CHAPTER I.

Produced by David Edwards, Martin Pettit and the Online

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A LIFE'S SECRET.

A Novel.

By

MRS. HENRY WOOD,

AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," ETC.

[Illustration: Logo]

_EIGHTH EDITION._

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty.

1879.

[_All Rights of Translation and Reproduction are Reserved._]

CONTENTS.

PART THE FIRST.

CHAP. PAGE

I. WAS THE LADY MAD? 11

II. CHANGES 32

III. AWAY TO LONDON 39

IV. DAFFODIL'S DELIGHT 52

V. MISS GWINN'S VISIT 67

VI. TRACKED HOME 83

VII. MR. SHUCK AT HOME 103

VIII. FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS! 116

IX. THE SEPARATION OF HUNTER AND HUNTER 127

PART THE SECOND.

I. A MEETING OF THE WORKMEN 136

II. CALLED TO KETTERFORD 153

III. TWO THOUSAND POUNDS 168

IV. AGITATION 186

PART THE THIRD.

I. A PREMATURE AVOWAL 204

II. MR. COX 221

III. 'I THINK I HAVE BEEN A FOOL' 238

IV. SOMEBODY 'PITCHED INTO' 256

V. A GLOOMY CHAPTER 274

VI. THE LITTLE BOY AT REST 288

VII. MR. DUNN'S PIGS BROUGHT TO MARKET 294

VIII. A DESCENT FOR MR. SHUCK 309

IX. ON THE EVE OF BANKRUPTCY 326

X. THE YEARS GONE BY 342

XI. RELIEF 359

XII. CONCLUSION 369

A LIFE'S SECRET

PART THE FIRST.

CHAPTER I.

WAS THE LADY MAD?

On the outskirts of Ketterford, a town of some note in the heart of

England, stood, a few years ago, a white house, its green lawn,

surrounded by shrubs and flowers, sloping down to the high road. It

probably stands there still, looking as if not a day had passed over its

head since, for houses can be renovated and made, so to say, new again,

unlike men and women. A cheerful, bright, handsome house, of moderate

size, the residence of Mr. Thornimett.

At the distance of a short stone's-throw, towards the open country, were

sundry workshops and sheds--a large yard intervening between them and

the house. They belonged to Mr. Thornimett; and the timber and other

characteristic materials lying about the yard would have proclaimed

their owner's trade without the aid of the lofty sign-board--'Richard

Thornimett, Builder and Contractor.' His business was extensive for a

country town.

Entering the house by the pillared portico, and crossing the

black-and-white floor-cloth of the hall to the left, you came to a room

whose windows looked towards the timber-yard. It was fitted up as a sort

of study, or counting-house, though the real business counting-house was

at the works. Matting was on its floor; desks and stools stood about;

maps and drawings, plain and coloured, were on its walls; not finished

and beautiful landscapes, such as issue from the hands of modern

artists, or have descended to us from the great masters, but skeleton

designs of various buildings--churches, bridges, terraces--plans to be

worked out in actuality, not to be admired on paper. This room was

chiefly given over to Mr. Thornimett's pupil: and you may see him in it

now.

A tall, gentlemanly young fellow, active and upright; his name, Austin

Clay. It is Easter Monday in those long-past years--and yet not so very

long past, either--and the works and yard are silent to-day. Strictly

speaking, Austin Clay can no longer be called a pupil, for he is

twenty-one, and his articles are out. The house is his home; Mr. and

Mrs. Thornimett, who have no children of their own, are almost as his

father and mother. They have said nothing to him about leaving, and he

has said nothing to them. The town, in its busy interference,

gratuitously opined that 'Old Thornimett would be taking him into

partnership.' Old Thornimett had given no indication of what he might

intend to do, one way or the other.

Austin Clay was of good parentage, of gentle birth. Left an orphan at

the age of fourteen, with very small means, not sufficient to complete

his education, Ketterford wondered what was to become of him, and

whether he had not better get rid of himself by running away to sea. Mr.

Thornimett stepped in and solved the difficulty. The late Mrs.

Clay--Austin's mother--and Mrs. Thornimett were distantly related, and

perhaps a certain sense of duty in the matter made itself heard; that,

at least, combined with the great fact that the Thornimett household was

childless. The first thing they did was to take the boy home for the

Christmas holidays; the next, was to tell him he should stay there for

good. Not to be adopted as their son, not to leave him a fortune

hereafter, Mr. Thornimett took pains to explain to him, but to make him

into a man, and teach him to earn his own living.

'Will you be apprenticed to me, Austin?' subsequently asked Mr.

Thornimett.

'Can't I be articled, sir?' returned Austin, quickly.

'Articled?' repeated Mr. Thornimett, with a laugh. He saw what was

running in the boy's mind. He was a plain man himself; had built up his

own fortunes just as he had built the new house he lived in; had risen,

in fact, as many a working man does rise: but Austin's father was a

gentleman. 'Well, yes, you can be articled, if you like it better,' he

said; 'but I shall never call it anything but apprenticed; neither will

the trade. You'll have to work, young sir.'

'I don't care how hard I work, or what I do,' cried Austin, earnestly.

'There's no degradation in work.'

Thus it was settled; and Austin Clay became bound pupil to Richard

Thornimett.

'Old Thornimett and his wife have done it out of charity,' quoth

Ketterford.

No doubt they had. But as the time passed on they grew very fond of him.

He was an open-hearted, sweet-tempered, generous boy, and one of them at

least, Mr. Thornimett, detected in him the qualities that make a

superior man. Privileges were accorded him from the first: the going on

with certain of his school duties, for which masters came to him out of

business hours--drawing, mathematics, and modern languages chiefly--and

Austin went on himself with Latin and Greek. With the two latter Mrs.

Thornimett waged perpetual war. What would be the use of them to him,

she was always asking, and Austin, in his pleasant, laughing way, would

rejoin that they might help to make him a gentleman. He was that

already: Austin Clay, though he might not know it, was a true gentleman

born.

Had they repented their bargain? He was twenty-one now, and out of his

articles, or his time, as it was commonly called. No, not for an

instant. Never a better servant had Richard Thornimett; never, he would

have told you, one so good. With all his propensity to be a 'gentleman,'

Austin Clay did not shrink from his work; but did it thoroughly. His

master in his wisdom had caused him to learn his business practically;

but, that accomplished, he kept him to overlooking, and to other light

duties, just as he might have done by a son of his own. It had told

well.

Easter Monday, and a universal holiday Mr. Thornimett had gone out on

horseback, and Austin was in the pupil's room. He sat at a desk, his

stool on the tilt, one hand unconsciously balancing a ruler, the other

supporting his head, which was bent over a book.

'Austin!'

The call, rather a gentle one, came from outside the door. Austin,

buried in his book, did not hear it.

'Austin Clay!'

He heard that, and started up. The door opened in the same moment, and

an old lady, dressed in delicate lavender print, came briskly in. Her

cap of a round, old-fashioned shape, was white as snow, and a bunch of

keys hung from her girdle. It was Mrs. Thornimett.

'So you are here!' she exclaimed, advancing to him with short, quick

steps, a sort of trot. 'Sarah said she was sure Mr. Austin had not gone

out. And now, what do you mean by this?' she added, bending her

spectacles, which she always wore, on his open book. 'Confining yourself

indoors this lovely day over that good-for-nothing Hebrew stuff!'

Austin turned his eyes upon her with a pleasant smile. Deep-set grey

eyes they were, earnest and truthful, with a great amount of thought in

them for a young man. His face was a pleasing, good-looking face,

without being a handsome one, its complexion pale, clear, and healthy,

and the hair rather dark. There was not much of beauty in the

countenance, but there was plenty of firmness and good sense.

'It is not Hebrew, Mrs. Thornimett. Hebrew and I are strangers to each

other. I am only indulging myself with a bit of old Homer.'

'All useless, Austin. I don't care whether it is Greek or Hebrew, or

Latin or French. To pore over those rubbishing dry books whenever you

get the chance, does you no good. If you did not possess a constitution

of iron, you would have been laid upon a sick-bed long ago.'

Austin laughed outright. Mrs. Thornimett's prejudices against what she

called 'learning,' had grown into a proverb. Never having been troubled

with much herself, she, like the Dutch professor told of by George

Primrose, 'saw no good in it.' She lifted her hand and closed the book.

'May I not spend my time as I like upon a holiday?' remonstrated Austin,

half vexed, half in good humour.

'No,' said she, authoritatively; 'not when the day is warm and bright as

this. We do not often get so fair an Easter. Don't you see that I have

put off my winter clothing?'

'I saw that at breakfast.'

'Oh, you did notice that, did you? I thought you and Mr. Thornimett were

both buried in that newspaper. Well, Austin, I never make the change

till I think warm weather is really coming in: and so it ought to be,

for Easter is late this year. Come, put that book up.'

Austin obeyed, a comical look of grievance on his face. 'I declare you

order me about just as you did when I came here first, a miserable

little muff of fourteen. You'll never get another like me, Mrs.

Thornimett. As if I had not enough outdoor work every day in the week!

And I don't know where on earth to go to. It's like turning a fellow out

of house and home!'

'You are going out for me, Austin. The master left a message for the

Lowland farm, and you shall take it over, and stay the day with them.

They will make as much of you as they would of a king. When Mrs. Milton

was here the other day, she complained that you never went over now; she

said she supposed you were growing above them.'

'What nonsense!' said Austin, laughing. 'Well, I'll go there for you at

once, without grumbling. I like the Miltons.'

'You can walk, or you can take the pony gig: whichever you like.'

'I will walk,' replied Austin, with alacrity, putting his book inside

the large desk. 'What is the message, Mrs. Thornimett?'

'The message----'

Mrs. Thornimett came to a sudden pause, very much as if she had fallen

into a dream. Her eyes were gazing from the window into the far

distance, and Austin looked in the same direction: but there was not

anything to be seen.

'There's nothing there, lad. It is but my own thoughts. Something is

troubling me, Austin. Don't you think the master has seemed very poorly

of late?'

'N--o,' replied Austin, slowly, and with some hesitation, for he was

half doubting whether something of the sort had not struck him.

Certainly the master--as Mr. Thornimett was styled indiscriminately on

the premises both by servants and workpeople, so that Mrs. Thornimett

often fell into the same habit--was not the brisk man he used to be. 'I

have not noticed it particularly.'

'That is like the young; they never see anything,' she murmured, as if

speaking to herself. 'Well, Austin, I have; and I can tell you that I do

not like the master's looks, or the signs I detect in him. Especially

did I not like them when he rode forth this morning.'

'All that I have observed is that of late he seems to be disinclined for

business. He seems heavy, sleepy, as though it were a trouble to him to

rouse himself, and he complains sometimes of headache. But, of

course----'

'Of course, what?' asked Mrs. Thornimett. 'Why do you hesitate?'

'I was going to say that Mr. Thornimett is not as young as he was,'

continued Austin, with some deprecation.

'He is sixty-six, and I am sixty-three. But, you must be going. Talking

of it, will not mend it. And the best part of the day is passing.'

'You have not given me the message,' he said, taking up his hat which

lay beside him.

'The message is this,' said Mrs. Thornimett, lowering her voice to a

confidential tone, as she glanced round to see that the door was shut.

'Tell Mr. Milton that Mr. Thornimett cannot answer for that timber

merchant about whom he asked. The master fears he might prove a slippery

customer; he is a man whom he himself would trust as far as he could

see, but no farther. Just say it into Mr. Milton's private ear, you

know.'

'Certainly. I understand,' replied the young man, turning to depart.

'You see now why it might not be convenient to despatch any one but

yourself. And, Austin,' added the old lady, following him across the

hall, 'take care not to make yourself ill with their Easter cheesecakes.

The Lowland farm is famous for them.'

'I will try not,' returned Austin.

He looked back at her, nodding and laughing as he traversed the lawn,

and from thence struck into the open road. His way led him past the

workshops, closed then, even to the gates, for Easter Monday in that

part of the country is a universal holiday. A few minutes, and he turned

into the fields; a welcome change from the dusty road. The field way

might be a little longer, but it was altogether pleasanter. Easter was

late that year, as Mrs. Thornimett observed, and the season was early.

The sky was blue and clear, the day warm and lovely; the hedges were

budding into leaf, the grass was growing, the clover, the buttercups,

the daisies were springing; and an early butterfly fluttered past

Austin.

'You have taken wing betimes,' he said, addressing the unconscious

insect. 'I think summer must be at hand.'

Halting for a moment to watch the flight, he strode on the quicker

afterwards. Supple, active, slender, his steps--the elastic, joyous,

tread of youth--scarcely seemed to touch the earth. He always walked

fast when busy with thought, and his mind was buried in the hint Mrs.

Thornimett had spoken, touching her fears for her husband's health. 'If

he is breaking, it's through his close attention to business,' decided

Austin, as he struck into the common and was nearing the end of his

journey. 'I wish he would take a jolly good holiday this summer. It

would set him up; and I know I could manage things without him.'

A large common; a broad piece of waste land, owned by the lord of the

manor, but appropriated by anybody and everybody; where gipsies encamped

and donkeys grazed, and geese and children were turned out to roam. A

wide path ran across it, worn by the passage of farmer's carts and other

vehicles. To the left it was bordered in the distance by a row of

cottages; to the right, its extent was limited, and terminated in some

dangerous gravel pits--dangerous, because they were not protected.

Austin Clay had reached the middle of the path and of the common, when

he overtook a lady whom he slightly knew. A lady of very strange

manners, popularly supposed to be mad, and of whom he once stood in

considerable awe, not to say terror, at which he laughed now. She was a

Miss Gwinn, a tall bony woman of remarkable strength, the sister of

Gwinn, a lawyer of Ketterford. Gwinn the lawyer did not bear the best of

characters, and Ketterford reviled him when they could do it secretly.

'A low, crafty, dishonest practitioner, whose hands couldn't have come

clean had he spent his days and nights in washing them,' was amidst the

complimentary terms applied to him. Miss Gwinn, however, seemed honest

enough, and but for her rancorous manners Ketterford might have grown to

feel a sort of respect for her as a woman of sorrow. She had come

suddenly to the place many years before and taken up her abode with her

brother. She looked and moved and spoke as one half-crazed with grief:

what its cause was, nobody knew; but it was accepted by all, and

mysteriously alluded to by herself on occasion.

'You have taken a long walk this morning, Miss Gwinn,' said Austin,

courteously raising his hat as he came up with her.

She threw back her grey cloak with a quick, sharp movement, and turned

upon him. 'Oh, is it you, Austin Clay? You startled me. My thoughts were

far away: deep upon another. _He_ could wear a fair outside, and accost

me in a pleasant voice, like you.'

'That is rather a doubtful compliment, Miss Gwinn,' he returned, in his

good-humoured way. 'I hope I am no darker inside than out. At any rate,

I don't try to appear different from what I am.'

'Did I accuse you of it? Boy! you had better go and throw yourself into

one of those gravel pits and die, than grow up to be deceitful,' she

vehemently cried. 'Deceit has been the curse of my days. It has made me

what I am; one whom the boys hoot after, and call----'

'No, no; not so bad as that,' interrupted Austin, soothingly. 'You have

been cross with them sometimes, and they are insolent, mischievous

little ragamuffins. I am sure every thoughtful person respects you,

feeling for your sorrow.'

'Sorrow!' she wailed. 'Ay. Sorrow, beyond what falls to the ordinary lot

of man. The blow fell upon _me_, though I was not an actor in it. When

those connected with us do wrong, we suffer; we, more than they. I may

be revenged yet,' she added, her expression changing to anger. 'If I can

only come across _him_.'

'Across whom?' naturally asked Austin.

'Who are you, that you should seek to pry into my secrets?' she

passionately resumed. 'I am five-and-fifty to-day--old enough to be your

mother, and you presume to put the question to _me_! Boys are coming to

something.'

'I beg your pardon; I but spoke heedlessly, Miss Gwinn, in answer to

your remark. Indeed I have no wish to pry into anybody's business. And

as to "secrets," I have eschewed them, since, a little chap in

petticoats, I crept to my mother's room door to listen to one, and got

soundly whipped for my pains.'

'It is a secret that you will never know, or anybody else; so put its

thoughts from you. Austin Clay,' she added, laying her hand upon his

arm, and bending forward to speak in a whisper, 'it is fifteen years,

this very day, since its horrors came out to me! And I have had to carry

it about since, as I best could, in silence and in pain.'

She turned round abruptly as she spoke, and continued her way along the

broad path; while Austin Clay struck short off towards the gravel pits,

which was his nearest road to the Lowland farm. Silent and abandoned

were the pits that day; everybody connected with them was enjoying

holiday with the rest of the world. 'What a strange woman she is!' he

thought.

It has been said that the gravel pits were not far from the path. Austin

was close upon them, when the sound of a horse's footsteps caused him to

turn. A gentleman was riding fast down the common path, from the

opposite side to the one he and Miss Gwinn had come, and Austin shaded

his eyes with his hand to see if it was any one he knew. No; it was a

stranger. A slender man, of some seven-and-thirty years, tall, so far as

could be judged, with thin, prominent aquiline features, and dark eyes.

A fine face; one of those that impress the beholder at first sight, as

it did Austin, and, once seen, remain permanently on the memory.

'I wonder who he is?' cried Austin Clay to himself. 'He rides well.'

Possibly Miss Gwinn might be wondering the same. At any rate, she had

fixed her eyes on the stranger, and they seemed to be starting from her

head with the gaze. It would appear that she recognised him, and with no

pleasurable emotion. She grew strangely excited. Her face turned of a

ghastly whiteness, her hands closed involuntarily, and, after standing

for a moment in perfect stillness, as if petrified, she darted forward

in his pathway, and seized the bridle of his horse.

'So! you have turned up at last! I knew--I knew you were not dead!' she

shrieked, in a voice of wild raving. 'I knew you would some time be

brought face to face with me, to answer for your wickedness.'

Utterly surprised and perplexed, or seeming to be, at this summary

attack, the gentleman could only stare at his assailant, and endeavour

to get his bridle from her hand. But she held it with a firm grasp.

'Let go my horse,' he said. 'Are you mad?'

'_You_ were mad,' she retorted, passionately. 'Mad in those old days;

and you turned another to madness. Not three minutes ago, I said to

myself that the time would come when I should find you. Man! do you

remember that it is fifteen years ago this very day that

the--the--crisis of the sickness came on? Do you know that never

afterwards----'

'Do not betray your private affairs to me,' interrupted the gentleman.

'They are no concern of mine. I never saw you in my life. Take care! the

horse will do you an injury.'

'No! you never saw me, and you never saw somebody else!' she panted, in

a tone that would have been mockingly sarcastic, but for its wild

passion. 'You did not change the current of my whole life! you did not

turn another to madness! These equivocations are worthy of _you_.'

'If you are not insane, you must be mistaking me for some other person,'

he replied, his tone none of the mildest, though perfectly calm. 'I

repeat that, to my knowledge, I never set eyes upon you in my life.

Woman! have you no regard for your own safety? The horse will kill you!

Don't you see that I cannot control him?'

'So much the better if he kills us both,' she shrieked, swaying up and

down, to and fro, with the fierce motions of the angry horse. 'You will

only meet your deserts: and, for myself, I am tired of life.'

'Let go!' cried the rider.

'Not until you have told me where you live, and where you may be found.

I have searched for you in vain. I will have my revenge; I will force

you to do justice. You----'

In her sad temper, her dogged obstinacy, she still held the bridle. The

horse, a spirited animal, was passionate as she was, and far stronger.

He reared bolt upright, he kicked, he plunged; and, finally, he shook

off the obnoxious control, to dash furiously in the direction of the

gravel pits. Miss Gwinn fell to the ground.

To fall into the pit would be certain destruction to both man and horse.

Austin Clay had watched the encounter in amazement, though he could not

hear the words of the quarrel. In the humane impulse of the moment,

disregarding the danger to himself, he darted in front of the horse,

arrested him on the very brink of the pit, and threw him back on his

haunches.

Snorting, panting, the white foam breaking from him, the animal, as if

conscious of the doom he had escaped, now stood in trembling quiet,

obedient to the control of his master. That master threw himself from

his back, and turned to Austin.

'Young gentleman, you have saved my life.'

There was little doubt of that. Austin accepted the fact without any

fuss, feeling as thankful as the speaker, and quite unconscious at the

moment of the wrench he had given his own shoulder.

'It would have been an awkward fall, sir. I am glad I happened to be

here.'

'It would have been a _killing_ fall,' replied the stranger, stepping to

the brink, and looking down. 'And your being here must be owing to God's

wonderful Providence.'

He lifted his hat as he spoke, and remained a minute or two silent and

uncovered, his eyes closed. Austin, in the same impulse of reverence,

lifted his.

'Did you see the strange manner in which that woman attacked me?'

questioned the stranger.

'Yes.'

'She must be insane.'

'She is very strange at times,' said Austin. 'She flies into desperate

passions.'

'Passions! It is madness, not passion. A woman like that ought to be

shut up in Bedlam. Where would be the satisfaction to my wife and

family, if, through her, I had been lying at this moment at the bottom

there, dead? I never saw her in my life before; never.'

'Is she hurt? She has fallen down, I perceive.'

'Hurt! not she. She could call after me pretty fiercely when my horse

shook her off. She possesses the rage and strength of a tiger. Good

fellow! good Salem! did a mad woman frighten and anger you?' added the

stranger, soothing his horse. 'And now, young sir,' turning to Austin,

'how shall I reward you?'

Austin broke into a smile at the notion.

'Not at all, thank you,' he said. 'One does not merit reward for such a

thing as this. I should have deserved sending over after you, had I not

interposed. To do my best was a simple matter of duty--of obligation;

but nothing to be rewarded for.'

'Had he been a common man, I might have done it,' thought the stranger;

'but he is evidently a gentleman. Well, I may be able to repay it in

some manner as you and I pass through life,' he said, aloud, mounting

the now subdued horse. 'Some neglect the opportunities, thrown in their

way, of helping their fellow-creatures; some embrace them, as you have

just done. I believe that whichever we may give--neglect or help--will

be returned to us in kind: like unto a corn of wheat, that must spring

up what it is sown; or a thistle, that must come up a thistle.'

'As to embracing the opportunity--I should think there's no man living

but would have done his best to save you, had he been standing here.'

'Ah, well; let it go,' returned the horseman. 'Will you tell me your

name? and something about yourself?'

'My name is Austin Clay. I have few relatives living, and they are

distant ones, and I shall, I expect, have to make my own way in the

world.'

'Are you in any profession? or business?'

'I am with Mr. Thornimett, of Ketterford: the builder and contractor.'

'Why, I am a builder myself!' cried the stranger, a pleasing accent of

surprise in his tone. 'Shall you ever be visiting London?'

'I daresay I shall, sir. I should like to do so.'

'Then, when you do, mind you call upon me the first thing,' he rejoined,

taking a card from a case in his pocket and handing it to Austin. Come

to me should you ever be in want of a berth: I might help you to one.

Will you promise?'

'Yes, sir; and thank you.'

'I fancy the thanks are due from the other side, Mr. Clay. Oblige me by

not letting that Bess o' Bedlam obtain sight of my card. I might have

her following me.'

'No fear,' said Austin, alluding to the caution.

'She must be lying there to regain the strength exhausted by passion,

carelessly remarked the stranger. 'Poor thing! it is sad to be mad,

though! She is getting up now, I see: I had better be away. That town

beyond, in the distance, is Ketterford, is it not?'

'It is.'

'Fare you well, then. I must hasten to catch the twelve o'clock train.

They have horse-boxes, I presume, at the station?'

'Oh, yes.'

'All right,' he nodded. 'I have received a summons to town, and cannot

afford the time to ride Salem home. So we must both get conveyed by

train, old fellow'--patting his horse, as he spoke to it. 'By the way,

though--what is the lady's name?' he halted to ask.

'Gwinn. Miss Gwinn.'

'Gwinn? Gwinn?' Never heard the name in my life. Fare you well, in all

gratitude.'

He rode away. Austin Clay looked at the card. It was a private visiting

card--'Mr. Henry Hunter' with an address in the corner.

'He must be one of the great London building firm, "Hunter and Hunter,"'

thought Austin, depositing the card in his pocket. 'First class people.

And now for Miss Gwinn.'

For his humanity would not allow him to leave her unlooked-after, as the

molested and angry man had done. She had risen to her feet, though

slowly, as he stepped back across the short worn grass of the common.

The fall had shaken her, without doing material damage.

'I hope you are not hurt?' said Austin, kindly.

'A ban light upon the horse!' she fiercely cried. 'At my age, it does

not do to be thrown on the ground violently. I thought my bones were

broken; I could not rise. And he has escaped! Boy! what did he say to

you of me--of my affairs?'

'Not anything. I do not believe he knows you in the least. He says he

does not.'

The crimson passion had faded from Miss Gwinn's face, leaving it wan and

white. 'How dare you say you believe it?'

'Because I do believe it,' replied Austin. 'He declared that he never

saw you in his life; and I think he spoke the truth. I can judge when a

man tells truth, and when he tells a lie. Mr. Thornimett often says he

wishes he could read faces--and people--as I can read them.'

Miss Gwinn gazed at him; contempt and pity blended in her countenance.

'Have you yet to learn that a bad man can assume the semblance of

goodness?'

'Yes, I know that; and assume it so as to take in a saint,' hastily

spoke Austin. 'You may be deceived in a bad man; but I do not think you

can in a good one. Where a man possesses innate truth and honour, it

shines out in his countenance, his voice, his manner; and there can be

no mistake. When you are puzzled over a bad man, you say to yourself,

"He _may_ be telling the truth, he _may_ be genuine;" but with a good

man you know it to be so: that is, if you possess the gift of reading

countenances. Miss Gwinn, I am sure there was truth in that stranger.'

'Listen, Austin Clay. That man, truthful as you deem him, is the very

incarnation of deceit. I know as much of him as one human being can well

know of another. It was he who wrought the terrible wrong upon my house;

it was he who broke up my happy home. I'll find him now. Others said he

must be dead; but I said, "No, he lives yet." And, you see he does live.

I'll find him.'

Without another word she turned away, and went striding back in the

direction of Ketterford--the same road which the stranger's horse had

taken. Austin stood and looked after her, pondering over the strange

events of the hour. Then he proceeded to the Lowland farm.

A pleasant day amidst pleasant friends spent he; rich Easter cheesecakes

being the least of the seductions he did _not_ withstand; and Ketterford

clocks were striking half-past ten as he approached Mrs. Thornimett's.

The moonlight walk was delightful; there was no foreboding of ill upon

his spirit, and he turned in at the gate utterly unconscious of the news

that was in store for him.

Conscious of the late hour--for they were early people--he was passing

across the lawn with a hasty step, when the door was drawn silently

open, as if some one stood there watching, and he saw Sarah, one of the

two old maid-servants, come forth to meet him. Both had lived in the

family for years; had scolded and ordered Austin about when a boy, to

their heart's content, and for his own good.

'Why, Sarah, is it you?' was his gay greeting. 'Going to take a

moonlight ramble?'

'Where _have_ you stayed?' whispered the woman in evident excitement.

'To think you should be away this night of all others, Mr. Austin! Have

you heard what has happened to the master?'

'No. What?' exclaimed Austin, his fears taking alarm.

'He fell down in a fit, over at the village where he went; and they

brought him home, a-frightening us two and the missis almost into fits

ourselves. Oh, Master Austin!' she concluded, bursting into tears, 'the

doctors don't think he'll live till morning. Poor dear old master!'

Austin, half paralysed at the news, stood for a moment against the wall

inside the hall. 'Can I go and see him?' he presently asked.

'Oh, you may go,' was the answer; 'the mistress has been asking for you,

and nothing rouses _him_. It's a heavy blow; but it has its side of

brightness. God never sends a blow but he sends mercy with it.'

'What is the mercy--the brightness?' Austin waited to ask, thinking she

must allude to some symptom of hope. Sarah put her shrivelled old arm on

his in solemnity, as she answered it.

'He was fit to be taken. He had lived for the next world while he was

living in this. And those that do, Master Austin, never need shrink from

sudden death.'

CHAPTER II.

CHANGES.

To reflect upon the change death makes, even in the petty every-day

affairs of life, must always impart a certain awe to the thoughtful

mind. On the Easter Monday, spoken of in the last chapter, Richard

Thornimett, his men, his contracts, and his business in progress, were

all part of the life, the work, the bustle of the town of Ketterford.

In a few weeks from that time, Richard Thornimett--who had not lived to

see the morning light after his attack--was mouldering in the

churchyard; and the business, the workshops, the artisans, all save the

dwelling-house, which Mrs. Thornimett retained for herself, had passed

into other hands. The name, Richard Thornimett, as one of the citizens

of Ketterford, had ceased to be: all things were changed.

Mrs. Thornimett's friends and acquaintances had assembled to tender

counsel, after the fashion of busybodies of the world. Some recommended

her to continue the business; some, to give it up; some, to take in a

gentleman as partner; some, to pay a handsome salary to an efficient

manager. Mrs. Thornimett listened politely to all, without the least

intention of acting upon anybody's opinion but her own. Her mind had

been made up from the first. Mr. Thornimett had died fairly well off,

and everything was left to her--half of the money to be hers for life,

and then to go to different relatives; the other half was bequeathed to

her absolutely, and was at her own disposal. Rumours were rife in the

town, that, when things came to be realized, she would have about twelve

thousand pounds in money, besides other property.

But before making known her decision abroad, she spoke to Austin Clay.

They were sitting together one evening when she entered upon the

subject, breaking the silence that reigned with some abruptness.

'Austin, I shall dispose of the business; everything as it stands. And

the goodwill.'

'Shall you?' he exclaimed, taken by surprise, and his voice betraying a

curious disappointment.

Mrs. Thornimett nodded in answer.

'I would have done my best to carry it on for you, Mrs. Thornimett. The

foreman is a man of experience; one we may trust.'

'I do not doubt you, Austin; and I do not doubt him. You have got your

head on your shoulders the right way, and you would be faithful and

true. So well do I think of your abilities, that, were you in a position

to pay down only half the purchase-money, I would give you the refusal

of the business, and I am certain success would attend you. But you are

not; so that is out of the question.'

'Quite out of the question,' assented Austin. 'If ever I get a business

of my own, it must be by working for it. Have you quite resolved upon

giving it up?'

'So far resolved, that the negotiations are already half concluded,'

replied Mrs. Thornimett. 'What should I, a lone woman, do with an

extensive business? When poor widows are left badly off, they are

obliged to work; but I possess more money than I shall know how to

spend. Why should I worry out my hours and days trying to amass more? It

would not be seemly. Rolt and Ransom wish to purchase it.'

Austin lifted his head with a quick movement. He did not like Rolt and

Ransom.

'The only difference we have in the matter, is this: that I wish them to

take you on, Austin, and they think they shall find no room for you.

Were you a common workman, it would be another thing, they say.'

'Do not allow that to be a difference any longer, Mrs. Thornimett,' he

cried, somewhat eagerly. 'I should not care to be under Rolt and Ransom.

If they offered me a place to-morrow, and _carte blanche_ as to pay, I

do not think I could bring myself to take it.'

'Why?' asked Mrs. Thornimett, in surprise.

'Well, they are no favourites of mine. I know nothing against them,

except that they are hard men--grinders; but somehow I have always felt

a prejudice against that firm. We do have our likes and dislikes, you

are well aware. Young Rolt is prominent in the business, too, and I am

sure there's no love lost between him and me; we should be at daggers

drawn. No, I should not serve Rolt and Ransom. If they succeed to your

business, I think I shall go to London and try my fortune there.'

Mrs. Thornimett pushed back her widow's cap, to which her head had never

yet been able to get reconciled--something like Austin with regard to

Rolt and Ransom. 'London would not be a good place for you, Austin. It

is full of pitfalls for young men.'

'So are other places,' said Austin, laughingly, 'if young men choose to

step into them. I shall make my way, Mrs. Thornimett, never fear. I am

thorough master of my business in all its branches, higher and lower as

you know, and I am not afraid of putting my own shoulder to the wheel,

if there's necessity for it. As to pitfalls--if I do stumble in the dark

into any, I'll manage to scramble out again; but I will try and take

care not to step into them wilfully. Had you continued the business, of

course I would have remained with you; otherwise, I should like to go to

London.'

'You can be better trusted, both as to capabilities and steadiness, than

some could at your age,' deliberated Mrs. Thornimett. 'But they are

wrong notions that you young men pick up with regard to London. I

believe there's not one of you but thinks its streets are sprinkled with

diamonds.'

'_I_ don't,' said Austin. 'And while God gives me hands and brains to

work with, I would rather earn my diamonds, than stoop to pick them up

in idleness.'

Mrs. Thornimett paused. She settled her spectacles more firmly on her

eyes, turned them full on Austin, and spoke sharply.

'Were you disappointed when you heard the poor master's will read?'

Austin, in return, turned his eyes upon her, and opened them to their

utmost width in his surprise. 'Disappointed! No. Why should I be?'

'Did it never occur to you to think, or to expect, that he might leave

you something?'

'Never,' earnestly replied Austin. 'The thought never so much as crossed

my mind. Mr. Thornimett had near relatives of his own--and so have you.

Who am I, that I should think to step in before them?'

'I wish people would mind their own business!' exclaimed the old lady,

in a vexed tone. 'I was gravely assured, Austin, that young Clay felt

grievously ill-used at not being mentioned in the will.'

'Did you believe it?' he rejoined.

'No, I did not.'

'It is utterly untrue, Mrs. Thornimett, whoever said it. I never

expected Mr. Thornimett to leave me anything; therefore, I could not

have been disappointed at the will.'

'The poor master knew I should not forget you, Austin; that is if you

continue to be deserving. Some time or other, when my old bones are laid

beside him, you may be the better for a trifle from me. Only a trifle,

mind; we must be just before we are generous.'

'Indeed, you are very kind,' was Austin Clay's reply; 'but I should not

wish you to enrich me at the expense of others who have greater claims.'

And he fully meant what he said. 'I have not the least fear of making my

own way up the world's ladder. Do you happen to know anything of the

London firm, Hunter and Hunter?'

'Only by reputation,' said Mrs. Thornimett.

'I shall apply to them, if I go to London. They would interest

themselves for me, perhaps.'

'You'd be sure to do well if you could get in there. But why should they

help you more than any other firm would?'

'There's nothing like trying,' replied Austin, too conscious of the

evasive character of his reply. He was candour itself; but he feared to

speak of the circumstances under which he had met Mr. Henry Hunter,

lest Miss Gwinn should find out it was to him he had gone, and so track

Mr. Henry Hunter home. Austin deemed that it was no business of his to

help her to find Mr. Hunter, whether he was or not the _bête noire_ of

whom she had spoken. He might have told of the encounter at the time,

but for the home calamity that supervened upon it; that drove away other

topics. Neither had he mentioned it at the Lowland farm. For all Miss

Gwinn's violence, he felt pity for her, and could not expose the woman.

'A first-rate firm, that of Hunter and Hunter,' remarked Mrs.

Thornimett. 'Your credentials will be good also, Austin.'

'Yes; I hope so.'

It was nearly all that passed upon the subject. Rolt and Ransom took

possession of the business, and Austin Clay prepared to depart for

London. Mrs. Thornimett felt sure he would get on well--always provided

that he kept out of 'pit-falls.' She charged him not to be above his

business, but to _work_ his way upwards: as Austin meant to do.

A day or two before quitting Ketterford, it chanced that he and Mrs.

Thornimett, who were out together, encountered Miss Gwinn. There was a

speaking acquaintance between the two ladies, and Miss Gwinn stopped to

say a kind word or two of sympathy for the widow and her recent loss.

She could be a lady on occasion, and a gentle one. As the conversation

went on, Mrs. Thornimett incidentally mentioned that Mr. Clay was going

to leave and try his fortune in London.

'Oh, indeed,' said Miss Gwinn, turning to him, as he stood quietly by

Mrs. Thornimett's side. 'What does he think of doing there?'

'To get a situation, of course. He means first of all to try at Hunter

and Hunter's.'

The words had left Mrs. Thornimett's lips before Austin could

interpose--which he would have given the world to do. But there was no

answering emotion on Miss Gwinn's face.

'Hunter and Hunter?' she carelessly repeated. 'Who are they?'

'"Hunter Brothers," they are sometimes called,' observed Mrs.

Thornimett. 'It is a building firm of eminence.'

'Oh,' apathetically returned Miss Gwinn. 'I wish you well,' she added,

to Austin.

He thanked her as they parted. The subject, the name, evidently bore for

her no interest whatever. Therefore Austin judged, that although she

might have knowledge of Mr. Henry Hunter's person, she could not of his

name.

CHAPTER III.

AWAY TO LONDON.

A heavy train, drawn by two engines, was dashing towards London.

Whitsuntide had come, and the public took advantage of the holiday, and

the trains were crammed. Austin Clay took advantage of it also; it was

a saving to his pocket, the fares having been lowered; and he rather

liked a cram. What he did not like, though, was the being stuffed into a

first-class carriage with its warm mats and cushions. The crowd was so

great that people sat indiscriminately in any carriage that came first.

The day was intensely hot, and he would have preferred one open on all

sides. They were filled, however, before he came. He had left

Ketterford, and was on his road to London to seek his fortune--as old

stories used to say.

Seated in the same compartment as himself was a lady with a little girl.

The former appeared to be in very delicate health; she remarked more

than once, that she would not have travelled on so crowded a day, had

she given it proper thought. The little girl was chiefly remarkable for

making herself troublesome to Austin; at least, her mamma perpetually

reproached her with doing so. She was a lovely child, with delicately

carved features, slightly aquiline, but inexpressibly sweet and

charming. A bright colour illumined her cheeks, her eyes were large and

dark and soft, and her brown curls were flowing. He judged her to be

perhaps eleven years old; but she was one of those natural,

unsophisticated children, who appear much younger than they are. The

race has pretty nearly gone out of the world now: I hope it will come

back again.

'Florence, how _can_ you be so tiresome? Pushing yourself before the

gentleman against that dangerous door! it may fly open at any moment. I

am sure he must be tired of holding you.'

Florence turned her bright eye--sensible, honest eyes, bright though

they were--and her pretty hot cheeks upon the gentleman.

'Are you tired, sir?'

Austin smiled. 'It would take rather more than this to tire me,' he

said. 'Pray allow her to look out,' he added, to the lady, opposite to

whom he sat; 'I will take every care of her.'

'Have you any little girls of your own?' questioned the young damsel.

Austin laughed outright. 'No.'

'Nor any sisters?'

'Nor any sisters. I have scarcely any relatives in the world. I am not

so fortunate as you.'

'I have a great many relatives, but no brothers or sisters. I had a

little sister once, and she died when she was three years old. Was it

not three, mamma?'

'And how old are you?' inquired Austin.

'Oh, pray do not ask,' interposed the lady. 'She is so thoroughly

childish, I am ashamed that anybody should know her age. And yet she

does not want sense.'

'I was twelve last birthday,' cried the young lady, in defiance of all

conventionalism. 'My cousin Mary is only eleven, but she is a great deal

bigger than I.'

'Yes,' observed the lady, in a tone of positive resentment. 'Mary is

quite a woman already in ideas and manners: you are a child, and a very

backward one.'

'Let her be a child, ma'am, while she may,' impulsively spoke Austin;

'childhood does not last too long, and it never comes again. Little

girls are women nowadays: I think it is perfectly delightful to meet

with one like this.'

Before they reached London other passengers had disappeared from the

carriage, and they were alone. As they neared the terminus, the young

lady was peremptorily ordered to 'keep her head in,' or perhaps she

might lose it.

'Oh dear! if I must, I must,' returned the child. 'But I wanted to look

out for papa; he is sure to be waiting for us.'

The train glided into its destination. And the bright quick eyes were

roving amidst the crowd standing on the platform. They rested upon a

gentleman.

'There's Uncle Henry! there's Uncle Henry! But I don't see papa. Where's

papa?' she called out, as the gentleman saw them and approached.

'Papa's not come; he has sent me instead, Miss Florence.' And to Austin

Clay's inexpressible surprise, he recognised Mr. Henry Hunter.

'There is nothing the matter? James is not ill?' exclaimed the lady,

bending forward.

'No, no; nothing of that. Being a leisure day with us, we thought we

would quietly go over some estimates together. James had not finished

the calculations, and did not care to be disturbed at them. Your

carriage is here.'

Mr. Henry Hunter was assisting her to alight as he spoke, having already

lifted down Florence. A maid with a couple of carpet-bags appeared

presently, amidst the bustle, and Austin saw them approach a private

carriage. He had not pushed himself forward. He did not intend to do so

then, deeming it not the most fitting moment to challenge the notice of

Mr. Henry Hunter; but that gentleman's eye happened to fall upon him.

Not at first for recognition. Mr. Hunter felt sure it was a face he had

seen recently; was one he ought to know; but his memory was puzzled.

Florence followed his gaze.

'That gentleman came up in the same carriage with us, Uncle Henry. He

got in at a place they called Ketterford. I like him so much.'

Austin came forward as he saw the intent look; and recollection flashed

over the mind of Mr. Henry Hunter. He took both the young man's hands in

his and grasped them.

'You like him, do you, Miss Florence?' cried he, in a half-joking,

half-fervent tone. 'I can tell you what, young lady; but for this

gentleman, you would no longer have possessed an Uncle Henry to plague;

he would have been dead and forgotten.'

A word or two of explanation from Austin, touching what brought him to

London, and his intention to ask advice of Mr. Henry Hunter. That

gentleman replied that he would give it willingly, and at once, for he

had leisure on his hands that day, and he could not answer for it that

he would have on another. He gave Austin the address of his office.

'When shall I come, sir?' asked Austin.

'Now, if you can. A cab will bring you. I shall not be there later in

the day.'

So Austin, leaving his portmanteau, all the luggage he had at present

brought with him, in charge at the station, proceeded in a cab to the

address named, Mr. Henry Hunter having driven off in the carriage.

The offices, yards, buildings, sheds, and other places pertaining to the

business of Hunter and Hunter, were situated in what may be considered a

desirable part of the metropolis. They encroached neither upon the

excessive bustle of the City, nor upon the aristocratic exclusiveness of

the gay West end, but occupied a situation midway between the two.

Sufficiently open was the district in their immediate neighbourhood,

healthy, handsome, and near some fine squares; but a very, very little

way removed, you came upon swarming courts, and close dwellings, and

squalor, and misery, and all the bad features of what we are pleased to

call Arab life. There are many such districts in London, where wealth

and ease contrast with starvation and improvidence, _all but_ within

view of each other; the one gratifying the eye, the other causing it

pain.

The yard and premises were of great extent. Austin had thought Mr.

Thornimett's pretty fair for size; but he could laugh at them, now that

he saw the Messrs. Hunters'. They were enclosed by a wall, and by light

iron gates. Within the gates on the left-hand side were the offices,

where the in-door business was transacted. A wealthy, important, and

highly considered firm was that of the Messrs. Hunter. Their father had

made the business what it was, and had bequeathed it to them jointly at

his death. James, whose wife and only child you have seen arriving by

the train, after a week's visit to the country, was the elder brother,

and was usually styled Mr. Hunter; the younger was known as Mr. Henry

Hunter, and he had a large family. Each occupied a handsome house in a

contiguous square.

Mr. Henry Hunter came up almost as Austin did, and they entered the

offices. In a private room, warmly carpeted, stood two gentlemen. The

one, had he not been so stout, would have borne a great likeness to Mr.

Henry Hunter. It was Mr. Hunter. In early life the likeness between the

brothers had been remarkable; the same dark hair and eyes; the

well-formed acquiline features, the same active, tall, light figure;

but, of late years, James had grown fat, and the resemblance was in part

lost. The other gentleman was Dr. Bevary, a spare man of middle height,

the brother of Mrs. James Hunter. Mr. Henry Hunter introduced Austin

Clay, speaking of the service rendered him, and broadly saying as he had

done to Florence, that but for him he should not now have been alive.

'There you go, Henry,' cried Dr. Bevary. 'That's one of your

exaggerations, that is: you were always given to the marvellous, you

know. Not alive!'

Mr. Henry Hunter turned to Austin. 'Tell the truth, Mr. Clay. Should I,

or not?' And Austin smiled, and said he believed _not_.

'I cannot understand it,' exclaimed Dr. Bevary, after some explanation

had been given by Mr. Henry Hunter. 'It is incredible to suppose a

strange woman would attack you in that manner, unless she was mad.'

'Mad, or not mad, she did it,' returned Mr. Henry Hunter. 'I was riding

Salem--you know I took him with me, in that week's excursion I made at

Easter--and the woman set upon me like a tigress, clutching hold of

Salem, who won't stand such jokes. In his fury, he got loose from her,

dashing he neither knew nor cared whither, and this fine fellow saved us

on the very brink of the yawning pit--risking the chance of getting

killed himself. Had the horse not been arrested, I don't see how he

could have helped being knocked over with us.'

Mr. Hunter turned a warm grateful look on Austin. 'How was it you never

spoke of this, Henry?' he inquired of his brother.

'There's another curious phase of the affair,' laughed Mr. Henry Hunter.

'I have had a dislike to speak of it, even to think of it. I cannot tell

you why; certainly not on account of the escaped danger. And it was

over: so, what signified talking of it?'

'Why did she attack you?' pursued Dr. Bevary.

'She evidently, if there was reason in her at all, mistook me for

somebody else. All sorts of diabolical things she was beginning to

accuse me of; that of having evaded her for some great number of years,

amongst the rest. I stopped her; telling her I had no mind to be the

depository of other people's secrets.'

'She solemnly protested to me, after you rode away, sir, that you _were_

the man who had done her family some wrong,' interposed Austin. 'I told

her I felt certain she was mistaken; and so drew down her anger upon

me.'

'Of what nature was the wrong?' asked Dr. Bevary.

'I cannot tell,' said Austin. 'I seemed to gather from her words that

the wrong was upon her family, or upon some portion of her family,

rather than upon her. I remember she made use of the expression, that it

had broken up her happy home.'

'And you did not know her?' exclaimed the doctor, looking at Mr. Henry

Hunter.

'Know her?' he returned, 'I never set eyes on her in all my life until

that day. I never was in the place before, or in its neighbourhood. If I

ever did work her wrong, or ill, I must have done it in my sleep; and

with miles of distance intervening. Who is she? What is her name? You

told it me, Mr. Clay, but I forget what it was.'

'Her name is Gwinn,' replied Austin. 'The brother is a lawyer and has

scraped together a business. One morning, many years ago, a lady arrived

at his house, without warning, and took up her abode with him. She

turned out to be his sister, and the people at Ketterford think she is

mad. It is said they come from Wales. The little boys call after her,

"the mad Welsh woman." Sometimes Miss Gwinn.'

'What did you say the name was?' interrupted Dr. Bevary, with startling

emphasis. 'Gwinn?--and from Wales?'

'Yes.'

Dr. Bevary paused, as if in deep thought. 'What is her Christian name?'

he presently inquired.

'It is a somewhat uncommon one,' replied Austin. 'Agatha.'

The doctor nodded his head, as if expecting the answer. 'A tall, spare,

angular woman, of great strength,' he remarked.

'Why, what do you know of her?' exclaimed Mr. Henry Hunter to the

doctor, in a surprised tone.

'Not a great deal. We medical men come across all sorts of persons

occasionally,' was the physician's reply. And it was given in a concise,

laconic manner, as if he did not care to be questioned further. Mr.

Henry Hunter pursued the subject.

'If you know her, Bevary, perhaps you can tell whether she is mad or

sane.'

'She is sane, I believe: I have no reason to think her otherwise. But

she is one who can allow angry passion to master her at moments: I have

seen it do so. Do you say her brother is a lawyer?' he continued, to

Austin Clay.

'Yes, he is. And not one of the first water, as to reputation; a

grasping, pettifogging practitioner, who will take up any dirty case

that may be brought to him. And in that, I fancy, he is a contrast to

his sister; for, with all her strange ways, I should not judge her to be

dishonourable. It is said he speculates, and that he is not over

particular whose money he gets to do it with.'

'I wonder that she never told me about this brother,' dreamily

exclaimed the doctor, in an inward tone, as if forgetting that he spoke

aloud.

'Where did you meet with her? When did you know her?' interposed Mr.

Henry Hunter.

'Are you sure that _you_ know nothing about her?' was the doctor's

rejoinder, turning a searching glance upon Mr. Henry Hunter.

'Come, Bevary, what have you got in your head? I do _not_ know her. I

never met with her until she saw and accosted me. Are you acquainted

with her history?'

'With a dark page in it.'

'What is the page?'

Dr. Bevary shook his head. 'In the course of a physician's practice he

becomes cognisant of many odds and ends of romance, dark or fair; things

that he must hold sacred, and may not give utterance to.'

Mr. Henry Hunter looked vexed. 'Perhaps you can understand the reason of

her attacking me?'

'I could understand it, but for your assertion of being a stranger to

her. If it is so, I can only believe that she mistook you for another.'

'_If_ it is so,' repeated Mr. Henry Hunter. 'I am not in the habit of

asserting an untruth, Bevary.'

'Nor, on the other hand, is Miss Gwinn one to be deceived. She is keen

as a razor.'

'Bevary, what are you driving at?'

'At nothing. Don't be alarmed, Henry. I have no cause to suppose you

know the woman, or she you. I only thought--and think--she is one whom

it is almost impossible to deceive. It must, however, have been a

mistake.'

'It was a mistake--so far as her suspicion that she knew me went,'

decisively returned Mr. Henry Hunter.

'Ay,' acquiesced Dr. Bevary. 'But here am I gossiping my morning away,

when a host of patients are waiting for me. We poor doctors never get a

holiday, as you more favoured mortals do.'

He laughed as he went out, nodding a friendly farewell to Austin. Mr.

Henry Hunter stepped out after him. Then Mr. Hunter, who had not taken

part in the discussion, but had stood looking from the window while they

carried it on, wheeled round to Austin and spoke in a low, earnest tone.

'What _is_ this tale--this mystery--that my brother and the doctor seem

to be picking up?'

'Sir, I know no more than you have heard me say. I witnessed her attack

on Mr. Henry Hunter.'

'I should like to know further about it: about her. Will you----Hush!

here comes my brother back again. Hush!'

His voice died away in the faintest whisper, for Mr. Henry Hunter was

already within the room. Was Mr. Hunter suspecting that his brother had

more cognisance of the affair than he seemed willing to avow? The

thought, that it must be so, crossed Austin Clay; or why that warning

'hush' twice repeated?

It happened that business was remarkably brisk that season at Hunter and

Hunter's. They could scarcely get hands enough, or the work done. And

when Austin explained the cause which had brought him to town, and

frankly proffered the question of whether they could recommend him to

employment, they were glad to offer it themselves. He produced his

credentials of capacity and character, and waited. Mr. Henry Hunter

turned to him with a smile.

'I suppose you are not above your work, Mr. Clay?'

'I am not above anything in the world that is right, sir. I have come to

seek work.'

He was engaged forthwith. His duties at present were to lie partly in

the counting-house, partly in overlooking the men; and the salary

offered was twenty-five pounds per quarter.

'I can rise above that in time, I suppose,' remarked Austin, 'if I give

satisfaction?'

Mr. Hunter smiled. 'Ay, you can rise above that, if you choose. But when

you get on, you'll be doing, I expect, as some of the rest do.'

'What is that, sir?'

'Leaving us, to set up for yourself. Numbers have done so as soon as

they have become valuable. I do not speak of the men, you understand,

but of those who have been with us in a higher capacity. A few of the

men, though, have done the same; some have risen into influence.'

'How can they do that without capital?' inquired Austin. 'It must take

money, and a good deal of it, to set up for themselves.'

'Not so much as you may think. They begin in a small way--take

piece-work, and work early and late, often fourteen and fifteen hours a

day, husbanding their earnings, and getting a capital together by slow

but sure degrees. Many of our most important firms have so risen, and

owe their present positions to sheer hard work, patience, and energy.'

'It was the way in which Mr. Thornimett first rose,' observed Austin.

'He was once a journeyman at fourteen shillings a week. _He_ got

together money by working over hours.'

'Ay, there's nothing like it for the industrious man,' said Mr. Hunter.

Preliminaries were settled, advice given to him where he might find

lodgings, and Austin departed, having accepted an invitation to dine at

six at Mr. Henry Hunter's.

And all through having performed an unpremeditated but almost necessary

act of bravery.

CHAPTER IV.

DAFFODIL'S DELIGHT.

Turning to the right after quitting the business premises of the Messrs.

Hunter, you came to an open, handsome part, where the square in which

those gentlemen dwelt was situated, with other desirable squares,

crescents, and houses. But, if you turned to the left instead of to the

right, you very speedily found yourself in the midst of a dense

locality, not so agreeable to the eye or to the senses.

And yet some parts of this were not much to be complained of, unless

you instituted a comparison between them and those open places; but in

this world all things are estimated by comparison. Take Daffodil's

Delight, for example. 'Daffodil's Delight! what's that?' cries the

puzzled reader, uncertain whether it may be a fine picture or something

to eat. Daffodil's Delight was nothing more than a tolerably long

street, or lane, or double row of houses--wide enough for a street,

dirty enough for a lane, the buildings irregular, not always contiguous,

small gardens before some, and a few trees scattered here and there.

When the locality was mostly fields, and the buildings on them were

scanty, a person of the name of Daffodil ran up a few tenements. He

found that they let well, and he ran up more, and more, and more, until

there was a long, long line of them, and he growing rich. He called the

place Daffodil's Delight--which we may suppose expressed his own

complacent satisfaction at his success--and Daffodil's Delight it had

continued, down to the present day. The houses were of various sizes,

and of fancy appearance; some large, some small; some rising up like a

narrow tower, some but a storey high; some were all windows, some seemed

to have none; some you could only gain by ascending steps; to others you

pitched down as into a cellar; some lay back, with gardens before their

doors, while others projected pretty nearly on to the street gutter.

Nothing in the way of houses could be more irregular, and what Mr.

Daffodil's motive could have been in erecting such cannot be

conjectured--unless he formed an idea that he would make a venture to

suit various tastes and diverse pockets.

Nearly at the beginning of this locality, in its best part, before the

road became narrow, there stood a detached white house; one of only six

rooms, but superior in appearance, and well kept; indeed, it looked more

like a gentleman's cottage residence than a working man's. Verandah

blinds were outside the windows, and green wire fancy stands held

geraniums and other plants on the stone copings, against their lower

panes, obviating the necessity for inside blinds. In this house lived

Peter Quale. He had begun life carrying hods of mortar for masons, and

covering up bricks with straw--a half-starved urchin, his feet as naked

as his head, and his body pretty nearly the same. But he was steady,

industrious, and persevering--just one of those men that _work on_ for

decent position, and acquire it. From two shillings per week to four,

from four to six, from six to twelve--such had been Peter Quale's

beginnings. At twelve shillings he remained for some time stationary,

and then his advance was rapid. Now, he was one of the superior artisans

of the Messrs. Hunters' yard; was, in fact, in a post of trust, and his

wages had grown in proportion. Daffodil's Delight said that Quale's

earnings could not be less than 150_l._ per annum. A steady, sensible,

honest, but somewhat obstinate man, well-read, and intelligent; for

Peter, while he advanced his circumstances, had not neglected his mind.

He had cultivated that far more than he had his speech or his manner; a

homely tone and grammar, better known to Daffodil's Delight than to

polite ears, Peter favoured still.

In the afternoon of Whit Monday, the day spoken of already, Peter sat in

the parlour of his house, a pipe in his mouth, and a book in his hand.

He looked about midway between forty and fifty, had a round bald head,

surmounted just now by a paper cap, a fair complexion, grey whiskers,

and a well-marked forehead, especially where lie the perceptive

faculties. His eyes were deeply sunk in his head, and he was by nature a

silent man. In the kitchen behind, 'washing up' after dinner, was his

helpmate, Mrs. Quale. Although so well to do, and having generally a

lodger, she kept no servant--'wouldn't be bothered with 'em,' she

said--but did her own work; a person coming in once a week to clean.

A rattling commotion in the street caused Peter Quale to look up from

his book. A large pleasure-van was rumbling down it, drawing up at the

next door to his.

'Nancy!' called out he to his wife.

'Well?' came forth the answer, in a brisk, bustling voice, from the

depths of the kitchen.

'The Shucks, and that lot, be actually going off now?'

The news appeared to excite the curiosity of Mrs. Quale, and she came

hastily in; a dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked little woman, with black curls.

She wore a neat white cap, a fresh-looking plum-coloured striped gown of

some thin woollen material, and a black apron; a coarse apron being

pinned round her. Mrs. Quale was an inveterate busybody, knew every

incident that took place in Daffodil's Delight, and possessed a

free-and-easy tongue; but she was a kindly woman withal, and very

popular. She put her head outside the window above the geraniums, to

reconnoitre.

'Oh, they be going, sure enough! Well, they are fools! That's just like

Slippery Sam! By to-morrow they won't have a threepenny piece to bless

themselves with. But, if they must have went, they might have started

earlier in the day. There's the Whites! And--why!--there's the Dunns!

The van won't hold 'em all. As for the Dunns, they'll have to pinch for

a month after it. She has got on a dandy new bonnet with pink ribbons.

Aren't some folks idiots, Peter?'

Peter rejoined, with a sort of a grunt, that it wasn't no business of

his, and applied himself again to his pipe and book. Mrs. Quale made

everybody's business hers, especially their failings and shortcomings;

and she unpinned the coarse apron, flung it aside, and flew off to the

next house.

It was inhabited by two families, the Shucks and the Baxendales. Samuel

Shuck, usually called Slippery Sam, was an idle, oily-tongued chap,

always slipping from work--hence the nickname--and spending at the

'Bricklayers' Arms' what ought to have been spent upon his wife and

children. John Baxendale was a quiet, reserved man, living respectably

with his wife and daughter, but not saving. It was singular how

improvident most of them were. Daffodil's Delight was chiefly inhabited

by the workmen of the Messrs. Hunter; they seemed to love to congregate

there as in a nest. Some of the houses were crowded with them, a family

on a floor--even in a room; others rented a house to themselves, and

lived in comfort.

Assembled inside Sam Shuck's front room, which was a kitchen and not a

parlour, and to which the house door opened, were as many people as it

could well hold, all in their holiday attire. Abel White, his wife and

family; Jim Dunn, and his; Patrick Ryan and the childer (Pat's wife was

dead); and John Baxendale and his daughter, besides others; the whole

host of little Shucks, and half-a-dozen outside stragglers. Mrs. Quale

might well wonder how all the lot could be stuffed into the

pleasure-van. She darted into their midst.

'You never mean to say you be a-going off, like simpletons, at this time

o' day?' quoth she.

'Yes, we be,' answered Sam Shuck, a lanky, serpent sort of man in frame,

with a prominent black eye, a turned-up nose, and, as has been said, an

oily tongue. 'What have you got to say again it, Mrs. Quale? Come!'

'Say!' said that lady, undauntedly, but in a tone of reason rather than

rebuke, 'I say you may just as well fling your money in the gutter as to

go off to Epping at three o'clock in the afternoon. Why didn't you start

in the morning? If I hired a pleasure-van I'd have my money's worth out

of it.'

'It's just this here,' said Sam. 'It was ordered to be here as St.

Paul's great bell was a striking break o' day, but the wheels wasn't

greased; and they have been all this time a greasing 'em with the best

fresh butter at eighteen-pence a pound, had up from Devonshire on

purpose.'

'You hold your tongue, Sam,' reprimanded Mrs. Quale. 'You have been a

greasing your throat pretty strong, I see, with an extra pot or two;

you'll be in for it as usual before the day's out. How is it you are

going now?' she added, turning to the women.

'It's just the worst managed thing as I ever had to do with,' volubly

spoke up Jim Dunn's wife, Hannah. 'And it's all the fault o' the men: as

everything as goes wrong always is. There was a quarrel yesterday over

it, and nothing was settled, and this morning when we met they began a

jawing again. Some would go, and some wouldn't; some 'ud have a van to

the Forest, and some 'ud take a omnibus ride to the Zoological Gardens,

and see the beasts, and finish up at the play; some 'ud sit at home, and

smoke, and drink, and wouldn't go nowhere; and most of the men got off

to the "Bricklayers' Arms" and stuck there; and afore the difference was

settled in favour of the van and the Forest, twelve o'clock struck, and

then there was dinner to be had, and us to put ourselves to rights and

the van to be seen after. And there it is, now three o'clock's gone.'

'It'll be just a ride out, and a ride in,' cried Mrs. Quale; 'you won't

have much time to stop. Money must be plentiful with you, a fooling it

away like that. I thought some of you had better sense.'

'We spoke against it, father and I,' said quiet Mary Baxendale, in Mrs.

Quale's ear; 'but as we had given our word to join in it and share in

the expense, we didn't like to go from it again. Mother doesn't feel

strong to-day, so she's stopping at home.'

'It does seem stupid to start at this late hour,' spoke up a comely

woman, mild in speech, Robert Darby's wife. 'Better to have put it off

till to-morrow, and taken another day's holiday, as I told my master.

But when it was decided to go, we didn't say nay, for I couldn't bear to

disappoint the children.'

The children were already being lifted into the van. Sundry baskets and

bundles, containing provisions for tea, and stone bottles of porter for

the men, were being lifted in also. Then the general company got in;

Daffodil's Delight, those not bound on the expedition, assembling to

witness the ceremony, and Peter casting an eye at it from his parlour.

After much packing, and stowing, and laughing, and jesting, and the

gentlemen declaring the ladies must sit upon their laps three deep, the

van and its four horses moved off, and went lumbering down Daffodil's

Delight.

Mrs. Quale, after watching the last of it, was turning into her own

gate, when she heard a tapping at the window of the tenement on the

_other_ side of her house. Upon looking round, it was thrown open, and a

portly matron, dressed almost well enough for a lady, put out her head.

She was the wife of George Stevens, a very well-to-do workman, and most

respectable man.

'Are they going off to the Forest at this hour, that lot?'

'Ay,' returned Mrs. Quale; 'was ever such nonsense known? I'd have made

a day of it, if I had went. They'll get home at midnight, I expect, fit

to stand on their heads. Some of the men have had a'most as much as is

good for them now.'

'I say,' continued Mrs. Stevens, 'George says, will you and your master

come in for an hour or two this evening, and eat a bit of supper with

us? We shall have a nice dish o' beefsteaks and onions, or some

relishing thing of that sort, and the Cheeks are coming.'

'Thank ye,' said Mrs. Quale. 'I'll ask Peter. But don't go and get

anything hot.'

'I must,' was the answer. 'We had a shoulder of lamb yesterday, and we

finished it up to-day for dinner, with a salad; so there's nothing cold

in the house, and I'm forced to cook a bit of something. I say, don't

make it late; come at six. George--he's off somewhere, but he'll be in.'

Mrs. Quale nodded acquiescence, and went indoors. Her husband was

reading and smoking still.

'I'd have put it off till ten at night, and went then!' ironically cried

she, in allusion to the departed pleasure-party. 'A bickering and

contending they have been over it, Hannah Dunn says; couldn't come to an

agreement what they'd do, or what they wouldn't do! Did you ever see

such a load! Them poor horses 'll have enough of it, if the others

don't. I say, the Stevenses want us to go in there to supper to-night.

Beefsteaks and onions.'

Peter's head was bent attentively over a map in his book, and it

continued so bent for a minute or two. Then he raised it. 'Who's to be

there?'

'The Cheeks,' she said. 'I'll make haste and put the kettle on, and

we'll have our tea as soon as it boils. She says don't go in later than

six.'

Pinning on the coarse apron, Mrs. Quale passed into the kitchen to her

work. From the above slight sketch, it may be gathered that Daffodil's

Delight was, take it for all in all, in tolerably comfortable

circumstances. But for the wasteful mode of living generally pervading

it; the improvidence both of husbands and wives; the spending where they

need not have spent, and in things they would have been better

without--it would have been in _very_ comfortable circumstances: for, as

is well known, no class of operatives earn better wages than those

connected with the building trade.

'Is this Peter Quale's?'

The question proceeded from a stranger, who had entered the house

passage, and thence the parlour, after knocking at its door. Peter

raised his eyes, and beheld a tall, young, very gentleman-like man, in

grey travelling clothes and a crape band on his black hat. Of courteous

manners also, for he lifted his hat as he spoke, though Peter was only a

workman and had a paper cap on his head.

'I am Peter Quale,' said Peter, without moving.

Perhaps you may have already guessed that it was Austin Clay. He stepped

forward with a frank smile. 'I am sent here,' he said, 'by the Messrs.

Hunter. They desired me to inquire for Peter Quale.'

Peter was not wont to put himself out of the way for strangers: had a

Duke Royal vouchsafed him a visit, I question if Peter would have been

more than barely civil; but he knew his place with respect to his

employers, and what was due to them--none better; and he rose up at

their name, and took off his paper cap, and laid his pipe inside the

fender, and spoke a word of apology to the gentleman before him.

'Pray do not mention it; do not disturb yourself,' said Austin, kindly.

'My name is Clay. I have just entered into an engagement with the

Messrs. Hunter, and am now in search of lodgings as conveniently near

their yard as may be. Mr. Henry Hunter said he thought you had rooms

which might suit me: hence my intrusion.'

'Well, sir, I don't know,' returned Peter, rather dubiously. He was one

of those who are apt to grow bewildered with any sudden proposition;

requiring time, as may be said, to take it in, before he could digest

it.

'You are from the country, sir, maybe?'

'I am from the country. I arrived in London but an hour ago, and my

portmanteau is yet at the station. I wish to settle where I shall lodge,

before I go to get it. Have you rooms to let?'

'Here, Nancy, come in!' cried Peter to his wife. 'The rooms are in

readiness to be shown, aren't they?'

Mrs. Quale required no second call. Hearing a strange voice, and gifted

in a remarkable degree with what we are taught to look upon as her sex's

failing--curiosity--she had already discarded again the apron, and made

her appearance in time to receive the question.

'Ready and waiting,' answered she. 'And two better rooms for their size

you won't find, sir, search London through,' she said, volubly, turning

to Austin. 'They are on the first floor--a nice sitting-room, and a

bedchamber behind it. The furniture is good, and clean, and handsome;

for, when we were buying of it, we didn't spare a few pounds, knowing

such would keep good to the end. Would you please step up, sir, and take

a look at them?'

Austin acquiesced, motioning to her to lead the way. She dropped a

curtsey as she passed him, as if in apology for taking it. He followed,

and Peter brought up the rear, a dim notion penetrating Peter's brain

that the attention was due from him to one sent by the Messrs. Hunter.

Two good rooms, as she had said; small, but well fitted up. 'You'd be

sure to be comfortable, sir,' cried Mrs. Quale to Austin. 'If _I_ can't

make lodgers comfortable, I don't know who can. Our last gentleman came

to us three years ago, and left but a month since. He was a barrister's

clerk, but he didn't get well paid, and he lodged in this part for

cheapness.'

'The rooms would suit me, so far as I can judge,' said Austin, looking

round; 'suit me very well indeed, if we can agree upon terms. My pocket

is but a shallow one at present,' he laughed.

'I would make _them_ easy enough for any gentleman sent by the masters,'

struck in Peter. 'Did you say your name was Clay, sir?'

'Clay,' assented Austin.

Mrs. Quale wheeled round at this, and took a free, full view of the

gentleman from head to foot. 'Clay? Clay?' she repeated to herself. 'And

there _is_ a likeness, if ever I saw one! Sir,' she hastily inquired,

'do you come from the neighbourhood of Ketterford?'

'I come from Ketterford itself,' replied he.

'Ah, but you were not born right in the town. I think you must be Austin

Clay, sir; the orphan son of Mr. Clay and his wife--Miss Austin that

used to be. They lived at the Nash farm. Sir, I have had you upon my lap

scores of times when you were a little one.'

'Why----who are you?' exclaimed Austin.

'You can't have forgot old Mr. Austin, the great-uncle, sir? though you

were only seven years old when he died. I was Ann Best, cook to the old

gentleman, and I heard all the ins and outs of the marriage of your

father and mother. The match pleased neither family, and so they just

took the Nash farm for themselves, to be independent and get along

without being beholden for help to anybody. Many a fruit puff have I

made for you, Master Austin; many a currant cake: how things come round

in this world! Do take our rooms, sir--it will seem like serving my old

master over again.'

'I will take them willingly, and be glad to fall into such good hands.

You will not require references now?'

Mrs. Quale laughed. Peter grunted resentfully. References from anybody

sent by the Messrs. Hunter! 'I would say eight shillings a week, sir,'

said Peter, looking at his wife. 'Pay as you like; monthly, or

quarterly, or any way.'

'That's less than I expected,' said Austin, in his candour. 'Mr. Henry

Hunter thought they would be about ten shillings.'

Peter was candid also. 'There's the neighbourhood to be took into

consideration, sir, which is not a good one, and we can only let

according to it. In some parts--and not far off, neither--you'd pay

eighteen or twenty shillings for such rooms as these; in Daffodil's

Delight it is different, though this is the best quarter of it. The last

gentleman paid us nine. If eight will suit you, sir, it will suit us.'

So the bargain was struck; and Austin Clay went back to the station for

his luggage. Mrs. Quale, busy as a bee, ran in to tell her next-door

neighbour that she could not be one of the beef-steak-and-onion eaters

that night, though Peter might, for she should have her hands full with

their new lodger. 'The nicest, handsomest young fellow,' she wound up

with; 'one it will be a pleasure to wait on.'

'Take care what you be at, if he's a stranger,' cried cautious Mrs.

Stevens. 'There's no trusting those country folks: they run away

sometimes. It looks odd, don't it, to come after lodgings one minute,

and enter upon 'em the next?'

'Very odd,' assented Mrs. Quale, with a laugh. 'Why, it was Mr. Henry

Hunter sent him round here; and he has got a post in their house.'

'What sort of one?' asked Mrs. Stevens, sceptical still.

'Who knows? Something superior to the best of us workpeople, you may be

sure. He belongs to gentlefolks,' concluded Mrs. Quale. 'I knew him as a

baby. It was in his mother's family I lived before I married. He's as

like his mother as two peas, and a handsome woman was Mrs. Clay.

Good-bye: I'm going to get the sheets on to his bed now.'

Mrs. Quale, however, found that she was, after all, able to assist at

the supper; for, when Austin came back, it was only to dress himself and

go out, in pursuance of the invitation he had accepted to dine at Mr.

Henry Hunter's. With all his haste it had struck six some minutes when

he got there.

Mrs. Henry Hunter, a very pretty and very talkative woman, welcomed him

with both hands, and told her children to do the same, for it was 'the

gentleman who saved papa.' There was no ceremony; he was received quite

_en famille_; no other guest was present, and three or four of the

children dined at table. He appeared to find favour with them all. He

talked on business matters with Mr. Henry Hunter; on lighter topics with

his wife; he pointed out some errors in Mary Hunter's drawings, which

she somewhat ostentatiously exhibited to him, and showed her how to

rectify them. He entered into the school life of the two young boys,

from their classics to their scrapes; and nursed a pretty little lady of

five, who insisted on appropriating his knee--bearing himself throughout

all with the modest reticence--the refinement of the innate gentleman.

Mrs. Henry Hunter was charmed with him.

'How do you think you shall like your quarters?' she asked. 'Mr. Hunter

told me he recommended you to Peter Quale's.'

'Very well. At least they will do. Mrs. Quale, it appears, is an old

friend of mine.'

'An old friend! Of yours!'

'She claims me as one, and says she has nursed me many a time when I was

a child. I had quite forgotten her, and all about her, though I now

remember her name. She was formerly a servant in my mother's family,

near Ketterford.'

Thus Austin Clay had succeeded without delay or difficulty in obtaining

employment, and was, moreover, received on a footing of equality in the

house of Mr. Henry Hunter. We shall see how he gets on.

CHAPTER V.

MISS GWINN'S VISIT.

Were there space, it might be well to trace Austin Clay's progress step

by step--his advancements and his drawbacks--his smooth-sailing and his

difficulties; for, that his course was not free from difficulties and

drawbacks you may be very sure. I do not know whose is. If any had

thought he was to be represented as perfection, they were mistaken. Yet

he managed to hold on his way without moral damage, for he was

high-principled in every sense of the word. But there is neither time

nor space to give to these particulars that regard himself alone.

Austin Clay sat one day in a small room of the office, making

corrections in a certain plan, which had been roughly sketched. It was a

hot day for the beginning of autumn, some three or four months having

elapsed since his installation at Hunter and Hunter's. The office boy

came in to interrupt him.

'Please, sir, here's a lady outside, asking if she can see young Mr.

Clay.'

'A lady!' repeated Austin, in some wonder. 'Who is it?'

'I think she's from the country, sir,' said the sharp boy. 'She have got

a big nosegay in her hand and a brown reticule.'

'Does she wear widow's weeds?' questioned Austin hastily, an idea

flashing over him that Mrs. Thornimett might have come up to town.

'Weeds?' replied the boy, staring, as if at a loss to know what 'weeds'

might mean. 'She have got a white veil on, sir.'

'Oh,' said Austin. 'Well, ask her to come in. But I don't know any lady

that can want me. Or who has any business to come here if she does,' he

added to himself.

The lady came in: a very tall one. She wore a dark silk dress, a

shepherd's plaid shawl, a straw bonnet, and a white veil. The reticule

spoken of by the boy was in her hand; but the nosegay she laid down on a

bench just outside the door. Austin rose to receive her.

'You are doubtless surprised to see me, Austin Clay. But, as I was

coming to London on business--I always do at this season of the year--I

got your address from Mrs. Thornimett, having a question to put to you.'

Without ceremony, without invitation, she sat herself down on a chair.

More by her voice than her features--for she kept her veil before her

face--did Austin recognise her. It was Miss Gwinn. He recognised her

with dismay. Mr. Henry Hunter was about the premises, liable to come in

at any moment, and then might occur a repetition of that violent scene

to which he had been a witness. Often and often had his mind recurred to

the affair; it perplexed him beyond measure. Was Mr. Henry Hunter the

stranger to her he asserted himself to be, or was he not? 'What shall I

do with her?' thought Austin.

'Will you shut the door?' she said, in a peremptory, short tone, for the

boy had left it open.

'I beg your pardon, Miss Gwinn,' interrupted Austin, necessity giving

him courage. 'Though glad to see you myself, I am at the present hour so

busy that it is next to impossible for me to give you my attention. If

you will name any place where I can wait upon you after business hours,

this, or any other evening, I shall be happy to meet you.'

Miss Gwinn ranged her eyes round the room, looking possibly, for

confirmation of his words. 'You are not so busy as to be unable to spare

a minute to me. You were but looking over a plan.'

'It is a plan that is being waited for.' Which was true. 'And you must

forgive me for reminding you--I do it in all courtesy--that my time and

this room do not belong to me, but to my employers.'

'Boy! what is your motive for seeking to get rid of me?' she asked,

abruptly. 'That you have one, I can see.'

Austin was upon thorns. He had not taken a seat. He stood near the door,

pencil in hand, hoping it would induce her to move. At that moment

footsteps were heard, and the office-door was pushed wide open.

It was Mr. Hunter. He stopped on the threshold, seeing a lady, an

unusual sight there, and came to the conclusion that it must be some

stranger for Mr. Clay. Her features, shaded by the thick white veil,

were indistinct, and Mr. Hunter but glanced at her. Miss Gwinn on the

contrary looked full at him, as she did at most people, and bent her

head as a slight mark of courtesy. He responded by lifting his hat, and

went out again.

'One of the principals, I suppose?' she remarked.

'Yes,' he replied, feeling thankful that it was not Mr. Henry. 'I

believe he wants me, Miss Gwinn.'

'I am not going to keep you from him. The question I wish to put to you

will be answered in a sentence. Austin Clay, have you, since----'

'Allow me one single instant first, then,' interrupted Austin, resigning

himself to his fate, 'just to speak a word of explanation to Mr.

Hunter.'

He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Standing at

the outer door, close by, open to the yard, was Mr. Hunter. Austin, in

his haste and earnestness, grasped his arm.

'Find Mr. Henry, sir,' he whispered. 'Wherever he may be, let him keep

there--out of sight--until she--this person--has gone. It is Miss

Gwinn.'

'Who? What do you say?' cried Mr. Hunter, staring at Austin.

'It is that Miss Gwinn. The woman who set upon Mr. Henry in that strange

manner. She----'

Miss Gwinn opened the door at this juncture, and looked out upon them.

Mr. Hunter walked briskly away in search of his brother. Austin turned

back again.

She closed the door when he was inside the room, keeping her hand upon

it. She did not sit down, but stood facing Austin, whom she held before

her with the other hand.

'Have you, since you came to London, seen aught of my enemy?--that man

whom you saved from his death in the gravel pits? Boy! answer me

truthfully.'

He remained silent, scarcely seeing what his course ought to be; or

whether in such a case a lie of denial might not be justifiable. But the

hesitation spoiled that, for she read it arightly.

'No need of your affirmative,' she said. 'I see you have met him. Where

is he to be found?'

There was only one course for him now; and he took it, in all

straightforward openness.

'It is true I have seen that gentleman, Miss Gwinn, but I can tell you

nothing about him.'

She looked fixedly at him. 'That you cannot, or that you will not?

Which?'

'That I will not. Forgive the seeming incivility of the avowal, but I

consider that I ought not to comply with your request--that I should be

doing wrong?'

'Explain. What do you mean by "wrong?"'

'In the first place, I believe you were mistaken with regard to the

gentleman: I do not think he was the one for whom you took him. In the

second place, even if he be the one, I cannot make it my business to

bring you into contact with him, and so give rise--as it probably

would--to further violence.'

There was a pause. She threw up her veil and looked fixedly at him,

struggling for composure, her lips compressed, her face working.

'You know who he is, and where he lives,' she jerked forth.

'I acknowledge that.'

'How dare you take part against me?' she cried, in agitation.

'I do not take part against you, Miss Gwinn,' he replied, wishing some

friendly balloon would come and whirl her away; for Mr. Hunter might not

find his brother to give the warning. 'I do not take his part more than

I take yours, only in so far as that I decline to tell you who and where

he is. Had he the same ill-feeling towards you, and wished to know where

you might be found, I would not tell him.'

'Austin Clay, you _shall_ tell me.'

He drew himself up to his full height, speaking in all the quiet

consciousness of resolution. 'Never of my own free will. And I think,

Miss Gwinn, there are no means by which you can compel me.'

'Perhaps the law might?' She spoke dreamily, not in answer to him, but

in commune with herself, as if debating the question. 'Fare you well for

the present, young man; but I have not done with you.'

To his intense satisfaction she turned out of the office, catching up

the flowers as she went. Austin attended her to the outer gate. She

strode straight on, not deigning to cast a glance to the busy yard, with

its sheds, its timber, its implements of work, and its artisans, all

scattered about it.

'Believe me,' he said, holding out his hand as a peace-offering, 'I am

not willingly discourteous. I wish I could see my way clear to help

you.'

She did not take the hand; she walked away without another word or look,

and Austin went back again. Mr. Hunter advanced to meet him from the

upper end of the yard, and went with him into the small room.

'What was all that, Clay? I scarcely understood.'

'I daresay not, sir, for I had no time to be explanatory. It seems

she--Miss Gwinn--has come to town on business. She procured my address

from Mrs. Thornimett, and came here to ask of me if I had seen anything

of her enemy--meaning Mr. Henry Hunter. I feared lest he should be

coming in; I could only beg of you to find Mr. Henry, and warn him not.

That is all, sir.'

Mr. Hunter stood with his back to Austin, softly whistling--his habit

when in deep thought. 'What can be her motive for wanting to find him?'

he presently said.

'She speaks of revenge. Of course I do not know for what: I cannot give

a guess. There's no doubt she is mistaken in the person, when she

accuses Mr. Henry Hunter.'

'Well,' returned Mr. Hunter, 'I said nothing to my brother, for I did

not understand what there was to say. It will be better not to tell him

now; the woman is gone, and the subject does not appear to be a pleasant

one. Do you hear?'

'Very well, sir.'

'I think I understood, when the affair was spoken of some time ago, that

she does not know him as Mr. Hunter?'

'Of course she does not,' said Austin. 'She would have been here after

him before now if she did. She came this morning to see me, not

suspecting she might meet him.'

'Ah! Better keep the visit close,' cried Mr. Hunter, as he walked away.

Now, it had occurred to Austin that it would be better to do just the

opposite thing. _He_ should have told Mr. Henry Hunter, and left that

gentleman to seek out Miss Gwinn, or not, as he might choose. A sudden

meeting between them in the office, in the hearing of the yard, and with

the lady in excitement, was not desirable; but that Mr. Henry Hunter

should clear himself, now that she was following him up, and convince

her it was not he who was the suspected party, was, Austin thought,

needful--that is, if he could do it. However, he could only obey Mr.

Hunter's suggestions.

Austin resumed his occupation. His brain and fingers were busy over the

plan, when he saw a gig drive into the yard. It contained the great

engineer, Sir Michael Wilson. Mr. Henry Hunter came down the yard to

meet him; they shook hands, and entered the private room together. In a

few minutes Mr. Henry came to Austin.

'Are you particularly engaged, Clay?'

'Only with this plan, sir. It is wanted as soon as I can get it done.'

'You can leave it for a quarter of an hour. I wish you to go round to

Dr. Bevary. I was to have been at his house now--half-past eleven--to

accompany him on a visit to a sick friend. Tell him that Sir Michael has

come, and I have to go out with him, therefore it is impossible for me

to keep my engagement. I am very sorry, tell Bevary: these things always

happen crossly. Go right into his consulting-room, Clay; never mind

patients; or else he will be chafing at my delay, and grumble the

ceiling off.'

Austin departed. Dr. Bevary occupied a good house in the main street, to

the left of the yard, to gain which he had to pass the turning to

Daffodil's Delight. Had Dr. Bevary lived to the right of the yard, his

practice might have been more exclusive; but doctors cannot always

choose their localities, circumstances more frequently doing that for

them. He had a large connexion, and was often pressed for time.

Down went Austin, and gained the house. Just inside the open door,

before which a close carriage was standing, was the doctor's servant.

'Dr. Bevary is engaged, sir, with a lady patient,' said the man. 'He is

very particularly engaged for the moment, but I don't think he'll be

long.'

'I'll wait,' said Austin, not deeming it well strictly to follow Mr.

Henry Hunter's directions; and he turned, without ceremony, to the

little box of a study on the left of the hall.

'Not there, sir,' interposed the man hastily, and he showed him into the

drawing-room on the right; Dr. Bevary and his patient being in the

consulting-room.

Ten minutes of impatience to Austin. What could any lady mean by keeping

him so long, in his own house? Then they came forth. The lady, a very

red and portly one, rather old, was pushed into her carriage by the help

of her footman, Austin watching the process from the window. The

carriage then drove off.

The doctor did not come in. Austin concluded the servant must have

forgotten to tell him he was there. He crossed the hall to the little

study, the doctor's private room, knocked and entered.

'I am not to care for patients,' called out he gaily, believing the

doctor was alone; 'Mr. Henry Hunter says so.' But to his surprise, a

patient was sitting there--at least, a lady; sitting, nose and knees

together, with Dr. Bevary, and talking hurriedly and earnestly, as if

they had the whole weight of the nation's affairs on their shoulders.

It was Miss Gwinn. The flowers had apparently found their home, for

they were in a vase on the table. Austin took it all in at a glance.

'So it is you, is it, Austin Clay?' she exclaimed. 'I was acquainting

Dr. Bevary with your refusal to give me that man's address, and asking

his opinion whether the law could compel you. Have you come after me to

say you have thought better of it?'

Austin was decidedly taken aback. It might have been his fancy, but he

thought he saw a look of caution go out to him from Dr. Bevary's eyes.

'Was your visit to this lady, Mr. Clay?'

'No, sir, it was to you. Sir Michael Wilson has come down on business,

and Mr. Henry Hunter will not be able to keep his appointment with you.

He desired me to say that he was sorry, but that it was no fault of

his.'

Dr. Bevary nodded. 'Tell him I was about to send round to say that I

could not keep mine with him so it's all right. Another day will----'

A sharp cry. A cry of passion, of rage, almost of terror. It came from

Miss Gwinn; and the doctor, breaking off his sentence, turned to her in

amazement.

It was well he did so; it was well he caught her hands. Another moment,

and she would have dashed them through the window, and perhaps herself

also. Driving by, in the gig, were Sir Michael Wilson and Mr. Henry

Hunter. It was at the latter she gazed, at him she pointed.

'Do you see him? Do you see him?' she panted to the doctor. 'That's the

man; not the one driving; the other--the one sitting this way. Oh, Dr.

Bevary, will you believe me now? I told you I met him at Ketterford; and

there he is again! Let me go!'

She was strong almost as a wild animal, wrestling with the doctor to get

from him. He made a motion to Austin to keep the door, and there ensued

a sharp struggle. Dr. Bevary got her into an arm-chair at last, and

stood before her, holding her hands, at first in silence. Then he spoke

calmly, soothingly, as he would to a child.

'My dear lady, what will become of you if you give way to these fits of

violence? But for me, I really believe you would have been through the

window. A pretty affair of spikes that would be! I should have had you

laid up in my house for a month, covered over with sticking-plaster.'

'If you had not stopped me I might have caught that gig,' was her

passionate rejoinder.

'Caught that gig! A gig going at the rate of ten miles an hour, if it

was going one! By the time you had got down the steps of my door it

would have been out of sight. How people can drive at that random rate

in London streets, _I_ can't think.'

'_How_ can I find him? How can I find him?'

Her tone was quite a wail of anguish. However they might deprecate her

mistaken violence, it was impossible but that both her hearers should

feel compassion for her. She laid her hand on the doctor's arm.

'Will you not help me to find him, Dr. Bevary? Did you note him?'

'So far as to see that there were two persons in the gig, and that they

were men, not women. Do you feel sure it was the man you speak of? It is

so easy to be mistaken in a person who is being whirled along swiftly.'

'Mistaken!' she returned, in a strangely significant tone. 'Dr. Bevary,

I am sure it was he. I have not kept him in my mind for years, to

mistake him now. Austin Clay,' she fiercely added, turning round upon

Austin, '_you_ speak; speak the truth; I saw you look after them. Was

it, or was it not, the man whom I met at Ketterford?'

'I believe it was,' was Austin's answer. 'Nevertheless, Miss Gwinn, I do

not believe him to be the enemy you spoke of--the one who worked you

ill. He denies it just as solemnly as you assert it; and I am sure he is

a truthful man.'

'And that I am a liar?'

'No. That you believe what you assert is only too apparent. I think it a

case, on your side, of mistaken identity.'

Happening to raise his eyes, Austin caught those of Dr. Bevary fixed

upon him with a keen, troubled, earnest gaze. It asked, as plainly as a

gaze could ask, '_Do_ you believe so? or is the falsehood on _his_

side?'

'Will you disclose to Dr. Bevary the name of that man, if you will not

to me?'

Again the gentlemen's eyes met, and this time an unmistakeable warning

of caution gleamed forth from Dr. Bevary's. Austin could only obey it.

'I must decline to speak of him in any way, Miss Gwinn,' said he; 'you

had my reasons before. Dr. Bevary, I have given you the message I was

charged with. I must wish you both good day.'

Austin walked back, full of thought, his belief somewhat wavering. 'It

is very strange,' he reflected. 'Could a woman, could any one be so

positive as she is, unless thoroughly sure? What _is_ the mystery, I

wonder? That it was no sentimental affair between them, or rubbish of

that sort, is patent by the difference of their ages; she looks pretty

nearly old enough to be his mother. Mr. Henry Hunter's is a remarkable

face--one that would alter little in a score of years.'

The bell was ringing twelve as he approached the yard, and the workmen

were pouring out of it, on their way home to dinner. Plentiful tables

awaited them; little care was on their minds; flourishing was every

branch of the building trade then. Peter Quale came up to Austin.

'Sam Shuck have just been up here, sir, a-eating humble pie, and praying

to be took on again. But the masters be both absent; and Mr. Mills, he

said he didn't choose, in a thing like this, to act on his own

responsibility, for he heard Mr. Hunter say Shuck shouldn't again be

employed.'

'I would not take him on,' replied Austin, 'if it rested with me; an

idle, skulking, deceitful vagabond, drunk and incapable at one time,

striving to spread discontent among the men at another. He has been on

the loose for a fortnight now. But it is not my affair, Quale; Mr. Mills

is manager.'

The yard, between twelve and one, was pretty nearly deserted. The

gentleman, spoken of as Mr. Mills, and Austin, usually remained; the

principals would sometimes be there, and an odd man or two. The

timekeeper lived in the yard. Austin rather liked that hour; it was

quiet. He was applying to his plan with a zest, when another

interruption came, in the shape of Dr. Bevary. Austin began to think he

might as well put the drawing away altogether.

'Anybody in the offices, Mr. Clay, except you?' asked the doctor.

'Not indoors. Mills is about somewhere.'

Down sat the doctor, and fixed his keen eyes upon Austin. 'What took

place here this morning with Miss Gwinn?'

'No harm, sir,' replied Austin, briefly explaining. 'As it happened, Mr.

Henry kept away. Mr. Hunter came in and saw her; but that was all.'

'What is your opinion?' abruptly asked the doctor. 'Come, give it

freely. You have your share of judgment, and of discretion too, or I

should not ask it. Is she mistaken, or is Henry Hunter false?'

Austin did not immediately reply. Dr. Bevary mistook the cause of his

silence.

'Don't hesitate, Clay. You know I am trustworthy; and it is not I who

would stir to harm a Hunter. If I seek to come to the bottom of this

affair, it is that I may do what I can to repair damage; to avert some

of the fruits of wrong-doing.'

'If I hesitated, Dr. Bevary, it was that I am really at a loss what

answer to give. When Mr. Henry Hunter denies that he knows the woman, or

that he ever has known her, he appears to me to speak open truth. On the

other hand, these recognitions of Miss Gwinn's, and her persistency,

are, to say the least of them, suspicious and singular. Until within an

hour I had full trust in Mr. Henry Hunter; now I do not know what to

think. She seemed to recognise him in the gig so surely.'

'He does not appear'--Dr. Bevary appeared to be speaking to himself, and

his head was bent--'like one who carries about with him some dark

secret.'

'Mr. Henry Hunter? None less. Never a man whose outside gave indications

of a clearer conscience. But, Dr. Bevary, if her enemy be Mr. Henry

Hunter, how is it she does not know him by name?'

'Ay, there's another point. She evidently attaches no importance to the

name of Hunter.'

'What was the name of--of the enemy she talks of?' asked Austin. 'We

must call him "enemy" for want of a better name. Do you know it,

doctor?'

'No. Can't get it out of her. Never could get it out of her. I asked her

again to-day, but she evaded the question.'

'Mr. Hunter thought it would be better to keep her visit this morning a

secret from his brother, as they had not met. I, on the contrary, should

have told him of it.'

'No,' hastily interposed Dr. Bevary, putting up his hand with an

alarmed, warning gesture. 'The only way is, to keep her and Henry Hunter

apart.'

'I wonder,' mused Austin, 'what brings her to town?'

The doctor threw his penetrating gaze into Austin's eyes. 'Have you no

idea what it is?'

'None, sir. She seemed to intimate that she came every year.'

'Good. Don't try to form any, my young friend. It would not be a

pleasant secret, even for you to hold!'

He rose as he spoke, nodded, and went out, leaving Austin Clay in a

state of puzzled bewilderment. It was not lessened when, an hour later,

Austin encountered Dr. Bevary's close carriage, driving rapidly along

the street, the doctor seated inside it, and Miss Gwinn beside him.

CHAPTER VI.

TRACKED HOME.

I think it has been mentioned that the house next door to the Quales',

detached from it however, was inhabited by two families: the lower part

by Mr. Samuel Shuck, his wife, and children; the upper and best part by

the Baxendales. No two sets of people could be more dissimilar; the one

being as respectable as the other was disreputable. John Baxendale's

wife was an invalid; she had been so, on and off, for a long while.

There was an only daughter, and she and her mother held themselves very

much aloof from the general society of Daffodil's Delight.

On the morning following the day spoken of in the last chapter as

distinguished by the advent of Miss Gwinn in London, Mrs. Baxendale

found herself considerably worse than usual. Mr. Rice, the apothecary,

who was the general attendant in Daffodil's Delight, and lived at its

corner, had given her medicine, and told her to 'eat well and get up her

strength.' But, somehow, the strength and the appetite did not come; on

the contrary, she got weaker and weaker. She was in very bad spirits

this morning, was quite unable to get up, and cried for some time in

silence.

'Mother, dear,' said Mary Baxendale, going into her room, 'you'll have

the doctor gone out, I fear.'

'Oh, Mary! I cannot get up--I cannot go,' was the answer, delivered with

a burst of sobbing sorrow. 'I shall never rise from my bed again.'

The words fell on the daughter with a terrible shock. Her fears in

regard to her mother's health had long been excited, but this seemed

like a confirmation of a result she had never dared openly to face. She

was not a very capable sort of girl--the reverse of what is called

strong-minded; but the instinct imparted by all true affection warned

her to make light of her mother's words.

'Nay, mother, it's not so bad as that,' she said, checking her tears.

'You'll get up again fast enough. You are feeling low, maybe, this

morning.'

'Child, I am too weak to get up--too ill. I don't think I shall ever be

about again.'

Mary sat down in a sort of helpless perplexity.

'What is to be done?' she cried.

Mrs. Baxendale asked herself the same question as she lay. Finding

herself no better under Mr. Rice's treatment, she had at length

determined to do what she ought to have done at first--consult Dr.

Bevary.

From half-past eight to ten, three mornings in the week, Dr. Bevary gave

advice gratis; and Mrs. Baxendale was on this one to have gone to

him--rather a formidable visit, as it seemed to her, and perhaps the

very thought of it had helped to make her worse.

'What is to be done?' repeated Mary.

'Could you not wait upon him, child, and describe my symptoms?'

suggested the sick woman, after weighing the dilemma in her mind. 'It

might do as well. Perhaps he can write for me.'

'Oh, mother, I don't like to go!' exclaimed Mary, in the impulse of the

moment.

'But, my dear, what else is to be done?' urged Mrs. Baxendale. 'We can't

ask a great gentleman like that to come to me.'

'To be sure--true. Oh, yes, I'll go, mother.'

Mary got herself ready without another word. Mrs. Baxendale, a superior

woman for her station in life, had brought up her daughter to be

thoroughly dutiful. It had seemed a formidable task to the mother, the

going to this physician, this 'great gentleman;' it seemed a far worse

to the daughter, and especially the having to explain symptoms and

ailments at second-hand. But the great physician was a very pleasant

man, and would nod good-humouredly to Mary, when by chance he met her in

the street.

'Tell him, with my duty, that I am not equal to coming myself,' said

Mrs. Baxendale, when Mary stood ready in her neat straw bonnet and

light shawl. 'I ought to have gone weeks ago, and that's the truth.

Don't forget to describe the pain in my right side, and the flushings of

heat.'

So Mary went on her way, and was admitted to the presence of Dr. Bevary,

where she told her tale with awkward timidity.

'Ah! a return of the old weakness that she had years ago,' remarked the

doctor. 'I told her she must be careful. Too ill to get up? Why did she

not come to me before?'

'I suppose, sir, she did not much like to trouble you,' responded Mary.

'She has been hoping from week to week that Mr. Rice would do her good.'

'_I_ can't do her good, unless I see her,' cried the doctor. 'I might

prescribe just the wrong thing, you know.'

Mary repressed her tears.

'I am afraid, then, she must die, sir. She said this morning she thought

she should never get up from her bed again.'

'I'll step round some time to-day and see her,' said Dr. Bevary. 'But

now, don't you go chattering that to the whole parish. I should have

every sick person in it expecting me, as a right, to call and visit

them.'

He laughed pleasantly at Mary as he spoke, and she departed with a glad

heart. The visit had been so much less formidable in reality than in

anticipation.

As she reached Daffodil's Delight, she did not turn into it, but

continued her way to the house of Mrs. Hunter. Mary Baxendale took in

plain sewing, and had some in hand at present from that lady. She

inquired for Dobson. Dobson was Mrs. Hunter's own maid, and a very

consequential one.

'Not able to get Miss Hunter's night-dresses home on Saturday!' grumbled

Dobson, when she appeared and heard what Mary had to say. 'But you must,

Mary Baxendale. You promised them, you know.'

'I should not have promised had I known that my mother would have grown

worse,' said Mary. 'A sick person requires a deal of waiting on, and

there's only me. I'll do what I can to get them home next week, if that

will do.'

'I don't know that it will do,' snapped Dobson. 'Miss Florence may be

wanting them. A promise is a promise, Mary Baxendale.'

'Yes, it will do, Mary,' cried Florence Hunter, darting forward from

some forbidden nook, whence she had heard the colloquy, and following

Mary down the steps into the street. A fair sight was that child to look

upon, with her white muslin dress, her blue ribbons, her flowing hair,

and her sweet countenance, radiant as a summer's morning. 'Mamma is not

downstairs yet, or I would ask her--she is ill, too--but I know I do not

want them. Never you mind them, and never mind Dobson either, but nurse

your mother.'

Dobson drew the young lady back, asking her if such behaviour was not

enough to 'scandalize the square;' and Mary Baxendale returned home.

Dr. Bevary paid his visit to Mrs. Baxendale about mid-day. His practised

eye saw with certainty what others were only beginning to suspect--that

Death had marked her. He wrote a prescription, gave some general

directions, said he would call again, and told Mrs. Baxendale she would

be better out of bed than in it.

Accordingly, after his departure, she got up and went into the front

room, which they made their sitting-room. But the exertion caused her to

faint; she was certainly on this day much worse than usual. John

Baxendale was terribly concerned, and did not go back to his work after

dinner. When the bustle was over, and she seemed pretty comfortable

again, somebody burst into the room, without knocking or other ceremony.

It was one of the Shucks, a young man of eight, in tattered clothes, and

a shock head of hair. He came to announce that Mrs. Hunter's maid was

asking for Mary, and little Miss Hunter was there, too, and said, might

she come up and see Mrs. Baxendale.

Both were requested to walk up. Dobson had brought a gracious message

from her mistress (not graciously delivered, though), that the sewing

might wait till it was quite convenient to do it; and Florence produced

a jar, which she had insisted upon carrying herself, and had thereby

split her grey kid gloves, it being too large for her hands.

'It is black-currant jelly, Mrs. Baxendale,' she said, with the

prettiest, kindest air, as she freely sat down by the sick woman's side.

'I asked mamma to let me bring some, for I remember when I was ill I

only liked black-currant jelly. Mamma is so sorry to hear you are worse,

and she will come to see you soon.'

'Bless your little heart, Miss Florence!' exclaimed the invalid. 'The

same dear child as ever--thinking of other people and not of yourself.'

'I have no need to think for myself,' said Florence. 'Everything I want

is got ready for me. I wish you did not look so ill. I wish you would

have my uncle Bevary to see you. He cures everybody.'

'He has been kind enough to come round to-day, Miss,' spoke up John

Baxendale, 'and he'll come again, he says. I hope he will be able to do

the missis good. As you be a bit better,' he added to his wife, 'I think

I'll go back to my work.'

'Ay, do, John. There's no cause for you to stay at home. It was some

sort of weakness, I suppose, that came over me.'

John Baxendale touched his hair to Florence, nodded to Dobson, and went

downstairs and out. Florence turned to the open window to watch his

departure, ever restless, as a healthy child is apt to be.

'There's Uncle Henry!' she suddenly called out.

Mr. Henry Hunter was walking rapidly down Daffodil's Delight. He

encountered John Baxendale as the man went out of his gate.

'Not back at work yet, Baxendale?'

'The missis has been taken worse, sir,' was the man's reply. 'She

fainted dead off just now, and I declare I didn't know what to think

about her. She's all right again, and I am going round.'

At that moment there was heard a tapping at the window panes, and a

pretty little head was pushed out beneath them, nodding and laughing,

'Uncle Henry! How do you do, Uncle Henry?'

Mr. Henry Hunter nodded in reply, and pursued his way, unconscious that

the lynx eye of Miss Gwinn was following him, like a hawk watching its

prey.

It happened that she had penetrated Daffodil's Delight, hoping to catch

Austin Clay at his dinner, which she supposed he might be taking about

that hour. She held his address at Peter Quale's from Mrs. Thornimett.

Her object was to make a further effort to get from him what he knew of

the man she sought to find. Scarcely had she turned into Daffodil's

Delight, when she saw Mr. Henry Hunter at a distance. Away she tore

after him, and gained upon him considerably. She reached the house of

John Baxendale just as he, Baxendale, was re-entering it; for he had

forgotten something he must take with him to the yard. Turning her head

upon Baxendale for a minute as she passed, Miss Gwinn lost sight of Mr.

Henry Hunter.

How had he disappeared? Into the ground? or into a house? or down any

obscure passage that might be a short cut between Daffodil's Delight,

and some other Delight? or into that cab that was now whirling onwards

at such a rate? That he was no longer visible, was certain: and Miss

Gwinn was exceeding wroth. She came to the conclusion that he had seen

her, and hid himself in the cab, though she had not heard it stop.

But she had seen him spoken to from the window of that house, where the

workman had just gone in, and she determined to make inquiries there,

and so strode up the path. In the Shucks' kitchen there were only three

or four children, too young to give an answer. Miss Gwinn picked her way

through them, over the dirt and grease of the floor, and ascended to the

sitting-room above. She stood a minute to take in its view.

John Baxendale was on his knees, hunting among some tools at the bottom

of a closet; Mary was meekly exhibiting the progress of the nightgowns

to Dobson, who sat in state, sour enough to turn milk into curd; the

invalid was lying, pale, in her chair; while the young lady appeared to

be assisting at the tool-hunting, on her knees also, and chattering as

fast as her tongue could go. All looked up at the apparition of the

stranger, who stood there gazing in upon them.

'Can you tell me where a gentleman of the name of Lewis lives?' she

began, in an indirect, diplomatic, pleasant sort of way, for she no

doubt deemed it well to discard violence for tact. In the humour she was

in yesterday, she would have said, sharply and imperiously, 'Tell me the

name of that man I saw now pass your gate.'

John Baxendale rose. 'Lewis, ma'am? I don't know anybody of the name.'

A pause. 'It is very unfortunate,' she mildly resumed. 'I am in search

of the gentleman, and have not got his address. I believe he belongs to

this neighbourhood. Indeed, I am almost sure I saw him talking to you

just now at the gate--though my sight is none of the clearest from a

distance. The same gentleman to whom that young lady nodded.'

'That was my uncle Henry,' called out the child.

'Who?' cried she, sharply.

'It was Mr. Henry Hunter, ma'am, that was,' spoke up Baxendale.

'Mr. Henry Hunter!' she repeated, as she knit her brow on John

Baxendale. 'That gentleman is Mr. Lewis.'

'No, that he is not,' said John Baxendale. 'I ought to know, ma'am; I

have worked for him for some years.'

Here the mischief might have ended; there's no telling; but that busy

little tongue of all tongues--ah! what work they make!--began clapping

again.

'Perhaps you mean my papa? Papa's name is Lewis--James Lewis Hunter. But

he is never called Mr. Lewis. He is brother to my uncle Henry.'

A wild flush of crimson flashed over Miss Gwinn's sallow face. Something

within her seemed to whisper that her search was over. 'It is possible I

mistook the one for the other in the distance,' she observed, all her

new diplomacy in full play. 'Are they alike in person?' she continued to

John Baxendale.

'Not so much alike now, ma'am. In years gone by they were the very model

of one another; but Mr. Hunter has grown stout, and it has greatly

altered him. Mr. Henry looks just like what Mr. Hunter used to look.'

'And who are you, did you say?' she asked of Florence with an emphasis

that would have been quite wild, but that it was in a degree suppressed.

'You are not Mr. Lewis Hunter's daughter?'

'I am,' said Miss Florence.

'And----you have a mother?'

'Of course I have,' repeated the child.

A pause: the lady looked at John Baxendale. 'Then Mr. Lewis Hunter is a

married man?'

'To be sure he is,' said John, 'ever so many years ago. Miss Florence is

twelve.'

'Thank you,' said Miss Gwinn abruptly turning away. 'Good morning.'

She went down the stairs at a great rate, and did not stay to pick her

steps over the grease of the Shucks' floor.

'What a mistake to make!' was her inward comment, and she laughed as she

said it. 'I did not sufficiently allow for the lapse of years. If that

younger one had lost his life in the gravel pits, he would have died an

innocent man.'

Away to the yard now, as fast as her legs would carry her. In turning

in, she ran against Austin Clay.

'I want to speak with Mr. Hunter,' she imperiously said. 'Mr. Lewis

Hunter--not the one I saw in the gig.'

'Mr. Hunter is out of town, Miss Gwinn,' was Austin's reply. 'We do not

expect him at the yard to-day; he will not be home in time to come to

it.'

'Boy! you are deceiving me!'

'Indeed I am not,' he returned. 'Why should I? Mr. Hunter is not in the

habit of being denied to applicants. You might have spoken to him

yesterday when you saw him, had it pleased you so to do.'

'I never saw him yesterday.'

'Yes, you did, Miss Gwinn. That gentleman who came into the office and

bowed to you was Mr. Hunter.'

She stared Austin full in the face, as if unable to believe what he

said. '_That_ Mr. Hunter?--Lewis Hunter?'

'It was.'

'If so, _how_ he is altered!' And, throwing up her arms with a strange,

wild gesture, she turned and strode out of the yard. The next moment

Austin saw her come into it again.

'I want Mr. Lewis Hunter's private address, Austin Clay.'

But Austin was on his guard now. He did not relish the idea of giving

anybody's private address to such a person as Miss Gwinn, who might or

might not be mad.

She detected his reluctance.

'Keep it from me if you choose, boy,' she said, with a laugh that had a

ring of scorn. 'Better for you perhaps to be on the safe side. The first

workman I meet will give it me, or a court guide.'

And thus saying, she finally turned away. At any rate for the time

being.

Austin Clay resumed his work, and the day passed on to evening. When

business was over, he went home to make some alteration in his dress,

for he had to go by appointment to Mr. Hunter's, and on these occasions

he generally remained with them. It was beginning to grow dusk, and a

chillness seemed to be in the air.

The house occupied by Mr. Hunter was one of the best in the

west-central square. Ascending to it by a flight of steps, and passing

through a pillared portico, you found yourself in a handsome hall, paved

in imitation of mosaic. Two spacious sitting-rooms were on the left: the

front one was used as a dining-room, the other opened to a conservatory.

On the right of the hall, a broad flight of stairs led to the apartments

above, one of which was a fine drawing-room, fitted up with costly

elegance.

Mr. and Mrs. Hunter were seated in the dining-room. Florence was there

likewise, but not seated; it may be questioned if she ever did sit,

except when compelled. Dinner was over, but they frequently made this

their evening sitting-room. The drawing-room upstairs was grand, the

room behind was dull; this was cheerful, and looked out on the square.

Especially cheerful it looked on this evening, for a fire had been

lighted in the grate, and it cast a warm glow around in the fading

twilight.

Austin Clay was shown in, and invited to a seat by the fire, near Mrs.

Hunter. He had come in obedience to orders from Mr. Hunter, issued to

him when he, Mr. Hunter, had been going out that morning. His journey

had been connected with certain buildings then in process, and he

thought he might have directions to give with respect to the following

morning's early work.

A few minutes given by Austin and his master to business matters, and

then the latter left the room, and Austin turned to Mrs. Hunter.

Unusually delicate she looked, as she half sat, half lay back in her

chair, the firelight playing on her features. Florence had dragged

forth a stool, and was sitting on it in a queer sort of fashion, one leg

under her, at Austin's feet. He was a great favourite of hers, and she

made no secret of the liking.

'You are not looking well this evening,' he observed, in a gentle tone,

to Mrs. Hunter.

'I am not feeling well. I scarcely ever do feel well; never strong. I

sometimes think, Mr. Clay, what a mercy it is that we are not permitted

to foresee the future. If we could, some of us might be tempted

to--to--' she hesitated, and then went on in a lower tone--'to pray that

God might take us in youth.'

'The longer we live, the more we become impressed with the wonderful

wisdom that exists in the ordering of all things,' replied Austin. 'My

years have not been many, comparatively speaking; but I see it always,

and I know that I shall see it more and more.'

'The confirmed invalid, the man of care and sorrow, the incessant battle

for existence with those reduced to extreme poverty--had they seen their

future, as in a mirror, how could they have borne to enter upon it?'

dreamily observed Mrs. Hunter. 'And yet, I have heard people exclaim,

"How I wish I could foresee my destiny, and what is to happen to me!"'

'But the cares and ills of the world do not come near you, Mrs. Hunter,'

spoke Austin, after a pause of thought.

Mrs. Hunter smiled. 'From the cares and crosses of the world, as we

generally estimate cares and crosses, I am free. God has spared them to

me. He does not overwhelm us with ills; if one ill is particularly our

portion, we are generally spared from others. Mine lie in my want of

health, and in the thought that--that--I am rarely free from pain and

suffering,' she concluded. But Austin felt that it was not what she had

been about to say.

'What should we do if _all_ the ills came to us, mamma?' cried Florence,

who had been still, and was listening.

'My dear, if all the ills came to us, God would show us a way to bear

them. You know that He has promised so much; and His promises cannot

fail.'

'Clay,' cried Mr. Hunter, returning to the room and resuming his seat,

'did any one in particular call and want me to-day?'

'No, sir. Several came, but Mr. Henry saw them.'

'Did Arkwright come?' resumed Mr. Hunter.

'I think not; I did not see him. That--lady--who was there yesterday,

came again. She asked for you.'

A pause. Then Mr. Hunter spoke up sharply. 'For my brother, you mean.

She must have wanted him.'

'She certainly asked for you, sir. For Mr. Lewis Hunter.'

Those little ears pricked themselves up, and their owner unceremoniously

wheeled herself round on her stool, holding on by Austin's knee, as she

faced her father.

'There was a lady came to John Baxendale's rooms to-day, when I and

Dobson were there, and she asked for Mr. Lewis Hunter. At least--it was

the funniest thing, papa--she saw Uncle Henry talking to John Baxendale,

and she came up and said he was Mr. Lewis, and asked where he lived.

John Baxendale said it was Mr. Henry Hunter, and she said no, it was not

Mr. Henry Hunter, it was Mr. Lewis. So then we found out that she had

mistaken him for you, and that it was you she wanted. Who was she,

papa?'

'She--she--her business was with Henry,' spoke Mr. Hunter, in so

confused, so startled a sort of tone, not as if answering the child,

more as if defending himself to any who might be around, that Austin

looked up involuntarily. His face had grown lowering and angry, and he

moved his position, so that his wife's gaze should not fall upon it.

Austin's did, though.

At that moment there was heard a knock and ring at the house door, the

presumable announcement of a visitor. Florence, much addicted to acting

upon natural impulse, and thereby getting into constant hot water with

her governess, who assured her nothing could be more unbefitting a young

lady, quitted her stool and flew to the window. By dint of flattening

her nose and crushing her curls against a corner of one of its panes,

she contrived to obtain a partial view of the visitor.

'Oh dear! I hoped it was Uncle Bevary. Mamma's always better when he

comes; he tells her she is not so ill as she fancies. Papa!'

'What?' cried Mr. Hunter, quickly.

'I do believe it is that same lady who came to John Baxendale's. She is

as tall as a house.'

What possessed Mr. Hunter? He started up; he sprung half way across the

room, hesitated there, and glided back again. Glided stealthily as it

were; and stealthily touching Austin Clay, motioned him to follow him.

His hands were trembling; and the dark frown, full of embarrassment, was

still upon his features. Mrs. Hunter noticed nothing unusual; the

apartment was shaded in twilight, and she sat with her head turned to

the fire.

'Go to that woman, Clay!' came forth in a whisper from Mr. Hunter's

compressed lips, as he drew Austin outside the room. 'I cannot see her.

_You_ go.'

'What am I to say?' questioned Austin, feeling surprised and bewildered.

'Anything; anything. Only keep her from me.'

He turned back into the room as he spoke, and closed the door softly,

for Miss Gwinn was already in the hall. The servant had said his master

was at home, and was conducting her to the room where his master and

mistress sat, supposing it was some friend come to pay an hour's visit.

Austin thought he heard Mr. Hunter slip the bolt of the dining-room, as

he walked forward to receive Miss Gwinn.

Austin's words were quick and sharp, arresting the servant's footsteps.

'Not there, Mark! Miss Gwinn,' he courteously added, presenting himself

before her, 'Mr. Hunter is unable to see you this evening.'

'Who gave _you_ authority to interfere, Austin Clay?' was the response,

not spoken in a raving, angry tone, but in one of cold, concentrated

determination. 'I demand an interview with Lewis Hunter. That he is at

home, I know, for I saw him through the window, in the reflection of the

firelight, as I stood on the steps; and here I will remain until I

obtain speech of him, be it until to-morrow morning, be it until days to

come. Do you note my words, meddling boy? I _demand_ the interview; I do

not crave it: he best knows by what right.'

She sat deliberately down on one of the hall chairs. Austin, desperately

at a loss what to do, and seeing no means of getting rid of her save by

forcible expulsion, knocked gently at the room door again. Mr. Hunter

drew it cautiously open to admit him; then slipped the bolt, entwined

his arm within Austin's, and drew him to the window. Mrs. Hunter's

attention was absorbed by Florence, who was chattering to her.

'She has taken a seat in the hall, sir,' he whispered. 'She says she

will remain there until she sees you, though she should have to wait

until the morning. I am sure she means it: stop there, she will. She

says she demands the interview as a right.'

'No,' said Mr. Hunter, 'she possesses no _right_. But--perhaps I had

better see her, and get it over: otherwise she may make a disturbance.

Tell Mark to show her into the drawing-room, Clay; and you stay here and

talk to Mrs. Hunter.'

'What is the matter, that you are whispering? Does any one want you?'

interrupted Mrs. Hunter, whose attention was at length attracted.

'I am telling Clay that people have no right to come to my private house

on business matters,' was the reply given by Mr. Hunter. 'However, as

the person is here, I must see her, I suppose. Do not let us be

interrupted, Louisa.'

'But what does she want?--it was a lady, Florence said. Who is she?'

reiterated Mrs. Hunter.

'It is a matter of business of Henry's. She ought to have gone to him.'

Mr. Hunter looked at his wife and at Austin as he spoke. The latter was

leaving the room to do his bidding, and Miss Gwinn suffered herself to

be conducted quietly to the drawing-room.

A full hour did the interview last. The voices seemed occasionally to be

raised in anger, so that the sound penetrated to their ears downstairs,

from the room overhead. Mrs. Hunter grew impatient; the tea waited on

the table, and she wanted it. At length they were heard to descend, and

to cross the hall.

'James is showing her out himself,' said Mrs. Hunter. 'Will you tell him

we are waiting tea, Mr. Clay?'

Austin stepped into the hall, and started when he caught sight of the

face of Mr. Hunter. He was turning back from closing the door on Miss

Gwinn, and the bright rays of the hall-lamp fell full upon his

countenance. It was of ghastly whiteness; its expression one living

aspect of terror, of dread. He staggered, rather than walked, to a

chair, and sank into it. Austin hastened to him.

'Oh, sir, what is it? You are ill?'

The strong man, the proud master, calm hitherto in his native

self-respect, was for the moment overcome. He leaned his forehead upon

Austin's arm, hiding its pallor, and put up his finger for silence.

'I have had a stab, Clay,' he whispered. 'Bear with me, lad, for a

minute. I have had a cruel stab.'

Austin really did not know whether to take the words literally. 'A

stab?' he hesitatingly repeated.

'Ay; here,' touching his heart. 'I wish I was dead, Clay. I wish I had

died years ago; or that _she_ had. Why was she permitted to live?--to

live to work me this awful wrong?' he dreamily wailed. 'An awful wrong

to me and mine!'

'What is it?' spoke Austin, upon impulse. 'A wrong? Who has done it?'

'She has. The woman now gone out. She has done it all.'

He rose, and appeared to be looking for his hat. 'Mrs. Hunter is waiting

tea, sir,' said the amazed Austin.

'Tea!' repeated Mr. Hunter, as if his brain were bewildered; 'I cannot

go in again to-night; I cannot see them. Make some excuse for me,

Clay--anything. _Why_ did that woman work me this crying wrong?'

He took his hat, opened the hall door, and shut it after him with a

bang, leaving Austin in wondering consternation.

He returned to the dining-room, and said Mr. Hunter had been obliged to

go out on business; he did not know what else to say. Florence was sent

to bed after tea, but Austin sat a short while longer with Mrs. Hunter.

Something led back to the previous conversation, when Mrs. Hunter had

been alluding to her state of health, and to some sorrow that was her

daily portion.

'What is it?' said Austin, in his impulsive manner.

'The thought that I shall have to leave Florence without a mother.'

'Dear Mrs. Hunter, surely it is not so serious as that! You may get

better.'

'Yes; I know I may. Dr. Bevary tells me that I shall. But, you see, the

very fear of it is hard to bear. Sometimes I think God is reconciling me

to it by slow degrees.'

Later in the evening, as Austin was going home, he passed a piece of

clear ground, to be let for building purposes, at the end of the square.

There, in its darkest corner, far back from the road, paced a man as if

in some mental agony, his hat carried in his hands, and his head bared

to the winds. Austin peered through the night with his quick sight, and

recognised Mr. Hunter.

CHAPTER VII.

MR. SHUCK AT HOME.

Daffodil's Delight was in a state of commotion. It has often been

remarked that there exists more real sympathy between the working

classes, one for another, than amongst those of a higher grade; and

experience generally seems to bear it out. From one end of Daffodil's

Delight to the other, there ran just now a deep feeling of sorrow, of

pity, of commiseration. Men made inquiries of each other as they passed

in the street; women congregated at their doors to talk, concern on

their faces, a question on their lips--'How is she? What does the doctor

say?'

Yes; the excitement had its rise in one cause alone--the increased

illness of Mrs. Baxendale. The physician had pronounced his opinion

(little need to speak it, though, for the fact was only too apparent to

all who used their eyes), and the news had gone forth to Daffodil's

Delight--Mrs. Baxendale was past recovery; was, in fact, dying!

The concern, universal as it was, showed itself in various ways. Visits

and neighbourly calls were so incessant, that the Shucks openly rebelled

at the 'trampling up and down through their living-room,' by which route

the Baxendale apartments could alone be gained. The neighbours came to

help; to nurse; to shake up the bed and pillows; to prepare condiments

over the fire; to condole; and, above all, to gossip: with tears in

their eyes and lamentation in their tones, and ominous shakes of the

head, and uplifted hands; but still, to gossip: _that_ lies in human

female nature. They brought offerings of savoury delicacies; or things

that, in their ideas, stood for delicacies--dainties likely to tempt the

sick. Mrs. Cheek made a pint jug of what she called 'buttered beer,' a

miscellaneous compound of scalding-hot porter, gin, eggs, sugar, and

spice. Mrs. Baxendale sipped a little; but it did not agree with her

fevered palate, and she declined it for the future, with 'thanks, all

the same,' and Mrs. Cheek and a crony or two disposed of it themselves

with great satisfaction. All this served to prove two things--that good

feeling ran high in Daffodil's Delight, and that means did not run low.

Of all the visitors, the most effectual assistant was Mrs. Quale. She

gossiped, it is true, or it had not been Mrs. Quale; but she gave

efficient help; and the invalid was always glad to see her come in,

which could not be said with regard to all. Daffodil's Delight was not

wrong in the judgment it passed upon Mary Baxendale--that she was a

'poor creature.' True; poor as to being clever in a domestic point of

view, and in attending upon the sick. In mind, in cultivation, in

refinement, in gentleness, Mary Baxendale beat Daffodil's Delight

hollow; she was also a beautiful seamstress; but in energy and

capability Mary was sadly wanting. She was timid always--painfully timid

in the sick-room; anxious to do for her mother all that was requisite,

but never knowing how to set about it. Mrs. Quale remedied this; she did

the really efficient part; Mary gave love and gentleness; and, between

the two, Mrs. Baxendale was thankful and happy.

John Baxendale, not a demonstrative man, was full of concern and grief.

His had been a very happy home, free from domestic storms and clouds;

and, to lose his wife, was anything but a cheering prospect. His wages

were good, and they had wanted for nothing, not even for peace. To such,

when trouble comes, it seems hard to bear--it almost seems as if it came

as a _wrong_.

'Just hold your tongue, John Baxendale,' cried Mrs. Quale one day, upon

hearing him express something to this effect. 'Because you have never

had no crosses, is it any reason that you never shall? No. Crosses come

to us all sometime in our lives, in one shape or other.'

'But it's a hard thing for it to come in this shape,' retorted

Baxendale, pointing to the bed. 'I'm not repining or rebelling against

what it pleases God to do; but I can't _see_ the reason of it. Look at

some of the other wives in Daffodil's Delight; shrieking, raving

trollops, turning their homes into a bear-garden with their tempers, and

driving their husbands almost mad. If some of them were taken they'd

never be missed: just the contrary.'

'John,' interposed Mrs. Baxendale, in her quiet voice, 'when I am gone

up there'--pointing with her finger to the blue October sky--'it may

make you think more of the time when you must come; may help you to be

preparing for it, better than you have done.'

Mary lifted her wan face, glowing now with the excitement of the

thought. 'Father, _that_ may be the end--the reason. I think that

troubles are sent to us in mercy, not in anger.'

'Think!' ejaculated Mrs. Quale, tossing back her head with a manner less

reverent than her words. 'Before you shall have come to my age, girl,

it's to be hoped you'll _know_ they are. Isn't it time for the

medicine?' she continued, seeing no other opening for a reprimand just

then.

It was time for the medicine, and Mrs. Quale poured it out, raised the

invalid from her pillow, and administered it. John Baxendale looked on.

Like his daughter Mary, he was in these matters an incapable man.

'How long is it since Dr. Bevary was here?' he asked.

'Let's see?' responded Mrs. Quale, who liked to have most of the talking

to herself, wherever she might be. 'This is Friday. Tuesday, wasn't it,

Mary? Yes, he was here on Tuesday.'

'But why does he not come oftener?' cried John, in a tone of resentment.

'That's what I was wanting to ask about. When one is as ill as she

is--in danger of dying--is it right that a doctor should never come a

near for three or four days?'

'Oh, John! a great physician like Dr. Bevary!' remonstrated his wife.

'It is so very good of him to come at all. And for nothing, too! He as

good as said to Mary he didn't mean to charge.'

'I can pay him; I'm capable of paying him, I hope,' spoke John

Baxendale. 'Who said I wanted my wife to be attended out of charity?'

'It's not just that, father, I think,' said Mary. 'He comes more in a

friendly way.'

'Friendly or not, it isn't come to the pass yet, that I can't pay a

doctor,' said John Baxendale. 'Who has let it go abroad that I

couldn't?'

Taking up his hat, he went out on the spur of the moment, and bent his

steps to Dr. Bevary's. There he was civil and humble enough, for John

Baxendale was courteous by nature. The doctor was at home, and saw him

at once.

'Listen, my good man,' said Dr. Bevary, when he had caught somewhat of

his errand. 'If, by going round often, I could do any good to your wife,

I should go. Twice a day; three times a day--by night, too, if

necessary. But I cannot do her good: had she a doctor over her bed

constantly, he could render no service. I step round now and then,

because I see that it is a satisfaction to her, and to those about her;

not for any use I can be. I told you a week ago the end was not very far

off, and that she would meet it calmly. She will be in no further

pain--no worse than she is now.'

'I am able to pay you, sir.'

'That is not the question. If you paid me a guinea every time I came

round, I should visit her no more frequently than I do.'

'And, if you please, sir, I'd rather pay you,' continued the man. 'I'm

sure I don't grudge it; and it goes against the grain to have it said

that John Baxendale's wife is attended out of charity. We English

workmen, sir, are independent, and proud of being so.'

'Very good,' said Dr. Bevary. 'I should be sorry to see the day come

when English workmen lost their independence. As to "charity," we will

talk a bit about that. Look here, Baxendale,' the doctor added, laying

his hand upon his shoulder, in his kind and familiar way, 'you and I can

speak reasonably together, as man to man. We both have to work for our

living--you with the hands, I chiefly with the head--so, in that, we are

equal. I go twice a week to see your wife; I have told you why it is

useless to go oftener. When patients come to me, they pay me a guinea,

and I see them twice for it, which is equivalent to half a guinea a

visit; but, when I go to patients at their own houses, my fee is a

guinea each time. Now, would it seem to you a neighbourly act that I

should take two guineas weekly from your wages?--quite as much, or more,

than you gain. What does my going round cost me? A few minutes' time; a

gossip with Mrs. Quale, touching the doings of Daffodil's Delight, and a

groan at those thriftless Shucks, in their pigsty of a room. That is the

plain statement of facts; and I should like to know what there is in it

that need put your English spirit up. Charity! We might call it by that

name, John Baxendale, if I were the guinea each time out of pocket,

through medicines or other things furnished to you.'

John Baxendale smiled; but he looked only three parts convinced.

'Tush, man!' said the doctor; 'I may be asking you to do me some

friendly service, one of these days, and then, you know, we should be

quits. Eh, John?'

John Baxendale half put out his hand, and the doctor shook it.

'I think I understand now, sir; and I thank you heartily for what you

have said. I only wish you could do some good to the wife.'

'I wish I could, Baxendale,' he replied, throwing a kindly glance after

the man as he was moving away. 'I shan't bring an action against you in

the county court for these unpaid fees, Baxendale, for it wouldn't

stand,' called out the doctor. 'I never was called in to see your

wife--I went of my own accord, and have so continued to go, and shall so

continue. Good day.'

As John Baxendale was descending the steps of the house door, he

encountered Mrs. Hunter. She stopped him to inquire after his wife.

'Getting weaker daily, ma'am, thank you. The doctor has just told me

again that there's no hope.'

'I am truly sorry to hear it,' said Mrs. Hunter. 'I will call in and see

her. I did intend to call before, but something or other has caused me

to put it off.'

John Baxendale touched his hat, and departed. Mrs. Hunter went in to her

brother.

'Oh, is it you, Louisa?' he exclaimed. 'A visit from you is somewhat a

rarity. Are you feeling worse?'

'Rather better, I think, than usual. I have just met John Baxendale,'

continued Mrs. Hunter, sitting down, and untying her bonnet strings. 'He

says there is no hope for his wife. Poor woman! I wish it had been

different. Many a worse woman could have been better spared.'

'Ah,' said the doctor, 'if folks were taken according to our notions of

whom might be best spared, what a world this would be! Where's Miss

Florence?'

'I did not bring her out with me, Robert. I came round to say a word to

you about James,' resumed Mrs. Hunter, her voice insensibly lowering

itself to a tone of confidence. 'Something is the matter with him, and I

cannot imagine what.'

'Been eating too many cucumbers again, no doubt,' cried the doctor. 'He

_will_ go in at that cross-grained vegetable, let it be in season, or

out.'

'Eating!' returned Mrs. Hunter, 'I wish he did eat. For at least a

fortnight--more, I think--he has not eaten enough to support a bird.

That he is ill is evident to all--must be evident; but when I ask him

what is the matter, he persists in it that he is quite well; that I am

fanciful: seems annoyed, in short, that I should allude to it. Has he

been here to consult you?'

'No,' replied Dr. Bevary; 'this is the first I have heard of it. How

does he seem? What are his symptoms?'

'It appears to me,' said Mrs. Hunter, almost in a whisper, 'that the

malady is more on the mind. There is no palpable disorder. He is

restless, nervous, agitated; so restless at night, that he has now taken

to sleep in a room apart from mine--not to disturb me, he says. I

fear--I fear he may have been attacked with some dangerous inward

malady, that he is concealing. His father, you know, died of----'

'Pooh! Nonsense! You are indeed becoming fanciful, Louisa,' interrupted

the doctor. 'Old Mr. Hunter died of an unusual disorder, I admit; but,

if the symptoms of such appeared in either James or Henry, they would

come galloping to me in hot haste, asking if my skill could suggest a

preventive. It is no "inward malady," depend upon it. He has been

smoking too much: or going in at the cucumbers.'

'Robert, it is something far more serious than that,' quietly rejoined

Mrs. Hunter.

'When did you first notice him to be ill?'

'It is, I say, about a fortnight since. One evening there came a

stranger to our house, a lady, and she _would_ see him. He did not want

to see her: he sent young Clay to her, who happened to be with us; but

she insisted upon seeing James. They were closeted together a long while

before she left; and then James went out--on business, Mr. Clay said.'

'Well?' cried Dr. Bevary. 'What has the lady to do with it?'

'I am not sure that she has anything to do with it. Florence told an

incomprehensible story about the lady's having gone into Baxendale's

that afternoon, after seeing her uncle Henry in the street and mistaking

him for James. A Miss--what was the name?--Gwinn, I think.'

Dr. Bevary, who happened to have a small glass phial in his hand, let it

fall to the ground: whether by inadvertence, or that the words startled

him, he best knew. 'Well?' was all he repeated, after he had gathered

the pieces in his hand.

'I waited up till twelve o'clock, and James never came in. I heard him

let himself in afterwards with his latch-key, and came up into the

dressing-room. I called out to know where he had been, it is so unusual

for him to stay out, and he said he was much occupied, and that I was to

go to sleep, for he had some writing to do. But, Robert, instead of

writing, he was pacing the house all night, out of one room into

another; and in the morning--oh, I wish you could have seen him!--he

looked wild, wan, haggard, as one does who has got up out of a long

illness; and I am positive he had been weeping. From that time I have

noticed the change I tell you of. He seems like one going into his

grave. But, whether the illness is upon the body or the mind, I know

not.'

Dr. Bevary appeared intent upon putting together the pieces of his

phial, making them fit into each other.

'It will all come right, Louisa; don't fret yourself: something must

have gone cross in his business. I'll call in at the office and see

him.'

'Do not say that I have spoken to you. He seems to have quite a nervous

dread of its being observed that anything is wrong with him; has spoken

sharply, not in anger, but in anguish, when I have pressed the

question.'

'As if the lady could have anything to do with it!' exclaimed Dr.

Bevary, in a tone of satire.

'I do not suppose she had. I only mentioned the circumstances because it

is since that evening he has changed. You can see what you think of him,

and tell me afterwards.'

The answer was only a nod; and Mrs. Hunter went out. Dr. Bevary remained

in a brown study. His servant came in with an account that patient after

patient was waiting for him, but the doctor replied by a repelling

gesture, and the man did not again dare to intrude. Perplexity and pain

sat upon his brow; and, when at last he did rouse himself, he raised

aloft his hands, and gave utterance to words that sounded very like a

prayer:

'I pray heaven it may not be so! It would kill Louisa.'

The pale, delicate face of Mrs. Hunter was at that moment bending over

the invalid in her bed. In her soft grey silk dress and light shawl, her

simple straw bonnet with its white ribbons, she looked just the right

sort of visitor for a sick-chamber; and her voice was sweet, and her

manner gentle.

'No, ma'am, don't speak of hope to me,' murmured Mrs. Baxendale. 'I know

that there is none left, and I am quite reconciled to die. I have been

an ailing woman for years, dear lady; and it is wonderful how those that

are so get to look upon death, if they can but presume to hope their

soul is safe, with satisfaction, rather than with dread. Though I dare

not say as much yet to my poor husband.'

'I have long been ailing, too,' softly replied Mrs. Hunter. 'I am rarely

free from pain, and I know that I shall never be healthy and strong

again. But still--I do fear it would give me pain to die, were the fiat

to come forth.'

'Never fear, dear lady,' cried the invalid, her eyes brightening.

'Before the fiat does come, be assured that God will have reconciled you

to it. Ah, ma'am, what matters it, after all? It is a journey we must

take; and, when once we are prepared, it seems but the setting off a

little sooner or a little later. I got Mary to read me the burial

service on Sunday: I was always fond of it; but I am past reading now.

In one part thanks are given to God for that he has been pleased to

deliver the dead out of the miseries of this sinful world. Ma'am, if He

did not remove us to a better and a happier home, would the living be

directed to give thanks for our departure from this?'

'A spirit ripe for heaven,' thought Mrs. Hunter, when she took her

leave.

It was Mrs. Quale who piloted her through the room of the Shucks. Of all

scenes of disorder and discomfort, about the worst reigned there. Sam

had been--you must excuse the inelegance of the phrase, but it was much

in vogue in Daffodil's Delight--'on the loose' again for a couple of

days. He sat sprawling across the hearth, a pipe in his mouth, and a pot

of porter at his feet. The wife was crying with her hair down; the

children were quarrelling in tatters; the dirt in the place, as Mrs.

Quale expressed it, stood on end; and Mrs. Hunter wondered how people

could bear to live so.

'Now, Sam Shuck, don't you see who is a standing in your presence?'

sharply cried Mrs. Quale.

Sam, his back to the staircase door, really had not seen. He threw his

pipe into the grate, started up, and pulled his hair to Mrs. Hunter in a

very humble fashion. In his hurry he turned over a small child, and the

contents of the pewter pot upon it. The child roared; the wife took it

up and shook its clothes in Sam's face, restraining her tongue till the

lady should be gone; and Mrs. Hunter stepped into the garden out of the

_mêlée_--glad to get there: Sam following her in a spirit of politeness.

'How is it you are not at work to-day, Shuck?' she asked.

'I am going to-morrow--I shall go for certain, ma'am.'

'You know, Shuck, I never do interfere with Mr. Hunter's men,' said

Mrs. Hunter. 'I consider that intelligent workmen, as you are, ought to

be above any advice that I could offer. But I cannot help saying how sad

it is that you should waste your time. Were you not discharged a little

while ago, and taken on again under a specific promise, made by you to

Mr. Henry Hunter, that you would be diligent in future?'

'I am diligent,' grumbled Sam. 'But why, ma'am--a chap must take holiday

now and then. 'Tain't in human nature to be always having the shoulder

at the wheel.'

'Well, pray be cautious,' said Mrs. Hunter. 'If you offend again, and

get discharged, I know they will not be so ready to take you back.

Remember your little children, and be steady for their sakes.'

Sam went indoors to his pipe, to his wife's tongue, and to despatch a

child to get the pewter pot replenished.

CHAPTER VIII.

FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS!

Mrs. Hunter, turning out of Mr. Shuck's gate, stepped inside Mrs.

Quale's, who was astonishing her with the shortcomings of the Shucks,

and prophesying that their destiny would be the workhouse, when Austin

Clay came forth. He had been home to dinner, and was now going back to

the yard. Mrs. Hunter said good morning to her talkative friend, and

walked away by Austin's side--Mrs. Baxendale, Sam Shuck, and Daffodil's

Delight generally, forming themes of converse. Austin raised his hat to

her when they came to the gates of the yard.

'No, I am not about to part; I am going in with you,' said Mrs. Hunter.

'I want to speak just a word to my husband, if he is at liberty. Will

you find him for me?'

'He has been in his private room all the morning, and is probably there

still,' said Austin. 'Do you know where Mr. Hunter is?' he inquired of a

man whom they met.

'In his room, sir,' was the reply, as the man touched his cap to Mrs.

Hunter.

Austin led the way down the passage, and knocked at the door, Mrs.

Hunter following him. There was no answer; and believing, in

consequence, that it was empty, he opened it.

Two gentlemen stood within it, near a table, paper and pens and ink

before them, and what looked like a cheque-book. They must have been

deeply absorbed not to have heard the knock. One was Mr. Hunter: the

other--Austin recognised him--Gwinn, the lawyer of Ketterford. 'I will

not sign it!' Mr. Hunter was exclaiming, with passionate vehemence.

'Five thousand pounds! it would cripple me for life.'

'Then you know the alternative. I go this moment and----'

'Mrs. Hunter wishes to speak to you, sir,' interposed Austin, drowning

the words and speaking loudly. The gentlemen turned sharply round: and

when Mr. Hunter caught sight of his wife, the red passion of his face

turned to a livid pallor. Lawyer Gwinn nodded familiarly to Austin.

'How are you, Clay? Getting on, I hope. _Who_ is this person, may I

ask?'

'This lady is Mrs. Hunter,' haughtily replied Austin, after a pause,

surprised that Mr. Hunter did not take up the words--the offensive

manner in which they were spoken--the insulting look that accompanied

them. But Mr. Hunter did not appear in a state to take anything up just

then.

Gwinn bent his body to the ground.

'I beg the lady's pardon. I had no idea she was Mrs. Hunter.'

But so ultra-courteous were the tones, so low the bow, that Austin

Clay's cheeks burnt at the covert irony.

'James, you are ill,' said Mrs. Hunter, advancing in her quiet, composed

manner, but taking no notice whatever of the stranger. 'Can I get

anything for you? Shall we send for Dr. Bevary?'

'No, don't do that; it is going off. You will oblige me by leaving us,'

he whispered to her. 'I am very busy.'

'You seem too ill for business,' she rejoined. 'Can you not put it off

for an hour? Rest might be of service to you.'

'No, madam, the business cannot be put off,' spoke up Lawyer Gwinn.

And down he sat in a chair, with a determined air of conscious

power--just as his sister had sat _her_self down, a fortnight before, in

Mr. Hunter's hall.

Mrs. Hunter quitted the room at once, leaving her husband and the

stranger in it. Austin followed her. Her face wore a puzzled, vexed

look, as she turned it upon Austin. 'Who is that person?' she asked.

'His manner to me appeared to be strangely insolent.'

An instinct, for which Austin perhaps could not have accounted had he

tried, caused him to suppress the fact that it was the brother of the

Miss Gwinn who had raised a commotion at Mr. Hunter's house. He answered

that he had not seen the person at the office previously, his tone being

as careless a one as he could assume. And Mrs. Hunter, who was of the

least suspicious nature possible, let it pass. Her mind, too, was filled

with the thought of her husband's suffering state.

'Does Mr. Hunter appear to you to be ill?' she asked of Austin, somewhat

abruptly.

'He looked so, I think.'

'Not now; I am not alluding to the present moment,' she rejoined. 'Have

you noticed before that he does not seem well?'

'Yes,' replied Austin; 'this week or two past.'

There was a brief pause.

'Mr. Clay,' she resumed, in a quiet, kind voice, 'my health, as you are

aware, is not good, and any sort of uneasiness tries me much. I am going

to ask you a confidential question. I would not put it to many, and the

asking it of you proves that my esteem for you is great. That Mr.

Hunter is ill, there is no doubt; but whether mentally or bodily I am

unable to discover. To me he observes a most unusual reticence, his

object probably being to spare me pain; but I can battle better with a

known evil than with an unknown one. Tell me, if you can, whether any

vexation has arisen in business matters?'

'Not that I am aware of,' promptly replied Austin. 'I feel sure that

nothing is amiss in that quarter.'

'Then it is as I suspected, and he must be suffering from some illness

that he is concealing.'

She wished Austin good morning. He saw her out of the gate, and then

proceeded to the room he usually occupied when engaged indoors.

Presently he heard Mr. Hunter and his visitor come forth, and saw the

latter pass the window. Mr. Hunter came into the room.

'Is Mrs. Hunter gone?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Do you know what she wanted?'

'I do not think it was anything particular. She said she should like to

say a word to you, if you were disengaged.'

Mr. Hunter did not speak immediately. Austin was making out certain

estimates, and his master looked over his shoulder. Not _to look_; his

mind was evidently all pre-occupied.

'Did Mrs. Hunter inquire who it was that was with me?' he presently

said.

'She inquired, sir. I did not say. I told her I had not seen the person

here before.'

'_You_ knew?' in a quick, sharp accent.

'Oh, yes.'

'Then why did you not tell her? What was your motive for concealing it?'

The inquiry was uttered in a tone that could not be construed as

proceeding from any emotion but that of fear. A flush came into Austin's

ingenuous face.

'I beg your pardon, sir. I never wish to be otherwise than open. But, as

you had previously desired me not to speak of the lady who came to your

house that night, I did not know but the same wish might apply to the

visit of to-day.'

'True, true,' murmured Mr. Hunter; 'I do _not_ wish this visit of the

man's spoken of. Never mention his name, especially to Mrs. Hunter. I

suppose he did not impose upon me,' added he, with a poor attempt at a

forced smile: 'it _was_ Gwinn, of Ketterford, was it not?'

'Certainly,' said Austin, feeling surprised. 'Did you not know him

previously, sir?'

'Never. And I wish I had not known him now.'

'If--if--will you forgive my saying, sir, that, should you have any

transaction with him, touching money matters, it is necessary to be

wary. Many a one has had cause to rue the getting into the clutches of

Lawyer Gwinn.'

A deep, heavy sigh, burst from Mr. Hunter. He had turned from Austin.

The latter spoke again in his ardent sympathy.

'Sir, is there any way in which I can serve you?--_any_ way? You have

only to command me.'

'No, no, Clay. I fell into that man's clutches--as you have aptly

termed it--years ago, and the penalty must be paid. There is no help for

it.'

'Not knowing him, sir?'

'Not knowing him. And not knowing that I owed it, as I certainly did not

know, until a week or two back. I no more suspected that--that I was

indebted there, than I was indebted to you.'

Mr. Hunter had grown strangely confused and agitated, and the dew was

rising on his livid face. He made a hollow attempt to laugh it off, and

seemed to shun the gaze of his clerk.

'This comes of the freaks of young men,' he observed, facing Austin

after a pause, and speaking volubly. 'Austin Clay, I will give you a

piece of advice. Never put your hand to a bill. You may think it an

innocent bit of paper, which can cost you at most but the sum that is

marked upon it: but it may come back to you in after years, and you must

purchase it with thousands. Have nothing to do with bills, in any way;

they will be a thorn in your side.'

'So, it is a money affair!' thought Austin. 'I might have known it was

nothing else, where Gwinn was concerned. Here's Dr. Bevary coming in,

sir,' he added aloud.

The physician was inside the room ere the words had left Austin's lips.

Mr. Hunter had seized upon a stray plan, and seemed bent upon its

examination.

'Rather a keen-looking customer, that, whom I met at your gate,' began

the doctor. 'Who was it?'

'Keen-looking customer?' repeated Mr. Hunter.

'A fellow dressed in black, with a squint and a white neckerchief; an

ill-favoured fellow, whoever he is.'

'How should I know about him?' replied Mr. Hunter, carelessly. 'Somebody

after the men, I suppose.'

But Austin Clay felt that Mr. Hunter _did_ know; that the description

could only apply to Gwinn of Ketterford. Dr. Bevary entwined his arm

within his brother-in-law's, and led him from the room.

'James, do you want doctoring?' he inquired, as they entered the one

just vacated by Lawyer Gwinn.

'No, I don't. What do you mean?'

'If you don't, you belie your looks; that's all. Can you honestly affirm

to me that you are in robust health?'

'I am in good health. There is nothing the matter with me.'

'Then there's something else in the wind. What's the trouble?'

A flush rose to the face of Mr. Hunter.

'I am in no trouble that you can relieve; I am quite well. I repeat that

I do not understand your meaning.'

The doctor gazed at him keenly, and his tone changed to one of solemn

earnestness.

'James, I suspect that you _are_ in trouble. Now, I do not wish to pry

into it unnecessarily; but I would remind you of the sound wisdom that

lies in the good old proverb: "In the multitude of counsellors there is

safety."'

'And if there is?' returned Mr. Hunter.

'If you will confide the trouble to me, I will do what I can to help

you out of it--_whatever it may be_--to advise with you as to what is

best to be done. I am your wife's brother; could you have a truer

friend?'

'You are very kind, Bevary. I am in no danger. When I am, I will let you

know.'

The tone--one of playful mockery--grated on the ear of Dr. Bevary.

'Is it assumed to hide what he dare not betray?' thought he.

Mr. Hunter cut the matter short by crossing the yard to the

time-keeper's office; and Dr. Bevary went out talking to himself: 'A

wilful man must have his own way.'

Austin Clay sat up late that night, reading one of the quarterly

reviews; he let the time slip by till the clock struck twelve. Mr. and

Mrs. Quale had been in bed some time; when nothing was wanted for Mr.

Clay, Mrs. Quale was rigid in retiring at ten. Early to bed, and early

to rise, was a maxim she was fond of, both in precept and practice. The

striking of the church clock aroused him; he closed the book, left it on

the table, pulled aside the crimson curtain, and opened the window to

look out at the night before going into his chamber.

A still, balmy night. The stars shone in the heavens, and Daffodil's

Delight, for aught that could be heard or seen just then, seemed almost

as peaceful as they. Austin leaned from the window; his thoughts ran not

upon the stars or upon the peaceful scene around, but upon the curious

trouble which seemed to be overshadowing Mr. Hunter. 'Five thousand

pounds!' His ears had caught distinctly the ominous sum. 'Could he have

fallen into Lawyer Gwinn's "clutches" to _that_ extent?'

There was much in it that Austin could not fathom. Mr. Hunter had hinted

at 'bills;' Miss Gwinn had spoken of the 'breaking up of her happy

home;' two calamities apparently distinct and apart. And how was it that

they were in ignorance of his name, his existence, his----

A startling interruption came to Austin's thoughts. Mrs. Shuck's door

was pulled hastily open, and some one panting with excitement, uttering

faint, sobbing cries, came running down their garden into Peter Quale's.

It was Mary Baxendale. She knocked sharply at the door with nervous

quickness.

'What is it, Mary?' asked Austin.

She had not seen him; but, of course, the words caused her to look up.

'Oh! sir,' the tears streaming from her eyes as she spoke, 'would you

please call Mrs. Quale, and ask her to step in? Mother's on the wing.'

'I'll call her. Mary!'--for she was speeding back again--'can I get any

other help for you? If I can be of use, step back and tell me.'

Sam Shuck came out of his house as Austin spoke, and went flying up

Daffodil's Delight. He had gone for Dr. Bevary. The doctor had desired

to be called, should there be any sudden change. Of course, he did not

mean the change of _death_. He could be of no use in that; but how could

they discriminate?

Mrs. Quale was dressed and in the sick chamber with all speed. Dr.

Bevary was not long before he followed her. Neighbours on either side

put their heads out.

Ten minutes at the most, and Dr. Bevary was out again. Austin was then

leaning over Peter Quale's gate. He had been in no urgent mood for bed

before, and this little excitement, though it did not immediately

concern him, afforded an excuse for not going to it.

'How is she, sir?'

'Is it you?' responded Dr. Bevary. 'She is gone. I thought it would be

sudden at the last.'

'Poor thing!' ejaculated Austin.

'Poor thing? Ay, that's what we are all apt to say when our friends die.

But there is little cause when the change has been prepared for, the

spirit made ripe for heaven. She's gone to a world where there's neither

sickness nor pain.'

Austin made no reply. The doctor spoke again after a pause.

'Clay--to go from a solemn subject to one that--that may, however, prove

not less solemn in the end--you heard me mention a stranger I met at the

gates of the yard to-day, and Mr. Hunter would not take my question. Was

it Gwinn of Ketterford?'

The doctor had spoken in a changed, low tone, laying his hand, in his

earnestness, on Austin's shoulder. Austin paused. He did not know

whether he ought to answer.

'You need not hesitate,' said the doctor, divining his scruples. 'I can

understand that Mr. Hunter may have forbidden you to mention it, and

that you would be faithful to him. Don't speak; your very hesitation

has proved it to me. Good night, my young friend; we would both serve

him if we only knew how.'

Austin watched him away, and then went indoors, for Daffodil's Delight

began to be astir, and to collect itself around him, Sam Shuck having

assisted in spreading the news touching Mrs. Baxendale. Daffodil's

Delight thought nothing of leaving its bed, and issuing forth in shawls

and pantaloons upon any rising emergency, regarding such interludes of

disturbed rest as socially agreeable.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SEPARATION OF HUNTER AND HUNTER.

Austin Clay sat at his desk at Hunter and Hunter's, sorting the morning

letters, which little matter of employment formed part of his duties. It

was the morning subsequent to the commotion in Daffodil's Delight. His

thoughts were running more on that than on the letters, when the

postmark 'Ketterford' on two of them caught his eye.

The one was addressed to himself, the other to 'Mr. Lewis Hunter,' and

the handwriting of both was the same. Disposing of the rest of the

letters as usual, placing those for the Messrs. Hunter in their room,

against they should arrive, and dealing out any others there might be

for the hands employed in the firm, according to their address, he

proceeded to open his own.

To the very end of it Austin read; and then, and not till then, he began

to suspect that it could not be meant for him. No name whatever was

mentioned in the letter; it began abruptly, and it ended abruptly; not

so much as 'Sir,' or 'Dear Sir,' was it complimented with, and it was

simply signed 'A. G.' He read it a second time, and then its awful

meaning flashed upon him, and a red flush rose to his brow and settled

there, as if burnt into it with a branding iron. He had become possessed

of a dangerous secret.

There was no doubt that the letter was written by Miss Gwinn to Mr.

Hunter. By some extraordinary mischance, she had misdirected it.

Possibly the letter now lying on Mr. Hunter's desk, might be for Austin.

Though, what could she be writing about to him?

He sat down. He was quite overcome with the revelation; it was, indeed,

of a terrible nature, and he would have given much not to have become

cognizant of it. 'Bills!' 'Money!' So that had been Mr. Hunter's excuse

for the mystery! No wonder he sought to turn suspicion into any channel

but the real one.

Austin was poring over the letter like one in a nightmare, when Mr.

Hunter interrupted him. He crushed it into his pocket with all the

aspect of a guilty man; any one might have taken him in his confusion so

to be. Not for himself was he confused, but he feared lest Mr. Hunter

should discover the letter. Although certainly written for him, Austin

did not dare hand it to him, for it would never do to let Mr. Hunter

know that he possessed the secret. Mr. Hunter had come in, holding out

the other letter from Ketterford.

'This letter is for you, Mr. Clay. It has been addressed to me by

mistake, I conclude.'

Austin took it, and glanced his eyes over it. It contained a few abrupt

lines, and a smaller note, sealed, was inside it.

'My brother is in London, Austin Clay. I have reason to think he

will be calling upon the Messrs. Hunter. Will you watch for him,

and give him the inclosed note? Had he told me where he should put

up in town, I should have had no occasion to trouble you.

A. GWINN.'

Austin did not lift his eyes to Mr. Hunter's in his usual candid open

manner. He could not bear to look him in the face; he feared lest his

master might read in his the dreadful truth.

'What am I to do, sir?' he asked. 'Watch for Gwinn, and give him the

note?'

'Do this with them,' said Mr. Hunter.

Striking a wax match, he held both Austin's note and the sealed one over

the flame until they were consumed.

'You could not fulfil the request if you wished, for the man went back

to Ketterford last night.'

He said no more. He went away again, and Austin lighted another match,

and burnt the crushed letter in his pocket, thankful, so far, that it

had escaped Mr. Hunter.

Trouble came. Ere many days had elapsed, there was dissension in the

house of Hunter and Hunter. Thoroughly united and cordial the brothers

had always been; but now a cause of dispute arose, and it seemed that it

could not be arranged. Mr. Hunter had drawn out five thousand pounds

from the bank, and refused to state for what, except that it was for a

'private purpose.' The business had been a gradually increasing one, and

nearly all the money possessed by both was invested in it; so much as

was not actually out, lay in the bank in their joint names, 'Hunter and

Hunter.' Each possessed a small private account, but nothing like

sufficient to meet a cheque for five thousand pounds. Words ran high

between them, and the sound penetrated to ears outside their private

room.

His face pale, his lips compressed, his tone kept mostly subdued, James

Hunter sat at his desk, his eyes falling on a ledger he was not occupied

with, and his hand partially shading his face. Mr. Henry, more excited,

giving way more freely to his anger, paced the carpet, occasionally

stopping before the desk and before his brother.

'It is the most unaccountable thing in the world,' he reiterated, 'that

you should refuse to say what it has been applied to. Draw out,

surreptitiously, a formidable sum like that, and not account for it! It

is monstrous.'

'Henry, I have told you all I can tell you,' replied Mr. Hunter,

concealing his countenance more than ever. 'An old debt was brought up

against me, and I was forced to satisfy it.'

Mr. Henry Hunter curled his lip.

'A debt to that amount! Were you mad?'

'I did not--know--I--had--contracted it,' stammered Mr. Hunter, very

nearly losing his self possession. 'At least, I thought it had been

paid. Youth's errors do come home to us sometimes in later life.'

'Not to the tune of five thousand pounds,' retorted Mr. Henry Hunter.

'It will cripple the business; you know it will. It is next door to

ruin.'

'Nonsense, Henry! The loss of five thousand pounds will neither cripple

the business nor bring ruin. It will be my own loss: not yours.'

'How on earth could you think of giving it away? Five thousand pounds!'

'I could not help myself. Had I refused to pay it----'

'Well?' for Mr. Hunter had stopped in embarrassment.

'I should have been compelled to do so. There. Talking of it will not

mend it.'

Mr. Henry Hunter took a few turns, and then wheeled round sharply.

'Perhaps there are other claims for "youth's follies" to come behind

it?'

The words seemed to arouse Mr. Hunter. Not to anger; but to what looked

very like fear--almost to an admission that it might be so.

'Were any such further claim to come, I would not satisfy it,' he cried,

wiping his face. 'No, I would not; I would go into exile first.'

'We must part,' said Mr. Henry Hunter the expression of his brother's

face quite startling him. 'There is no alternative. I cannot risk the

beggaring of my wife and children.'

'If it must be so, it must,' was all the reply given.

'Tell me the truth, James,' urged Mr. Henry in a more conciliatory tone.

I don't want to part. Tell me all, and let me be the judge. Surely, man!

it can't be anything so very dreadful. You didn't set fire to your

neighbour's house, I suppose?'

'I never thought the claim could come upon me. That is all I can tell

you.'

'Then we part,' decisively returned Mr. Henry Hunter.

'Yes, it may be better. If I am to go to ruin, it is of no use to drag

you down into it.'

'If you are to go to ruin!' echoed Mr. Henry, regarding his brother

attentively. 'James! is that an admission that other mysterious claims

may really follow this one?'

'No, I think they will not. But we had better part. Only--let the cause

of our separation be kept from the world.'

'I should be clever to betray the cause, seeing that you leave me in

ignorance of what it may be,' answered Mr. Henry Hunter, who was feeling

vexed, puzzled, and very angry.

'I mean--let no shadow of the truth get abroad. The business is large

enough for two firms, and we have agreed to carry it on apart. Let that

be the plea.'

'You take it coolly, James.'

A strange expression--a _wrung_ expression--passed over the face of

James Hunter. 'I cannot help myself, Henry. The five thousand pounds are

gone, and of course it is right that I should bear the loss alone--or

any other loss it may bring in its train.'

'But why not impart to me the facts?'

'No. It could not possibly do good; and it might make matters infinitely

worse. One advantage our separation will have; there is a great deal of

money owing to us from different quarters, and this will call it in.'

'Or I don't see how you would carry anything on for your part, minus

your five thousand pounds,' retorted Mr. Henry, in a spirit of satire.

'Will you grant me a favour, Henry?'

'That depends upon what it may be.'

'Let the real grounds of our separation--this miserable affair that has

led to it--be equally a secret from your wife, as from the world. I

should not ask it without an urgent reason.'

'Don't you mean to tell Louisa?'

'No. The matter is one entirely my own; I do not wish to talk of it even

to my wife. Will you give me the promise?'

'Very well. If it be of the consequence you seem to intimate. I cannot

fathom you, James.'

'Let us apply ourselves now to the ways and means of the dissolution.

That, at any rate, may be amicable.'

It was quite evident that he fully declined further allusion to the

subject. And Mr. Henry Hunter obtained no better elucidation, then or

later.

It fell upon the world like a thunderbolt--that is, the world connected

with Hunter and Hunter. _They_ separate? so flourishing a firm as that?

The world at first refused to believe it; but the world soon found it

was true.

Mr. Hunter retained the yard where the business was at present carried

on. Mr. Henry Hunter found other premises to suit him; not far off; a

little more to the west. Considerably surprised were Mrs. Hunter and

Mrs. Henry Hunter; but the same plausible excuse was given to them; and

they were left in ignorance of the true cause.

'Will you remain with me?' pointedly asked Mr. Hunter of Austin Clay. 'I

particularly wish it.'

'As you and Mr. Henry may decide, sir,' was the reply given. 'It is not

for me to choose.'

'We could both do with you, I believe. I had better talk it over with

him.'

'That will be the best plan,' sir.

'What do you part for?' abruptly inquired Dr. Bevary one day of the two

brothers, coming into the counting-house and catching them together.

Mr. Henry raised his eyebrows. Mr. Hunter spoke volubly.

'The business is getting too large. It will be better divided.'

'Moonshine!' cried the doctor, quietly. 'That's what you have been

cramming your wives with; it won't do for me. When a concern gets

unwieldy, a man takes a partner to help him on with it; _you_ are

separating. There's many a firm larger than yours. Do you remember the

proverb of the bundle of sticks?'

But neither Dr. Bevary nor anybody else got at a better reason than that

for the measure. The dissolution of partnership took place; it was duly

gazetted, and the old firm became two. Austin remained with Mr. Hunter,

and he was the only living being who gave a guess, or who could give a

guess, at the real cause of separation--the drawing out of that five

thousand pounds.

And yet--it was not the drawing out of that first five thousand pounds,

that finally decided Mr. Henry Hunter to enforce the step, so much as

the thought that other thousands might perhaps be following it. He could

not divest his mind of the fear.

PART THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

A MEETING OF THE WORKMEN.

For several years after the separation of Hunter and Hunter, things went

on smoothly; at least there was no event sufficiently marked that we

need linger to trace it. Each had a flourishing business, though Mr.

Hunter had some difficulty in staving off embarrassment in the financial

department: a fact which was well known to Austin Clay, who was now

confidential manager--head of all, under Mr. Hunter.

He, Austin Clay, was getting towards thirty years of age. He enjoyed a

handsome salary, and was putting by money yearly. He still remained at

Peter Quale's, though his position would have warranted a style of

living far superior. Not that it could have brought him more respect: of

that he enjoyed a full share, both from master and men. Clever,

energetic, firm, and friendly, he was thoroughly fitted for his

post--was liked and esteemed. But for him, Mr. Hunter's business might

not have been what it was, and Mr. Hunter knew it. _He_ was a

broken-spirited man, little capable now of devoting energy to anything.

The years, in their progress, had terribly altered James Hunter.

A hot evening in Daffodil's Delight; and Daffodil's Delight was making

it a busy one. Uninterrupted prosperity is sometimes nearly allied to

danger; or, rather, danger may grow out of it. Prosperity begets

independence, and independence often begets assumption--very often, a

selfish, wrong view of surrounding things. If any workmen had enjoyed of

late years (it may be said) unlimited prosperity, they were those

connected with the building trade. Therefore, being so flourishing, it

struck some of their body, who in a degree gave laws to the rest, that

the best thing they could do was to make themselves more flourishing

still. As a preliminary, they began to agitate for an increase of wages:

this was to be accomplished by reducing the hours of labour, the

proposition being to work nine hours per day instead of ten. They said

nothing about relinquishing the wages of the extra hour: they would be

paid for ten hours and work nine. The proposition was first put by the

men of a leading metropolitan firm to their principals, and, failing to

obtain it, they threatened to strike. This it was that was just now

agitating Daffodil's Delight.

In the front room of one of the houses that abutted nearly on the

gutter, and to which you must ascend by steps, there might be read in

the window, inscribed on a piece of paper, the following notice: 'The

Misses Dunn's, Milliner and Dressmakers. Ladies own materiels made up.'

The composition of the _affiche_ was that of the two Miss Dunns jointly,

who prided themselves upon being elegant scholars. A twelvemonth's

apprenticeship had initiated them into the mysteries of dressmaking;

millinery had come to them, as Mark Tapley would say, spontaneous, or by

dint of practice. They had set up for themselves in their father's

house, and could boast of a fair share of the patronage of Daffodil's

Delight. Showy damsels were they, with good-humoured, turned-up noses,

and light hair; much given to gadding and gossiping, and fonder of

dressing themselves than of getting home the dresses of their customers.

On the above evening, they sat in their room, an upper one, stitching

away. A gown was in progress for Mrs. Quale, who often boasted that she

could do any work in the world, save make her own gowns. It had been in

progress for two weeks, and that lady had at length come up in a temper,

as Miss Jemima Dunn expressed it, and had demanded it to be returned,

done or undone. They, with much deprecation, protested it should be home

the first thing in the morning, and went to work. Four or five visitors,

girls of their own age, were performing the part of lookers-on, and much

laughter prevailed.

'I say,' cried out Martha White--a pleasant-looking girl, who had

perched herself aloft on the edge of a piece of furniture, which

appeared to be a low chest of drawers by day, and turn itself into a bed

at night--'Mary Baxendale was crying yesterday, because of the strike;

saying, it would be bad for all of us, if it came. Ain't she a soft?'

'Baxendale's again it, too,' exclaimed Miss Ryan, Pat Ryan's eldest

trouble. 'Father says he don't think Baxendale 'll go in for it all.'

'Mary Baxendale's just one of them timid things as is afraid of their

own shadders,' cried Mary Ann Dunn. 'If she saw a cow a-coming at the

other end of the street, she'd turn tail and run. Jemimer, whatever are

you at? The sleeves is to be in plaits, not gathers.'

'She do look ill, though, does Mary Baxendale,' said Jemima, after some

attention to the sleeve in hand. 'It's my belief she'll never live to

see Christmas; she's going the way her mother went. Won't it be prime

when the men get ten hours' pay for nine hours' work? I shall think

about getting married then.'

'You must find somebody to have you first,' quoth Grace Darby. 'You have

not got a sweetheart yet.'

Miss Jemima tossed her head. 'I needn't to wait long for that. The chaps

be as plentiful as sprats in winter. All you have got to do is to pick

and choose.'

'What's that?' interrupted Mrs. Dunn, darting into the room, with her

sharp tongue and her dirty fine cap. 'What's that as you're talking

about, miss?'

'We are a-talking of the strike,' responded Jemima, with a covert glance

to the rest. 'Martha White and Judy Ryan says the Baxendales won't go in

for it.'

'Not go in for it? What idiots they must be!' returned Mrs. Dunn, the

attractive subject completely diverting her attention from Miss Jemima

and her words. 'Ain't nine hours a-day enough for the men to be at work?

I can tell the Baxendales what--when we have got the nine hours all

straight and sure, we shall next demand eight. 'Taint free-born

Englishers as is going to be put upon. It'll be glorious times, girls,

won't it? We shall get a taste o' fowls and salmon, may be, for dinner

then!'

'My father says he does not think the masters will come-to, if the men

do strike,' observed Grace Darby.

'Of course they won't--till they are forced,' retorted Mrs. Dunn, in a

spirit of satire. 'But that's just what they are a-going to be. Don't

you be a fool, Grace Darby!'

Lotty Cheek rushed in, a girl with a tongue almost as voluble as Mrs.

Dunn's, and rough hair, the colour of a tow-rope. 'What d'ye think?'

cried she, breathlessly. 'There's a-going to be a meeting of the men

to-night in the big room of the Bricklayers' Arms. They are a-filing in

now. I think it must be about the strike.'

'D'ye suppose it would be about anything else?' retorted Mrs. Dunn. 'I'd

like to be one of 'em! I'd hold out for the day's work of eight hours,

instead of nine, I would. So 'ud they, if they was men.'

Mrs. Dunn's speech was concluded to an empty room. All the girls had

flown down into the street, leaving the parts of Mrs. Quale's gown in

closer contact with the dusty floor than was altogether to their

benefit.

The agitation in the trade had hitherto been chiefly smouldering in an

under-current: now, it was rising to the surface. Lotty Cheek's

inference was right; the meeting of this evening had reference to the

strike. It had been hastily arranged in the day; was quite an informal

sort of affair, and confined to the operatives of Mr. Hunter.

Not in a workman's jacket, but in a brown coat dangling to his heels,

with a slit down the back and ventilating holes for the elbows, first

entered he who had been chiefly instrumental in calling the meeting. It

was Mr. Samuel Shuck; better known, you may remember, as Slippery Sam.

Somehow, Sam and prosperity could not contrive to pull together in the

same boat. He was one of those who like to live on the fat of the land,

but are too lazy to work for their share of it. And how Sam had

contrived to exist until now, and keep himself and his large family out

of the workhouse, was a marvel to all. In his fits of repentance, he

would manage to get in again at one or other of the yards of the Messrs.

Hunter; but they were growing tired of him.

The room at the Bricklayers' Arms was tolerably commodious, and Sam took

up a conspicuous position in it.

'Well,' began Sam, when the company had assembled, and were furnished

with pipes and pewter pots, 'you have heard that that firm won't accept

the reduction in the hours of labour, so the men have determined on a

strike. Now, I have got a question to put to you. Is there most power in

one man, or in a few dozens of men?'

Some laughed, and said, 'In the dozens.'

'Very good,' glibly went on Sam, whose tongue was smoother than oil, and

who was gifted with a sort of oratory and some learning when he chose to

put it out. 'Then, the measure I wish to urge upon you is, make common

cause with those men; we are not all obliged to strike at the same time;

it will be better not; but by degrees. Let every firm in London strike,

each at its appointed time,' he continued, raising his voice to

vehemence. 'We must stand up for ourselves; for our rights; for our

wives and children. By making common cause together, we shall bowl out

the masters, and bring them to terms.'

'Hooroar!' put in Pat Ryan.

'Hooroar!' echoed a few more.

An aged man, Abel White's father, usually called old White, who was past

work, and had a seat at his son's chimney corner, leaned forward and

spoke, his voice tremulous, but distinct. 'Samuel Shuck, did you ever

know strikes do any good, either to the men or the masters? Friends,' he

added, turning his venerable head around, 'I am in my eightieth year:

and I picked up some experience while them eighty years was passing.

Strikes have ruined some masters, in means; but they have ruined men

wholesale, in means, in body, and in soul.'

'Hold there,' cried Sam Shuck, who had not brooked the interruption

patiently. 'Just tell us, old White, before you go on, whether coercion

answers for British workmen?'

'It does not,' replied the old man, lifting his quiet voice to firmness.

'But perhaps you will tell me in your turn, Sam Shuck, whether it's

likely to answer for masters?'

'It _has_ answered for them,' returned Sam, in a tone of irony. 'I

_have_ heard of back strikes, where the masters were coerced and

coerced, till the men got all they stood out for.'

'And so brought down ruin on their own heads,' returned the old man,

shaking his. 'Did you ever hear of a lock-out, Shuck?'

'Ay, ay,' interposed quiet, respectable Robert Darby. 'Did you ever hear

of that, Slippery Sam?'

Slippery Sam growled. 'Let the masters lock-out if they dare! Let 'em.

The men would hold out to the death.'

'And death it will be, with some of us, if the strike comes, and lasts.

I came down here to-night, on my son's arm, just for your good, my

friends, not for mine. At your age, I thought as some of you do; but I

have learnt experience now. I can't last long, any way; and it's little

matter to me whether famine from a strike be my end, or----'

'Famine' derisively retorted Slippery Sam.

'Yes, famine,' was the quiet answer. 'Strikes never yet brought nothing

but misery in the end. Let me urge upon you all not to be led away. My

voice is but a feeble one; but I think the Lord is sometimes pleased to

show out things clearly to the aged, almost as with a gift of prophecy;

and I could only come and beseech you to keep upon the straight-forrard

path. Don't have anything to do with a strike; keep it away from you at

arm's length, as you would keep away the evil one.'

'What's the good of listening to him?' cried Slippery Sam, in anger. 'He

is in his dotage.'

'Will you listen to me then?' spoke up Peter Quale; 'I am not in mine. I

didn't intend to come here, as may be guessed; but when I found so many

of you bending your steps this way to listen to Slippery Sam, I thought

it time to change my mind, and come and tell you what _I_ thought of

strikes.'

'_You!_' rudely replied Slippery Sam. 'A fellow like you, always in full

work, earning the biggest wages, is sure not to favour strikes. You

can't be much better off than you are.'

'That admission of yours is worth something, Slippery Sam, if there's

any here have got the sense to see it,' nodded Peter Quale. 'Good

workmen, on full wages, _don't_ favour strikes. I have rose up to what I

am by sticking to my work patiently, and getting on step by step. It's

open to every living man to get on as I have done, if he have got skill

and pluck to work. But if I had done as you do, Sam, gone in for labour

one day and for play two, and for drinking, and strikes, and rebellion,

because money, which I was too lazy to work for didn't drop from the

skies into my hands, then I should just have been where you be.'

'Is it right to keep a man grinding and sweating his life out for ten

hours a-day?' retorted Sam. The masters would be as well off if we

worked nine, and the surplus men would find employment.'

'It isn't much of your life that you sweat out, Sam Shuck,' rejoined

Peter Quale, with a cough that especially provoked his antagonist. 'And,

as to the masters being as well off, you had better ask them about that.

Perhaps they'd tell you that to pay ten hours' wages for nine hours'

work would be the hour's wage dead loss to their pockets.'

'Are you rascal enough to go in for the masters?' demanded Sam, in a

fiery heat. 'Who'd do that, but a traitor?'

'I go in for myself, Sam,' equably responded Peter Quale. 'I know on

which side my bread's buttered. No skilful workman, possessed of prudent

thought and judgment, ever yet went blindfold into a strike. At least,

not many such.'

Up rose Robert Darby. 'I'd just say a word, if I can get my meaning out,

but I'm not cute with the tongue. It seems to me, mates, that it would

be a great boon if we could obtain the granting of the nine hours'

movement; and perhaps in the end it would not affect the masters, for

they'd get it out of the public. I'd agitate for this in a peaceful way,

in the shape of reason and argument, and do my best in that way to get

it. But I'd not like, as Peter Quale says, to plunge blindfold into a

strike.'

'I look at it in this light, Darby,' said Peter Quale, 'and it seems to

me it's the only light as 'll answer to look at it in. Things in this

world are estimated by comparison. There ain't nothing large nor small

_in itself_. I may say, this chair's big: well, so it is, if you match

it by that there bit of a stool in the chimbley corner; but it's very

small if you put it by the side of a omnibus, or of one of the sheds in

our yard. Now, if you compare our wages with those of workmen in most

other trades, they are large. Look at a farm labourer, poor fellow, with

his ten shillings (more or less) a-week, hardly keeping body and soul

together. Look at what a man earns in the malting districts in the

country; fifteen shillings and his beer, is reckoned good wages. Look at

a policeman, with his pound a-week. Look at a postman. Look at----'

'Look at ourselves,' intemperately interrupted Jim Dunn. 'What's other

folks to us? We work hard, and we ought to be paid according.'

'So I think we are,' said Peter Quale. 'Thirty-three shillings is _not_

bad wages, and it is only a delusion to say it is. Neither is ten hours

a-day an unfair or oppressive time to work. I'd be as glad as anybody to

have the hour took off, if it could be done pleasantly; but I am not

going to put myself out of work and into trouble to stand out for it.

It's a thing that I am convinced the masters never will give; and if

Pollock's men strike for it, they'll do it against their own

interests----'

Hisses, and murmurs of disapprobation from various parts of the room,

interrupted Peter Quale.

'You'd better wait and understand, afore you begin to hiss,'

phlegmatically recommended Peter Quale, when the noise had subsided. 'I

say it will be against their interests to strike, because, I think, if

they stop on strike for twelve months, they'll be no nearer getting

their end. I may be wrong, but that's my opinion. There's always two

sides to a question--our own, and the opposite one; and the great fault

in most folks is, that they look only at their own side, and it causes

them to see things in a partial view. I have looked as fair as I can at

our own side, trying to put away my bias _for it_; and I have put

myself in thought on the master's side, asking myself, what would _I_

do, were I one of them. Thus I have tried to judge between them and us,

and the conclusion I have drawed is, that they won't give in.'

'The masters have been brought to grant demands more unreasonable than

this,' rejoined Sam Shuck. 'If you know anything about back strikes, you

must know that, Quale.'

'And that's one of the reasons why I argue they won't grant this,' said

Peter. 'If they go on granting and granting, they may get asking

themselves where the demands 'll stop.'

'Let us go back to 1833,' spoke up old White again, and the man's age

and venerable aspect caused him to be listened to with respect. 'I was

then working in Manchester, and belonged to the Trades' Union; a

powerful Union as ever was formed. In our strength, we thought we should

like a thing or two altered, and we made a formal demand upon the master

builders, requiring them to discontinue the erection of buildings on

sub-contracts. The masters fell in with it. You'll understand, friends,'

he broke off to say, 'that, looking at things now, and looking at 'em

then, is just as if I saw 'em in two opposite aspects. Next, we gave out

a set of various rules for the masters, and required them to abide by

such--about the making of the wages equal; the number of apprentices

they should take; the machinery they should or should not use, and other

things. Well, the masters gave us that also, and it put us all

cock-a-hoop, and we went on to dictate to 'em more and more. If

they--the masters--broke any of our rules, we levied fines on 'em, and

made 'em pay up; we ordered them before us at our meetings, found fault

with 'em, commanded 'em to obey us, to take on such men as we pointed

out, and to turn off others; in short, forced 'em to do as we chose.

People might have thought that we was the masters and they the

operatives. Pretty well, that, wasn't it?'

The room nodded acquiescence. Slippery Sam snapped his fingers in

delight.

'The worst was, it did not last,' resumed the old man. 'Like too many

other folks emboldened with success, we wasn't content to let well

alone, but went on a bit too far. The masters took up their own defence

at last; and the wonder to me now, looking back, is, that they didn't do

it before. They formed themselves into a Union, and passed a resolve to

employ no man unless he signed a pledge not to belong to a Trades'

Union. Then we all turned out. Six months the strike was on, and the

buildings was at a standstill, and us out of work.'

'Were wages bad at that time?' inquired Robert Darby.

'No. The good workmen among us had been earning in the summer

thirty-five shillings a-week; and the bricklayers had just had a rise of

three shillings. We was just fools: that's my opinion of it now. Awful

misery we were reduced to. Every stick we had went to the pawn-shop; our

wives was skin and bone, our children was in rags; and some of us just

laid our heads down on the stones, clammed to death.'

'What was the trade in other places about, that it didn't help you?'

indignantly demanded Sam Shuck.

'They did help us. Money to the tune of eighteen thousand pounds came to

us; but we was a large body--many mouths to feed, and the strike was

prolonged. We had to come-to at last, for the masters wouldn't; and we

voted our combination a nuisance, and went humbly to 'em, like dogs with

their tails between their legs, and craved to be took on again upon

their own terms. But we couldn't get took back; not all of us: the

masters had learnt a lesson. They had got machinery to work, and had

collected workmen from other parts, so that we was not wanted. And

that's all the good the strike brought to us! I came away on the tramp

with my family, and got work in London after a deal of struggle and

privation: and I made a vow never to belong willingly to a strike

again.'

'Do you see where the fault lay in that case?--the blame?--the whole

gist of the evil?'

The question came from a gentleman who had entered the room as old White

was speaking. The men would have risen to salute him, but he signed to

them to be still and cause no interruption--a tall, noble man, with

calm, self-reliant countenance.

'It lay with the masters,' he resumed, nobody replying to him. 'Had

those Manchester masters resisted the first demand of their men--a

demand made in the insolence of power, not in need--and allowed them

fully to understand that they were, and would be, masters, we should, I

believe, have heard less of strikes since, than we have done. I never

think of those Manchester masters but my blood boils. When a principal

suffers himself to be dictated to by his men, he is no longer a master,

or worthy of the name.'

'Had you been one of them, and not complied, you might have come to

ruin, sir,' cried Robert Darby. 'There's a deal to be said on both

sides.'

'Ruin!' was the answer. 'I never would have conceded an inch, though I

had known that I must end my days in the workhouse through not doing

it.'

'Of course, sir, you'd stand up for the masters, being hand in glove

with 'em, and likely to be a master yourself,' grumbled Sam Shuck, a

touch of irony in his tone.

'I should stand up for whichever side I deemed in the right, whether it

was the masters' or the men's,' was the emphatic answer. 'Is it well--is

it in accordance with the fitness of things, that a master should be

under the control of his men? Come! I ask it of your common sense.'

'No.' It was readily acknowledged.

'Those Manchester masters and those Manchester operatives were upon a

par as regards shame and blame.'

'Sir! Shame and blame?'

'They were upon a par as regards shame and blame,' was the decisive

repetition; 'and I make no doubt that both equally deemed themselves to

have been so, when they found their senses. The masters came to them:

the men were brought to theirs.'

'You speak strongly, sir.'

'Because I feel strongly. When I become a master, I shall, if I know

anything of myself, have my men's interest at heart; but none of them

shall ever presume to dictate to me. If a master cannot exercise his own

authority in firm self-reliance, let him give up business.'

'Have masters a right to oppress us, sir?--to grind us down?--to work us

into our coffins?' cried Sam Shuck.

The gentleman raised his eyebrows, and a half smile crossed his lips.

'Since when have you been oppressed, and ground down into your coffins?'

Some of the men laughed--at Sam's oily tongue.

'If you _are_--if you have any complaint of that sort to make, let me

hear it now, and I will convey it to Mr. Hunter. He is ever ready, you

know, to----What do you say, Shuck? The nine hours' concession is all

you want? If you can get the masters to give you ten hours' pay for nine

hours' work, so much the better for you. _I_ would not: but it is no

affair of mine. To be paid what you honestly earn, be it five pounds per

week or be it one, is only justice; but to be paid for what you don't

earn, is the opposite thing. I think, too, that the equalization of

wages is a mistaken system, quite wrong in principle: one which can

bring only discontent in the long run. Let me repeat that with

emphasis--the equalization of wages, should it ever take place, can

bring only discontent in the long run.'

There was a pause. No one spoke, and the speaker resumed--

'I conclude you have met here to discuss this agitation at the Messrs.

Pollocks?'

Pollocks' men are a-going to strike,' said Slippery Sam.

'Oh, they are, are they?' returned the gentleman, some mockery in his

tone. 'I hope they may find it to their benefit. I don't know what the

Messrs. Pollocks may do in the matter; but I know what I should.'

'You'd hold out to the last against the men?'

'I should; to the last and the last: were it for ten years to come.

Force a measure upon _me_! coerce _me_!' he reiterated, drawing his fine

form to its full height, while the red flush mantled in his cheeks. 'No,

my men, I am not made of that yielding stuff. Only let me be persuaded

that my judgment is right, and no body of men on earth should force me

to act against it.'

The speaker was Austin Clay, as I daresay you have already guessed. He

had not gone to the meeting to interrupt it, or to take part in it, but

in search of Peter Quale. Hearing from Mrs. Quale that her husband was

at the Bricklayers' Arms--a rare occurrence, for Peter was not one who

favoured public-houses--Austin went thither in search of him, and so

found himself in the midst of the meeting. His business with Peter

related to certain orders he required to give for the early morning.

Once there, however, the temptation to have his say was too great to be

resisted. That over, he went out, making a sign to the man to follow

him.

'What are those men about to rush into, Quale?' he demanded, when his

own matter was over.

'Ah, what indeed?' returned the man. 'If they do get led into a strike,

they'll repent it, some of them.'

'You are not one of the malcontents, then?'

'I?' retorted Peter, utter scorn in his tone. 'No, sir. There's a

proverb which I learnt years ago from an old book as was lent me, and

I've not forgotten it, sir--"Let well alone." But you must not think all

the men you saw sitting there be discontented agitators, Mr. Clay. It's

only Shuck and a few of that stamp. The rest be as steady and cautious

as I am.'

'If they don't get led away,' replied Austin Clay, and his voice

betrayed a dubious tone. 'Slippery Sam, in spite of his loose

qualifications, is a ringleader more persuasive than prudent. Hark! he

is at it again, hammer and tongs. Are you going back to them?'

'No, sir. I shall go home now.'

'We will walk together, then,' observed Austin. 'Afterwards I am going

on to Mr. Hunter's.'[1]

FOOTNOTE:

[1] 'It need scarcely be remarked, that Sam Shuck and his

followers represent only the ignorant and unprincipled section of those

who engage in strikes. Working men are perfectly right in combining to

seek the best terms they can get, both as to wages and time; provided

there be no interference with the liberty either of masters or

fellow-workmen.--_Ed._ L. H., February, 1862.'

CHAPTER II.

CALLED TO KETTERFORD.

Austin Clay was not mistaken. Rid of Peter Quale, who was a worse enemy

of Sam's schemes than even old White, Sam had it nearly his own way,

and went at it 'hammer and tongs.' He poured his eloquent words into the

men's ears--and Sam, as you have heard, really did possess the gift of

eloquence: of a rough and rude sort: but that tells well with the class

now gathered round him. He brought forth argument upon argument,

fallacious as they were plausible; he told the men it depended upon

_them_, whether the boon they were standing out for should be accorded,

not upon the masters. Not that Sam called it a boon; he spoke of it as a

_right_. Let them only be firm and true to themselves, he said, and the

masters must give in: there was no help for it, they would have no other

resource. Sam finally concluded by demanding, with fierce looks all

round, whether they were men, or whether they were slaves, and the men

answered, with a cheer and a shout, that Britons never should be slaves:

and the meeting broke up in excitement and glorious spirits, and went

home elated, some with the anticipation of the fine time that was

dawning for them, others with having consumed a little too much

half-and-half.

Slippery Sam reeled away to his home. A dozen or so attended him,

listening to his oratory, which was continued still: though not exactly

to the gratification of Daffodil's Delight, who were hushing their

unruly babies to sleep, or striving to get to sleep themselves. Much Sam

cared whom he disturbed! He went along, flinging his arms and his words

at random--inflammatory words, carrying poisoned shafts that told. If

somebody came down upon you and upon me, telling us that, with a little

exertion on our part, we should inevitably drop into a thousand a year,

and showing plausible cause for the same, should we turn a deaf ear? The

men shook hands individually with Slippery Sam, and left him propped

against his own door; for Sam, with all deference be it spoken, was a

little overcome himself--with the talking, of course.

Sam's better half greeted him with a shrill tongue: she and Mrs. Dunn

might be paired in that respect! and Sam's children, some in the bed in

the corner, some sitting up, greeted him with a shrill cry also,

clamouring for a very common-place article, indeed--'some _bread_!'

Sam's family seemed inconveniently to increase; for the less there

appeared to be to welcome them with, the surer and faster they arrived.

Thirteen Sam could number now; but several of the elder ones were out in

the world 'doing for themselves'--getting on, or starving, as it might

happen to be.

'You old sot! you have been at that drinking-can again,' were Mrs. Sam's

words of salutation; and I wish I could soften them down to refinement

for polite ears; but if you are to have the truth, you must take them as

they were spoken.

'Drinking-can!' echoed Sam, who was in too high glee to lose his temper,

'never mind the drinking-can, missis: my fortian's made. I drawed

together that meeting, as I telled ye I should,' he added, discarding

his scholarly eloquence for the familiar home phraseology, 'and they

come to it, every man jack on 'em, save thin-skinned Baxendale

upstairs. Never was such a full meeting knowed in Daffodil's Delight.'

'Who cares for the meeting!' irascibly responded Mrs. Sam. 'What we

wants is, some'at to fill our insides with. Don't come bothering home

here about a meeting, when the children be a starving. If you'd work

more and talk less, it 'ud become ye better.'

'I got the ear of the meeting,' said Sam, braving the reproof with a

provoking wink. 'A despicable set our men is, at Hunter's, a humdrumming

on like slaves for ever, taking their paltry wages and making no stir.

But I've put the brand among 'em at last, and sent 'em home all on fire,

to dream of short work and good pay. Quale, he come, and put in his

spoke again' it; and that wretched old skeleton of a White, what's been

cheating the grave this ten year, he come, and put in his; and Mr.

Austin Clay, he must thrust his nose among us, and talk treason to the

men: but I think my tongue have circumvented the lot. If it haven't, my

name's not Sam Shuck.'

'If you and your circumventions and your tongue was all at the bottom of

the Thames, 'twouldn't be no loss, for all the good they does above it,'

sobbed Mrs. Shuck, whose anger generally ended in tears. 'Here's me and

the children a clemming for want o' bread, and you can waste your time

over a idle good-for-nothing meeting. Ain't you ashamed, not to work as

other men do?'

'Bread!' loftily returned Sam, with the air of a king, ''tisn't bread I

shall soon be furnishing for you and the children: it's mutton chops. My

fortian's made, I say.'

'Yah!' retorted Mrs. Sam. 'It have been made forty times in the last

ten year, to listen to you. What good has ever come of the boast? I'd

shut up my mouth if I couldn't talk sense.'

Sam nodded his head oracularly, and entered upon an explanation. But for

the fact of his being a little 'overcome'--whatever may have been its

cause--he would have been more guarded. 'I've had overtures,' he said,

bending forward his head and lowering his voice, 'and them overtures,

which I accepted, will be the making of you and of me. Work!' he

exclaimed, throwing his arms gracefully from him with a repelling

gesture, 'I've done with work now; I'm superior to it; I'm exalted far

above that lowering sort of toil. The leaders among the London Trade

Union have recognised eloquence, ma'am, let me tell you; and they've

made me one of their picked body--appointed me agitator to the firms of

Hunter. "You get the meeting together, and prime 'em with the best of

your eloquence, and excite 'em to recognise and agitate for their own

rights, and you shall have your appointment, and a good round weekly

salary." Well, Mrs. S., I did it. I got the men together, and I _have_

primed 'em, and some of 'em's a busting to go off; and all I've got to

do from henceforth is to keep 'em up to the mark, by means of that

tongue which you are so fond of disparaging, and to live like a

gentleman. There's a trifling instalment of the first week's money.'

Sam threw a sovereign on the table. Mrs. Shuck, with a grunt of

disparagement still, darted forward to seize upon it through her tears.

The children, uttering a wild shriek of wonder, delight, and disbelief,

born of incipient famine, darted forward to seize it too. Sam burst into

a fit of laughter, threw himself back to indulge it, and not being just

then over steady on his legs, lost his equilibrium, and toppled over the

fender into the ashes.

Leaving Mrs. Shuck to pick him up, or to leave him there--which latter

negative course was the one she would probably take--let us return to

Austin Clay.

At Peter Quale's gate he was standing a moment to speak to the man

before proceeding onwards, when Mrs. Quale came running down the garden

path.

'I was coming in search of you, sir,' she said to Austin Clay. 'This has

just been brought, and the man made me sign my name to a paper.'

Austin took what she held out to him--a telegraphic despatch. He opened

it; read it; then in the prompt, decisive manner usual with him,

requested Mrs. Quale to put him up a change of things in his

portmanteau, which he would return for; and walked away with a rapid

step.

'Whatever news is it that he has had?' cried Mrs. Quale, as she stood

with her husband, looking after him. 'Where can he have been summoned

to?'

''Tain't no business of ours,' retorted Peter; 'if it had been, he'd

have enlightened us. Did you ever hear of that offer that's always

pending?--Five hundred a year to anybody as 'll undertake to mind his

own business, and leave other folks's alone.'

Austin was on his way to Mr. Hunter's. A very frequent evening visitor

there now, was he. But this evening he had an ostensible motive for

going; a boon to crave. That alone may have made his footsteps fleet.

In the soft twilight of the summer evening, in the room of their own

house that opened to the conservatory, sat Florence Hunter--no longer

the impulsive, charming, and somewhat troublesome child, but the young

and lovely woman. Of middle height and graceful form, her face was one

of great sweetness; the earnest, truthful spirit, the pure innocence,

which had made its charm in youth, made it now: to look on Florence

Hunter, was to love her.

She appeared to be in deep thought, her cheek resting on her hand, and

her eyes fixed on vacancy. Some movement in the house aroused her, and

she arose, shook her head, as if she would shake care away, and bent

over a rare plant in the room's large opening, lightly touching the

leaves.

'I fear that mamma is right, and I am wrong, pretty plant!' she

murmured. 'I fear that you will die. Is it that this London, with its

heavy atmosphere----'

The knock of a visitor at the hall door resounded through the house. Did

Florence _know_ the knock, that her voice should falter, and the soft

pink in her cheeks should deepen to a glowing crimson? The room door

opened, and a servant announced Mr. Clay.

In that early railway journey when they first met, Florence had taken a

predilection for Austin Clay. 'I like him so much!' had been her

gratuitous announcement to her uncle Harry. The liking had ripened into

an attachment, firm and lasting--a child's attachment: but Florence grew

into a woman, and it could not remain such. Thrown much together, the

feeling had changed, and love mutually arose: they fell into it

unconsciously. Was it quite prudent of Mr. Hunter to sanction, nay, to

court the frequent presence at his house of Austin Clay? Did he overlook

the obvious fact, that he was one who possessed attractions, both of

mind and person, and that Florence was now a woman grown? Or did Mr.

Hunter deem that the social barrier, which he might assume existed

between his daughter and his dependent, would effectually prevent all

approach of danger? Mr. Hunter must himself account for the negligence:

no one else can do it. It was certain that he did have Austin very much

at his house, but it was equally certain that he never cast a thought to

the possibility that his daughter might be learning to love him.

The strange secret, whatever it may have been, attaching to Mr. Hunter,

had shattered his health to that extent that for days together he would

be unequal to go abroad or to attend to business. Then Austin, who acted

as principal in the absence of Mr. Hunter, would arrive at the house

when the day was over, to report progress, and take orders for the next

day. Or, rather, consult with him what the orders should be; for in

energy, in capability, Austin was now the master spirit, and Mr. Hunter

bent to it. That over, he passed the rest of the evening in the society

of Florence, conversing with her freely, confidentially; on literature,

art, the news of the day; on topics of home interest; listening to her

music, listening to her low voice, as she sang her songs; guiding her

pencil. There they would be. He with his ready eloquence, his fund of

information, his attractive manners, and his fine form, handsome in its

height and strength; she with her sweet fascinations, her gentle

loveliness. What could be the result? But, as is almost invariably the

case, the last person to give a suspicion to it was he who positively

looked on, and might have seen all--Mr. Hunter. Life, in the presence of

the other, had become sweet to each as a summer's dream--a dream that

had stolen over them ere they knew what it meant. But consciousness came

with time.

Very conscious of it were they both as he entered this evening. Austin

took her hand in greeting; a hand always tremulous now in his. She bent

again over the plant she was tending, her eyelids and her damask cheeks

drooping.

'You are alone, Florence!'

'Just now. Mamma is very poorly this evening, and keeps her room. Papa

was here a few minutes ago.'

He released her hand, and stood looking at her, as she played with the

petals of the flower. Not a word had Austin spoken of his love; not a

word was he sure that he might speak. If he partially divined that it

might be acceptable to her, he did not believe it would be to Mr.

Hunter.

'The plant looks sickly,' he observed.

'Yes. It is one that thrives in cold and wind. It came from Scotland.

Mamma feared this close London atmosphere would not suit it; but I said

it looked so hardy, it would be sure to do well. Rather than it should

die, I would send it back to its bleak home.'

'In tears, Florence? for the sake of a plant?'

'Not for that,' she answered, twinkling the moisture from her eyelashes,

as she raised them to his with a brave smile. 'I was thinking of mamma;

she appears to be fading rapidly, like the plant.'

'She may grow stronger when the heat of summer shall have passed.'

Florence slightly shook her head, as if she could not share in the

suggested hope. 'Mamma herself does not seem to think she shall, Austin.

She has dropped ominous words more than once latterly. This afternoon I

showed her the plant, that it was drooping. "Ay, my dear," she remarked,

"it is like me--on the wane." And I think my uncle Bevary's opinion has

become unfavourable.'

It was a matter on which Austin could not urge hope, though, for the

sake of tranquillizing Florence, he might suggest it, for he believed

that Mrs. Hunter was fading rapidly. All these years she seemed to have

been getting thinner and weaker; it was some malady connected with the

spine, causing her at times great pain. Austin changed the subject.

'I hope Mr. Hunter will soon be in, Florence. I am come to ask for leave

of absence.'

'Papa is not out; he is sitting with mamma. That is another reason why I

fear danger for her. I think papa sees it; he is so solicitous for her

comfort, so anxious to be with her, as if he would guard her from

surprise or agitating topics. He will not suffer a visitor to enter at

hazard; he will not let a note be given her until he has first seen it.'

'But he has long been thus anxious,' replied Austin, who was aware that

what she spoke of had lasted for years.

'I know. But still, latterly--however, I must hope against hope,' broke

off Florence. 'I think I do: hope is certainly a very strong ingredient

in my nature, for I cannot realize the parting with my dear mother. Did

you say you have come for leave of absence? Where is it that you wish to

go?'

'I have had a telegraphic despatch from Ketterford,' he replied, taking

it from his pocket. 'My good old friend, Mrs. Thornimett, is dying, and

I must hasten thither with all speed.'

'Oh!' uttered Florence, almost reproachfully. 'And you are wasting the

time with me!'

'Not so. The first train that goes there does not start for an hour yet,

and I can get to Paddington in half of one. The news has grieved me

much. The last time I was at Ketterford--you may remember it--Mrs.

Thornimett was so very well, exhibiting no symptoms whatever of decay.'

'I remember it,' answered Florence. 'It is two years ago. You stayed a

whole fortnight with her.'

'And had a battle with her to get away then,' said Austin, smiling with

the reminiscence, or with Florence's word 'whole'--a suggestive word,

spoken in that sense. 'She wished me to remain longer. I wonder what

illness can have stricken her? It must have been sudden.'

'What is the relationship between you?'

'A distant one. She and my mother were second cousins. If I----'

Austin was stopped by the entrance of Mr. Hunter. _So_ changed, _so_

bent and bowed, since you, reader, last saw him! The stout, upright

figure had grown thin and stooping, the fine dark hair was grey, the

once calm, self-reliant face was worn and haggard. Nor was that all;

there was a constant _restlessness_ in his manner and in the turn of his

eye, giving a spectator the idea that he lived in a state of

ever-present, perpetual fear.

Austin put the telegraphic message in his hand. 'It is an inconvenient

time, I know, sir, for me to be away, busy as we are, and with this

agitation rising amongst the men; but I cannot help myself. I will

return as soon as it is possible.'

Mr. Hunter did not hear the words. His eyes had fallen on the word

'Ketterford,' in the despatch, and that seemed to scare away his senses.

His hands shook as he held the paper, and for a few moments he appeared

incapable of collected thought, of understanding anything. Austin

exclaimed again.

'Oh, yes, yes, it is only--it is Mrs. Thornimett who is ill, and wants

you--I comprehend now.' He spoke in an incoherent manner, and with a

sigh of the most intense relief. 'I--I--saw the word "dying," and it

startled me,' he proceeded, as if anxious to account for his agitation.

'You can go, Austin; you must go. Remain a few days there--a week, if

you find it necessary.'

'Thank you, sir. I will say farewell now, then.'

He shook hands with Mr. Hunter, turned to Florence, and took hers.

'Remember me to Mrs. Hunter,' he said in a low tone, which, in spite of

himself, betrayed its own tenderness, 'and tell her I hope to find her

better on my return.'

A few paces from the house, as he went out, Austin encountered Dr.

Bevary. 'Is she much worse?' he exclaimed to Austin, in a hasty tone.

'Is who much worse, doctor?'

'Mrs. Hunter. I have just had a message from her.'

'Not very much, I fancy. Florence said her mamma was poorly this

evening. I am off to Ketterford, doctor, for a few days.'

'To Ketterford!' replied Dr. Bevary, with an emphasis that showed the

news had startled him. 'What are you going there for? For--for Mr.

Hunter?'

'For myself,' said Austin. 'A good old friend is ill--dying, the message

says--and has telegraphed for me.'

The physician looked at him searchingly. 'Do you speak of Miss Gwinn?'

'I should not call her a friend,' replied Austin. 'I allude to Mrs.

Thornimett.'

'A pleasant journey to you, then. And, Clay, steer clear of those

Gwinns; they would bring you no good.'

It was in the dawn of the early morning that Austin entered Ketterford.

He did not let the grass grow under his feet between the railway

terminus and Mrs. Thornimett's, though he was somewhat dubious about

disturbing the house. If she was really 'dying,' it might be well that

he should do so; if only suffering from a severe illness, it might not

be expected of him; and the wording of the message had been ambiguous,

leaving it an open question. As he drew within view of the house,

however, it exhibited signs of bustle; lights not yet put out in the

dawn, might be discerned through some of the curtained windows, and a

woman, having much the appearance of a nurse, was coming out at the

door, halting on the threshold a moment to hold converse with one

within.

'Can you tell me how Mrs. Thornimett is?' inquired Austin, addressing

himself to her.

The woman shook her head. 'She is gone, sir. Not more than an hour ago.'

Sarah, the old servant whom we have seen before at Mrs. Thornimett's,

came forward, weeping. 'Oh, Mr. Austin! oh, sir: why could not you get

here sooner?'

'How could I, Sarah?' was his reply. 'I received the message only last

evening, and came off by the first train that started.'

'I'd have took a engine to myself, and rode upon its chimbley, but what

I'd have got here in time,' retorted Sarah. 'Twice in the very last half

hour of her life she asked after you. "Isn't Austin come?" "Isn't he yet

come?" My dear old mistress!'

'Why was I not sent for before?' he asked, in return.

'Because we never thought it was turning serious,' sobbed Sarah. 'She

caught cold some days ago, and it flew to her throat, or her chest, I

hardly know which. The doctor was called in; and it's my belief _he_

didn't know: the doctors nowadays bain't worth half what they used to

be, and they call things by fine names that nobody can understand.

However it may have been, nobody saw any danger, neither him nor us. But

at mid-day yesterday there was a change, and the doctor said he'd like

further advice to be brought in. And it was had; but they could not do

her any good; and she, poor dear mistress, was the first to say that she

was dying. "Send for Austin," she said to me; and one of the gentlemen,

he went to the wire telegraph place, and wrote the message.'

Austin made no rejoinder: he seemed to be swallowing down a lump in his

throat. Sarah resumed. 'Will you see her, sir? She is just laid out.'

He nodded acquiescence, and the servant led the way to the death

chamber. It had been put straight, so to remain until all that was left

of its many years' occupant should be removed. She lay on the bed in

placid stillness; her eyes closed, her pale face calm, a smile upon it;

the calm of a spirit at peace with heaven. Austin leaned over her,

losing himself in solemn thoughts. Whither had the spirit flown? to what

bright unknown world? Had it found the company of sister spirits? had it

seen, face to face, its loving Saviour? Oh! what mattered now the few

fleeting trials of this life that had passed over her! how worse than

unimportant did they seem by the side of death! A little, more or less,

of care; a lot, where shade or sunshine shall have predominated; a few

friends gained or lost; struggle, toil, hope--all must merge in the last

rest. It was over; earth, with its troubles and its petty cares, with

its joys and sorrows, and its 'goods stored up for many years;' as

completely over for Mary Thornimett, as though it had never, been. In

the higher realms whither her spirit had hastened----

'I told Mrs. Dubbs to knock up the undertaker, and desire him to come

here at once and take the measure for the coffin.'

Sarah's interruption recalled Austin to the world. It is impossible,

even in a death-chamber, to run away from the ordinary duties of daily

life.

CHAPTER III.

TWO THOUSAND POUNDS.

'You will stay for the funeral, Mr. Clay?'

'It is my intention to do so.'

'Good. Being interested in the will, it may be agreeable to you to hear

it read.'

'Am I interested?' inquired Austin, in some surprise.

'Why, of course you are,' replied Mr. Knapley, the legal gentleman with

whom Austin was speaking, and who had the conduct of Mrs. Thornimett's

affairs. 'Did you never know that you were a considerable legatee?'

'I did not,' said Austin. 'Some years ago--it was at the death of Mr.

Thornimett--Mrs. Thornimett hinted to me that I might be the better some

time for a trifle from her. But she has never alluded to it since: and I

have not reckoned upon it.'

'Then I can tell you--though it is revealing secrets beforehand--that

you are the better to the tune of two thousand pounds.'

'Two thousand pounds!' uttered Austin, in sheer amazement. 'How came she

to leave me so much as that?'

'Do you quarrel with it, young sir?'

'No, indeed: I feel all possible gratitude. But I am surprised,

nevertheless.'

'She was a clever, clear-sighted woman, was Mrs. Thornimett,' observed

the lawyer. 'I'll tell you about it--how it is you come to have so much.

When I was taking directions for Mr. Thornimett's will--more than ten

years back now--a discussion arose between him and his wife as to the

propriety of leaving a sum of money to Austin Clay. A thousand pounds

was the amount named. Mr. Thornimett was for leaving you in his wife's

hands, to let her bequeath it to you at her death; Mrs. Thornimett

wished it should be left to you then, in the will I was about to make,

that you might inherit it on the demise of Mr. Thornimett. He took his

own course, and did _not_ leave it, as you are aware.'

'I did not expect him to leave me anything,' interrupted Austin.

'My young friend, if you break in with these remarks, I shall not get to

the end of my story. After her husband's burial, Mrs. Thornimett spoke

to me. "I particularly wished the thousand pounds left now to Austin

Clay," she said, "and I shall appropriate it to him at once."

"Appropriate it in what manner?" I asked her. "I should like to put it

out to interest, that it may be accumulating for him," she replied, "so

that at my death he may receive both principal and interest." "Then, if

you live as long as it is to be hoped you will, madam, you may be

bequeathing him two thousand pounds instead of one," I observed to her.

"Mr. Knapley," was her answer, "if I choose to bequeath him three, it is

my own money that I do it with; and I am responsible to no one." She had

taken my remark to be one of remonstrance, you see, in which spirit it

was not made: had Mrs. Thornimett chosen to leave you the whole of her

money she had been welcome to do it for me. "Can you help me to a safe

investment for him?" she resumed; and I promised to look about for it.

The long and the short of it is, Mr. Clay, that I found both a safe and

a profitable investment, and the one thousand pounds _has_ swollen

itself into two--as you will hear when the will is read.'

'I am truly obliged for her kindness, and for the trouble you have

taken,' exclaimed Austin, with a glowing colour. 'I never thought to get

rich all at once.'

'You only be prudent and take care of it,' said Mr. Knapley. 'Be as wise

in its use as I and Mrs. Thornimett have been. It is the best advice I

can give you.'

'It is good advice, I know, and I thank you for it,' warmly responded

Austin.

'Ay. I can tell you that less than two thousand pounds has laid the

foundation of many a great fortune.'

To a young man whose salary is only two hundred a year, the unexpected

accession to two thousand pounds, hard cash, seems like a great fortune.

Not that Austin Clay cared so very much for a 'great fortune' in itself;

but he certainly did hope to achieve a competency, and to this end he

made the best use of the talents bestowed upon him. He was not ambitious

to die 'worth a million;' he had the rare good sense to know that excess

of means cannot bring excess of happiness. The richest man on earth

cannot eat two dinners a day, or wear two coats at a time, or sit two

thoroughbred horses at once, or sleep on two beds. To some, riches are a

source of continual trouble. Unless rightly used, they cannot draw a man

to heaven, or help him on his road thither. Austin Clay's ambition lay

in becoming a powerful man of business; such as were the Messrs. Hunter.

He would like to have men under him, of whom he should be the master;

not to control them with an iron hand, to grind them to the dust, to

hold them at a haughty distance, as if they were of one species of

humanity and he of another. No; he would hold intact their relative

positions of master and servant--none more strictly than he; but he

would be their considerate friend, their firm advocate, regardful ever

of their interests as he was of his own. He would like to have capital

sufficient for all necessary business operations, that he might fulfil

every obligation justly and honourably: so far, money would be welcome

to Austin. Very welcome did the two thousand pounds sound in his ears,

for they might be the stepping-stone to this. Not to the 'great fortune'

talked of by Mr. Knapley, who avowed freely his respect for

millionaires: he did not care for that. They might also be a

stepping-stone to something else--the very thought of which caused his

face to glow and his veins to tingle--the winning of Florence Hunter.

That he would win her, Austin fully believed now.

On the day previous to the funeral, in walking through the streets of

Ketterford, Austin found himself suddenly seized by the shoulder. A

window had been thrown open, and a fair arm (to speak with the gallantry

due to the sex in general, rather than to that one arm in particular)

was pushed out and laid upon him. His captor was Miss Gwinn.

'Come in,' she briefly said.

Austin would have been better pleased to avoid her, but as she had thus

summarily caught him, there was no help for it: to enter into a battle

of contention with _her_ might be productive of neither honour nor

profit. He entered her sitting-room, and she motioned him to a chair.

'So you did not intend to call upon me during your stay in Ketterford,

Austin Clay?'

'The melancholy occasion on which I am here precludes much visiting,'

was his guarded reply. 'And my sojourn will be a short one.'

'Don't be a hypocrite, young man, and use those unmeaning words.

"Melancholy occasion!" What did you care for Mrs. Thornimett, that her

death should make you "melancholy?"'

'Mrs. Thornimett was my dear and valued friend,' he returned, with an

emotion born of anger. 'There are few, living, whom I would not rather

have spared. I shall never cease to regret the not having arrived in

time to see her before she died.'

Miss Gwinn peered at him from her keen eyes, as if seeking to know

whether this was false or true. Possibly she decided in favour of the

latter, for her face somewhat relaxed its sternness. 'What has Dr.

Bevary told you of me and of my affairs?' she rejoined, passing abruptly

to another subject.

'Not anything,' replied Austin. He did not lift his eyes, and a scarlet

flush dyed his brow as he spoke; nevertheless it was the strict truth.

Miss Gwinn noted the signs of consciousness.

'You can equivocate, I see.'

'Pardon me. I have not equivocated to you. Dr. Bevary has disclosed

nothing; he has never spoken to me of your affairs. Why should he, Miss

Gwinn?'

'Your face told a different tale.'

'It did not tell an untruth, at any rate,' he said, with some hauteur.

'Do you never see Dr. Bevary?'

'I see him sometimes.'

'At the house of Mr. Hunter, I presume. How is _she_?'

Again the flush, whatever may have called it up, crimsoned Austin

Clay's brow. 'I do not know of whom you speak,' he coldly said.

'Of Mrs. Hunter.'

'She is in ill-health.'

'Ill to be in danger of her life? I hear so.'

'It may be. I cannot say.'

'Do you know, Austin Clay, that I have a long, long account to settle

with you?' she resumed, after a pause: 'years and years have elapsed

since, and I have never called upon you for it. Why should I?' she

added, relapsing into a dreamy mood, and speaking to herself rather than

to Austin; 'the mischief was done, and could not be recalled. I once

addressed a brief note to you at the office of the Messrs. Hunter,

requesting you to give a letter, enclosed in it, to my brother. Why did

you not?'

Austin was silent. He retained only too vivid a remembrance of the fact.

'Why did you not give it him, I ask?'

'I could not give it him, Miss Gwinn. When your letter reached me, your

brother had already been at the office of the Messrs. Hunter, and was

then on his road back to Ketterford. The enclosure was burnt unopened.'

'Ay!' she passionately uttered, throwing her arms upwards in mental

pain, as Austin had seen her do in the days gone by, and holding commune

with herself, regardless of his presence, 'such has been my fate through

life. Thwarted, thwarted on all sides. For years and years I had lived

but in the hope of finding him; the hope of it kept life in me: and when

the time came, and I did find him, and was entering upon my revenge,

then this brother of mine, who has been the second bane of my existence,

stepped in and reaped the benefit. It was my fault. Why, in my

exultation, did I tell him the man was found? Did I not know enough of

his avarice, his needs, to have made sure that he would turn it to his

own account? Why,' she continued, battling with her hands as at some

invisible adversary, 'was I born with this strong principle of justice

within me? Why, because he stepped in with his false claims and drew

gold--a fortune--of the man, did I deem it a reason for dropping _my_

revenge?--for letting it rest in abeyance? In abeyance it is still; and

its unsatisfied claims are wearing out my heart and my life----'

'Miss Gwinn,' interrupted Austin, at length, 'I fancy you forget that I

am present. Your family affairs have nothing to do with me, and I would

prefer not to hear anything about them. I will wish you good day.'

'True. They have nothing to do with you. I know not why I spoke before

you, save that your sight angers me.'

'Why so?' Austin could not forbear asking.

'Because you live on terms of friendship with that man. You are as his

right hand in business; you are a welcome guest at his house; you regard

and respect the house's mistress. Boy! but that she has not wilfully

injured me; but that she is the sister of Dr. Bevary, I should----'

'I cannot listen to any discussion involving the name of Hunter,' spoke

Austin, in a repellant, resolute tone, the colour again flaming in his

cheeks. 'Allow me to bid you good day.'

'Stay,' she resumed, in a softer tone, 'it is not with you personally

that I am angry----'

An interruption came in the person of Lawyer Gwinn. He entered the room

without his coat, a pen behind each ear, and a dirty straw hat on his

head. It was probably his office attire in warm weather.

'I thought I heard a strange voice. How do you do, Mr. Clay?' he

exclaimed, with much suavity.

Austin bowed. He said something to the effect that he was on the point

of departing, and retreated to the door, bowing his final farewell to

Miss Gwinn. Mr. Gwinn followed.

'Ketterford will have to congratulate you, Mr. Clay,' he said. 'I

understand you inherit a very handsome sum from Mrs. Thornimett.'

'Indeed!' frigidly replied Austin. 'Mrs. Thornimett's will is not yet

read. But Ketterford always knows everybody's business better than its

own.'

'Look you, my dear Mr. Clay,' said the lawyer, holding him by the

button-hole. 'Should you require a most advantageous investment for your

money--one that will turn you in cent. per cent. and no risk--I can help

you to one. Should your inheritance be of the value of a thousand

pounds, and you would like to double it--as all men, of course, do

like--just trust it to me; I have the very thing now open.'

Austin shook himself free--rather too much in the manner that he might

have shaken himself from a serpent. 'Whether my inheritance may be of

the value of one thousand pounds or of ten thousand, Mr. Gwinn, I shall

not require your services in the disposal of it. Good morning.'

The lawyer looked after him as he strode away. 'So, you carry it with a

high hand to me, do you, my brave gentleman! with your vain person, and

your fine clothes, and your imperious manner! Take you care! I hold your

master under my thumb; I may next hold you!'

'The vile hypocrite!' ejaculated Austin to himself, walking all the

faster to leave the lawyer's house behind him. 'She is bad enough, with

her hankering after revenge, and her fits of passion; but she is an

angel of light compared to him. Heaven help Mr. Hunter! It would have

been sufficient to have had _her_ to fight, but to have _him_! Ay,

Heaven help him!'

'How d'ye do, Mr. Clay?'

Austin returned the nod of the passing acquaintance, and continued his

way, his thoughts reverting to Miss Gwinn.

'Poor thing! there are times when I pity her! Incomprehensible as the

story is to me, I can feel compassion; for it was a heavy wrong done

her, looking at it in the best light. She is not all bad; but for the

wrong, and for her evil temper, she might have been different. There is

something good in the hint I gathered now from her lips, if it be

true--that she suffered her own revenge to drop into abeyance, because

her brother had pursued Mr. Hunter to drain money from him: she would

not go upon him in both ways. Yes, there was something in it both noble

and generous, if those terms can ever be applied to----'

'Austin Clay, I am sure! How are you?'

Austin resigned his hand to the new comer, who claimed it. His thoughts

could not be his own to-day.

The funeral of Mrs. Thornimett took place. Her mortal remains were laid

beside her husband, there to repose peacefully until the last trump

shall sound. On the return of the mourners to the house, the will was

read, and Austin found himself the undoubted possessor of two thousand

pounds. Several little treasures, in the shape of books, drawings, and

home knicknacks, were also left to him. He saw after the packing of

these, and the day following the funeral he returned to London.

It was evening when he arrived; and he proceeded without delay to the

house of Mr. Hunter--ostensibly to report himself, really to obtain a

sight of Florence, for which his tired heart was yearning. The

drawing-room was lighted up, by which he judged that they had friends

with them. Mr. Hunter met him in the hall: never did a visitor's knock

sound at his door but Mr. Hunter, in his nervous restlessness, strove to

watch who it might be that entered. Seeing Austin, his face acquired a

shade of brightness, and he came forward with an outstretched hand.

'But you have visitors,' Austin said, when greetings were over, and Mr.

Hunter was drawing him towards the stairs. He wore deep mourning, but

was not in evening dress.

'As if anybody will care for the cut of your coat!' cried Mr. Hunter.

'There's Mrs. Hunter wrapped up in a woollen shawl.'

The room was gay with light and dress, with many voices, and with music.

Florence was seated at the piano, playing, and singing in a glee with

others. Austin, silently greeting those whom he knew as he passed, made

his way to Mrs. Hunter. She was wrapped in a warm shawl, as her husband

had said; but she appeared better than usual.

'I am so glad to see you looking well,' Austin whispered, his earnest

tone betraying deep feeling.

'And I am glad to see you here again,' she replied, smiling, as she held

his hand. 'We have missed you, Austin. Yes, I feel better! but it is

only a temporary improvement. So you have lost poor Mrs. Thornimett. She

died before you could reach her.'

'She did,' replied Austin, with a grave face. 'I wish we could get

transported to places, in case of necessity as quickly as the telegraph

brings us news that we are wanted. A senseless and idle wish, you will

say; but it would have served me in this case. She asked after me twice

in her last half hour.'

'Austin,' breathed Mrs. Hunter, 'was it a happy death-bed? Was she ready

to go?'

'Quite, quite,' he answered, a look of enthusiasm illumining his face.

'She had been ready long.'

'Then we need not mourn for her; rather praise God that she is taken.

Oh, Austin, what a happy thing it must be for such to die! But you are

young and hopeful; you cannot understand that, yet.'

So, Mrs. Hunter had learnt that great truth! Some years before, she had

not so spoken to the wife of John Baxendale, when _she_ was waiting in

daily expectation of being called on her journey. It had come to her ere

her time of trial--as the dying woman had told her it would.

The singing ceased, and in the movement which it occasioned in the room,

Austin left Mrs. Hunter's side, and stood within the embrasure of the

window, half hidden by the curtains. The air was pleasant on that warm

summer night, and Florence, resigning her place at the instrument to

some other lady, stole to the window to inhale its freshness. There she

saw Austin. She had not heard him enter the room--did not know, in fact,

that he was back from Ketterford.

'Oh!' she uttered, in the sudden revulsion of feeling that the sight

brought to her, 'is it you?'

He quietly took her hands in his, and looked down at her. Had it been to

save her life, she could not have helped betraying emotion.

'Are you glad to see me, Florence?' he softly whispered.

She coloured even to tears. Glad! The time might come when she should be

able to tell him so; but that time was not yet.

'Mrs. Hunter is glad of my return,' he continued, in the same low tone,

sweeter to her ear than all music. 'She says I have been missed. Is it

so, Florence?'

'And what have you been doing?' asked Florence, not knowing in the least

what she said in her confusion, as she left his question unanswered, and

drew her hands away from him.

'I have not been doing much, save the seeing a dear old friend laid in

the earth. You know that Mrs. Thornimett is dead. She died before I got

there.'

'Papa told us that. He heard from you two or three times, I think. How

you must regret it! But why did they not send for you in time?'

'It was only the last day that danger was apprehended,' replied Austin.

'She grew worse suddenly. You cannot think, Florence, how strangely this

gaiety'--he half turned to the room--'contrasts with the scenes I have

left: the holy calm of her death-chamber, the laying of her in the

grave.'

'An unwelcome contrast, I am sure it must be.'

'It jars on the mind. All events, essentially of the world, let them be

ever so necessary or useful, must do so, when contrasted with the solemn

scenes of life's close. But how soon we forget those solemn scenes, and

live in the world again!'

'Austin,' she gently whispered, 'I do not like to talk of death. It

reminds me of the dread that is ever oppressing me.'

'She looks so much better as to surprise me,' was his answer,

unconscious that it betrayed his undoubted cognisance of the 'dread' she

spoke of.

'If it would but last!' sighed Florence. 'To prolong mamma's life, I

think I would sacrifice mine.'

'No, you would not, Florence--in mercy to her. If called upon to lose

her you would grow reconciled to it; to do so, is in the order of

nature. _She_ could not spare _you_.'

Florence believed that she never could grow reconciled to it: she often

wondered _how_ she should bear it when the time came. But there rose up

before her now, as she spoke with Austin, one cheering promise, 'As thy

day is, so shall thy strength be.'

'What should you say, if I tell you I have come into a fortune!' resumed

Austin, in a lighter tone.

'I should say--But, is it true?' broke off Florence.

'Not true, as you and Mr. Hunter would count fortunes,' smiled Austin;

'but true, as poor I, born without silver spoons in my mouth, and

expecting to work hard for all I shall ever possess, have looked upon

them. Mrs. Thornimett has behaved to me most kindly, most generously;

she has bequeathed to me two thousand pounds.'

'I am delighted to hear it,' said Florence, her glad eyes sparkling.

'Never call yourself poor again.'

'I cannot call myself rich, as Mr. and Mrs. Hunter compute riches. But,

Florence, it may be a stepping-stone to become so.'

'A stepping-stone to become what?' demanded Dr. Bevary, breaking in upon

the conference.

'Rich,' said Austin, turning to the doctor. 'I am telling Florence that

I have come into some money since I went away.'

Mr. Hunter and others were gathering around them, and the conversation

became general. 'What is that, Clay?' asked Mr. Hunter. 'You have come

into a fortune, do you say?'

'I said, _not_ into a fortune, sir, as those accustomed to fortune would

estimate it. That great physician, standing there and listening to me,

he would laugh at the sum: I daresay he makes more in six months. But

it may prove a stepping-stone to fortune, and to--to other desirable

things.'

'Do not speak so vaguely,' cried the doctor, in his quaint fashion.

'Define the "desirable things." Come! it's my turn now.'

'I am not sure that they have taken a sufficiently tangible shape as

yet, to be defined,' returned Austin, in the same tone. 'You might laugh

at them for day-dreams.'

Unwittingly his eye rested for a moment upon Florence. Did she deem the

day-dreams might refer to her, that her eye-lids should droop, and her

cheeks turn scarlet? Dr. Bevary noticed both the look and the signs; Mr.

Hunter saw neither.

'Day-dreams would be enchanting as an eastern fairy-tale, only that they

never get realized,' interposed one of the fair guests, with a pretty

simper, directed to Austin Clay and his attractions.

'I will realize mine,' he returned, rather too confidently, 'Heaven

helping me!'

'A better stepping-stone, that help, to rely upon, than the money you

have come into,' said Dr. Bevary, with one of his peculiar nods.

'True, doctor,' replied Austin. 'But may not the money have come from

the same helping source? Heaven, you know, vouchsafes to work with

humble instruments.'

The last few sentences had been interchanged in a low tone. They now

passed into the general circle, and the evening went on to its close.

Austin and Dr. Bevary were the last to leave the house. They quitted it

together, and the doctor passed his arm within Austin's as they walked

on.

'Well,' said he, 'and what have you been doing at Ketterford?'

'I have told you, doctor. Leaving my dear old friend and relative in her

grave; and, realizing the fact that she has bequeathed to me this

money.'

'Ah, yes; I heard that,' returned the doctor. 'You've been seeing

friends too, I suppose. Did you happen to meet the Gwinns?'

'Once. I was passing the house, and Miss Gwinn laid hands upon me from

the window, and commanded me in. I got out again as soon as I could. Her

brother made his appearance as I was leaving.'

'And what did he say to you?' asked the doctor, in a tone meant to be

especially light and careless.

'Nothing; except that he told me if I wanted a safe and profitable

investment for the money I had inherited under Mrs. Thornimett's will,

he could help me to one. I cut him very short, sir.'

'What did _she_ say?' resumed Dr. Bevary. 'Did she begin upon her family

affairs--as she is rather fond of doing?'

'Well,' said Austin, his tone quite as careless as the doctor's, 'I did

not give her the opportunity. Once, when she seemed inclined to do so, I

stopped her; telling her that her private affairs were no concern of

mine, neither should I listen to them.'

'Quite right, my young friend,' emphatically spoke the doctor.

Not another word was said until they came to Daffodil's Delight. Here

they wished each other good night The doctor continued his way to his

home, and Austin turned down towards Peter Quale's.

But what could be the matter? Had Daffodil's Delight miscalculated the

time, believing it to be day, instead of night? Women leaned out of

their windows in night-caps; children had crept from their beds and come

forth to tumble into the gutter naked, as some of them literally were;

men crowded the doorway of the Bricklayers' Arms, and stood about with

pipes and pint pots; all were in a state of rampant excitement. Austin

laid hold of the first person who appeared sober enough to listen to

him. It happened to be a woman, Mrs. Dunn.

'What is this?' he exclaimed. 'Have you all come into a fortune?' the

recent conversation at Mr. Hunter's probably helping him to the remark.

'Better nor that,' shrieked Mrs. Dunn. 'Better nor _that_, a thousand

times! We have circumvented the masters, and got our ends, and now we

shall just have all we want--roast goose and apple pudding for dinner,

and plenty of beer to wash it down with.'

'But what is it that you have got?' pursued Austin, who was completely

at sea.

'Got! why, we have got the STRIKE,' she replied, in joyful excitement.

'Pollocks' men struck to-day. Where have you been, sir, not to have

heered on it?'

At that moment a fresh crowd came jostling down Daffodil's Delight, and

Austin was parted from the lady. Indeed, she rushed up to the mob to

follow in their wake. Many other ladies followed in their wake--half

Daffodil's Delight, if one might judge by numbers. Shouting, singing,

exulting, dancing; it seemed as if they had, for the nonce, gone mad.

Sam Shuck, in his long-tailed coat, ornamented with its holes and its

slits, was leading the van, his voice hoarse, his face red, his legs and

arms executing a war-dance of exaltation. He it was who had got up the

excitement and was keeping it up, shouting fiercely: 'Hurrah for the

work of this day! Rule Britanniar! Britons never shall be slaves! The

Strike has begun, friends! H--o--o--o--o--o--r--rah! Three cheers for

the Strike!'

Yes. The Strike had begun.

CHAPTER IV.

AGITATION.

The men of an influential metropolitan building firm had struck, because

their employers declined to accede to certain demands, and Daffodil's

Delight was, as you have seen, in a high state of excitement,

particularly the female part of it. The men said they struck for a

diminution in the hours of labour; the masters told them they struck for

an increase of wages. Seeing that the non-contents wanted the hours

reduced and _not_ the pay, it appears to me that you may call it which

you like.

The Messrs. Hunters' men--with whom we have to do, for it was they who

chiefly filled Daffodil's Delight--though continuing their work as

usual, were in a most unsettled state; as was the case in the trade

generally. The smouldering discontent might have died away peacefully

enough, and probably would, but that certain spirits made it their

business to fan it into a flame.

A few days went on. One evening Sam Shuck posted himself in an angle

formed by the wall at the top of Daffodil's Delight. It was the hour for

the men to quit work; and, as they severally passed him on their road

home, Sam's arm was thrust forward, and a folded bit of paper put into

their hands. A mysterious sort of missive apparently; for, on opening

the paper, it was found to contain only these words, in the long,

sprawling hand of Sam himself: 'Barn at the back of Jim Dunn's. Seven

o'clock.'

Behind the house tenanted by the Dunns were premises occupied until

recently by a cowkeeper. They comprised, amidst other accommodation, a

large barn, or shed. Being at present empty, and to let, Sam thought he

could do no better than take French leave to make use of it.

The men hurried over their tea, or supper (some took one on leaving work

for the night, some the other, some a mixture of both, and some

neither), that they might attend to the invitation of Sam. Peter Quale

was seated over a substantial dish of batter pudding, a bit of neck of

mutton baked in the midst of it, when he was interrupted by the entrance

of John Baxendale, who had stepped in from his own rooms next door.

'Be you a going to this meeting, Quale?' Baxendale asked, as he took a

seat.

'I don't know nothing about it,' returned Peter. 'I saw Slippery Sam a

giving out papers, so I guessed there was something in the wind. He took

care to pass me over. I expect I'm the greatest eyesore Sam has got just

now. Have a bit?' added Peter, unceremoniously, pointing to the dish

before him with his knife.

'No, thank ye; I have just had tea at home. That's the paper'--laying it

open on the table-cloth. 'Sam Shuck is just now cock-a-hoop with this

strike.'

'He is no more cock-a-hoop than the rest of Daffodil's Delight is,'

struck in Mrs. Quale, who had finished her own meal, and was at leisure

to talk. 'The men and women is all a going mad together, I think, and

Slippery Sam's leading 'em on. Suppose you all do strike--which is what

they are hankering after--what good 'll it bring?'

'That's just it,' replied Baxendale. 'One can't see one's way clear. The

agitation might do us some good, but it might do us a deal of harm; so

that one doesn't know what to be at. Quale, I'll go to the meeting, if

you will?'

'If I go, it will be to give 'em a piece of my mind,' retorted Peter.

'Well, it's only right that different sides should be heard. Sam 'll

have it all his own way else.'

'He'll manage to get that, by the appearance things wears,' said Mrs.

Quale, wrathfully. 'How you men can submit to be led by such a fellow

as him, just because his tongue is capable of persuading you that

black's white, is a marvel to me. Talk of women being soft! let the men

talk of theirselves. Hold up a finger to 'em, and they'll go after it:

like the Swiss cows Peter read of the other day, a flocking in a line

after their leader, behind each other's tails.'

'I wish I knew what was right,' said Baxendale, 'or which course would

turn out best for us.'

'I'd be off and listen to what's going on, at any rate,' urged Mrs.

Quale.

The barn was filling. Sam Shuck, perched upon Mrs. Dunn's washing-tub

turned upside down, which had been rolled in for the occasion, greeted

each group as it arrived with a gracious nod. Sam appeared to be

progressing in the benefits he had boasted to his wife he should derive,

inasmuch as that the dilapidated clothes had been discarded for better

ones: and he stood on the tub's end in all the glory of a black frock

coat, a crimson neck-tie with lace ends, and peg-top pantaloons: the

only attire (as a ready-made outfitting shop had assured him) that a

gentleman could wear. Sam's eye grew less complacent when it rested on

Peter Quale, who was coming in with John Baxendale.

'This is a pleasure we didn't expect,' said he.

'Maybe not,' returned Peter Quale, drily. 'The barn's open to all.'

'Of course it is,' glibly said Sam, putting a good face upon the matter.

'All fair and above board, is our mottor: which is more than them native

enemies of ours, the masters, can say: they hold their meetings in

secret, with closed doors.'

'Not in secret--do they?' asked Robert Darby. 'I have not heard of

that.'

'They meet in their own homes, and they shut out strangers,' replied

Sam. 'I'd like to know what you call that, but meeting in secret?'

'I should not call it secret; I should call it private,' decided Darby,

after a minute's pause, given to realize the question. 'We might do the

same. Our homes are ours, and we can shut out whom we please.'

'Of course we _might_,' contended Sam. 'But we like better to be open;

and if a few of us assemble together to consult on the present aspect of

affairs, we do it so that the masters, if they choose, might come and

hear us. Things are not equalized in this world. Let us attempt secret

meetings, and see how soon we should be looked up by the law, and

accused of hatching treason and sedition, and all the rest of it. That

sharp-eyed _Times_ newspaper would be the first to set on us. There's

one law for the masters, and another for the men.'

'Is that Slippery Sam?' ejaculated a new comer, at this juncture. 'Where

did you get that fine new toggery, Shuck?'

The disrespectful interruption was spoken in simple surprise: no

insidious meaning prompting it. Sam Shuck had appeared in ragged attire

so long, that the change could not fail to be remarkable. Sam loftily

turned a deaf ear to the remark, and continued his address.

'I am sure that most of you can't fail to see that things have come to

a crisis in our trade. The moment that brought it, was when that great

building firm refused the reasonable demands of their men; and the

natural consequence of which was a strike. Friends, I have been just

_riled_ ever since. I have watched you go to work day after day like

tame cats, the same as if nothing had happened; and I have said to

myself: "Have those men of Hunter's got souls within them, or have they

got none?"'

'I don't suppose we have parted from our souls,' struck in a voice.

'You have parted with the feelings of them, at any rate,' rejoined Sam,

beginning to dance in the excitement of contention, but remembering in

time that his _terra firma_ was only a creaky tub. 'What's that you ask

me? How have you parted with them? Why, by not following up the strike.

If you possessed a grain of the independence of free men, you'd have

hoisted your colours before now; what would have been the result? Why,

the men of other firms in the trade would have followed suit, and all

struck in a body. It's the only way that will bring the masters to

reason: the only way by which we can hope to obtain our rights.'

'You see there's no knowing what would be the end of a strike, Shuck,'

argued John Baxendale.

'There's no knowing what may be the inside of a pie until you cut him

open,' said Jim Dunn, whose politics were the same as Mr. Shuck's,

red-hot for a strike. 'But 'tain't many as 'ud shrink from putting in

the knife to see.'

The men laughed, and greeted Jim Dunn with applause.

'I put it to you all,' resumed Sam, who took his share of laughing with

the rest, 'whether there's sense or not in what I say. Are we likely to

get our grievances redressed by the masters, unless we force it? Never:

not if we prayed our hearts out.'

'Never,' and 'never,' murmured sundry voices.

'What _are_ our grievances?' demanded Peter Quale, putting the question

in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he really asked for information.

'Listen!' ironically ejaculated Sam. 'He asks what our grievances are!

I'll answer you, Quale. They are many and great. Are we not kept to work

like beasts of burden, ten hours a day? Does that leave us time for the

recreation of our wearied bodies, for the improvement of our minds, for

the education of our children, for the social home intercourse in the

bosoms of our families? By docking the day's labour to nine hours--or to

eight, which we shall get, may be, after awhile,' added Sam, with a

wink--'it would leave us the extra hour, and be a blessing.'

Sam carried the admiring room with him. That hard, disbelieving Peter

Quale, interrupted the cheering.

'A blessing, or the conterairy, as it might turn out,' cried he. 'It's

easy to talk of education, and self-improvement; but how many is there

that would use the accorded hour that way?'

'Another grievance is our wages,' resumed Sam, drowning the words, not

caring to court discussion on what might be a weak point. 'We call

ourselves men, and Englishmen, and yet we lie down contented with

five-and-sixpence a day. Do you know what our trade gets in Australia?

Oh, you do, some of you? then I'll tell those that don't. From twelve to

fifteen shillings per day: and even more than that. _Twelve shillings!_

and that's the minimum rate of pay,' slowly repeated Sam, lifting up his

arm and one peg-top to give emphasis to the words.

A murmur of envy at the coveted rate of pay in Australia shook the room

to the centre.

'But the price of provisions and other necessaries is enormous in that

quarter,' debated Abel White. 'So it may come to the same in the end--be

about as broad as long. Old father and me was talking about it last

night.'

'If everybody went in for your old father's sentiments, we should soon

be like him--in our dotage,' loftily observed Sam.

'But things are dear there,' persisted Sam's antagonist. 'I have heard

what is sometimes given for shoes there; but I'm afraid to say, it was

so much. The wages in Australia can't be any guide for us.'

'No, they can't,' said Peter Quale. 'Australia is one place, and this is

another. Where's the use of bringing up that?'

'Oh, of course not,' sarcastically uttered Sam. 'Anything that tends to

show how we are put upon, and how we might be made more comfortable,

it's of no use bringing up. The long and the short of it is this: we

want to be regarded as MEN: to have our voices considered, and our

plaints attended to; to be put altogether upon a better footing. Little

enough is it we ask at present: only for a modicum of ease in our day's

hard labour, just the thin end of the wedge inserted to give it. That's

all we are agitating for. It depends upon ourselves whether we get it or

not. Let us display manly courage and join the strike, and it is ours

to-morrow.'

The response did not come so quickly as Sam deemed it ought. He went on

in a persuasive, ringing tone.

'Consider the wives of your bosoms; consider your little children;

consider yourselves. Were you born into the world to be

slaves--blackymoors; to be ground into the dust with toil? Never.'

'Never,' uproariously echoed three parts of the room.

'The motto of a true man is, or ought to be, "Do as little as you can,

and get as much for it;"' said Sam, dancing in his enthusiasm, and

thereby nearly losing his perch on the tub. 'With an hour's work less a

day, and the afternoon holiday on the Saturday, we shall----'

'What's the good of a afternoon Saturday holiday? We don't want that,

Sam Shuck.'

This ignominious interruption to the proceedings came from a lady.

Buzzing round the entrance door and thrusting in their heads at a square

hole, which might originally have been intended for a window were a

dozen or two of the gentler sex. This irregularity had not been

unobserved by the chairman, who faced them: the chairman's audience,

densely packed, had their backs that way. It was not an orthodox adjunct

to a trade meeting, that was certain, and the chairman would probably

have ordered the ladies away, had he deemed there was a chance of his

getting obeyed; but too many of them had the reputation of being the

grey mares. So he winked at the irregularity, and had added one or two

flourishes of oratory for their especial ears. The interruption came

from Mrs. Cheek, Timothy Cheek's wife.

'What's the good of a afternoon Saturday holiday? We don't want that,

Sam Shuck. Just when we be up to our eyes in muck and cleaning, our

places routed out till you can't see the colour of the boards, for

brooms, and pails, and soap and water, and the chairs and things is all

topsy-turvy, one upon another, so as the children have to be sent out to

grub in the gutter, for there ain't no place for 'em indoors, do you

think we want the men poking their noses in? No; and they'd better not

try it on. Women have got tempers given to 'em as well as you.'

'And tongues too,' rejoined Sam, unmindful of the dignity of his office.

'It is to be hoped they have,' retorted Mrs. Cheek, not inclined to be

put down; and her sentiments appeared to be warmly joined in by the

ladies generally. 'Don't you men go a agitating for the Saturday's

half-holiday! What 'ud you do with it, do you suppose? Why, just sot it

away at the publics.'

Some confusion ensued; and the women were peremptorily ordered to mind

their own business, and 'make theirselves scarce,' which not one of them

attempted to obey. When the commotion had subsided, a very respectable

man took up the discourse--George Stevens.

'The gist of the whole question is this,' he said: 'Will agitation do us

good, or will it do us harm? We look upon ourselves as representing one

interest; the masters consider they represent another. If it comes to

open warfare between the two, the strongest would win.'

'In other words, whichever side's funds held out the longest,' said

Robert Darby. 'That is as I look upon it.'

'Just so,' returned Stevens. 'I cannot say, seeing no farther than we

can see at present, that a strike would be advisable.'

'Stevens, do you want to better yourself, or not?' asked Sam Shuck.

'I'd be glad enough to better myself, if I saw my way clear to do it,'

was the reply. 'But I don't.'

'We don't want no strikes,' struck in a shock-headed hard-working man.

'What is it we want to strike for? We have got plenty of work, and full

wages. A strike won't fill our pockets. Them may vote for strikes that

like 'em; I'll keep to my work.'

Partial applause.

'It is as I said,' cried Sam. 'There's poor, mean-spirited creatures

among you, as won't risk the loss of a day's pay for the common good, or

put out a hand to help the less fortunate. I'd rather be buried alive,

five feet under the earth, than I'd show cat so selfish.'

'What is the interest of one of us is the interest of all,' observed

Stevens. 'And a strike, if we went into it, would either benefit us all

in the end, or make us all suffer. It is sheer nonsense to attempt to

make out that one man's interest is different from another's; our

interests are the same. I'd vote for striking to-morrow, if I were sure

we should come out of it with whole skins, and get what we struck for:

but I must see that a bit clearer first.'

'How can we get it, unless we try for it?' demanded Sam. 'If the masters

find we're all determined, they'll give in to us. I appeal to you

all'--raising his hands over the room--'whether the masters can do

without us?'

'That has got to be seen,' said Peter Quale, significantly. 'One thing

is plain: we could not do without them.'

'Nor they without us--nor they without us,' struck in voices from

various parts of the barn.

'Then why shilly-shally about the question of a strike?' asked Sam of

the barn, in a glib tone of reason. 'If a universal strike were on, the

masters would pretty soon make terms that would end it. Why, a six

months' strike would drive half of them into the _Gazette_----'

'But it might drive us into the workhouse at the same time,' interrupted

John Baxendale.

'Let me finish,' went on Sam; 'it's not perlite to take up a man in the

middle of a sentence. I say that a six months' strike would send many of

the masters to the bankruptcy court. Well now, there has been a question

debated among us'--Sam lowered his voice--'whether it would not be

policy to let things go on quietly, as they are, till next spring----'

'A question among who?' interposed Peter Quale, regardless of the

reproof just administered to John Baxendale.

'Never you mind who,' returned Sam, with a wink: 'among those that are

hard at work for your interest. With their contracts for the season

signed, and their works in full progress, say about next May, then would

be the time for a strike to tell upon the masters. However, it has been

thought better not to delay it. The future's but an uncertainty: the

present is ours, and so must the strike be. _Have_ you wives?' he

pathetically continued; '_have_ you children? _have_ you spirits of your

own? Then you will all, with one accord, go in for the strike.'

'But what are our wives and children to do while the strike is on?'

asked Robert Darby. 'You say yourself it might last six months, Shuck.

Who would support them?'

'Who!' rejoined Sam, with an indignant air, as if the question were a

superfluous one. 'Why the Trades' Unions, of course. _That's_ all

settled. The Unions are prepared to take care of all who are out on

strike, standing up, like brave Britons, for their privileges, and keep

'em like fighting-cocks. Hooroar for that blessed boon, the Trades'

Unions!'

'Hooroar for the Trades' Unions!' was shouted in chorus. 'Keep us like

fighting-cocks, will they! Hooroar!'

'Much good you'll get from the Trades' Unions!' burst forth a

dissentient voice. 'They are the greatest pests as ever was allowed in a

free country.'

The opposition caused no little commotion. Standing by the door, having

pushed his way through the surrounding women, who had _not_ made

themselves 'scarce,' was a man in a flannel jacket, a cap in his hand,

and his head white with mortar. He was looking excited as he spoke.

'This is not regular,' said Sam Shuck, displaying authority. 'You have

no business here: you don't belong to us.'

'Regular or irregular, I'll speak my mind,' was the answer. 'I have been

at work for Jones the builder, down yonder. I have done my work steady

and proper, and I have had my pay. A man comes up to me yesterday and

says, "You must join the Trades' Union." "No," says I, "I shan't; I

don't want nothing of the Trades' Union, and the Union don't want

nothing of me." So they goes to my master. "If you keep on employing

this man, your other men will strike," they says to him; and he, being

in a small way, got intimidated, and sent me off to-day. And here I am,

throwed out of work, and I have got a sick wife and nine young children

to keep. Is that justice? or is it tyranny? Talk about emancipating the

slaves! let us emancipate ourselves at home.'

'Why don't you join the Union?' cried Sam. 'All do, who are good men and

true.'

'All good men and true _don't_,' dissented the man. 'Many of the best

workmen among us won't have anything to do with Unions; and you know it,

Sam Shuck.'

'Just clear out of this,' said Sam.

'When I've had my say,' returned the man, 'not before. If I would join

the Union, I can't. To join it, I must pay five shillings, and I have

not got them to pay. With such a family as mine, you may guess every

shilling is forestalled afore it comes in. I kept myself to myself,

doing my work in quiet, and interfering with nobody. Why should they

interfere with me?'

'If you have been in full work, five shillings is not much to pay to the

Union,' sneered Sam.

'If I had my pockets filled with five-shilling pieces, I would not pay

one to it,' fearlessly retorted the man. 'Is it right that a free-born

Englishman should give in to such a system of intimidation? No: I never

will. You talk of the masters being tyrants: it's you who are the

tyrants, one to another. What is one workman better than his fellow,

that he should lay down laws and say, You shall do this, and you shall

do that, or you shan't be allowed to work at all? That rule you want to

get passed--that a skilled, thorough workman shouldn't do a full day's

work because some of his fellows can't--who's agitating for it? Why,

naturally those that can't or won't do the full work. Would an honest,

capable man go in for it? Of course he'd not. I tell you what'--turning

his eyes on the room--'the Trades' Unions have been called a protection

to the working man; but, if you don't take care, they'll grow into a

curse. When Sam Shuck, and other good-for-naughts like him, what never

did a full week's work for their families yet, are paid in gold and

silver to spread incendiarism among you, it's time you looked to

yourselves.'

He turned away as he spoke; and Sam, in a dance of furious passion,

danced off his tub. The interlude had not tended to increase the feeling

of the men in Sam's favour--that is, in the cause he advocated. Not a

man present but wanted to better himself could he do so with safety, but

they were afraid to enter on aggressive measures. Indiscriminate talking

ensued; diverse opinions were disputed, and the meeting was prolonged to

a late hour. Finally the men dispersed as they came, nothing having been

resolved upon. A few set their faces resolutely against the proposed

strike; a few were red-hot for it; but the majority were undecided, and

liable to be swayed either way.

'It will come,' nodded Sam Shuck, as he went home to a supper of pork

chops and gin-and-water.

But Sam was destined to be--as he would have expressed it--circumvented.

It cannot be supposed that this unsatisfactory state of things was

unnoticed by the masters: and they took their measures accordingly.

Forming themselves into an association, they discussed the measures best

to be adopted, and determined upon a lock-out; that is, to close their

yards until the firm, whose workmen had struck, should resume work. They

also resolved to employ only those men who would sign an agreement, or

memorandum, affirming that they were not connected with any society

which interfered with the arrangements of the master whose service they

entered, or with the hours of labour, and acknowledging the rights both

of masters and men to enter into any trade arrangements on which they

might mutually agree. This paper of agreement was not relished by the

men at all; they styled it 'the odious document.' Neither was the

lock-out relished: it was of course equivalent, in one sense, to a

strike; only that the initiative had come from the masters' side, and

not from theirs. It commenced early in August. Some of the masters

closed their works without a word of explanation to their men: in one

sense it was not needed, for the men knew of the measure beforehand. Mr.

Hunter chose to assemble them together, and state what he was about to

do. Somewhat of his old energy appeared to have been restored to him for

the moment, as he stood before them and spoke--Austin Clay by his side.

'You have brought it upon yourselves,' he said, in answer to a remark

from one who boldly, but respectfully, asked whether it was fair to

resort to a lock-out, and so punish all alike, contents and

non-contents. 'I will meet the question upon your own grounds. When the

Messrs. Pollocks' men struck because their demands, to work nine hours a

day, were not acceded to, was it not in contemplation that you should

join them--that the strike should be universal? Come, answer me

candidly.'

The men, true and honest, did not deny it.

'And possibly by this time you would have struck,' said Mr. Hunter. 'How

much more "fair" would that have been towards us, than this locking-out

is towards you? Do you suppose that you alone are to meet and pass your

laws, saying you will coerce the masters, and that the masters will not

pass laws in return? Nonsense, my men!'

A pause.

'When have the masters attempted to interfere with your privileges,

either by saying that your day's toil shall consist of longer hours, or

by diminishing your wages, and threatening to turn you off if you do not

fall in with the alteration? Never. Masters have rights as well as men;

but some of you, of late, have appeared to ignore the fact. Let me ask

you another question: Were you well treated under me, or were you not?

Have I shown myself solicitous for your interests, for your welfare?

Have I ever oppressed you, ever put upon you?'

No, Mr. Hunter had never sought to oppress them: they acknowledged it

freely. He had ever been a good master.

'My men, let me give you my opinion. While condemning your conduct, your

semblance of discontent--it has been semblance rather than reality--I

have been sorry for you, for it is not with you that the chief blame

lies. You have suffered evil persuaders to get access to your ears, and

have been led away by their pernicious counsels. The root of the evil

lies there. I wish you could bring your own good sense to bear upon

these points, and to see with your own eyes. If so, there will be

nothing to prevent our resuming together amicable relations; and, for my

own part, I care not how soon the time shall come. The works are for the

present closed.

PART THE THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

A PREMATURE AVOWAL.

Daffodil's Delight was in all the glory of the lock-out. The men, having

nothing to do, improved their time by enjoying themselves; they stood

about the street, or lounged at their doors, smoking their short pipes

and quaffing draughts of beer. Let money run ever so short, you will

generally see that the beer and the pipes can be found. As yet, the

evils of being out of work were not felt; for weekly pay, sufficient for

support, was supplied them by the Union Committee. The men were in high

spirits--in that sort of mood implied by the words 'Never say die,'

which phrase was often in their mouths. They expressed themselves

determined to hold out; and this determination was continually fostered

by the agents of the Union, of whom Sam Shuck was the chief: chief as

regarded Daffodil's Delight--inferior as regarded other agents

elsewhere. Many of the more temperate of the men, who had not

particularly urged the strike, were warm supporters now of the general

opinion, for they regarded the lock-out as an unwarrantable piece of

tyranny on the part of the masters. As to the ladies, they were

over-warm partisans, generally speaking, making the excitement, the

unsettled state of Daffodil's Delight, an excuse for their own idleness

(they are only too ready to do so when occasion offers), and collected

in groups round the men, or squatted themselves on door steps,

proclaiming their opinion of existing things, and boasting that they'd

hold out for their rights till death.

It was almost like a summer's day. Seated in a chair at the bottom of

her garden, just within the gate, was Mary Baxendale. Not that she was

there to join in the gossip of the women, little knots of whom were

dotting the street, or had any intention of joining in it: she was

simply sitting there for air.

Mary Baxendale was fading. Never very strong, she had, for the last year

or two, been gradually declining, and, with the excessive heat of the

past summer, her remaining strength appeared to have gone out. Her

occupation, that of a seamstress, had not tended to keep her in health;

she had a great deal of work offered her, her skill being superior, and

she had sat at it early and late. Mary was thoughtful and conscientious,

and she was anxious to contribute a full share to the home support. Her

father had married again, had now two young children, and it almost

appeared to Mary as if she were an interloper in the paternal home. Not

that the new Mrs. Baxendale made her feel this: she was a bustling,

hearty woman, fond of show and spending, and of setting off her babies;

but she was kind to Mary.

The capability of exertion appeared to be past, and Mary's days were

chiefly spent in a quiescent state of rest, and in frequently sitting

out of doors. This day--it was now the beginning of September--was an

unusually bright one, and she drew her invalid shawl round her, and

leaned back in her seat, looking out on the lively scene, at the men and

women congregating in the road, and inhaling the fresh air. At least, as

fresh as it could be got in Daffodil's Delight.

'How do you feel to-day, Mary?'

The questioner was Mrs. Quale. She had come out of her house in her

bonnet and shawl, bent on some errand and stopped to accost Mary.

'I am pretty well to-day. That is, I should be, if it were not for the

weakness.'

'Weakness, ay!' cried Mrs. Quale, in a snapping sort of tone, for she

was living in a state of chronic tartness, not approving of matters in

general just now. 'And what have you had this morning to fortify you

against the weakness?'

A faint blush rose to Mary's thin face. The subject was a sore one to

the mind of Mrs. Quale, and that lady was not one to spare her tongue.

The fact was, that at the present moment, and for some little time past,

Mary's condition and appetite had required unusual nourishment; but,

since the lock-out, this had not been procurable by John Baxendale.

Sufficient food the household had as yet, but it was of a plain coarse

sort, not suitable for Mary; and Mrs. Quale, bitter enough against the

existing condition of things before, touching the men and their masters,

was not by this rendered less so. Poor Mary, in her patient meekness,

would have subsided into her grave with famine, rather than complain of

what she saw no help for.

'Did you have an egg at eleven o'clock?'

'Not this morning. I did not feel greatly to care for it.'

'Rubbish!' responded Mrs. Quale. 'I may say I don't care for the moon,

because I know I can't get it.'

'But I really did not feel to have any appetite just then,' repeated

Mary.

'And if you had an appetite, I suppose you couldn't have been any the

nearer satisfying it!' returned Mrs. Quale, in a raised voice. 'You let

your stomach get empty, and, after a bit, the craving goes off and

sickness comes on, and then you say you have no appetite. But, there! it

is not your fault; where's the use of my----'

'Why, Mary, girl, what's the matter?'

The interruption to Mrs. Quale proceeded from Dr. Bevary. He was passing

the gate with Miss Hunter. They stopped, partly at sight of Mary, who

was looking strikingly ill, partly at the commotion Mrs. Quale was

making. Neither of them had known that Mary was in this state. Mrs.

Quale was the first to take up the discourse.

'She don't look over flourishing, do she, sir?--do she Miss Florence?

She have been as bad as this--oh, for a fortnight, now.'

'Why did you not send my uncle word, Mary?' spoke Florence, impulsive in

the cause of kindness, as she had been when a child. 'I am sure he would

have come to see you.'

'You are very kind, Miss, and Dr. Bevary, also,' said Mary. 'I could

not think of troubling him with my poor ailments, especially as I feel

it would be useless. I don't think anybody can do me good on this side

the grave, sir.'

'Tush, tush!' interposed Dr. Bevary. 'That's what many sick people say;

but they get well in spite of it. Let us see you a bit closer,' he

added, going inside the gate. 'And now tell me how you feel.'

'I am just sinking, sir, as it seems to me; sinking out of life, without

much ailment to tell of. I have a great deal of fever at night, and a

dry cough. It is not so much consumption as----'

'Who told you it was consumption?' interrupted Dr. Bevary.

'Some of the women about here call it so, sir. My step-mother does: but

I should say it was more of a waste.'

'Your step-mother is fond of talking of what she knows nothing about,

and so are the women,' remarked Dr. Bevary. 'Have you much appetite?'

'Yes, and that's the evil of it,' struck in Mrs. Quale, determined to

lose no opportunity of propounding her view of the case. 'A pretty time

this is for folks to have appetites, when there's not a copper being

earned. I wish all strikes and lock-outs was put down by law, I do.

Nothing comes of 'em but empty cubbarts.'

'Your cupboard need not be any the emptier for a lock-out,' said Dr.

Bevary, who sometimes, when conversing with the women of Daffodil's

Delight, would fall familiarly into their mode of speech.

'No, I know that; we have been providenter than that, sir,' returned

Mrs. Quale. 'A pity but what others could say the same. You might take a

walk through Daffodil's Delight, sir, from one end of it to the other,

and not find half a dozen cubbarts with plenty in 'em just now. Serve

'em right! they should have put by for a rainy day.'

'Ah!' returned Dr. Bevary, 'rainy days come to most of us as we go

through life, in one shape or other. It is well to provide for them when

we can.'

'And it's well to keep out of 'em where it's practicable,' wrathfully

remarked Mrs. Quale. 'There no more need have been this disturbance

between masters and men, than there need be one between you and me, sir,

this moment, afore you walk away. They be just idiots, are the men; the

women be worse, and I'm tired of telling 'em so. Look at 'em,' added

Mrs. Quale, directing the doctor's attention to the female ornaments of

Daffodil's Delight. 'Look at their gowns in jags, and their dirty caps!

they make the men's being out of work an excuse for their idleness, and

they just stick theirselves out there all day, a crowing and a

gossiping.'

'Crowing?' exclaimed the doctor.

'Crowing; every female one of 'em, like a cock upon its dunghill,'

responded Mrs. Quale, who was not given to pick her words when wrath was

moving her. 'There isn't one as can see an inch beyond her own nose. If

the lock-out lasts, and starvation comes, let 'em see how they'll crow

then. It'll be on t'other side their mouths, I fancy!'

'Money is dealt out to them by the Trades' Union, sufficient to live,'

observed Dr. Bevary.

'Sufficient not to starve,' independently corrected Mrs. Quale. 'What is

it, sir, the bit of money they get, to them that have enjoyed their

thirty-five shillings a-week, and could hardly make that do, some of

'em? Look at the Baxendales. There's Mary, wanting more food than she

did in health; ay, and craving for it. A good bit of meat once or twice

in the day, an egg now and then, a cup of cocoa and milk, or good

tea--not your wishy-washy stuff, bought in by the ounce--how is she to

get it all? The allowance dealt out to John Baxendale keeps 'em in bread

and cheese; I don't think it does in much else.' They were interrupted

by John Baxendale himself. He came out of his house, touching his hat to

the doctor and to Florence. The latter had been leaning over Mary,

inquiring softly into her ailments, and the complaint of Mrs. Quale,

touching the short-comings of Mary's comforts, had not reached her ears;

that lady, out of regard to the invalid, having deemed it well to lower

her tone.

'I am sorry, sir, you should see her so poorly,' said Baxendale,

alluding to his daughter. 'She'll get better, I hope.'

'I must try what a little of my skill will do towards it,' replied the

doctor. 'If she had sent me word she was ill, I would have come before.'

'Thank ye, sir. I don't know as I should have been backward in asking

you to come round and take a look at her; but a man don't like to ask

favours when he has got no money in his pocket; it makes him feel

little, and look little. Things are not in a satisfactory state with us

all just now.'

'They are not indeed.'

'I never thought the masters would go to the extreme of a lock-out,'

resumed Baxendale. 'It was a harsh measure.'

'On the face of it it does seem so,' responded Dr. Bevary. 'But what

else could they have done? Have kept open their works, that those on

strike might have been supported from the wages they paid their men, and

probably have found those men also striking at last? If you and others

had wanted to escape a lock-out, Baxendale, you should have been

cautious not to lend yourselves to the agitation that was smouldering.'

'Sir, I know there's a great deal to be said on both sides,' was the

reply. 'I never was for the agitation; I did not urge the strike; I set

my face nearly dead against it. The worst is, we all have to suffer for

it alike.'

'Ay, that is the worst of things in this world,' responded the doctor.

'When people do wrong, the consequences are rarely confined to

themselves, they extend to the innocent. Come, Florence. I will see you

again later, Mary.'

The doctor and his niece walked away. Mrs. Quale had already departed on

her errand.

'He was always a kind man,' observed John Baxendale, looking after Dr.

Bevary. 'I hope he will be able to cure you, Mary.'

'I don't feel that he will, father,' was the low answer. But Baxendale

did not hear it; he was going out at the gate, to join a knot of

neighbours, who were gathered together at a distance.

'Will Mary Baxendale soon get well, do you think, uncle?' demanded

Florence, as they went along.

'No, my dear, I do not think she will.'

There was something in the doctor's tone that startled Florence. 'Uncle

Bevary! you do not fear she will die?'

'I do fear it, Florence; and that she will not be long first.'

'Oh!' Then, after she had gone a few paces further, Florence withdrew

her arm from his. 'I must go back and stay with her a little while. I

had no idea of this.'

'Mind you don't repeat it to her in your chatter,' called out the

doctor; and Florence shook her head by way of answer.

'I am in no hurry to go home, Mary; I thought I would return and stay a

little longer with you,' was her greeting, when she reached the invalid.

'You must feel it dull, sitting here alone.'

'Dull! oh no, Miss Florence. I like sitting by myself and thinking.'

Florence smiled. 'What do you think about?'

'Oh, miss, I quite lose myself in thinking. I think of my Saviour, of

how kind he was to everybody; and I think of the beautiful life we are

taught to expect after this life. I can hardly believe that I shall soon

be there.'

Florence paused, feeling as if she did not know what to say. 'You do

not seem to fear death, Mary. You speak rather as if you wished it.'

'I do not fear it, Miss Florence; I have been learning not to fear it

ever since my poor mother died. Ah, miss! it is a great thing to learn;

a great boon, when once it's learnt.'

'But surely you do not want to die!' exclaimed Florence, in surprise.

'Miss Florence, as to that, I feel quite satisfied to let it be as God

pleases. I know I am in His good hands. The world now seems to me to be

full of care and trouble.'

'It is very strange,' murmured Florence. 'Mamma, too, believes she is

near death, and she expresses no reluctance, no fear. I do not think she

feels any.'

'Miss Florence, it is only another proof of God's mercies,' returned the

sick girl. 'My mother used to say that you could not be quite ripe for

death until you felt it; that it came of God's goodness and Christ's

love. To such, death seems a blessing instead of a terror, so that when

their time is drawing near, they are glad to die. There's a gentleman

waiting to speak to you, miss.'

Florence lifted her head hastily, and encountered the smile and the

outstretched hand of Austin Clay. But that Mary Baxendale was

unsuspicious, she might have gathered something from the vivid blush

that overspread her cheeks.

'I thought it was you, Florence,' he said. 'I caught sight of a young

lady from my sitting-room window; but you kept your head down before

Mary.'

'I am sorry to see Mary looking so ill. My uncle was here just now, but

he has gone. I suppose you were deep in your books?' she said, with a

smile, her face regaining its less radiant hue. 'This lock-out must be a

fine time for you.'

'So fine, that I wish it were over,' he answered. 'I am sick of it

already, Florence. A fortnight's idleness will tire out a man worse than

a month's work.'

'Is there any more chance of its coming to an end, sir?' anxiously

inquired Mary Baxendale.

'I do not see it,' gravely replied Austin. 'The men appear to be too

blind to come to any reasonable terms.'

'Oh, sir, don't cast more blame on them than you can help!' she

rejoined, in a tone of intense pain. 'They are all led away by the

Trades' Unions; they are, indeed. If once they enrol under them, they

must only obey.'

'Well, Mary, it comes to what I say--that they are blinded. They should

have better sense than to be led away.'

'You speak as a master, sir.'

'Probably I do; but I have brought my common sense to bear upon the

question, both on the side of the masters and of the men; and I believe

that this time the men are wrong. If they had laboured under any real

grievance, it would have been different; but they did not labour under

any. Their wages were good, work was plentiful----'

'I say, Mary, I wish you'd just come in and sit by the little ones a

bit, while I go down to the back kitchen and rinse out the clothes.'

The interruption came from Mrs. Baxendale, who had thrown up her window

to speak. Mary rose at once, took her pillow from the chair, wished

Florence good day, and went indoors.

Austin held the gate open for Florence to pass out: he was not intending

to accompany her. She stood a moment, speaking to him, when some one,

who had come up rapidly and stealthily, laid his great hand on Austin's

arm. Absorbed in Florence, Austin had not observed him, and he looked up

with a start. It was Lawyer Gwinn, of Ketterford, and he appeared to be

in some anger or excitement.

'Young Clay, where is your master to-day?'

Neither the salutation nor the manner of the man pleased Austin; his

appearance, there and then, especially displeased him. His answer was

spoken in haughty defiance. Not in policy: and in a cooler moment he

would have remembered the latter to have been the only safe diplomacy.

A strangely bitter smile of conscious power parted the man's lips. 'So

you take part with him, do you, sir! It may be better for both you and

him, that you bring me face to face with him. They have denied me to him

at his house; their master is out of town, they say; but I know it to be

a lie: I know that the message was sent out to me by Hunter himself. I

had a great mind to force----'

Florence, who was looking deadly white, interrupted, her voice haughty

as Austin's had been.

'You labour under a mistake, sir. My father is out of town. He went this

morning.'

Mr. Gwinn wheeled round to her. Neither her tone nor Austin's was

calculated to abate his anger.

'You are his daughter, then!' he uttered, with the same insolent stare,

the same displayed irony he had once used to her mother. 'The young lady

whom people envy as that spoiled and only child, Miss Hunter! What if I

tell you a secret?--that you----'

'Be still!' shouted Austin, in uncontrollable emotion. 'Are you a man,

or a demon? Miss Hunter, allow me,' he cried, grasping the hand of

Florence, and drawing her peremptorily towards Peter Quale's door, which

he threw open. 'Go upstairs, Florence, to my sitting-room: wait there

until I come to you. I must be alone with this man.'

Florence looked at him in amazement, as he pushed her into the passage.

He was evidently in the deepest agitation: every vestige of colour had

forsaken his face, and his manner was authoritative as any father's

could have been. She bowed to its power unconsciously, not a thought of

resistance crossing her mind, and went straight upstairs to his sitting

room--although it might not be precisely correct for a young lady so to

do. Not a soul, save herself, appeared to be in the house.

A short colloquy and an angry one, and then Mr. Gwinn was seen returning

the way he had come. Austin came springing up the stairs three at a

time.

'Will you forgive me, Florence? I could not do otherwise.'

What with the suddenness of the proceedings, their strangeness, and her

own doubts and emotion, Florence burst into tears. Austin lost his

head: at least, all of prudence that was in it. In the agitation of the

moment he suffered his long-controlled feelings to get the better of

him, and spoke words that he had hitherto successfully repressed.

'My darling!' he whispered, taking her hand, 'I wish I could have

shielded you from it! Florence, you know--you must long have known--that

my dearest object in life is you--your happiness, your welfare. I had

not intended to say this so soon; it has been forced from me: you must

pardon me for saying it here and now.'

She gently disengaged the hand, and he did not attempt to retain it. Her

wet eyelashes fell on her blushing cheeks; they were like a damask rose

glistening in the morning dew. 'But this mystery?--it certainly seems

one,' she exclaimed, striving to speak with matter-of-fact calmness. 'Is

not that man Gwinn, of Ketterford?'

'Yes.'

'Brother to the lady who seemed to cause so much emotion to papa. Ah! I

was but a child at the time, but I noticed it. Austin, I think there

must be some dreadful secret. What is it? He comes to our house at

periods and is closeted with papa, and papa is more miserable than ever

after it.'

'Whether there is or not, it is not for us to inquire into it. Men

engaged in business often have troublesome people to deal with. I

hastened you in,' he quickly went on, not caring to be more explanatory,

and compelled to speak with reserve. 'I know the man of old, and his

language is sometimes coarse, not fitted for a young lady's ears: so I

sent you away. Florence,' he whispered, his tone changing to one of

deepest tenderness, 'this is neither the time nor the place to speak,

but I must say one word. I shall win you if I can.'

Florence made no answer. She only ran downstairs as quickly as she

could, she and her scarlet cheeks. Austin laughed at her haste, as he

followed her. Mrs. Quale was coming in then, and met them at the door.

'See what it is to go gadding out!' cried Austin, to her. 'When young

ladies pay you the honour of a morning visit, they might find an empty

house, but for my stay-at-home propensities.'

Mrs. Quale turned her eyes from one to the other of them in puzzled

doubt.

'The truth is,' said Austin, vouchsafing an explanation, 'there was a

rude man in the road, talking nonsense, so I sent Miss Hunter indoors,

and stopped to deal with him.'

'I am sure I am sorry, Miss Florence,' cried unsuspicious Mrs. Quale.

'We often have rude men in this quarter: they get hold of a drop too

much, the simpletons. And when the wine's in, the wit's out, you know,

Miss.'

Austin piloted her through Daffodil's Delight, possibly lest any more

'rude men' should molest her, leaving her at her own door.

But when he came to reflect on what he had done, he was full of

contrition and self-blame. The time had _not_ come for him to aspire to

the hand of Florence Hunter, at least in the estimation of the world,

and he ought not to have spoken to her. There was only one course open

to him now in honour; and that was, to tell the whole truth to her

mother.

That same evening at dusk he was sitting alone with Mrs. Hunter. Mr.

Hunter had not returned: that he had gone out of town for the day was

perfect truth: and Florence escaped from the room when she heard

Austin's knock.

After taking all the blame on himself for having been premature, he

proceeded to urge his cause and his love, possibly emboldened to do so

by the gentle kindness with which he was listened to.

'It has been my hope for years,' he avowed, as he held Mrs. Hunter's

hands in his, and spoke of the chance of Mr. Hunter's favour. 'Dear Mrs.

Hunter, do you think he will some time give her to me!'

'But, Austin----'

'Not yet; I do not ask for her yet; not until I have made a fitting home

for her,' he impulsively continued, anticipating what might have been

the possible objection of Mrs. Hunter. 'With the two thousand pounds

left to me by Mrs. Thornimett, and a little more added to it, which I

have myself saved, I believe I shall be able to make my way.'

'Austin, you will make your way,' she replied, in a tone of the utmost

confidence and kindness. 'I have heard Mr. Hunter himself anticipate a

successful career for you. Even when you were, comparatively speaking,

penniless, Mr. Hunter would say that talent and energy, such as yours,

could not fail to find its proper outlet. Now that you have inherited

the money, your success is certain. But--I fear you cannot win

Florence.'

The words fell on his heart like an icebolt. He had reckoned on Mrs.

Hunter's countenance, though he had not been sure of her husband's.

'What do you object to in me?' he inquired, in a tone of pain. 'I am of

gentle birth.'

'Austin, _I_ do not object. I have long seen that your coming here so

much--and it was Mr. Hunter's pleasure to have you--was likely to lead

to an attachment between you and Florence. Had I objected to you, I

should have pointed out to Mr. Hunter the impolicy of your coming. I

like _you_: there is no one in the world to whom I would so readily

intrust the happiness of Florence. Other mothers might look to a higher

alliance for her: but, Austin, when we get near the grave, we judge with

a judgment not of this world. Worldly distinctions lose their charm.'

'Then where lies the doubt--the objection?' he asked.

'I once--it is not long ago--hinted at this to Mr. Hunter,' she replied.

'He would not hear me out; he would not suffer me to conclude. It was an

utter impossibility that you could ever marry Florence,' he said:

'neither was it likely that either of you would wish it.'

'But we do wish it; the love has already arisen,' he exclaimed, in

agitation. Dear Mrs. Hunter----'

'Hush, Austin! calm yourself. Mr. Hunter must have some private

objection. I am sure he has; I could see so far; and one that, as was

evident, he did not choose to disclose to me. I never inquire into his

reasons when I perceive this. You must try and forget her.'

A commotion was heard in the hall. Austin went out to ascertain its

cause. There stood Gwinn of Ketterford, insisting upon an interview with

Mr. Hunter.

Austin contrived to get rid of the man by convincing him Mr. Hunter was

really not at home. Gwinn went out grumbling, promising to be there the

first thing in the morning.

The interlude had broken up the confidence between Austin and Mrs.

Hunter; and he went home in despondency: but vowing to win her, all the

same, sooner or later.