A GLOOMY CHAPTER.
The winter had come in, intensely hard. Frost and snow lay early upon
the ground. Was that infliction in store--a bitter winter--to be added
to the already fearful distress existing in this dense metropolis? The
men held out from work, and the condition of their families was
something sad to look upon. Distress of a different nature existed in
the house of Mr. Hunter. It was a house of sorrow; for its mistress lay
dying. The spark of life had long been flickering, and now its time to
depart had come. Haggard, worn, pale, stood Mr. Hunter in his
drawing-room. He was conversing with his brother Henry. Their topic was
business. In spite of existing domestic woes, men of business cannot
long forget their daily occupation. Mr. Henry Hunter had come in to
inquire news of his sister-in-law, and the conversation insensibly
turned on other matters.
'Of course I shall weather it,' Mr. Henry was saying, in answer to a
question. 'It will be a fearful loss, with so much money out, and
buildings in process standing still. Did it last very much longer, I
hardly know that I could. And you, James?' Mr. Hunter evaded the
question. Since the time, years back, when they had dissolved
partnership, he had shunned all allusion to his own prosperity, or
non-prosperity, with his brother. Possibly he feared that it might lead
to that other subject--the mysterious paying away of the five thousand
pounds.
'For my part, I do not feel so sure of the strike's being near its end,'
he remarked.
'I have positive information that the eligibility of withdrawing the
strike at the Messrs. Pollocks' has been mooted by the central committee
of the Union,' said Mr. Henry. 'If nothing else has brought the men to
their senses, this weather must do it. It will end as nearly all strikes
have ended--in their resuming work upon our terms.'
'But what an incalculable amount of suffering they have brought upon
themselves!' exclaimed Mr. Hunter. 'I do not see what is to become of
them, either, in future. How are they all to find work again? We shall
not turn off the stranger men who have worked for us in this emergency,
to make room for them.'
'No, indeed,' replied Mr. Henry. 'And those strangers amount to nearly
half my complement of hands. Do you recollect a fellow of the name of
Moody?'
'Of course I do. I met him the other day, looking like a walking
skeleton. I asked him whether he was not tired of the strike. He said
_he_ had been tired of it long ago; but the Union would not let him be.'
'He hung himself yesterday.'
Mr. Hunter replied only by a gesture.
'And left a written paper behind him, cursing the strike and the Trades'
Unions, which had brought ruin upon him and his family. 'I saw the
paper,' continued Mr. Henry. 'A decent, quiet man he was; but timorous,
and easily led away.'
'Is he dead?'
'He had been dead two hours when he was found. He hung himself in that
shed at the back of Dunn's house, where the men held some meetings in
the commencement of the strike. I wonder how many more souls this
wretched state of affairs will send, or has sent, out of the world!'
'Hundreds, directly or indirectly. The children are dying off quickly,
as the Registrar-General's returns show. A period of prolonged distress
always tells upon the children. And upon us also, I think,' Mr. Hunter
added, with a sigh.
'Upon us in a degree,' Mr. Henry assented, somewhat carelessly. He was a
man of substance; and, upon such, the ill effects fall lightly. 'When
the masters act in combination, as we have done, it is not the men who
can do us permanent injury. They must give in, before great harm has
had time to come. James, I saw that man this morning: your _bête noire_,
as I call him. Mr. Hunter changed countenance. He could not be ignorant
that his brother alluded to Gwinn of Ketterford. It happened that Mr.
Henry Hunter had been cognisant of one or two of the unpleasant visits
forced by the man upon his brother during the last few years. But Mr.
Henry had avoided questions: he had the tact to perceive that they would
only go unanswered, and be deemed unpleasant into the bargain.
'I met him near your yard. Perhaps he was going in there.'
The sound of the muffled knocker, announcing a visitor, was heard the
moment after Mr. Henry spoke, and Mr. Hunter started as though struck by
a pistol-shot. At a calmer time he might have had more command over
himself; but the sudden announcement of the presence of the man in
town--which fact he had not been cognisant of--had startled him to
tremor. That Gwinn, and nobody else, was knocking for admittance, seemed
a certainty to his shattered nerves. 'I cannot see him: I cannot see
him!' he exclaimed, in agitation; and he backed away from the room door,
unconscious what he did in his confused fear, his lips blanching to a
deadly whiteness.
Mr. Henry moved up and took his hand. 'James, there has been
estrangement between us on this point for years. As I asked you once
before, I now ask you again: confide in me and let me help you. Whatever
the dreadful secret may be, you shall find me your true brother.'
'Hush!' breathed Mr. Hunter, moving from his brother in his scared
alarm. 'Dreadful secret! who says it? There is no dreadful secret. Oh
Henry! hush! hush! The man is coming in! You must leave us.' Not the
dreaded Gwinn, but Austin Clay. He was the one who entered. Mr. Hunter
sat down, breathing heavily, the blood coming back to his face; he
nearly fainted in the revulsion of feeling brought by the relief. Broken
in spirit, health and nerves alike shattered, the slightest thing was
now sufficient to agitate him.
'You are ill, sir!' exclaimed Austin, advancing with concern.
'No--no--I am not ill. A momentary spasm; that's all. I am subject to
it.'
Mr. Henry moved to the door in vexation. There was to be no more
brotherly confidence between them now than there had formerly been. He
spoke as he went, without turning round. 'I will come in again
by-and-by, James, and see how Louisa is.'
The departure seemed a positive relief to Mr. Hunter. He spoke quietly
enough to Austin Clay. 'Who has been at the office to-day?'
'Let me see,' returned Austin, with a purposed carelessness. 'Lyall
came, and Thompson----'
'Not men on business, not men on business,' Mr. Hunter interrupted with
feverish eagerness. 'Strangers.'
'Gwinn of Ketterford,' answered Austin, with the same assumption of
carelessness. 'He came twice. No other strangers have called, I think.'
Whether his brother's request, that he should be enlightened as to the
'dreadful secret,' had rendered Mr. Hunter suspicious that others might
surmise there was a secret, certain it is that he looked up sharply as
Austin spoke, keenly regarding his countenance, noting the sound of his
voice. 'What did he want?'
'He wanted you, sir. I said you were not to be seen. I let him suppose
that you were too ill to be seen. Bailey, who was in the counting-house
at the time, gave him the gratuitous information that Mrs. Hunter was
very ill--in danger.'
Why this answer should have increased Mr. Hunter's suspicions, he best
knew. He rose from his seat, grasped Austin's arm, and spoke with
menace. 'You have been prying into my affairs! You sought out those
Gwinns when you last went to Ketterford! You----'
Austin withdrew from the grasp, and stood before his master, calm and
upright. 'Mr. Hunter!'
'Was it not so?'
'No, sir. I thought you had known me better. I should be the last to
"pry" into anything that you might wish to keep secret.'
'Austin, I am not myself to-day, I am not myself,' cried the poor
gentleman, feeling how unjustifiable had been his suspicions. 'This
grief, induced by the state of Mrs. Hunter, unmans me.'
'How is she, sir, by this time?'
'Calm and collected, but sinking fast. You must go up and see her. She
said she should like to bid you farewell.' Through the warm corridors,
so well protected from the bitter cold reigning without, Austin was
conducted to the room of Mrs. Hunter. Florence, her eyes swollen with
weeping, quitted it as he entered. She lay in bed, her pale face raised
upon pillows; save for that pale face and the laboured breathing, you
would not have suspected the closing scene to be so near. She lifted her
feeble hand and made prisoner of Austin's. The tears gathered in his
eyes as he looked down upon her.
'Not for me, dear Austin,' she whispered, as she noted the signs of
sorrow. 'Weep rather for those who are left to battle yet with this sad
world.' The words caused Austin to wonder whether she could have become
cognisant of the nature of Mr. Hunter's long-continued trouble. He
swallowed down the emotion that was rising in his throat.
'Do you feel no better?' he gently inquired.
'I feel well, save for the weakness. All pain has left me. Austin, I
shall be glad to go. I have only one regret, the leaving Florence. My
husband will not be long after me; I read it in his face.'
'Dear Mrs. Hunter, will you allow me to say a word to you on the subject
of Florence?' he breathed, seizing on the swiftly-passing opportunity.
'I have wished to do it before we finally part.'
'Say what you will.'
'Should time and perseverance on my part be crowned with success, so
that the prejudices of Mr. Hunter become subdued, and I succeed in
winning Florence, will you not say that you bless our union?'
Mrs. Hunter paused. 'Are we quite alone?' she asked. Austin glanced
round to the closed door. 'Quite,' he answered.
'Then, Austin, I will say more. My hearty consent and blessing be upon
you both, if you can, indeed, subdue the objection of Mr. Hunter. Not
otherwise: you understand that.'
'Without her father's consent, I am sure that Florence would not give me
hers. Have you any idea in what that objection lies?'
'I have not. Mr. Hunter is not a man who will submit to be questioned,
even by me. But, Austin, I cannot help thinking that this objection to
you may fade away--for, that he likes and esteems you greatly, I know.
Should that time come, then tell him that I loved you--that I wished
Florence to become your wife--that I prayed God to bless the union. And
then tell Florence.'
'Will you not tell her yourself?'
Mrs. Hunter made a feeble gesture of denial. 'It would seem like an
encouragement to dispute the decision of her father. Austin, will you
say farewell, and send my husband to me? I am growing faint.' He clasped
her attenuated hands in both his; he bent down, and kissed her forehead.
Mrs. Hunter held him to her. 'Cherish and love her always, should she
become yours,' was the feeble whisper. 'And come to me, come to me, both
of you, in eternity.'
A moment or two in the corridor to compose himself, and Austin met Mr.
Hunter on the stairs, and gave him the message. 'How is Baxendale?' Mr.
Hunter stayed to ask.
'A trifle better. Not yet out of danger.'
'You take care to give him the allowance weekly?'
'Of course I do, sir. It is due to-night, and I am going to take it to
him.'
'Will he ever be fit for work again?'--'I hope so.'
Another word or two on the subject of Baxendale, the attack on whom Mr.
Hunter most bitterly resented, and Austin departed. Mr. Hunter entered
his wife's chamber. Florence, who was also entering, Mrs. Hunter feebly
waved away. 'I would be a moment alone with your father, my child.
James,' Mrs. Hunter said to her husband, as Florence retired--but her
voice was now so reduced that he had to bend his ear to catch the
sounds--'there has been estrangement between us on one point for many
years: and it seems--I know not why--to be haunting my death-bed. Will
you not, in this my last hour, tell me its cause?'
'It would not give you peace, Louisa. It concerns myself alone.'
'Whatever the secret may be, it has been wearing your life out. I ought
to know it.'
Mr. Hunter bent lower. 'My dear wife, it would not bring you peace, I
say. I contracted an obligation in my youth,' he whispered, in answer to
the yearning glance thrown up to him, 'and I have had to pay it off--one
sum after another, one after another, until it has nearly drained me. It
will soon be at an end now.'
'Is it nearly paid?'--'Ay. All but.'
'But why not have told me this? It would have saved me many a troubled
hour. Suspense, when fancy is at work, is hard to bear. And you, James:
why should simple debt, if it is that, have worked so terrible a fear
upon you?'
'I did not know that I could stave it off: looking back, I wonder that I
did do it. I could have borne ruin for myself: I could not, for you.'
'Oh, James!' she fondly said, 'should I have been less brave? While you
and Florence were spared to me, ruin might have done its worst.' Mr.
Hunter turned his face away: strangely wrung and haggard it looked just
then. 'What a mercy that it is over!'
'All but, I said,' he interrupted. And the words seemed to burst from
him in an uncontrollable impulse, in spite of himself.
'It is the only thing that has marred our life's peace, James. I shall
soon be at rest. Perfect peace! perfect happiness! May all we have loved
be there! I can see----'
The words had been spoken disjointedly, in the faintest whisper, and,
with the last one died away. She laid her head upon her husband's arm,
and seemed as if she would sleep. He did not disturb her: he remained
buried in his own thoughts. A short while, and Florence was heard at the
door. Dr. Bevary was there.
'You can come in,' called out Mr. Hunter.
They approached the bed. Florence saw a change in her mother's face, and
uttered an exclamation of alarm. The physician's practised eye detected
what had happened: he made a sign to the nurse who had followed him in,
and the woman went forth to carry the news to the household. Mr. Hunter
alone was calm.
'Thank God!' was his strange ejaculation.
'Oh, papa! papa! it is death!' sobbed Florence, in her distress. 'Do you
not see that it is death?'
'Thank God also, Florence,' solemnly said Dr. Bevary. 'She is better
off.'
Florence sobbed wildly. The words sounded to her ears needlessly
cruel--out of place. Mr. Hunter bent his face on that of the dead, with
a long, fervent kiss. 'My wronged wife!' he mentally uttered. Dr. Bevary
followed him as he left the room.
'James Hunter, it had been a mercy for you had she been taken years
ago.'
Mr. Hunter lifted his hands as if beating off the words, and his face
turned white. 'Be still! be still! what can _you_ know?'
'I know as much as you,' said Dr. Bevary, in a tone which, low though it
was, seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of the unhappy man. 'The
knowledge has disturbed my peace by day, and my rest by night. What,
then, must it have done by yours?'
James Hunter, his hands held up still to shade his face, and his head
down, turned away. 'It was the fault of another,' he wailed, 'and I have
borne the punishment.'
'Ay,' said Dr. Bevary, 'or you would have had my reproaches long ago.
Hark! whose voice is that?' It was one known only too well to Mr.
Hunter. He cowered for a moment, as he had hitherto had terrible cause
to do: the next, he raised his head, and shook off the fear.
'I can dare him now,' he bravely said, turning to the stairs with a
cleared countenance, to meet Gwinn of Ketterford.
He had obtained entrance in this way. The servants were closing up the
windows of the house, and one of them had gone outside to tell the
gossiping servant of a neighbour that their good lady and ever kind
mistress was dead, when the lawyer arrived. He saw what was being done,
and drew his own conclusions. Nevertheless, he desisted not from the
visit he had come to pay.
'I wish to see Mr. Hunter,' he said, while the door stood open.
'I do not think you can see him now, sir,' was the reply of the servant.
'My master is in great affliction.'
'Your mistress is dead, I suppose.'--'Just dead.'
'Well, I shall not detain Mr. Hunter many minutes,' rejoined Gwinn,
pushing his way into the hall. 'I must see him.'
The servant hesitated. But his master's voice was heard. 'You can admit
that person, Richard.'
The man opened the door of the front room. It was in darkness; the
shutters were closed; so he turned to the door of the other, and showed
the guest in. The soft perfume from the odoriferous plants in the
conservatory was wafted to the senses of Gwinn of Ketterford as he
entered. 'Why do you seek me here?' demanded Mr. Hunter when he
appeared. 'Is it a fitting time and place?'
'A court of law might perhaps be more fit,' insolently returned the
lawyer. 'Why did you not remit the money, according to promise, and so
obviate the necessity of my coming?'
'Because I shall remit no more money. Not another farthing, or the value
of one, shall you ever obtain of me. If I have submitted to your ruinous
and swindling demands, you know why I have done it----'
'Stop!' interrupted Mr. Gwinn. 'You have had your money's
worth--silence.'
Mr. Hunter was deeply agitated. 'As the breath went out of my wife's
body, I thanked God that He had taken her--that she was removed from the
wicked machinations of you and yours. But for the bitter wrong dealt out
to me by your wicked sister Agatha, I should have mourned for her with
regrets and tears. You have made my life into a curse: I purchased your
silence that you should not render hers one. The fear and the thraldom
are alike over.'
Mr. Gwinn laughed significantly. 'Your daughter lives.'
'She does. In saying that I will make her cognisant of this, rather than
supply you with another sixpence, you may judge how firm is my
determination.'
'It will be startling news for her.'
'It will: should it come to the telling. Better that she hear it, and
make the best and the worst of it, than that I should reduce her to
utter poverty--and your demands, supplied, would do that. The news will
not kill her--as it might have killed her mother.'
Did Lawyer Gwinn feel baffled? For a minute or two he seemed to be at a
loss for words. 'I will have money,' he exclaimed at length. 'You have
tried to stand out against it before now.'
'Man! do you know that I am on the brink of ruin?' uttered Mr. Hunter,
in deep excitement, 'and that it is you who have brought me to it?' But
for the money supplied to you, I could have weathered successfully this
contest with my workmen, as my brother and others are weathering it. If
you have any further claim against me,' he added in a spirit of mocking
bitterness, 'bring it against my bankruptcy, for that is looming near.'
'I will not stir from your house without a cheque for the money.'
'This house is sanctified by the presence of the dead,' reverently spoke
Mr. Hunter. 'To have any disturbance in it would be most unseemly. Do
not force me to call in a policeman.'
'As a policeman was once called into you, in the years gone by,' Lawyer
Gwinn was beginning with a sneer: but Mr. Hunter raised his voice and
his hand.
'Be still! Coward as I have been, in one sense, in yielding to your
terms, I have never been coward enough to permit _you_ to allude, in my
presence, to the past. I never will. Go from my house quietly, sir: and
do not attempt to re-enter it.'
Mr. Hunter broke from the man--for Gwinn made an effort to detain
him--opened the door, and called to the servant, who came forward.
'Show this person to the door, Richard.'
An instant's hesitation with himself whether it should be compliance or
resistance, and Gwinn of Ketterford went forth.
'Richard,' said Mr. Hunter, as the servant closed the hall-door.--'Sir?'
'Should that man ever come here again, do not admit him. And if he shows
himself troublesome, call a policeman to your aid.' And then Mr. Hunter
shut himself in the room, and burst into heavy tears, such as are rarely
shed by man.