CHAPTER VIIIIN WHICH NANCY QUESTIONS HER HEART ANDMANIWEL 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; andthere 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 wasfainter, 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 foranother. 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 Jaggersullenly, “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!”
“A Clegg lass,And a wedding for brass!A Clegg wife,And it’s sorrow or strife!”
“A Clegg lass,And a wedding for brass!A Clegg wife,And it’s sorrow or strife!”
“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 takewhen 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 thatshe’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 comeback 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.”