“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.”