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.”