WHAT THIS BOOK IS ABOUT

For a short space Mr. Riley forsook the white for the red rose, and wrote The Lady of the Lawn as a result. He has now definitely returned to his own country, and in his new novel is told the story of Maniwel Drake, who has lost an arm; but maintains his cheerful and genial nature, and Baldwin Briggs, whose motto is “All for my-sen.”

The story deals with one of those contrasts of conflicting personalities that Mr. Riley loves to draw. There are dramatic episodes as well as character studies, and the local colour that Mr. Riley loves to introduce. Above all there blows through the book the breath of the Moors, without which a Riley book would not be a Riley book.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

MEN OF
MAWM

BY

W. RILEY

HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED

3 YORK STREET, ST. JAMES’S

LONDON, S.W.1 ❦ ❦ MCMXXII

Printed in Great Britain by Love & Malcomson, Ltd.

London and Redhill.

CONTENTS

MEN OF MAWM

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH JAMES INMAN ENTERS MAWM AND IS
FAVOURED BY FORTUNE

TO one who had no love for them the Yorkshire moors could hardly have been less attractive than on this bleak, damp afternoon in early November, when the air was moist though no rain had fallen, and a mist that was too thin to hide more than the smaller details of the landscape made the distant hills a grey shadow against the lighter grey of the sky.

There was snow on the mountains, but only on their crowns; only there, and in the deeper fissures that faced north and so paid no toll to the sun. The nearer mountains were almost black, like the moor that stretched its weary length to the sky-line; like the dry walls, that divided the lower slopes of the moor into curiously-shaped allotments.

The road was little better than a track, but it was just distinguishable, for which mercy James Inman was thanking the gods as he strode along. He had not found much to thank them for after leaving the village of Scaleber, and his acknowledgements were not too cordial.

His one anxiety was to reach the hamlet of Mawm before darkness set in, and to find there at least warmth and possibly good fortune.

Everything was still; weirdly, painfully so. There must have been birds in the great crags that rose terrace above terrace from the grey-green grass and lost themselves in the low-lying clouds; but they had shown no sign of life. The lonely farm he passed might have been deserted, for no sound came from it—not even the inquiring bark of a dog. The moor bird’s cry is not agreeable, but the man would have welcomed anything that cut the silence. A howling wilderness was better than a wilderness of death.

He had climbed six hundred feet or more in an hour, and the exertion had put no strain on either heart or lungs. He was in excellent physical condition, and, though perhaps a little too lean to be perfectly proportioned, a fine athletic-looking man. His dress was superior to that of a labourer or even a journeyman, but it was ill-fitting as if bought ready-made for the emergency of a funeral, and it was entirely black. He carried neither stick nor baggage and was without overcoat. A bowler hat shabbier than the rest of his outer clothing, was worn low down on his head and almost concealed his hair. The face was expressive of determination and self-confidence and these qualities made it striking; but one would have needed to scan the features a second time or a third before pronouncing the man even passably good-looking. He trod firmly; yet despite his unwillingness to company with darkness on that grim waste he was not forcing the pace. Three miles an hour on such a rough upland road was enough and more than enough.

When the track became a mere stretch of grass the man paused. He was in the shadow of two high mountains whose summits were barely two hundred and fifty feet above his head. Night lurked already in the dark gullies, and he cursed the folly that had led him to risk the shorter bridle route when a third-rate road had been available, and nothing saved but a mile or two of foot-drill at the most.

With a shrug of the shoulders he went forward again; but another quarter-hour brought him to the apex of the path and the mountains ran out on to the moor. It was downhill now and he plodded on, sometimes half uncertain of his way, until the descent became abrupt, when he narrowed his eyelids and sought for signs of the village which he knew must lie some five hundred feet below. He failed to find them, however, for in the murk of advancing night it was difficult to discern grey houses against grey hillsides, and what was worse he lost the path, and was some time in finding it again.

At length he struck the road and saw the glimmer of lights in the valley.

“That’ll be Mawm,” he muttered. “The longest way round ’ud have been the shortest way home. Now which end of the village has this old hammer-slinger his shop, I wonder?”

The location could have been of little consequence, for the houses were few in number and straggled to no great distance. Fortune, however, had placed Baldwin Briggs’ woodyard at the extreme northerly end of the village, so that Inman stumbled upon it without the necessity of seeking information, being also guided by the sound of voices in altercation.

A low wall bounded the road on which the front of the two-storied shop abutted and several men of advanced years were leaning against it and giving silent audience to the disputants at the door. To these the stranger joined himself.

“You’ve changed, Mr. Briggs,” a man about Inman’s own age was saying in an emphatic but not loud voice; “I’ve heard father say ’at when you and him worked for Mr. Clegg there was nobody readier than you to ask for your wages raising. Oft and oft I’ve heard him say it, and ’at you egged the others on to stand by you. Now it’s like skinning the flint to get another penny out of you, for all you’re putting your own prices up every few months. You’ve changed, I say.”

The voice fell away and became almost plaintive and the stranger’s lip curled contemptuously.

Mr. Briggs’ hands were lost in his pockets, and his whole attitude (for in the dim light his features were scarcely visible) betokened indifference. When he spoke his voice was charged with contempt, and his sneering tone brought an approving smile to the newcomer’s face.

“Nay, I’ve none changed, Jagger; not I. I was for my-sen then and I’m for my-sen now.”

“And that’s God’s truth,” replied the other bitterly. “And your heart’s like your own grunstone too. I’m hanged if I’d stay with you if my hands weren’t tied, but needs must when the devil drives, and father’s too old to shift.”

“My hands aren’t tied,” the other replied with a sudden fierce passion that electrified the atmosphere and startled the stranger. The voice became a hiss, and the man’s face was bent forward until his cap almost touched the other’s forehead. A string of curses followed which, so far from relieving the pressure, seemed only to accentuate the master’s wrath.

“My hands aren’t tied,” he repeated, “and I’ll just manage without your help, Jagger Drake. I’m stalled of your long tongue and your milksop ways; and to be shut of you at t’ cost of a week’s wages’ll be a cheap bargain, so you can take yourself off to where they’ll do better for you. Here——:”

He pulled out a purse, and having carefully counted sundry silver coins offered them to the young man who mechanically stretched out his hand to receive them. When they were in his palm the fingers did not close over them, nor did the hand drop.

“I’m sacked, then?” he asked in a low, uncomprehending voice.

“You’re sacked,” the other answered hotly. “Do you think I’m forced to stand here to be jawed at; let alone ’at you rob me out o’ good money, nearhand as oft as you do a job for me?”

“Rob you?”

“Aye, rob me! What else is it but robbery when you spend half as long again over a job as any other man? I haven’t forgot that there bit o’ work at Lane End, and the lip you gave me.”

The man’s temper was still warm; but at the mention of Lane End the other recovered himself. He lowered his hand and thrust the coins uncounted into his trousers’ pocket, and the stunned look left his face.

“If I’ve to choose between robbing widows and robbing you, Baldwin Briggs,” he said, “I’ll none need to think twice. And widow or no widow, honest folks don’t scamp their work; and I’ve been brought up in t’ wrong school for tricks o’ that sort. So if that’s your last word I’ll get my bass and make my way home.”

He turned as he spoke and Mr. Briggs said nothing, but spat angrily after the retreating figure. Not one of the elderly men had uttered a word or moved a hand during the colloquy, and they remained motionless when the stranger crossed the road and going up to the master-carpenter laid a hand on his arm.

“Are you filling this chap’s place?” he asked.

Mr. Briggs turned with an angry gesture, but at sight of the stranger he controlled his features and took stock of the situation whilst staring into the newcomer’s face. He was naturally cautious, and his brain worked slowly. Some instinct told him that the man was a carpenter, probably skilled at his trade—“a likely lad” as he put it in his thoughts.

On the other hand Jagger Drake was a good worker and a steady,—some of his customers would have no other—with no fault worth speaking of but a ridiculous conscientiousness; and the episode which had just ended had been more than half “play-acting” designed to bring the lad to his senses and show him on what dangerous ground he was standing.

Inman bided his time but never moved his eyes from the other’s face, and in the steely concentrated gaze there was a suggestion of hypnotic power. Interpreting the master’s hesitation as a sign of wavering he went on in a firm but studiously respectful voice:

“I’ll do a job whilst yon chap’s planning it out. I’ll do in five minutes what’ll take him twenty, and do it right too. Yon chap’s too slow to go to his own funeral.”

“Where d’you come from?” Mr. Briggs growled.

“From Scaleber,” he said, offering the tag end of truth. “My name’s James Inman and luck sent me here—your luck and mine. I came to seek a job with you, and when I heard you sack yon ninny I knew I’d come in the nick of time.”

“Oh, did you?” replied Mr. Briggs sharply. “It takes two to make a bargain, young fellow, and I wouldn’t be too sure o’ that. Trade’s slack just now and I’m thinking I can do without another man for a week or two till it mends. I’ll sleep on it, anyway.”

Inman saw the mouth tighten and read the sign. He had already recognised and regretted his blunder and was feeling round for another starting point when Jagger re-appeared from the shed at the back with his “bass” over his shoulder, and without even looking in their direction walked smartly down the road.

A red flush tinged the sallow features of the master and again Inman read the sign.

“Ought to work for a woman, he did,” he observed with a sneer; “man milliner, or something o’ that sort.”

Mr. Briggs’ expression was ugly. “Come inside,” he said.

Inman’s eyes swept the workshop with a swift, comprehensive glance. “American machines,” he said to himself; “old Hotspur isn’t altogether a Rip Van Winkle.”

The office was upstairs and the master led the way there. An oil lamp was burning on a table and by its light Mr. Briggs scanned the newcomer’s face.

“You’re a joiner by trade?” he inquired.

The other nodded. “I’ve papers, if you care to see them,” he said; and tossed a packet on to the desk against which the master was leaning.

“What makes you come here if you’re such a dab hand as all that?” he asked suspiciously when he had read one or two of the documents. “Been a bit of a rolling stone, haven’t you?”

“I’m moorland born,” Inman replied, “and town life doesn’t suit me. Now I’m getting older I sort o’ want to settle down.”

Mr. Briggs scowled. He did not like glibness, and the young man was an adept in that smooth art. All strangers were under suspicion, and a stranger who turned up from nowhere in time to step into another man’s shoes—a stranger who travelled so light that he had not even a spare collar for his neck, and whose tone was domineering although under control, was doubly suspicious. Mr. Briggs stared steadily and thoughtfully at his visitor, and frowned until his eyes were almost hidden by the pepper-coloured tufts of hair that overhung them. Inman bore the scrutiny well and made his face expressionless.

“It’s a rum tale,” said the master, “and as for getting older you’ll not have topped twenty-six, I’ll warrant.”

“Barely,” replied the other. “I was six and twenty three weeks since. Now come, Mr. Briggs, I’m just the man for you. I can handle tools, as these papers tell you, and you’re wanting a man to handle ’em. I’ll fetch my bass across to-morrow and start on Monday. You shall give me what you gave yon other chap, and if I don’t satisfy you, you can sack me, same as you did him.”

He would have said more, but the change that came over the master’s face caused him to pull up abruptly. Mr. Briggs was a loosely-built, shambling man of sixty, with long legs that would not have passed the test of his own straight-edge, a neck of many hollows, and a face that was chiefly remarkable for the prominence of the cheek-bones and a peculiarly knobbed nose. Hair of the same pepper-coloured variety that thatched his eyebrows grew thickly on his cheeks and chin, but was shaved from the upper lip. In revenge, perhaps, for that slight, some seeds had rooted themselves on the end of the nose and flourished there.

In spite of this abnormality there was nothing repulsive about Baldwin Briggs’ features except when one of those sudden gusts of passion swept over them and distorted them. Then a row of large, discoloured teeth, with sundry gaps of irregular shape, was disclosed, and the pepper-coloured hair on the nose actually bristled. It was a disturbance of this kind that checked the easy flow of Inman’s speech.

He stood unmoved until the spluttered oaths had run out, but was inwardly surprised at the quick, volcanic outburst, and contemptuously amused. Not a sign of this, however, was revealed by his expression.

“Devil take you, with your ‘shalls’ and your ‘cans’,” hissed Mr. Briggs. “When I want a boss I’ll let you know. You’re a piece too clever, young fellow, for a plain man like me. You’re a cock ’at crows over loud and ’ud want all t’ yard to yourself. Here!” he tossed the envelope back to Inman, who caught it and thrust it into his pocket; then, as he turned down the lamp, he remarked gruffly:

“I’ll bid you good-night. There’s nothing here for you, young man.”

Inman allowed his eyes to drop and spoke softly.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “I’ve been used to town ways, and my tongue was a bit free, maybe. I meant no harm, and as for being boss, that’s a cap that doesn’t fit my head. If you care to try me I’ll serve you well, and you’ll get no ‘lip’ from me.”

The allusion was craftily designed to bring the master back to realities, but the tone was not aggressive, and Mr. Briggs’ features unbent.

“I let no man tell me what I ‘shall’ give him,” he growled. “That’s for me to say. You’re not in t’ town here bear in mind, with a union to stand aside you with a stick. I give a man what he’s worth to me, and if he doesn’t like it, he chucks it, or I chuck him.”

“Quite so,” Inman assented. “That’ll do for me.”

“You’re more ready to toe t’ line than I altogether care about,” the other went on. He was still suspicious, and whilst the mastery in the grey eyes fascinated it also irritated him.

“I want a job in the country,” Inman said soothingly. “I want to be among men o’ my own breed—among moormen. I’m sick to death of the little painted images of men they have in the towns. They told me in Scaleber you were a just man, Mr. Briggs—not soft, but just—and I’ll trust you to give me what I’m worth—that’s all I meant, however badly I put it.”

The master threw a keen glance at him, and seeing nothing but frankness and something not unlike humility in the face and attitude, allowed himself to be appeased.

“Well, I’ll try you for an odd week,” he said, “and see what you’re made of. I could like to teach yon lad a lesson. He’ll be back in t’ morning, like enough, with his cap in his hands; but I’ll see him blaze before I’ll stand his jaw. Where’ll you put up for to-night?”

“I’ll find a spot somewhere,” Inman replied indifferently.

“Will you step in and have a bite o’ bread before you go down t’ village?” Mr. Briggs inquired gruffly, and with no heartiness to season the invitation. “My sister’ll happen know o’ somebody ’at’ll give you a bed.”

A light came into the man’s eyes for a second or two, but he quickly curtained it.

“No thanks,” he said. “I’ll not trouble you. There’ll be an inn, I reckon. I’ll go down there.”

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH INMAN RECEIVES A COLD RECEPTION AND
SOME INFORMATION

A FEEBLE moon lit up the darkness that had fallen rapidly whilst he had been engaged with the master-carpenter, and enabled Inman to find his way without difficulty down the sloping street to the green, where the weather-beaten inn squatted in close proximity to the purling river—a baby stream of mysterious origin, and only a mile or two old, if one may put it so.

A few other houses, substantially but plainly built of millstone grit and limestone, and varying from the humble whitewashed cottages of the labouring classes to the more pretentious dwellings of farmers and apartment-providers faced the green on three sides. An hotel of somewhat imposing dimensions stood back a few yards from the main road on the west; but after one brief glance in that direction Inman turned on his heel, and crossing the stream and the upper section of the green entered the low door of “The Packhorse,” and found himself in a well-filled room, where he discerned amidst the smoke the features of the phlegmatic elders who had been silent witnesses of the scene at the carpenter’s.

His entrance interrupted the conversation for a few seconds only, and when he had ordered and been served with a pot of ale, he rested his chin on his hands and set himself to pick up the threads. It was quite evident that the incident in which he had taken part had been under discussion for some time, and he was quick to realise that his action, the ultimate result of which was not known, had aroused some measure of resentment. The knowledge amused without embarrassing him; but he masked his features as carefully as he had done in the master’s office.

“A trew word, as Jagger tell’d him,” said an elderly man whose beard bore wintry evidences of a former fiery splendour. “I mind when he wor nowt but a wisp of a lad and laiked taws[^[1]] wi’ t’ rest on us he wor a rare trader; and there worn’t many he didn’t diddle out o’ all their glass uns. Allus for his-sen, wor Baldwin, and t’ owder he gets t’ worse he becomes.”

“It’s t’ way o’ t’ world, Swith’n,” a spare, undersized man of advanced age observed in a thin, leaking voice that whistled at every sibilant. “I made a verse of it when I wor a young man i’ my prime. I can’t think o’ things same as I use to could. When I try to call ’em up it’s same as they start a-dancin’ a polka, and I can’t pick out one from t’other. I know ‘pelf’ came at t’ end o’ one line and ‘self’ at t’other. It wor a good rhyme, and t’ plain meanin’ of it wor ’at it’s i’ t’ way o’ Natur’ for a man to look after his-sen. I had a gift i’ them days for puttin’ my thoughts into verse.”

“And uncommon well you did it, Ambrus; that’s a fact,” admitted Swithin, whilst two or three others grunted approval.

“Common metre, short metre, six-lines-eights and sometimes a peculiar metre,” said the old man with manifest gratification; “it wor all one to me when I wor i’ that gifted mood. My mother traced it back to her gran’father ’at ’ad been a fearful good hand at a bass fiddle i’ t’ Gurt Revival, and could play any tune o’ Wesley’s in his cups.”

“Aye, there’s been gifts wasted i’ your family, Ambrus; there’s no getting over that,” said Swithin with a solemn headshake, “but none o’ your lot has had t’ gift o’ making brass. Contraireywise, brass pours in to Baldwin same as watter to t’ Cove.”

“But it doesn’t pour out i’ t’ same way,” laughed a younger man. “T’ Cove passes it on to watter t’ land, Swithin. Baldwin hugs it to his-sen.”

“Not so fast, lad,” replied Swithin; “tha wants to make sure ’at that egg tha’s laid isn’t a pot ’un before tha clucks so loud. Has tha never heard tell ’at there’s tremendious deep pits behind t’ Cove ’at’s got to be filled wi’ t’ watter from t’ Tarn before any creeps out into t’ river bed? It serves it-sen, does t’ beck, before it spares owt for anybody else; and all t’ land gets is t’ overflow. Same way wi’ Baldwin.”

He glanced round the company and reading approval in Inman’s eyes allowed his own to suggest what would have been a wink in a more jocund man.

“Nay, nay,” he continued as nobody seemed disposed either to applaud or challenge his contention; “I’m one ’at ’ud go a long way o’ t’ same road wi’ Baldwin ’cause it’s both natur’ and religion. Natur’ seems all for it-sen, and I suppose them ’at set things going ordered it i’ that way.”

“Maniwel wouldn’t say so,” the young man who had spoken before ventured to interpose.

“Maniwel’ll maybe fiddle another tune if Baldwin holds to his word and sacks Jagger,” returned Swithin complacently. “Not but what I’m sorry for Jagger,” he added after a short interval. “As well-meaning a lad as there is i’ t’ village, and as handy wi’ his tools as here and there one. Baldwin can spare Jagger as ill as any.”

It was evident that Swithin had voiced the common opinion, and each man present offered his quota of evidence relating to the skill and even more the conscientiousness of the dismissed workman. Only old Ambrose and Inman remained silent, and the latter scarcely troubled to hide the amused contempt that the recital of his predecessor’s virtues called forth. He was on the point of speaking when there came an interruption from Ambrose, whose features had been working convulsively for some time.

“I’ve got the hang on it,” he said absently:

“Whether it’s pudden or parish or pelf,

He’s a noodle what doesn’t look after hisself.”

“I wouldn’t take my Bible oath, neighbours, to them two words ‘parish’ and ‘noodle’ but t’ meanin’ was t’ same, chewse how.”

Inman thought this a fitting moment for breaking silence.

“Well done, grandad,” he exclaimed. “You deserve your pot filling for that. Take it out o’ this, landlord,” he said, tossing a half-crown to that worthy who was standing with his back to the fire; “or rather fill up these other pots, and let me know if I owe you ought.”

The act of generosity evoked no response, except that one or two of the younger men grunted a “Good ’ealth!” as they raised the mug to their lips, but Inman was in no way disconcerted.

“A moorman needs no introduction to moormen,” he said pleasantly. “I don’t blame you for being shy o’ strangers, but that’ll wear off. We shall neighbour kindly, I don’t doubt, for I may as well tell you I’ve signed on for Mr. Briggs, and I shall be making my home with you.”

A chilling silence greeted this communication, and the air thickened with the reek from a dozen pipes, diligently pulled at.

“It’s every man for himself as our friend here remarked a minute or two ago,” he continued. “There’d be no progress if it wasn’t so. It’s the survival of the fittest, as these science chaps put it. The weak have to go to the wall, or we’d be a nation of noodles before long. You were right, grandad; noodle’s the word.”

Even yet nobody spoke. Inman’s speech had cut across the smooth flow of conversation like another Moses’ rod, and dried it up. Every man stared stonily at the deal table or sand-strewn floor, and the landlord frowned and found himself tongue-tied.

“It isn’t my fault, mind you,” Inman continued more sharply, “that this other young fellow’s got the sack. That was just accident; just a piece of luck. ‘Fortune favours the brave,’ and good luck comes to them who deserve it. That’s my theory; it’s Nature’s way of ensuring progress. There’s no mercy in Nature for the individual if he stands in the way of progress. It cares no more for milksops—for noodles, grandad—than it cares for the fly that’s fast in this spider’s web; no more than I care for the spider.”

A grim smile spread over his face as he stretched out a thumb and finger and carelessly squeezed the life out of the little creature on which his eye had been resting for the last few moments; but there was no responsive smile on the countenances of the grim men who watched him. Nearly every forehead carried a frown or its shadow, and where this was missing there was a half-hostile stolidity.

“Every man’s for himself,” he went on, with a hint of impatience in his tone, for the frosty air of the bar-parlour was beginning to tell on him; “but lame dogs have to pretend that they don’t like rabbits. Stuff and nonsense! A man who isn’t for himself deserves to go under and it’s a kindness to help him.”

He leaned back defiantly; but there was still no reply. Swithin pushed back his chair and pulled forward his hat. “I’ll be saying ‘good-night’ neighbours,” he said, “I’ll have to be stirring i’ good time i’ t’ morning,” and several others rose and left the room with him. Ten minutes later the rest had emptied their mugs and gone, and Inman was left with old Ambrose and the innkeeper. There was a scowl upon the latter’s face that caused the young man to say with a laugh:

“Come, come, landlord, the loss of a handful of coppers won’t bank you. Mix yourself and me a whisky apiece and keep grandad’s pot filled. There’s room for three round that fire—pull a chair up to it and bid dull care begone.”

He crossed over himself and sat down comfortably with his legs stretched out on the hearth. Ambrose occupied the corner seat, and the landlord, whose brow had cleared as he perceived that the defection of his regular customers was not likely to impoverish his till, seated himself at the opposite end.

“A bit touchy, these neighbours of ours,” Inman suggested with a laugh. “Don’t exactly hold out the right hand of fellowship, d’you think? But I’m a moorman myself, though I’ve been a renegade the last ten years, and I know their feelings for ‘offcomeduns,’ as we called newcomers in my part of the world.”

“And what part might that ha’ been?” inquired the landlord.

“Worth way,” he answered shortly. “There’s surly dogs bred in Worth Valley, I can tell you—dogs with a snap in their teeth; dogs that like to be top dog and intend to be.”

It was said meaningly, though it was accompanied by another laugh, and the landlord eyed him thoughtfully.

“This man, Jagger; what sort of a fellow is he?” Inman went on. “Not one of your best customers, I reckon?”

“He never tastes,” the landlord replied, “unless its a ginger-ale or summat o’ that sort now and again. It isn’t oft he darkens this door, but his father, Maniwel’ll come and sit for an hour now and then, though he puts naught much i’ my pocket. All t’ same”—the landlord’s clan loyalty triumphing over the narrower emotion of self-interest—“they’re nayther of ’em a bad sort; nayther Maniwel nor Jagger.”

“Two o’ t’ best,” Ambrose added. “I mind well makin’ happen six verses for Maniwel to recite at a teetotal meetin’—dearie me! it mun be forty year back. Terrible bad word it is, an’ all, for verse. That wor afore Maniwel happened his accident.”

“Afore he happened his accident!” the landlord laughed. “Why, man alive! he was a lad when he said them verses, and it isn’t more’n ten year since he lost his arm.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” assented Ambrose; “it was sin’ I giv’ up making verses now I come to think of it. If I’d ha’ been i’ my prime I could ha’ made a set o’ grand verses out o’ Maniwel’s arm.”

“Who is this Maniwel?” inquired Inman with some impatience. “Jagger’s father, you say, and a kind of local oracle, I gather?”

“Oracle or no oracle,” replied the landlord, who was not going to commit himself on a term with whose meaning he was unfamiliar; “he’s most people’s good word, and if Baldwin Briggs isn’t among ’em it’s because Maniwel won’t knuckle under to him. And why should he, when they worked side by side at t’ same bench and saw-mill for thirty year and more, and him t’ best man o’ t’ two? There is them ’at says ’at if he hadn’t lost his arm Baldwin ’ud never ha’ getten t’ business; but that’s as may be. To make matters worse there’s a lass i’ t’ case, and where there’s lasses there’s mischief.”

Ambrose chuckled. “A trew word, Albert, and brings up a verse about lasses I——”

“Never mind your verses,” Inman broke in. “What about this particular lass, landlord; and how did she come to concern this Maniwel and Baldwin Briggs?”

“Well, you see,” the landlord explained, “t’ saw-mill belonged her father, Tom Clegg, and it was only a poorish sort of a business in Tom’s time. Tom had part brass and only this lass to leave it to, and besides being as queer as Dick’s hatband, he’d summat growing in his inside ’at took all t’ sperrit out of him, as it would out o’ most men.

“Well, he tried to sell t’ business when he knew he couldn’t last much longer but nobody’d give him his price, so he let on a new scheme. Maniwel and Baldwin were his main hands, and he made each on ’em t’ boss for a year. He went off down south wi’ t’ lass, and Baldwin took hold, and varry well he did. Then, when t’ year was up and they’d ta’en their stock, it was Maniwel’s turn and it seemed as if he were going to top Baldwin when t’ accident happened, and t’ saw caught his thumb. It seemed naught much at t’ time but he’d ha’ done better to ha’ seen a doctor, for it turned to blood-poisoning and there was naught for it but to take his arm off. Aye, and even then he near-hand lost his life.

“Of course Baldwin had to take hold again then, for by this time Tom was at t’ last gasp, and to mend matters he died afore Maniwel came out o’ t’ hospital. When they read his will it turned out ’at he’d left all his brass to his lass, but part on it was to stop i’ t’ business for capital. And he left t’ goodwill o’ t’ business to him ’at ’ad made t’ most brass during t’ year he’d been i’ charge, barring ’at he’d to pay his lass part o’ t’ profits. It was all worked out by a lawyer so as Nancy wasn’t a partner, you understand; but she must ha’ done fairly well, for Baldwin’s made brass, there’s no question o’ that.”

Inman’s face expressed his interest.

“Then Baldwin got the business, you say?”

“More’n that,” continued the landlord; “he’d to be guardian to t’ lass. She wouldn’t be more’n eleven or twelve at t’ time, and Baldwin wasn’t a married man, but he took t’ job on, I can tell you.”

“And what about Maniwel?” inquired Inman. “Was there no law over t’ job? If it had been me I should ha’ tried to make a case out.”

“Maniwel’s no fighting man,” the landlord replied, “and he was on his back. But there was them ’at ’ud have made a fight for him if he’d ha’ let ’em. All t’ same t’ lawyers said Baldwin was in t’ right.”

“Pigeon livers run in families,” said Inman. “I could have guessed father when I saw son. But what of the girl, landlord? It was a mad whim of the father to hand her over in a haphazard sort of way to the highest bidder, and one of his own workmen at that. How did the lass take it? Was she dove or donkey—lamb or lion?”

The landlord spat into the fire and withheld reply for some moments.

“You mun ask someb’dy ’at knows better ’n me,” he said at length cautiously. “Nancy’s as deep as t’ Tarn, and as proud and hot-tempered as a broody hen. She stops with him, anyway, though she’s been her own missus a year and more. Some say they fratch like two bantams, but I’ve never come across them ’at’s heard ’em; and as for Keturah Briggs—that’s Baldwin’s sister ’at’s always kept house for him—she’s a quarry you can neither pick nor blast. They keep theirselves to theirselves, and give naught away, does t’ Briggses.”

“And is she content, this Nancy,” inquired Inman indifferently, “to be shut up in a village like this? Has she no desire, think you, to see the world and have her fling like other lasses?”

The question ended on a half-suppressed yawn; but the landlord shot an inquiring glance before he replied:

“You said you were moorland born yourself, and hankered after t’ moors. Maybe Nancy’s t’ same, but if you’ve signed on wi’ Baldwin you’ll be able to ask her. She’s been away a toathri weeks in a town; but whether it’s smittled her or no I know no more’n you. She’s back again, choose how. Maybe there’s summat i’ t’ village she can’t get i’ t’ town?”

“Fresh air and sunshine?” queried Inman sleepily. “That’s so, I suppose; but lasses like pictures, and the pit of a music-hall or a band in the park in summer time, where they can see what other women carry on their heads and backs.”

“Aye, that’s right enough,” responded the landlord; “but I’ve known when a pair o’ corduroy breeches and a coat you couldn’t pawn has had a bigger pull than all t’ ribbons and laces you could lay your hands on.”

A quick light leaped to Inman’s eyes, and a frown that was instantly suppressed mounted his brow.

“I see,” he queried, with an inflection of amusement; “then Miss Nancy has a lover?”

“That’s more’n I’ve said,” replied the landlord curtly. “She doesn’t hand me her secrets to lock up.”

Inman laughed and rose. “I’ll have a bed with you, landlord,” he said, “if you’ll get one ready. This good fire after a rough walk has made me sleepy. I’ll stroll round for half an hour before turning in.”

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH MANIWEL DRAKE MAKES A SUGGESTION

THE cottage had its full complement of occupants when Jagger entered, and the noise of his “bass” as he dropped it on the stone floor and pushed it noisily with his foot alongside an old-fashioned chest of drawers that stood against the wall, caused each of them to look up. Hannah, his sister and the family housekeeper, turned again at once to the grid-iron on which something was grilling for the evening meal; but the father’s eyes fixed themselves on the young man’s face.

“That’s right, lad,” he said, as he let the weekly paper he had been reading fall to his knees; “take it out of t’ bass! It’s as meek as Moses and’ll say naught. Who’s been treading on your corns this time?”

“T’ bass may lie there while I find another job,” said Jagger surlily, untying his apron as he spoke. “I’m paid off. Baldwin’s stalled, and so am I.”

Hannah said nothing, but an exclamation came from the other side of the hearth where Grannie Drake was busy with her darning needles—a wordless exclamation produced by the tip of the tongue and the roof of the mouth in conjunction; and the old woman rested her hands on her lap whilst she turned her spectacled eyes on her grandson.

“Stalled of each other, are you?” It was the father who spoke and there was humour in his voice and in the eyes that scrutinised the other’s face. “Well, bad news’ll keep. Get you washed and we’ll have our tea; and then if you think you’ve got to make all our coffins ’cause Baldwin’s sacked you I’ll help you to take t’ measures.”

Jagger’s face clouded more heavily and Hannah stole a glance at it as her brother opened the scullery door; but he avoided her gaze; and she wheeled round and looked into her father’s eyes with a smile on her lips that was both question and comment. Maniwel had picked up his paper again and was apparently engaged with its contents but the smile reached his consciousness and he glanced up and met his daughter’s eyes.

“You two ought to have changed places,” he said with grim pleasantry, “Jagger’d have made a good lass.”

“And me a fine lad!” she commented. “It can’t be helped; we’re as we are.”

She turned the kidneys on to a hot dish and the good smell filled the room. “I could almost wish it was Baldwin I had on t’ bars,” she remarked and her father laughed.

“According to t’ Book, lass, t’ best way would be to heap t’ fire on his head and try to melt his heart. Your grannie turns her nose up. You think they’re getting t’ grid-iron ready for him in t’ hot place, eh mother? Well, maybe they are; but that’s devil’s work, anyway.”

He tossed the newspaper into the window bottom as he spoke and drew his chair up to the table. The sleeve of his right arm was pinned to his coat, but if the defect were overlooked, he was a fine figure of a man—tall, erect, broad-shouldered and well-proportioned. His hair and beard were thick and only faintly streaked with grey, and the firm lips and deep chin and straight nose, together with the placidly-playful brown eyes, indexed a character that was at the same time virile and sympathetic. In some respects the son was like him; but the mouth was sulkier, the chin weaker, and the eyes lacked humour—you had to turn to the daughter to find the father’s features reproduced more successfully, though not his frame.

“It’ll blow over, softhead,” said Hannah, with sisterly candour as Jagger made slow headway, staring moodily at his plate instead of eating. “Get on with your tea before it goes cold. I wouldn’t miss a good meal for t’ best man living; much less for one o’ t’ worst.”

“It isn’t going to blow over,” the young man burst out hotly. “If it does there’ll be another storm before t’ week’s out and we shall have it all to go through again. I’ve got just about to t’ far end, father, and I may as well chuck it now as next week or next month.”

Maniwel raised his eyes for a moment and regarded his son steadily, but all he said was:

“Get on with your tea as Hannah tells you. If you’ve got to fight trouble never do it on an empty belly. Them kidneys are wasted on you.”

He himself was eating with evident enjoyment and making good progress in spite of his handicap; and it was grannie who continued the conversation.

“A bad lot is Baldwin Briggs, and the son and grandson of bad ’uns; black-hearted as t’ bog and hard as t’ rock on Gordel; all for theirselves, and ne’er troubling to put a fair face on i’ front o’ their neighbours; and that mean they’d let crows pick their bones to save a burying——”

They were strong words for such a thin, weak voice; and they conveyed the impression of a strong will. The deeply seamed shrivelled face, in which the sunken eyes were dim as unclean lanterns and the receding mouth gave away the secret of tenantless gums, was that of a woman who had ruled her household in her day, and with a firm hand. Her eyes were fixed on her grandson and the jaw continued to move long after her son interrupted her.

“Now come, mother,” said he, “let’s give Baldwin a rest. A bad ’un he may be, but if badness was passed on from his grandfather same as t’ twist of his mouth and them nose-whiskers of his, he’s more to be pitied than blamed. But trouble’s as you make it, and a poor seasoning for meat at any time. Jagger’ll none burst if he bottles his for a while, so we’ll just keep t’ cork in and enjoy what’s set before us, if you please.”

Jagger made an impatient gesture; but catching the warning look in Hannah’s eye restrained himself, and went on with his meal. Grannie, however, ate little and was not to be silenced; indeed she was apparently unconscious of the prohibition. The half-sightless eyes stared into space as if she saw there the ghosts of the dead whom memory had summoned.

“There was never but one son born to any Briggses. There mud be as many as half a dozen lasses, and Keturah’s great-aunt, I bethink me, had nine; but there was never more nor one lad in any o’ their families, and he was always a Baldwin and always a bad ’un, and came to a bad end.”

Maniwel’s fist came down upon the table with a force that set all the pots a-dancing.

“That’ll do, mother,” said he. “Give a dog a bad name and it’ll live up to it. Baldwin isn’t dead yet, and there’s room for him to mend. Pour your grannie out a cup more tea, Hannah, and keep her busy, or we shall be having all t’ Briggses’ corpses for generations back laid aside o’ t’ table before we’ve finished.”

He began roughly but ended on a note of humour and the meal was completed without further incident.

Then as grannie returned to her seat and Hannah cleared the table Maniwel bade his son draw up to the hearth.

“Now,” he said, “let’s hear what’s been amiss between you and Baldwin.”

The look of strain and annoyance had never left the young man’s face, and he scowled heavily, goaded by his father’s half bantering tone. His long legs were thrust out on to the hearth, his hands were buried in his trousers pockets, and his temper, like his limbs, was at full stretch.

“You think it’s same as it has been before,” he said sullenly—“we’ve fallen out and we shall fall in again; but if he comes on his bended knees I’ve finished with him. I’d sooner beg my bread or starve than I’d——”

“Aye, aye,” interrupted his father. “You can cut out all t’ high-and-mighty, lad, and get down to bed-rock. What’s he sacked you for?”

“For asking for a rise,” Jagger answered hotly. “I work hours and hours overtime as you know well without as much as a ‘Thank-ye’ for my labour; and t’ harder I work t’ less he thinks of me. I told him he was fond enough of putting his claim in when he was man instead of master, and he laughed in my face. He said he was for himself then and he’s for himself now, and for once in his life he spoke t’ truth. But it didn’t end there. He says I rob him because I won’t scamp my work and diddle his customers; and that filled t’ cup up, and I brought my bass home. You have it all there; he isn’t a man, he’s a devil.”

“Maybe he is,” the father replied coolly, “or if he isn’t he keeps a lodging-house in his inside for them o’ that breed, same as most of us; and they’re like as they’ve got t’ upper hand o’ t’ Briggses, as your grannie says. However, we’ll keep to bed-rock—Baldwin’ll none come on his bended knees; but if you were to bend your stiff neck and go to him——.”

“I’ll see him hanged first!”

“Well, he keeps inside o’ t’ law, does Baldwin, and I doubt if they’ve started making t’ rope ’at’ll hang him, so we’ll move on a step; what are you thinking of doing?”

The frown on Jagger’s brow beetled the deep caverns of his eyes; but the tone in which he replied that he supposed he must leave the village and seek a job in the town, where jobs were plentiful and wages were regulated by the unions, was not convincing.

“And what sort of a show would you make in a town?” Hannah’s voice broke in. “You that has t’ moor in your blood! You’d choke! Ling doesn’t grow on paved streets and it’s poor fishing you’ll get in a bath-room!”

“You can do without what you can’t get. Needs must when the devil drives, as I told Baldwin. I shan’t be t’ first who’s left t’ village and made his way in t’ town.”

“If you make your way in t’ town you’ll be t’ first i’ our family that ever managed it,” said his father. “Not that I’m again’ you trying it, mind you, if there isn’t a better way, though there is an old wife’s tale that no Drake comes to any good that turns his back on t’ moor.”

“It’s true, Maniwel; God’s truth it is,” the old woman across the hearth interposed sharply; “and no old wife’s tale, neither. Didn’t they bring your Uncle Ben back with a stroke on him and all his money ’at he’d piled up sunk like a rock i’ t’ Tarn; and him thankful for sup and bite out o’ them he’d looked down on. And there was your great-uncle, Rueben——”

“Aye, aye, mother,” her son broke in pleasantly; “and there was his father before him, that they buried at t’ cross roads with a stake in his inside and made a tale of. I know all t’ catalogue of shockers; but I’m t’ wrong man to be frightened o’ boggards, and I could wish our Jagger was. If t’ finger o’ duty pointed me to t’ town I’d follow it same as Luther talked about if it rained boggards and I’d to wade through ’em up to t’ waist, but I doubt if Jagger’s grit enough.”

“You’re over hard on him, father,” expostulated Hannah who was standing, dish-cloth in hand, at the scullery-door; and her brother forced a bitter laugh.

“What do I care how hard he is! I know he thinks I’m a milksop because I haven’t his spirit, and don’t laugh when things go all wrong. But where is there another thinks as he does ’at if you go straight all ’ll turn out for t’ best? What has he to show for his belief but an empty sleeve?”

A red flush surged over his neck and face as he completed the sentence; and half-ashamed of his outburst he looked into his father’s face.

“Nay, lad, you’ve no ’casion to run t’ red flag up,” Maniwel replied; but there was nothing bantering in his tone now, and his face had sobered. “If we’d windows to our hearts you’d happen be capped to see what there is inside o’ mine, both good and bad; but one thing you would find if you looked close—you’d find ’at my belief, as you call it, had brought me a deal more than an empty sleeve, and you’d see naught ’at I’m ashamed of in my thoughts of you.”

“You oughtn’t to have said that, Jagger,” said his sister reproachfully; but her father waved the rebuke aside.

“I’d sooner a blain showed on his lip than fester under t’ skin, and I’ve tried to learn you both to speak your minds. For twenty years I’ve done my best to walk t’ street called Straight, and I’ve got it rooted in my mind ’at there’s no better road. Baldwin favours t’ street called Crook’d, as long as it isn’t too crook’d, ’cause he thinks it’s a short cut to t’ Land o’ Plenty. I think he’s mista’en; but whether he is or no I should be sorry for any lad o’ mine to follow him; and that’s why I’m glad ’at Jagger goes by t’ straight road even if he grumbles at t’ ruts.”

There was just a hint of suspicion in the eyes Jagger turned on his father’s face but what he saw there reassured him and his brow cleared a little. His tone, however, was still gruff as he said:

“Crook’d ways seem to pay all right. They landed Baldwin’s feet in Mr. Clegg’s shoes and put money in his purse; and t’ street called Straight has done precious little for us. If it pays to do right, how is it that you happened your accident and how is it I get sacked? I suppose it’ll be made up to us i’ heaven!”

The suggestion was something less than a sneer, in that it conveyed a want of understanding as honest as Job’s in similar, if more tragic, circumstances, and the father read it as such.

“All I know about heaven,” he said, “and all I want to know, is ’at t’ street called Straight runs through it as well as to it, and if it doesn’t put money in your purse it keeps t’ fountain sweet in your soul, and that’s something. But walking straight doesn’t take t’ bite out o’ t’ teeth of a circ’lar saw when you run your thumb again’ it, and it doesn’t take trouble out o’ life. All t’ same if you’re frightened o’ trouble you’re as like to meet with it on t’ crook’d road as on t’ straight.”

“Now look you here, lad,” he continued as his son made no reply; “if you’ll get out o’ t’ cradle and give up supping dill-water, but stand on your feet like a man I’ll help you to plan something out. I’m none for you going back to Baldwin, though I don’t doubt he expects it; and I’m none for you leaving t’ village unless you’re forced. You’re a moorman, and t’ moor’s in your blood as Hannah says, same as it’s i’ mine. It’ll call you and rive at your heart strings if you put t’ sea between you and it. You’d hear t’ pipit ‘peep-peeping’ over t’ heather and t’ jackdaws cawing on Gordel; and you’d see t’ trout leaping i’ t’ beck and t’ dippers plunging their white breasts into t’ water below t’ Cove if you were in t’ thick o’ London streets——”

“And it’s a bad end you’d come to, Jagger. Some can do it and be no worse for’t, but there’s naught but ill follows them Drakes that leaves t’ moor; don’t ee do it, my lad!” Grannie’s voice was pleading, and her eyes were troubled.

“Let’s hear what father has in his mind,” said Hannah who had joined the group and drawn a chair up to the hearth. Then she turned to her father. “You oughtn’t to plague him with talking of ‘dill-water’ and such like. If it was me it ’ud get my back up.”

“Aye, right enough,” said Maniwel with a significance that the girl resented though it left Jagger unmoved; “but I’ll get to t’ point. There’s been a notion i’ my head for some time back ’at we happen couldn’t do better than start i’ business for ourselves. There’s room for two i’ t’ village, if one’s a small ’un, and small we should have to be ’cause all t’ brass we should have ’ud be that three hundred ’at’s lying out at interest wi’ John Clegg. But if Jagger’s willing I’ll call it in, and we’ll fix up a bit of a shop and get to work. It’ll be a poor do if between us we can’t make a living; for if I’ve got shut of an arm I’ve kept my head, and that’ll come in handy when Jagger loses his. T’ big jobs’ll have to go to Baldwin ’cause we shan’t have neither machines nor capital; but there’ll be enough little ’uns to keep some meal i’ t’ barrel, I’ll warrant. What think you, lad?”

A complete change had come over Jagger whilst his father was speaking and the face was now that of another man. The brow became unbent and the eyes mild and pleasant. He withdrew his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together slowly like one who anticipates a satisfaction near at hand.

“By gen, it’s a trump card! I’d give a dollar to see Baldwin’s face when he hears tell what we’re doing! Jobs? There’ll be no lack of ’em. I mayn’t have your headpiece for scheming out ways and means, but Baldwin hasn’t a man in his shop ’at can come near me at my job, and there’s more than him knows it. It’ll serve the old lickpenny right, and teach him not to rob widows. Where’ll we find a shop?”

Maniwel looked at him steadily for a moment or two, and Hannah watched her father’s face, knowing what he was thinking.

“When folks are in a hurry to swallow they have to have their meat minced for ’em. It ’ud suit me better, lad, if you’d get off spoon-food, and begin to chew for yourself. You’ve jumped at this plan o’ mine same as a bairn at a rattle. You’d better sleep on it, and then we’ll talk about t’ shop. But if we do start for ourselves it shall be in t’ street called Straight, anyway. Baldwin’s for himself all t’ way through; we’ll be for ourselves and company.”

Hannah turned to look at her brother; but it was evident he had only partly heard his father’s remarks, being engaged with his own thoughts; and her brow bent into an expression of impatience.

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH THE WOMAN ENTERS WITH THE SERPENT

THREE hours later Hannah and Jagger were alone, but for a while neither of them had much to say. To watch the changing expression on the woman’s face you would have said that tenderness and contempt were striving for the mastery on the battlefield of her soul and that the issue was uncertain. Hannah was only thirty but Nature had taken little pains in her fashioning, leaving her angular in outline and pinched in features; and responsibility had unloaded its burden on her shoulders at an age when most girls are unfettered or at worst in leading-strings, for the mother had died when Hannah was fourteen. Ten years later the grandmother, recently widowed, had come to share the home and the income and to add to the girl’s trials. Grannie was masterful; but Hannah was mistress and had no mind at twenty-four to bend her neck to the authority of seventy-five. The encounters that took place were by tacit consent of both parties confined to occasions when the men-folk were out of hearing, and victory was not always on one side, but in the end Hannah triumphed, and her crowning achievement, the trophy of her success, was not in the subjugation but the conversion of her grandmother. In the hour that grannie lay down her arms she confessed that she “liked a lass o’ mettle,” and could rest satisfied that one of the family had “a bit o’ bite in her,” now that Maniwel had turned queer in his head, and had bred a son whose bark was loud enough but who never bared his teeth in the good old moorland fashion. From that time Hannah’s ascendancy had been undisputed, but the conflict, and the anxiety that had attended her father’s accident, had left their mark upon her features which contradicted the parish register by ten years at least.

You had only to enter the cottage to discover at once where Hannah’s energies found their outlet and justification. If her house was no cleaner than the houses of her neighbours it was to their credit and not to her disparagement. Not all the women of Mawm made pretensions of godliness but there were few who did not worship at the shrine of cleanliness, and with no mere lip-service—were they not Yorkshire folk and moor-folk?

“Cleanliness next to godliness?” Yea, verily; and in that order.

There was something about the Drakes’ cottage, however, that was not found everywhere; something not quite definable—a daintiness, a touch of refinement, revealed in the harmony of colours and the sight of flowers, perhaps, and accentuated by the absence of anything that jarred. It was Hannah’s doing, but it aroused neither admiration nor envy in the breasts of her neighbours, none of whom was very concerned to inquire how it was that the Drakes’ home was the cosiest and pleasantest in the village.

Having been sent into the world by a watchful Providence four years in advance of her brother, and installed by force of circumstances in the position of mother to the boy of ten, the girl recognised in the position a special responsibility which she changed into a privilege. Other lads, other young men, rather annoyed her; she treated them with the scant attention that is almost a discourtesy; but she lavished a mother’s as well as a sister’s affection on Jagger, and did her best to correct the faults in his character which the maternal instinct enabled her to remark even before they became apparent to the quick eyes of her father. It was quite in accordance with her nature that she rarely discussed her hopes and fears and difficulties with her father, though she endowed him in her thoughts with all the virtues of the superman; a sense of loyalty to her brother and also a recognition of her father’s ability to deal with the situation held her back. But she lost no opportunity to repress the boy’s tendencies to indulge in a half-feminine peevishness that made him moody and irritable, and,—to one of her temperament—even contemptible. It had the same effect on her father; but what she fought against in herself she could not tolerate in another, so the exhibition of disdain in look or word always brought her to arms.

The room was looking particularly attractive in the yellow light of the lamp and the red glow of the dwindling fire, and as Hannah leaned back in the chair grannie had vacated an hour before and listened to the wind which was now howling about the door, her eyes rested with an appraising scrutiny on this article and that as if she were determining what ravage of to-day would call for first attention on the morrow.

Jagger had not moved from his place on the hearth, and sat with his head in his hands gazing into the embers where he had already built sufficient wooden castles to line the banks of the Rhine. It was one of Jagger’s faults (or excellences, if that is your point of view) that he was ready to build without troubling his brain over much on the subject of foundations.

Hannah’s eyes fell from the two hams that were suspended from the rafters to the bowl of chrysanthemums on the chest of drawers, and finally rested on the big Bible that lay open beneath the lamp, where her father had left it when he went upstairs to bed, and her thoughts were diverted.

“There are some queer ideas in t’ Bible,” she remarked, “some of them he read to-night there isn’t many goes by—not in this neighbourhood, anyway.”

Jagger roused himself and yawned. “I never heard a word he read,” he admitted. “I was putting t’ new shop up and getting some bill-heads printed—‘Drake and Son, Timber Merchants and Contractors, Mawm.’ I could very near forgive Baldwin for sacking me.”

“ ‘Timber Merchants and Contractors!’ ” repeated Hannah with a scornful intonation that ought to have crumpled up her brother like a blighted leaf. “ ‘All kinds of jobbing work promptly attended to’ would be nearer t’ mark. If you weren’t my own brother I should think you a fool. One minute you’re at t’ bottom o’ Gordel and all t’ Scar tumbling on you, and t’ next you’re atop o’ Fountain Fell with your head in t’ clouds. You’d be in a poor way if it wasn’t for father; and it ’ud pay you to take a leaf out of his book as I’ve told you hundreds o’ times. He keeps his head in all weathers, and naught moves him. He’s a pauper compared wi’ Baldwin; but to listen to him you’d think he was a millionaire, like Mr. Harris. ‘As having nothing, yet possessing all things.’ His face fair lit up when he read it.”

Jagger’s lip curled and he spoke impatiently. “It’s a fad he’s got into his head and it’s turned him soft. You ask grannie what she thinks about it! With notions like his no man could make his way—always bending his back for someone else to climb up on his shoulders. I’m tired of being naught but a ladder, but father thinks it’s what we’re here for. You’ve to look after yourself in this world, and leave other folks to look after theirselves.”

Hannah leaned back in her chair and regarded her brother with a scornful look.

“That’s Baldwin’s motto,” she said. “You’d better go partners with him, Jagger Drake. ‘All for my-sen!’ I thought that was what him and you had quarrelled over. You want to know your own mind, my lad, and find out whose side you’re on before you start in business for yourself.”

“I’m not such a mean devil as Baldwin is,” he returned, flushing a little; and his sister replied:

“Happen you dursn’t be; but ‘all for my-sen’ ’ud soon bring you to where he stands. You can’t blow both hot and cold at t’ same time; and you want to know where you are, as I say, before you put your sign up.”

The only reply was a scowl and Hannah changed her tone.

“I’m vexing you,” she said soothingly; “I know you didn’t mean it. It’s as father says, you go t’ straight road if you grumble at t’ ruts; but I wish from my soul you weren’t always looking as if you’d made a meal o’ baking-powder.”

The conversation was interrupted at this point by a knock at the door and the raising of the latch, and as Hannah got to her feet a girl entered the room and unwrapped the scarf that had covered her neck and shoulders. Jagger’s face lost its look of inertness when he recognised the visitor.

“Nay, Nancy! Who’d have thought of you popping in at this time o’ night?” was Hannah’s greeting; but the tone was cordial and not as overcharged with surprise as the words implied.

“Do you call it late?” the newcomer asked indifferently. “In Airlee we should have said the evening was just beginning. I’m not going to bed just yet, but I won’t keep you two up though Jagger’ll be able to lie a bit longer than usual in the morning. Keturah’s only just told me that you’re sacked,” she continued, turning eyes that were more curious than sympathetic on the young man; “and that a stranger has got your job; and I dodged them both and came down to see what you’re going to do.”

“A stranger got my job, do you say?” inquired Jagger as Nancy sat down in his father’s chair. “Who is he?”

He was vexed, and face and tone showed it; it was just another instance of Baldwin’s cursed good luck.

“I don’t know. Somebody who had walked over from Scaleber to seek a job, and heard you rowing.”

“We didn’t row,” returned Jagger. “I just told Mr. Briggs a thing or two that was on my mind as quietly as I’m talking to you now, and then he slipped his temper and went for me tooth and nail. Called me a thief into t’ bargain, and that bides a bit of swallowing.”

“He’ll take you on again,” said Nancy confidently; “not because he loves you, but because he knows when he’s well served; and I daresay he’ll give you your rise, too, when his gorge goes down. You’re short of tact, Jagger. You get naught out of Baldwin by holding a pistol at his head.”

Jagger laughed, knowingly and triumphantly. “I’ve a card up my sleeve that’ll pull Mr. Briggs’ face to twice its length. If he was to double my wage I wouldn’t go back to a man that’s called me thief. I’m starting for myself, Nancy, as soon as I can get a few things together.”

“Starting for yourself—here?” The question was rapped out, and the expression of the speaker’s eyes became suddenly hostile.

“Aye, here,” he replied; and he looked across at his sister so that he missed the shadow that swept over their visitor’s face and left it black. In just the same way does the Tarn that lies on the lap of the wild moor, 900 feet above the village and overlooked by mountains that lift their heads hundreds of feet higher still, display its mood—at one moment calm, unruffled, streaked and dotted with blue, or brilliantly white with cloud reflections; the next, grey and angry-looking as a storm leaps up from the south, making the sky leaden.

Nancy Clegg was only in her twenty-third year, but she was a woman full-grown and quite conscious of her developed powers. There was an air of distinction about her that other young women lacked—an air that had brought men to her side and kept them there even in the city where she had been spending a few weeks with her uncle’s family, and though she was rather sparely built, on the model of the moorwoman, she had none of Hannah’s angularities to destroy the symmetry of her figure, and her black hair and clear black eyes together with a straight, fine nose and expressive lips would have made her noticeable in any company and aroused admiration in most. Few women ever had their features in better control than she; but there were occasions when she gave them free play and this was one of them. Hannah noticed the change, and her mouth tightened.

“Oh, I see!” said Nancy, and the coldness in the voice caused Jagger to look up. Instantly his face fell as he saw that his communication was ill-received.

“Why shouldn’t I?” he inquired petulantly. “I should never have thought of starting for myself if he hadn’t sacked me, but you can’t always be lying down and letting a man wipe his feet on you. A bit of competition’ll do Baldwin good, and teach him a lesson!”

“I suppose you won’t expect me to congratulate you, seeing that I’ve an interest in the business?” she replied coldly; and she stretched out her hand for the scarf which she proceeded to wrap about her shoulders. “If you’ve made up your mind there’s nothing more to be said, and I might have spared myself my errand. Don’t get up, Hannah. I can let myself out.”

Poor Jagger! A chill like that of night when the wet mists steal down the sides of Cawden sent a shiver over his spirits and choked his speech. In his eagerness to avenge himself upon his master he had forgotten that Nancy would be affected by the scheme, and Nancy was the all-important consideration. When he had spoken of his father’s age as the barrier to his freedom of action he had been half-conscious of insincerity, and he knew now, if he had not definitely acknowledged it to himself before, that it was she of the black locks and black eyes and not his sire who made the thought of leaving Mawm unpalatable. His mind was not quick enough to grapple with the situation, however, and whilst he was groping round for a way of escape Hannah’s voice cut the silence.

“It was father’s idea,” she said with a coldness equal to Nancy’s own, as she rose and moved towards the door. “Maybe he hadn’t just thought how it ’ud concern you; but by all accounts Mr. Briggs turns trade enough away to keep one pair o’ hands busy. You know father well enough, Nancy, to be sure he’ll do naught to hurt you, and I’m sorry if you take it amiss. If you were Jagger’s sister you’d be tired o’ seeing him eat dirt to keep in with a master ’at holds him down. I’d have chucked it long since, if it had been me.”

“Jagger’s a right to please himself, and I’m not disputing it,” said Nancy haughtily; “but if there’s to be two firms in the village you can’t expect me to be any friend to the second.”

Jagger had found his tongue by now and he followed the girl to the door and stood with her in the opening, uttering vehement protests to which Hannah closed her ears and Nancy listened reluctantly.

“You’d best think it over,” she said in tones that had lost nothing of their iciness as she turned away. “I’ll say naught about it at home, Jagger, in the hope that you’ll change your mind.”

She walked away rapidly; but hearing footsteps quicken behind her thought Jagger was following and wheeled round with an impatient dismissal on her lips.

It was some other, however, who hurried up—a stranger obviously, for a bowler hat was silhouetted against the sky and gear of that kind was never seen on the heads of the male fraternity of Mawm except on Sundays. Although a glance was all she gave him when she perceived her mistake there was something that seemed familiar in the man’s outline, and for a second or two she puzzled over it and wondered why she was followed; but though she went on her way more quickly she was not afraid.

“You walk fast, Miss Clegg!” The voice was low and carried a laugh in its tones and Nancy started and stood still.

“Who are you?” she inquired; but the revelation came to her as the moonlight fell upon his face, and her heart beat more quickly than exertion could account for; yet her subdued exclamation—“If it isn’t Mr. Inman!” was coloured by annoyance rather than pleasure.

“James Inman, at your service,” he replied, raising his hat with a courtesy that was deliberately theatrical. “I believe I told you when you doubted my word, that I should find ways and means to see you again; and here I am.”

Nancy tossed her head—a trick she had not needed to learn in the town, and answered him sharply.

“If you’ve followed me here because you think that I’m likely to take any interest in you, Mr. Inman, the sooner you’re undeceived the better for us both. And if it’s you that’s got a job at our shop let me tell you straight that it goes against you, and I’ve only to let Mr. Briggs know what you’re after for you to be sent about your business.”

Inman laughed. “And what worse should I be then than I am now? I should have had ten minutes with my heart’s delight, and that’s worth a month of dreams. And why shouldn’t your guardian know that I’m after a wife? Other men before me have hunted that quarry and not been burned at the stake for it. If I hunt fair what harm is there in it? But perhaps you think he’ll be vexed to find that Jagger Drake has a competitor.”

Nancy’s cheeks grew red with anger, but even as hot words rose to her tongue her judgment cooled them, and her thoughts ran on ahead and reviewed the situation. Baldwin and Jagger were at enmity; and though a word in the older man’s ear might start the fires of his wrath against the newcomer, they were not likely to burn the more fiercely at the knowledge that this young man was Jagger’s rival for her affections. The effect might be quite opposite, for the large contempt in which Baldwin held the Drakes, both father and son, might lead him to favour another suitor.

Nancy had remained standing and she held Inman by a haughty stare whilst these thoughts crossed her mind at telegraphic speed.

“You don’t leave your meaning to be guessed at, anyway,” she said in her most freezing tones; “but a woman isn’t like a hare; she can choose who she lets hunt her, and I don’t choose to be hunted by you. Those are plain words, Mr. Inman, and I hope you appreciate them.”

“I do,” he replied. “I’m a moorman and you’re a moorwoman. Moor-folk don’t go by round-about ways when there’s a straight cut. I tell you as I told you before that I love you and would make you my wife. ‘Not like a hare!’ Of course you aren’t. I want no woman for a wife who’s like a hare. An oily towns-man would have turned the tables on you and crooned out that he was hunting a ‘dear’; but I don’t deal in soft nothings. Maybe Jagger Drake does; I heard him this afternoon when he whined like a whipped dog, and I took his measure. If you marry him you’ll have a baby in your arms to start with——”

“I’ve listened to you long enough,” Nancy broke in at this point with increased hauteur. “Who’s been coupling my name with Jagger Drake’s I don’t know, but it’s no concern of either theirs or yours; and as there’s sure to be some eyes spying on us, and I’ve no wish to have my character taken away, as it’s likely enough it will be if I stop talking with a strange man, the first night he’s in the village, I’ll just wish you good-bye; and if you take my advice you’ll set off back where you came from to-morrow morning.”

“One minute then,” he replied, as she turned away with a frown on her face. “We mayn’t have another opportunity as good as this for understanding one another. You call me a stranger, and you propose to treat me as a stranger. So be it, I learn my lessons quickly, and I shan’t worry you, you may rely on that. But I’ve buried my mother since you saw me last, and I’ve a mind to get back to the moors. If I stop with Mr. Briggs I can help to ginger up the business, though it’s plain enough to see that he thinks himself God Almighty and wants no help. But if he won’t have me, or if you think fit to put a spoke in the wheel, I’ll just start for myself and maybe get our young friend Jagger to help me. Soft as he is there are sure to be some old women who’ll fancy him for their work, and I’ll bet between us we can make things hum. Whichever way I go, your road’ll cross mine, Miss Nancy, and we’ll go on arm in arm before the end; but it shall be of your own free will, I promise you that!”

She was staring him in the face with curling lip; but the effort to keep back hot, indignant words and to hide their nearness from him almost choked her; and all the time she was conscious of an icy feeling at her heart. He was meeting her glance with a smile of quiet assurance; and when she said—“We are just strangers, Mr. Inman. I shall not interfere with Mr. Briggs’ business arrangements, so you may be easy on that point. All I want is to be left alone!” he merely nodded, and raising his hat, wished her good-night.

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH JAGGER DRAKE SETS HIS TEETH

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: