IN WHICH NANCY QUESTIONS HER HEART AND
MANIWEL QUESTIONS HIS SON
ALAS! for Nancy. Heroics, she discovered, were all very well in their
way, but they were only the husks of satisfaction, containing
nourishment for neither body nor soul, and leaving behind them a bitter
task and the beginnings of a headache. And though to retire to one’s
room some five hours before the usual time might be a picturesque way of
registering a protest it was one that reacted awkwardly on the
protestor, obliging her to fast when hungry, and (for lack of a candle)
to company with darkness; the only alternative being to swallow her
pride and return for supplies. Rather than eat so nauseous a dish of
humble pie Nancy preferred to treat herself as a prisoner, and she flung
up the window and let the cold night air blow upon her hot cheeks as she
sat there, resting her elbows on the sill.
The breath of the uplands is tonic at all times; but on the wild moors
of Mawm when winter grips the Pennines and forges its weapons of offence
on the rocky heights, the tonic is that of iron and steel, a tonic that
spurs and goads. “According to its quality and temperature air hath an
effect on manners,” the old physiologists affirmed, “and that of
mountains is a potent predisposer to rebellion.” We have let the theory
die; but these forefathers of our scientists were no fools, and we find
the proof of their hypothesis in the high places of the land, where
rebels are bred and flourish. Nancy may have cooled as she sat there,
watching the stars light their lamps in the black sky; but the cooling
was that of iron that has been bent to a purpose and is no longer
malleable.
For half an hour she never changed her position, and was unconscious
that her elbows were sore from the pressure of her weight upon the
window-frame; but even when she saw that a splinter had pierced the
flesh and drawn blood she scarcely moved, being too busy with her
thoughts to concern herself with trifles.
The house and the shop to which it was attached, were hers, though
Baldwin rented them, and the sum was included in the payment she
received once a year; if she were married she would live there and
Baldwin might find other quarters. If she were married a great many
problems would solve themselves automatically, therefore, obviously, the
one thing to do was to marry.
It was significant that in this crisis Inman was banished from her mind
and Jagger occupied all her thoughts. If her head busied itself with
speculations now and then, her heart told her that it was Jagger whom
she loved, and Jagger had only been waiting until his prospects were
brighter and his savings more considerable. He would see the matter from
her point of view, and if he was a little stupid at first she would
easily talk him round. Nancy, it will be seen, like most women who have
experimented in love, was not disposed to under-estimate her powers; and
her plan of campaign took no account of opposition. In drafting it she
forgot hunger and headache and became mildly exhilarated. Jagger and she
would marry as soon as possible, and Baldwin would be made to understand
that in his own interests something in the nature of a partnership with
her husband would have to be arranged. Baldwin would be awkward but no
more awkward than she; and there was always Uncle John in the
background—a reserve force that she did not doubt could be used on her
side in an emergency.
It all looked very simple and easy of execution as she ran a mental eye
over it when completed—all light and no shade, like an architect’s
ground-plan; and she put it aside and began upon the details with the
satisfaction of a resolute woman who has no doubt of her ability to get
her own way.
The first thing was to see Jagger and unfold the scheme, but she could
scarcely go down to the cottage and spread it out in the presence of
Maniwel and Hannah. No girl, however unconventional and business-like
would propose marriage to the most willing of lovers in the presence of
witnesses. She would contrive a meeting on the morrow, and make her
peace with Jagger, admitting that she had been too precipitate, and
wheedling him into a similar admission, after which she would have a
straight talk with Baldwin and lay down her terms.
A noise in the workshop, which was on the same level as her room and
divided from it only by a thick wall, ceased at this moment and the
cessation of sound made her conscious for the first time that it had
existed. She knew that Inman was leaving work, for nobody but Baldwin
and he put in any overtime, and it brought a smile to her face to
realise how completely she had forgotten him. A moment later she heard
his voice in the street below.
“Going home, are you? It’s a lonely road in the dark. I’ll step along
with you, part way.”
“Lord! I aren’t afraid o’ the dark, Mr. Inman,” a voice that Nancy
recognised as belonging to Swithin’s granddaughter replied with a
giggle.
“What if bargest snaps at you, Polly?” he suggested. “There’s no moon,
and he may be on the moor.”
“How you talk!” she replied, but the voice was fainter, and Nancy knew
they were walking away together; and she turned with a smile on her lips
and began to undress.
“All the better!” she muttered. “James Inman doesn’t come into the
play.”
When she got into bed she was quite composed, even though the painful
throbbing of her head for some time drove sleep away. She was very much
in love with herself and her scheme, and physical discomfort counted for
little. When at length she lost consciousness, though the wind rose and
blew through the open window with such force as to disorder the room,
she slept soundly until morning.
Meantime in the cottage by the stream, Maniwel and Jagger had also been
busy with their plans. The father’s description of his encounter with
Baldwin had roused the son’s wrath.
“He’s a low lot,” he said savagely; “a dirty, under-handed cad ’at’s
doing all he can to block t’ road for us. It takes me all my time to
keep my fingers off him; and yon Inman’s just such another, if he isn’t
t’ worst o’ t’ two.”
“Let ’em be, lad,” said his father calmly, “Baldwin snarls and snaps;
but his tantrums go over me same as a dull plane on a greasy board. But
it’s different wi’ you and Nancy, and I’m afraid there’s a gap there
that’ll bide a bit o’ bridging. By what Baldwin let slip she’s badly
huffed wi’ you and me over our new shop; and a lass like Nancy’ll suck a
humbug o’ that sort a long time before she swallows it.”
“All t’ better for her,” said Hannah as her brother’s face became moody;
“it’ll save it from sticking in her throat. You just sit tight, Jagger,
and let her go on sucking. T’ longer she sucks t’ smaller it’ll get, and
t’ more used she’ll get to t’ taste.”
“You hold your noise, Hannah,” her father interposed good humouredly.
“I’d as soon trust t’ ferret to settle what’s best for t’ rabbit as one
lass for another. I’m thinking you were a bit too blunt wi’ Nancy, lad,
when she came in that night.”
“I told her straight, if that’s what you mean,” replied Jagger promptly.
“I thought t’ straight road was what you favoured.”
“So it is,” returned his father caustically, “but t’ straight road isn’t
always t’ shortest, and when you’re dealing wi’ a lass like Nancy, ’at’s
got a will of her own and is as bad to move as Balaam’s donkey when she
sets herself, t’ longest way round might be t’ shortest way home. Eh,
lad! I could like to do your courting for you for an odd hour or so.”
Jagger smiled. “She’ll come round, you’ll see. I know what she has to
stand from Baldwin,—aye, and Keturah, too. They’ll put kindling under
her till she boils over, now ’at she scarcely puts her nose out o’
doors; mark my words, if they don’t.”
“What about Christmas?” inquired Hannah. “If she misses coming to tea
it’ll be t’ first time since her father died. It wants short o’ three
weeks, so you’ve got to look handy if you bring her round.”
“Now, what say you, lad?” continued his father; and though the tone was
whimsical it was also half serious. “Am I to do a bit o’ courting for
you? All Nancy wants is t’ smooth plane on her and I fancy I could
manage it.”
“I’d like to see my lad’s father come a-courting me,” said Hannah. “I’d
take t’ yard brush to t’ pair of ’em——”
“Shut up, Hannah!” said Jagger impatiently, as he turned his eyes on his
father. “What would you say to Nancy if it was you?”
“It isn’t what I’d say, but t’ way I’d say it. T’ same helm ’at sends t’
ship on to t’ rocks ’ud steer it into deep water. But I’m only plaguing
you, lad. Hannah’s right enough; you’ll have to fend for yourself.”
“If she talks till she’s black in t’ face,” said Jagger sullenly,
“she’ll not get me to give t’ shop up and go back to Baldwin.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be in a hurry to tell her so,” returned his father,
“or she’ll happen think t’ new hobby-horse has put you out o’ love wi’
t’ old doll.”
Grannie had been silent all this time but now her voice broke in:
“A Clegg lass,
And a wedding for brass!
A Clegg wife,
And it’s sorrow or strife!”
“That’s a true word, Maniwel, and always has been, though it’s few
lassies the Cleggs have bred; and they may thank the Lord for that,
seeing as how the few they’ve had supped sorrow by t’ canful. You’ll not
rec’llect Nancy’s aunt—nay it ’ud be her great-aunt....”
“No, but I know t’ tale, mother, and it’s time it was coffined. If
there’s a spell on t’ Clegg lassies I could like Nancy to break it, and
Jagger’s more sense than to be frightened out of his wits wi’ jingles.
But we’ll put ’em all on one side, and just read a chapter out o’ t’
Book for a bit of a lightening, before we go to bed. When it comes to
troubles there’s them in t’ Book could give us all a long start and
catch up with us quick. Jagger ’ud stare if he’d Job’s troubles to hug.”
The Book was put away and grannie left them, but the father sat on long
past his usual hour, and by and by Hannah yawned and rose up to turn the
key in the lock of the outer door.
“Quakers’ meetings turn me sleepy,” she said; and wished them
good-night.
Not until stillness overhead told him that Hannah was in bed did Maniwel
speak. A man of sound sense and judgment, prompt to decide which road to
take when two ways met, and impatient of “softness,” like most moorland
folk, he was himself more emotional than any of his neighbours. The
trait had been present, though not so strongly marked, before the death
of his wife, and had developed with the added responsibility her loss
brought him; but it was really due to the mellowing influences of his
religion—a religion he owed to an unschooled old shepherd who had spent
a few months on the lonely farm where Maniwel’s parents had been
employed. His only debt to the man was for the seed he had dropped as he
had gone about his work. There had been no set preparation of the
ground, no tilling or forcing, and the crop that was eventually produced
would probably have been regarded by the sower as full of tares, for
Maniwel’s creed was his own, and not something that had been
standardised, like a plumber’s fittings. He had found it in the Gospels
and without reducing it to a formula had fashioned his life on it, to
the dismay of his father and the distrust of his mother, both of whom
were worthy people who looked upon religion as a kind of medicine that
it was advisable to have within reach for times of serious sickness, but
which was likely to upset the stomach, and indeed the whole course of
life, if taken regularly as a cordial. Yet if religion is what Mr.
Carlyle called it—the thing a man honestly believes in his
heart—Maniwel’s parents were not without it, for every superstition and
old wife’s tale that lingered on the moors found a place in their creed.
Maniwel’s religion, then, was old enough to be new-fashioned, and
therefore to be looked upon with misgiving by those who insisted on
adherence to theological articles; but inasmuch as he kept up with his
creed instead of hitching his wagon to a theoretical star, they were
constrained to admit that he was a decent sort of chap, and a better
guide and comforter than most when there was “a bit o’ bother on.”
His love for his two children was very deep, though that for his son was
not unmixed with irritation at his sulkiness and want of stamina;
conditions attributable, he told himself, to the circumstances that
attended his birth and early up-bringing. He was concerned for him now,
and with womanly clairvoyance could read something of both his mind and
Nancy’s.
“Jagger!” he said, and the tone roused the young man from his dreams and
caused him to turn an almost startled look on his father. “I’ve stopped
up to have a word wi’ you when there’s nobody else by. A mother ’ud
manage a job o’ this sort better than a man, but when the mother’s
wanting a man must do his best. I was young myself once and I’ve stood
where you’re standing. Your mother was all in all to me i’ them days,
lad; and if I’d missed her t’ moor ’ud have become a wilderness. It’s a
question she’d have asked you—do you feel i’ that way regarding Nancy?”
“Aye, God knows I do,” replied Jagger with emphasis.
“You want to be mortal sure on’t,” continued his father. “If you love t’
new business better than her—if you’d rather give her up than it—then
you can afford to lose her.... Nay, you’d better hearken and let me
talk; it’ll pay you better, if it isn’t for me to say so. Baldwin threw
out a hint—he tried to pull it back but it was too late—’at yon young
fellow ’at’s got your job is after her an’ all; but if you care for each
other as you think you do there’s no ’casion to worry about that; there
was more than me ’ud ha’ liked your mother.”
“I’ll wring his neck for him yet,” muttered Jagger savagely.
“Words, lad! Naught but words! It’s that I don’t like to hear i’ you. If
she favours Inman she’ll wed him, and his neck’ll be safe enough, so
we’ll let that pass. What I want you to be sure of is that she’s the
right lass for you; and if you’re sure o’ that then I want you to go the
right way to get her.”
Maniwel’s eyes were shining with a tender light, and his face looked
almost young again as the glow from the grate cast its reflection over
it. He was leaning forward a little, searching his son’s face and trying
to catch the eyes that were bent downward.
“It’s a fact what grannie says—though I’ve no patience with their silly
rhymes, ’at stand for more than t’ Bible wi’ some folks—’at most o’ t’
Clegg women have supped sorrow when they wed. It’s a job when lassies
are run after for their brass and not for theirselves, and that’s what’s
happened wi’ most o’ t’ Cleggs. When a man and a maid come together,
lad, brass has to be thought on; but it’s a poor foundation for a happy
home. ‘Love never faileth,’ we read i’ t’ Book,—it stands like t’ Cove;
but brass fails oft enough, and so does fancy. Are you sure, lad? Are
you sure?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely; “my love for Nancy’ll stand like t’ Cove;
there’s naught’ll shake it.”
The father gazed at him in silence, not yet satisfied, but wondering how
far it was wise to go and bewailing his lack of woman’s ready intuition.
He was not sure of Nancy—how should he be? But after all that was his
son’s affair and one it was ill to meddle with. If they loved each other
with all their hearts he would wish them Godspeed in spite of all the
doggerel in the witch-wives’ collection.
“Then I’d go t’ straight road wi’ her, lad,” he continued. “Make it in
your way to see her before another day’s out, and just tell her ’at you
think more of her than of aught else there is i’ t’ wide world. As like
as not she’ll say ’at i’ that case you’ll do as she wants you and make
friends wi’ Baldwin; and all t’ time it’ll be you and not Baldwin she’s
thinking about, and if you’ll only bide your time and look where you’re
going, you’ll as like as not come back wi’ your arm round her waist. But
women has to be humoured and made to think ’at they’re getting their own
way; and when they’ve got a whimsey i’ their head it’s no use taking t’
hammer and punch to it, ’cause that only drives it deeper in; you’ve got
t’ use t’ oil-can and loosen it bit by bit till they hardly know they’ve
lost it. And i’stead o’ bending your brows while you look like t’ Gordel
i’ a thunderstorm it ’ud pay you to put a smile on, and a face like t’
Cove when t’ afternoon sun shines on it. ‘Laugh and the world laughs
with you,’ it says on t’ almanack, and t’ worst gift your mother left
wi’ you—and, poor lass, she couldn’t help it—was a long face and a
quick temper. I’m afraid for you, Jagger, but I wish you well, lad; and
I’m stumbling along t’ road your mother ’ud ha’ gone easy.”
The young man looked steadily into his father’s face, but the shadow was
still deep on his forehead.
“Then if that’s her last word you’d have me knuckle under to Baldwin,
and be t’ laughing stock o’ t’ country-side?” he asked in a low hard
voice.
“If I loved her better than aught else i’ t’ world I’d be like t’ man in
t’ parable ’at was seeking goodly pearls; I’d sell all ’at I had to get
her,” replied his father. “Mind you, lad, I’m straight wi’ you; I don’t
think Baldwin’ll have you back; but I daresay he’d like t’ chance o’
refusing you and glorying in it, for little minds take pleasure i’
little things. But i’ that case, you see, you’ll ha’ won your case wi’
Nancy——”
“And if he’s more sense than you give him credit for,” interrupted
Jagger, in a voice that had grown even more bitter; “if he knows which
side his bread’s buttered on, and takes me back with this Inman to be my
boss, and the pair of ’em to force me to do their dirty work or else be
called a thief, you’d have me swallow it?”
He set his teeth as he finished his inquiry, and kept his eyes fixed on
his father’s; but the older man was unmoved.
“There’s nobody can force you to do dirty work,” he said, “and if Nancy
’ud want you to do it, then t’ pearl isn’t worth t’ price ’at’s asked
for it. But I’d like to think better o’ t’ lass. Her father was a queer
’un, but straight; and if you don’t use t’ file where you should use t’
plane I think you’d smooth things out. If you can’t—well, t’ straight
road is t’ only right road. You may sell all you have to buy t’ pearl,
but you may neither borrow nor steal. Right’s right, Sundays and
week-days and t’ year through.”
Jagger removed his eyes and the tense look left his face. For a while he
did not speak and the father was also silent. Then he said:
“I’ll try to see her to-morrow. She’ll be going to Betty Walker’s and I
can meet her as she comes down t’ Cove road. But she’s a temper of her
own and I bet a dollar we fratch.”
Something not unlike a sigh, but with a touch of impatience in it,
escaped Maniwel’s lips.
“If you meet her wi’ your prickles out you might as well stop at home,”
he said. “Turn ’em inside so as they’ll check your tongue, and then
you’ll maybe win through.”