IN WHICH JAGGER DRAKE SETS HIS TEETH
LIKE an impatient housewife whose activities have been thwarted, and
who rises whilst others sleep to make onslaught on her foes with mop and
besom, the wind busied itself in the night with the work of sweeping
away the frosty mists which for a week past had been clinging to the
sides of the hills and stretching across the gullies like thin, silvered
cobwebs; and when the sun peeped over the shoulder of Cawden and sent
his heralds with streaming banners of pink and lances tipped with gold
to warn such few laggards as were still abed of his coming, the village
was looking as bright as a healthy babe fresh from its morning bath.
There was nothing babe-like, of course, about such a venerable place
except the river, which tumbled and tinkled along its course as if it
rejoiced in its liberty after being shut in underground so long, but
which, seen from the slopes a few hundred yards away, seemed as restful
as the grey hamlet itself.
If you estimate the importance of a place by its size you would never
bestow a second glance at Mawm, even if the beam of bigness in your eye
permitted you to see it, for the hamlet is a mere mote among the
mountains; a speck of grey upon the moors. If you doze for twenty
seconds you may pass through it in your car and find when you rouse
yourself no hint of its existence; and you will have missed—what people
with beams in their eyes must often miss—a pleasing picture in shotted
green and grey that you might have carried away with you, and that would
have enriched your gallery of memories through all the years.
Like a humble lodge at the entrance gate of the park which holds some
lordly dwelling-house, Mawm stands at the junction of three roads one of
which brings the traveller from the amenities of the railway, five miles
distant, whilst the others transport him at once to the heart of the
moors and the deep cold shadows of the Pennines. From those wild heights
the winter gales sweep down upon the hamlet, lashing it with whips of
ice and half burying it in snow, bracing and hardening men of Viking
blood, and sending to their rest beneath the graveyard sod at Kirkby
Mawm, lower down the valley, those of softer breed. In summer it is
still wind-swept; but the breezes are kindlier (though still rough and
sharp-toothed), and they load themselves with the fragrant spices of the
moors—the sweetness of heather and mountain berries and peaty-bog. And
at all seasons of the year the air is pure as purity itself.
But Mawm is a guardian of other and rarer treasures than these. Beyond
the village, but only a few strides away, great inland cliffs that are
the wonder of all who see them rear their giant forms; and in the Cove
and Scar you will find rock scenery whose like few countries can produce
and which is unmatched in all Britain. With these gifts of air and earth
and earth’s convulsions for their heritage the men of Mawm are a strong
race and fortunate, though not all are conscious of their good fortune.
Maniwel Drake (the greater number of his acquaintances did not know that
his name figured as Emmanuel in the parish register, and he himself had
almost forgotten it), was not to be numbered with these dullards. A man
of the moors, whose ancestors on both sides for generations back had
been moorland folk, the air of the uplands was to him the best of
tonics, sweeping over his soul no less than his body, and containing
what the old physiologists called “a hidden food of life.” No gale,
however wild, had ever been able to pierce the defences of his hardy
frame and undermine his constitution, and he had long ago shaken off the
ill-results of the accident which, by reason of the light regard in
which he had held it, had well-nigh cost him his life. With his one arm
he could do more work than many could accomplish with two; but until now
he had been content to lend a hand when and where it was needed, and his
earnings had been precarious, which would have mattered more, if his
wants had not been few.
His whitewashed cottage neighboured with the little one-arched bridge
that spanned the stream, and its tiny panes gathered the greater part of
the sun’s rays, for they faced east and south, and as they looked down
the valley with no nearer obstruction than hills that were miles distant
the house was always so bright that a speck of dust had not the faintest
chance to escape Hannah’s observant eyes. It was because the house was
sunny and close to the laughter-loving stream that Maniwel had chosen
it. It harmonised with his nature.
He was thinking of Jagger and the new scheme as he leaned against the
parapet of the bridge, with the sun’s rosy beams playing about his
uncovered head like an incipient halo—particularly of Jagger, and of
Jagger’s mother on whose vitals some slow cancerous disease had fixed
its wolfish teeth some months before the lad’s birth, tearing at her
strength and leaving her for the rest of her weary life querulous and
spiritless who up to then had known neither ache nor pain. It was
Jagger’s misfortune to have been born with a weight on his spirits which
it was as difficult to dislodge as the Old Man of the Sea from the
shoulders of Sindbad—it is not only the sins of parents that are
visited on the children: often it is their sorrows. Like Naaman the
Syrian, Jagger combined with many excellencies one outstanding
defect—he was a good workman, skilful, painstaking and conscientious,
and he was a creditable member of the community; but he was a grumbler.
Maniwel’s eyes, travelling observantly about the green though his
thoughts were indoors, apprised him that a stranger had left the
“Packhorse,” and was walking towards the bridge, and his quick wit told
him that this was Jagger’s successor. Inman had no need to guess that
the tall figure on the bridge was the father of his despised rival, for
the landlord had pointed him out as they parted company at the door of
the inn; and if the path had not led in that direction, curiosity would
have taken him there.
Each took the other’s measure as Inman approached; but whereas the
younger man flashed a hawk-like glance at Maniwel’s face and let that
suffice, Maniwel himself indulged in a scrutiny that took in every
detail of the newcomer’s dress, from the serviceable, thick-soled boots
to the incongruous bowler hat; yet so unmoved were the features, so
deliberate was the sweep of the eye that even a close observer might
have thought him indifferent.
Inman raised his head and nodded and would have passed on but for the
inviting note in Maniwel’s greeting.
“Promises well for a fine day, I’m thinking.”
“I can do with it,” said Inman bluntly. “It’ll be seven miles, I
understand, to Scaleber, and I’ve got to do the double journey.”
“Seven miles by t’ low road,” replied Maniwel; “and a trifle less by
that over t’ top.”
“I came by the straight road last night,” Inman replied grimly, “and I’m
having no more of straight roads. I’ll give the low road a turn in
future.”
They were looking into each other’s faces, and Inman was puzzled and
half irritated by the expression of shrewdness and serenity that he saw
on his side of the picture. Instinctively he recognised in the father a
man of different calibre from the son; a man whose gentleness could not
be mistaken for weakness; a man whose eyes and jaw told conflicting
stories of their owner’s character. The note of easy playfulness in
Maniwel’s voice vexed him because it placed him at a disadvantage.
“I don’t know about t’ top road being straight. They’re both about as
straight as a dog’s hind leg if it comes to that. They’re same as lots
of us folk—they go straight when it’s easier then to go crook’d. But
there’ll be a grand breeze on t’ top this morning, and all t’ scents in
t’ moor’s bottle let loose into t’ bargain.”
Inman stared at him and broke into a laugh.
“I’m no judge of scents and hair-oil,” he replied. “I leave that sort o’
thing for women and dandies. The low road’ll do for me.”
He turned away and at that moment Hannah opened the house-door and
beckoned her father with an upward movement of the hand, whereupon he
went down and stood beside her in the angle of the bridge.
“That’ll be him that’s got Jagger’s job,” she said, “and it reminds me
that t’ fat’s in t’ fire and no mistake”; but the wry smile about her
lips and the light that shone in her grey eyes seemed to contradict the
declaration.
“Then there’ll be a bit o’ spluttering, likely,” said her father calmly.
“Whose fat is it?”
Hannah made a significant motion towards the upper storey and lowered
her voice as she replied:
“Nancy came in last night and Jagger told her what you had in your minds
about starting for yourselves. My word! It was hoity-toity in a minute.
She might have been sitting on t’ hot oven-plate by t’ way she got to
her feet. If Jagger weds her I fancy t’ hen’ll crow louder than t’ cock
in their farmyard.”
Maniwel nodded, and looked down into his daughter’s face more soberly
than she had expected.
“That ’ud be because she’s a sort o’ interest in t’ concern. I’d thought
about that, and reckoned on Jagger tumbling to it first thing; but when
he didn’t I said naught. There’s something in it from t’ lass’s point o’
view. What did Jagger say?”
“Say! He was as dumb as a dumpling till she’d taken herself to t’ door,
then he ran up and started twittering like a hedge-sparrow with a cuckoo
in its nest. But he might as well have saved his wind, for her ladyship
was standing on stilts, and she wasn’t for getting down when she took
herself home.”
“I daresay,” commented Maniwel. “Then Jagger’ll have chucked t’ new
scheme up, I reckon? I half expected as much.”
“I don’t know what he’ll have done by now,” she replied. “He shifts like
t’ hands of t’ clock till you can’t tell where he is. I’d be ashamed not
to have a mind o’ my own.”
“Aye,” said her father grimly, “a man ’at can’t walk unless he’s tied
tight to someb’dy else, same as he was running a three-legged race,
isn’t likely to make much headway, and I doubt he’ll have to fit his
stride to Nancy’s if he weds her. However, she’s put him in t’ sieve and
we shall have to see what comes of it.”
“He wasn’t for dropping t’ idea when he went to bed,” said Hannah as she
turned indoors where the newly-lighted fire was now roaring in the
grate; “and if he keeps t’ same look on his face he ought to do well in
t’ undertaking line—Baldwin wouldn’t have a cat’s chance; but we shall
have to wait and see what he says when he comes down to his breakfast.”
The father sat down and spreading his legs on the hearth, gave himself
up to thought whilst Hannah laid the cloth and began to prepare the
meal. When she came and stood over the fire where the kettle was singing
cheerfully he looked up into her face.
“Will she wed him, lass?” he asked. “If he swallows his pride and begs
on again——”
“If he does aught o’ t’ sort I shall give him up for a bad job——” she
broke in hotly; but her father laid his left hand on her arm.
“It’s either that or leaving t’ village if he’s to keep in with Nancy,”
he said. “She’s her father’s child, and Tom Clegg was a stiff-necked ’un
and could never see no way but his own. Not but what he had his good
points, and at his worst he was a lot better than Baldwin; but when he
set himself it ’ud ha’ taken powder to shift him. I don’t want to wrong
t’ lass, and maybe I don’t know her well enough; but it strikes me
she’ll turn awk’ard if Jagger crosses her, and there’s no telling what
lengths a lass like her’ll go to.”
“Then let her go,” said Hannah impatiently. “She’ll be no great loss ’at
I can see, barring ’at she’s a tidy bit o’ money. Jagger says he reckons
naught o’ t’ money; but if you scrape t’ gilt off Nancy there’s very
little left, if you ask me. I could find him——”
“I daresay you could,” her father interrupted again. “But Jagger’ll bait
his own hook, lass, and either land his fish or lose it. We’ll get back
to where we started from; if he begs on again, I doubt she’ll scorn him;
if he leaves t’ village——”
The kettle boiled over at that moment and Maniwel rose and lifted it on
to the hob. When he sat down again Jagger was standing on the hearth.
“Well, what if I leave t’ village?” he asked with a firmer note in his
voice than either his father or sister had expected to find there. “It’s
me you’re talking about, I suppose—me and Nancy? Beg on again I won’t,
so that’s flat; whether she scorns me or she doesn’t. Baldwin and me’s
parted company for good; but what if I leave t’ village?”
He seated himself in grannie’s chair, leaning forward with his elbows on
his knees and looking with a steady gaze into his father’s eyes—eyes
that rested complacently upon the stalwart frame and supple hands and
that only became slightly shadowed when they settled on the face.
Jagger’s lips were closed firmly, and though the eyebrows narrowed into
a frown, there was scarcely a suggestion of sulkiness about the mouth,
and the whole expression appeared to indicate a fixity of purpose that
had been wanting the night before.
“If you leave t’ village,” the father replied, “you leave her behind,
and what’ll happen then——”
“But suppose I _don’t_ leave her behind?” he broke in. “Suppose I take
her with me? She’s sick to death of Keturah, and Baldwin nags at her
till she’s almost made up her mind to finish with ’em. She’s had a taste
of freedom while she’s been at her uncle’s, and is beginning to want a
home of her own—she’s as good as said so. I’ve naught but my two hands,
I know; but pay’s good in t’ towns and if she cared to help me to
furnish a little home to start with it ’ud be much if I couldn’t make
ends meet and tie. If only you two and grannie could bring yourselves to
go with us——”
“Steady, lad!” the father interposed as Hannah threw back her head and
seemed about to speak. “You’re galloping a bit over fast, same as a colt
’at isn’t used to t’ shafts. You can leave us three out o’ your
calculations and think about yourself. Your grannie and me are same as
t’ ling—rooted i’ moorland soil—and we should make naught out in t’
backyard of a town; and Hannah isn’t t’ sort to resin another woman’s
fiddle. Dost think Nancy’ll go wi’ you?”
“I’m not saying she would,” he answered, without hesitation and with a
look that spoke more confidently than his tongue; “but she’s going to
have t’ chance. Letting her help to provide t’ home is a pill that bides
a bit of swallowing; but you can’t have it all ways; and I’d pay her
back when I get on to my feet——”
“You’ve eaten dirt while you’ve got used to t’ taste,” Hannah broke in
excitedly. “Would I, if I were a man, beg any woman to make me a home!
I’d go single all my days first! I’ll lend you my petticoats, Jagger.”
The hot blood rushed to the young man’s cheeks and he turned angry eyes
on his sister; but the father checked the torrent of words that began to
pour from his lips.
“Sit you down, lad! Hannah’s as much at fault with _her_ false pride as
you are with yours. If a man and woman love each other so as to forsake
all others and live together till death parts ’em it’s a small matter
which o’ t’ two buys t’ furniture. It isn’t what’s bought wi’ brass ’at
makes a home, it’s what brass can’t buy. I aren’t sure but what Jagger’s
right, only I doubt he’ll make a mullock of it when he names it to
Nancy; and I wish I could be as sure as he seems to be ’at she’ll see it
in t’ same light. I wouldn’t do t’ lass a wrong; but her father set
brass first, and for aught I know she may do t’ same. Love is of God;
but t’ love o’ money isn’t; and you have it in t’ Book ’at you cannot
serve God and mammon. Now suppose by some odd chance she doesn’t fall in
wi’ t’ idea—what then?”
“Then we put t’ sign-board up, same as we talked about,” said Jagger
stoutly.
“You mean it?”
“I mean it! If she doesn’t like it, I can’t help it. Go back to Baldwin,
I won’t, and there’s an end on’t.”
Maniwel gazed at his son long and steadily and Jagger’s face put on a
look of stubbornness.
“I mean it,” he repeated doggedly. “The day she says ‘No’ sees t’ new
firm started.”
“Good lad!” said Hannah. “If Nancy has any sense she’ll rather have a
bull-dog on t’ rug than a pet poodle on her lap. But pull your chair up
to t’ table for t’ porridge is cooling on your plates, and a spoiled
breakfast oft means a spoiled day.”
* * * * *
The greater part of the tea-things had been cleared away when Jagger
entered the cottage in the evening. All day he had been on the watch for
Nancy, but it was late afternoon before he had found his opportunity.
His face was white and his eyes were troubled, but his voice was quite
firm when he spoke.
“If you’ve naught to do, father,” he said, “we’ll look round for a shop.
There’s that barn of Haggas’s standing empty; I daresay we could rent it
for very little. I want no tea. What say you if we go down and see Ben?”
“Then Nancy doesn’t favour t’ scheme?” inquired his father.
“Nancy’s chucked both t’ scheme and me,” he replied gruffly. “She’d
scarce listen; and naught’ll do but I must go back to Baldwin and help
to work t’ business up to fill all their pockets. It’s of no consequence
’at mine’s empty.”
His father regarded him for a minute in silence; but Hannah made light
of the quarrel, preaching patience, and the virtue of the cold-shoulder
treatment, to which Jagger gave no heed.
“I was afraid you’d make a mullock of it, lad,” said his father at
length. “There’s edges on all women that you can’t get off with either
chisel or smoothing plane, and it’s a mistake to try sandpaper. You told
her a straight tale, I reckon?”
“I told her all she’d listen to. I hid naught from her,” he replied.
“Then pour him out his tea, Hannah,” said Maniwel. “A man can sup when
he can’t bite, and a drop o’ tea’ll very likely set t’ wheels going.
I’ll go down and see Ben; I’d thought of his place myself. You’ll be
best on t’ hearthstun for a bit till your face shortens.”
“T’ street called Straight is about as full o’ troubles as Gordel’s full
o’ stones,” said Jagger with some bitterness when his father’s back was
turned.
“T’ Book says ’at man’s born to trouble,” returned his sister, “and I
daresay you’d run up against it whichever road you travelled; but
there’s no need to wed it, and that’s what you will do if you marry
Nancy, as I’ve told you all along. She’ll want to be t’ top dog, Jagger,
and all t’ peace you’ll get’ll be when she’s having her own way.”
“I thought you reckoned to be her friend,” growled Jagger.
“So I am,” she replied, “and I’m yours too. That’s why I’m talking. What
Nancy wants is someb’dy ’at’ll master her and tame her temper, and that
isn’t you.”
Jagger scowled. He had emptied the cup his sister had set before him;
but he refused to eat and after a while Hannah threw a shawl over her
head and left the house. Then grannie, whose eyes had been fixed on him
with dog-like sympathy and intentness, leaned forward and said:
“Nancy’ll have more to bide than thee, lad. It’s been written in her
face ever since she was a little ’un ’at she’s marked for sorrow. She’s
like all t’ Cleggs—t’ black Cleggs, we used to call ’em ’cause of their
hair—proud and blind wi’ hot temper till they take t’ wrong turning in
their hurry. It was so wi’ her father. He’d been warned ’at t’ mare ’ud
throw him; but he knew better, and she set her foot on him when he was
under her belly, and it killed him i’ t’ long-run. Then there’s his
brother, John——”
“Aye, there’s Nancy’s uncle,” prompted Jagger when the old woman
hesitated. He had been listening with a tolerance that was tinged with
contempt yet not free from curiosity, and he now repeated the inquiry as
grannie remained silent. “What ails Uncle John? He’s done well enough,
hasn’t he?”
“I don’t trust him, lad!” She shook her head solemnly and turned her dim
eyes not to him but to the fire where she seemed to see portents that
were slow to clothe themselves in words. “It’s same wi’ t’ Cleggs as wi’
t’ Drakes; there’s naught but mischief happens to them what leave t’
moors. John was always under-hand; fair-looking as t’ bog, and
fair-spoken as a lass ’at wants a new gown; but shifty, lad, shifty. You
may beware of a Clegg ’at leaves t’ moor. There was his grandad——”
“Uncle John’s got on all right, anyway,” said Jagger, who knew that if
the old lady once set out on the stream of reminiscence she would carry
him along with her to wearisome lengths. “He’s made money, and he’s done
us a good turn as well as Nancy and Baldwin; gives us double what we
should get from t’ bank.”
“Maybe,” she replied. “I know naught about it; but it’s written in his
fam’ly’s fate ’at he’ll come to mischief i’ t’ long run if he leaves t’
moor.”
“Well, if he does it won’t bother us,” said Jagger with a yawn. “Nancy
settled that when she threw me overboard, and t’ bit we have with him’ll
be wanted now. All t’ same, grannie, I should like to swop places with
Uncle John.”