you will not tell Alice?"

Gregory smiled. "I will not. For one thing, I would like to spare her the shock. I think it's now obvious John Stayward was justified."

"Very well," said Mrs. Carson. "I cannot refuse."

Gregory went out, and found Alice waiting in the next room.

"I have won," he said, and took her in his arms.