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.”