“It’s made a man of you, Jagger,” she said. “It’s naught no more than a game with you, same as your boxing. James may fell you once or twice or a dozen times, but you’re always looking forward to t’ time when it’ll be your turn, and he’ll be counted out. I know you; and I’m glad to see it in a way; though it’s a poor thought that if I hadn’t married James maybe you’d never have made much out.”
She ended so wearily that Jagger’s face saddened, and his voice lost its note of defiance and became troubled like her own.
“It won’t bide thinking about, Nancy; better leave it. Maybe I do make a game of it; but it was either that or going to t’ dogs—”
“I’m glad you didn’t do that, Jagger!” she broke in hastily. “Once over, when I came to myself, I wondered if you would, and I fret and prayed about it. Oh—if you knew how often I’ve thanked God that I hadn’t that, on my conscience! If I’d seen you go wrong—! But we won’t talk about it, only, it isn’t a game to me; it’s just a dragging on, with naught but a weary, miserable life stretching away, year in year out, as flat and drab as the moor, till one or both of us drop into our graves.”
She repented the words the moment they were uttered, for the expression on Jagger’s face told her how deeply they had sunk; but it was too late.
“Nancy, lass! you’re breaking your heart; or I’ve broken it for you!”
His voice thrilled with the sorrow and bitterness that struggled to find expression; and he would have put his arms around her with a man’s instinctive eagerness to protect and comfort the woman he loves; but Nancy shrank back, and relieved the strain by changing the tone of her voice and forcing a laugh.
Her wit was more subtle than his, which would have mistaken a sedative for a cure. His clumsy efforts would have extended the wound he was wishful to close: she intuitively chose the remedy that would both soothe and heal; yet her love was as strong as his, and her heart ached for the clasp of his arms.
“It’s same as a play, isn’t it? We shall be talking about running away together next, same as they do in books; but there’s naught o’ that sort on the Straight Road. Eh, Jagger; you thought I was whining like a baby!”
His face was still clouded and she rallied him upon his gloom.