LYING IN WAIT.
Night had fallen: not a bright or pleasant night.
A few skulkers had gathered behind the dwarf hedge, that skirted the
piece of waste land near the North Works. An ill-looking set of men,
as seen at present: for they had knelt so as to bring themselves
almost on a level with the top of the hedge. Poole was in the middle;
his face savage, a pistol in his right hand.
Of all the men who had returned to work, the most obnoxious to the old
hands was one named Ralley. It was not so much because he had been a
turn-coat--that is, after holding out to the eleventh moment, had
finally gone back at the twelfth--that the men hated him, as because
they believed him to be treacherous. Ralley had been red-hot for
the strike; had done more by his agitation than any one man to bring
it about. He had resolutely refused all the overtures made by Richard
North: and yet--he had gone back when the works were finally
reopened. For this the men heartily despised him--far more than they
did those who had been ready to go back from the first. In addition to
this, they had been suspecting--and lately had felt sure--that he was
a snake in the grass. That he had laid himself out to pick up, fairly
or stealthily, as might be, bits of information about them, their
doings and sayings, their wretched condition and threats of revenge,
and had carried them to the works and to Richard North. And so--the
contents of the pistol that Poole held in his hand were meant for
Ralley.
For a long time the malcontents of North Inlet had been burning to
take vengeance on some one: some new treachery on Ralley's part, or
suspected treachery, had come to light, and they determined to shoot
_him_. Poor, misguided, foolish men! As if it would improve things for
them! Suppose they killed Ralley, how would it better their condition?
Ralley had not suffered half what they suffered. He was unmarried;
and, during the strike, he had been helped by his relatives, who were
pretty well off, so that he had known neither starvation nor tattered
clothing, as they had: and this made his returning to work all the
worse in their eyes. Ralley was about the age of Richard North, and
not unlike him in height and figure: so much like him, indeed, that
since their evil act had been determined on, one of the others had
bade Poole take care he did not mistake the master for him in the
dark. Poole's sullen rejoinder was, that it would not much matter if
he did.
The night was dark; a drizzling rain had come on, and the part where
they were was not too well lighted. The small band, about to issue
from the gates of the works, would pass this waste land within some
fifteen yards of them. Poole had been a famous marksman in his day,
and felt sure of his aim. John Allen knelt on his right, one Denton on
his left, and one on either side beyond: five in all.
Five o'clock struck. Almost simultaneously the bell at the works was
heard, giving warning that it was time for the men to go to tea. Three
or four sharp, quick strokes: nothing more.
"That's Green, I'll swear," cried Denton, alluding to the ringer. "I
didn't know he was back again: his rheumatics must be better."
"Hush--sh--sh!" was all Denton received in answer. And a death-like
silence ensued. Poole broke it.
"Where the devil are they? Why don't they come?"
Ay, why did they not come? Simply because there had been scarcely
sufficient time for them to do so. But every moment, to these would-be
murderers, kneeling there, seemed like a long-drawn-out period.
"Here they are," whispered Denton.
It was so. The men were coming out at the gate, about twenty of them;
two and two; the policemen to-night heading the string. Sometimes the
officers were behind, at other times at the side of the men. Poole
rose cautiously and prepared to take aim. They were crossing from the
gates, and presently would pass the hedge. This was the second night
the men had thus lain in ambush. The previous night they had waited in
like manner; but Ralley happened to be then on the other side his
companion in the march, and so for the time was saved.
Allen stretched up his head. His sight was keen as a sailor's.
"Which side's he on, Jack?" whispered Poole. "I don't see him yet."
For answer John Allen put his hand quickly on Poole's arm to lower the
pistol. "No good again, mates," said he. "Ralley ain't there."
"Not there!" retorted Poole with a strong oath.
"I'm as nigh sure of it as I can be," said Allen. "Wait till they come
nearer."
It proved to be so. Ralley for some reason or other was not with the
men. Denton again gave vent to a furious oath.
Tramp, tramp, tramp; their regular tread sounded in the stillness of
the night as they passed. Poole had crouched down again.
The steps died away in the distance, and the conspirators ventured to
raise their heads. Allen happened to look in the direction of the
gates.
"Here he is!" burst forth Allen, with almost a suppressed scream.
"Something must have kept him back. Now's our time, mates. Here's
Ralley."
"That ain't his hat, Jack Allen," dissented one.
"Hat be smothered! it's himself," said John Allen.
Ralley was coming on quickly, a dark, low-crowned hat somewhat drawn
over his brows. A minute's silence, during which you might have heard
their hearts beat, and then----
Poole fired. Ralley gave a cry: staggered, and walked on. He was
struck, no doubt, but not killed.
"Your boasted aim has failed, Poole," cried Denton with a savage oath.
Not more savage than Poole's, though, as he broke through the low
hedge. What the bullet had not done, the pistol itself should.
Suddenly, with a startled cry, Allen broke after him, shouting to him
to stay his hand.
"It's the master, Poole; it's not Ralley. _Stop, you fool!_--it's the
master."
Too late. It was, indeed, Richard North. And Mr. Poole had felled him
by a wicked blow on the temple.
Mrs. Gass and Mary Dallory were seated at tea in a sad and sorrowful
mood--for the conversation had turned on those dreadful rumours that,
in spite of Richard North, would not be hushed. Mrs. Gass was stoutly
asserting that she had more faith in Dr. Rane than to believe them,
when some commotion in the street dawned on their ears. Mrs. Gass
stopped in the midst of an emphatic sentence.
"What's that?" she cried.
Fleet steps seemed to be running to and fro; voices were raised in
excitement. They distinctly heard the words, "Mr. Richard," "Richard
North." Mrs. Gass drew aside her crimson curtains, and opened the
window.
"Smith--is it you?" she said, arresting a man who was running in the
wake of others. "What's the matter?"
"I don't rightly know, ma'am," he answered. "They are saying that Mr.
Richard North has been shot dead."
"Lord help us!" cried Mrs. Gass. She shut down the window and brought
her face round to the light again. Every vestige of colour had left
it. Mary Dallory stood rigidly upright, her hands clasped, as one who
had been turned to stone.
"Did you hear what he said, child?"
"I heard," was the scarcely murmured answer.
Mrs. Gass caught up a bonnet, which happened to lie on a chair, and
went into the street. At the entrance to North Inlet a crowd of men
and women had gathered. As in all similar cases, reports varied. Some
said it had taken place in the high-road to Whitborough, some at the
works, others near Dallory Hall. So the mob was puzzled which way to
go and not miss the excitement. Thoms was talking at the top of his
voice as Mrs. Gass arrived, anxious, perhaps, to disclaim complicity
on his own score.
"They've had it in their heads to do it, some o' them bad uns have. I
could name names, but I won't. If the master had knowed all, he'd ha'
went about in fear of his life this long while past."
This was enough for Mrs. Gass. Gathering her black silk skirts in her
hands, and her face paler than the assemblage had ever seen it, she
stood, unmindful of the rain, and told them what she thought.
"If you've shot Richard North, you have shot the best and bravest man
you'll ever know in this life. You'll never find such a friend again.
Ay, he was brave. Brave for good in the midst of difficulties, brave
to forbear. Don't _you_ boast, Thoms, with your ready tongue. None of
you men round me now may be the one that's shot him, but you've been
all rowing in the same boat. Yes, you have. You mayn't have planned
out murder yourselves--I wouldn't answer for it that you've not--but,
any way, you knew that others was a-planning it, and you winked at it
and kept silence. Who has been the friend to you that Richard North
has been? Since you've been half starving, and your wives and
children's been half starving, where has all the help come from, d'you
suppose, that has kept you from starving outright? Why, from him. The
most has come from him. The money I gave was his, the things I bought
was mostly paid for by him. A little came from me; not much; I was too
angry with your folly; but he couldn't see you quite clam, and he took
care you shouldn't. Look at how you were all helped through the fever;
and meat, and bread, and beer given you to get up your strength a bit,
after it! Who did all that? Why, Richard North. You thought it was me;
but it was him; only he wouldn't have it known. That was his return
for all the black ingratitude you'd showed, in refusing to work for
him and bringing him to ruin. Pray God he may not be dead! but if he
is, a good man has gone to his reward.--Is that you, Ketler?"
"Yes, it's me," answered Ketler, who was standing in shadow, his face
wearing a deeper gloom than the night could cast.
"When that child of yours died, Cissy--and many a little help did she
have in life from him--who but Richard North took care that she
shouldn't be buried by the parish? He met Fanny Jelly, and he put some
money into her hand, and charged her to let it be thought it was
_hers_. 'They are in distress and trouble, I know, Jelly,' he said;
'let this be used in the way that's best for them.' Go and ask Jelly,
if you don't believe me: I had it from her. And that's the master
you've been conspirating together to kill, Ketler!"
Ketler swallowed down a groan. "I'd never have raised a hand again the
master; no, nor countenanced it. If anybody has said I would, it's a
lie."
"There's not one of you but knew what mischief was in the wind, or
might have known it; and you've countenanced it by keeping silence,"
retorted Mrs. Gass. "You are a pack of cowards. First of all you ruin
him by throwing up his work, and when you find yourselves all clamming
together, or nigh upon it, you turn round on him and kill him. May the
Lord forgive you! I never will."
Some disturbance. A tramping of feet, and a shouting of running boys.
Poole, Denton, John Allen, and one more were marching by in handcuffs,
marshalled by some policemen. A hiss greeted them.
"'Twas a mistake," said Jack Allen, in answer to the hiss, reckless
under his untoward fate. "'Twas meant for Ralley, not for the master."
"Is he dead?" called out Mrs. Gass.
But amidst the confusion she received no answer. And at that moment
she became aware of a pale countenance near her, peeping out from a
cloud of wool.
"Good gracious, Miss Mary, child! You shouldn't be out here."
"I have been with you all the time."
"Then, my dear, you just betake yourself home again. I'll come in as
soon as I can learn the truth of it all."
Mrs. Gass had not long to wait. Almost as she spoke, Richard North
appeared: and thereupon ensued more excitement than ever. Blood was
trickling from his temple, but he appeared quite sensible, and was
walking slowly, helped by two men.
"Thank God!" said Mrs. Gass aloud: and the words were heartily echoed.
"To my house, men. Mr. Richard, sir, it is but a few steps more, and
we'll soon have the doctor. A fine night's work, this is!" she
concluded, leading the way to her home.
Little Barrington, the druggist, came out of his shop, and helped to
place Richard on Mrs. Gass's sofa. They managed to get off his coat.
The left arm was injured, as well as the temple. Barrington staunched
the blood trickling from the latter; but preferred not to meddle with
the arm. "He had better be kept quite quiet, until the surgeon comes,"
said the druggist to Mrs. Gass.
Mrs. Gass cleared the room. A dozen excited messengers had run to the
Ham for Mr. Seeley or Dr. Rane, or both if they should be found at
home. She stood at the front-door, watching and waiting.
Richard North, weak and faint, lay with his eyes closed. Opening them
in the quiet room, he saw Mary Dallory kneeling by the sofa, pale and
sad.
"Don't be alarmed," he whispered. "It might have been worse."
"I would have given my life to save yours, Richard," she impetuously
exclaimed in the sorrow and terror of the moment.
His right hand went out a little and met hers.
"Richard, I wish I might stay and nurse you. You have no sister.
Matilda is useless in a sick-room."
Richard North nervously pressed her fingers. "Don't try me too much,
Mary. I care for you already more than is good for my peace. Don't
tempt me."
"And if I were to tempt you? Though I don't quite know what you mean,"
she rejoined softly and nervously. "What then?"
"I might say what I ought not to say."
He paused.
"It would make it all the harder for me," he continued, after a
moment's silence. "I am a man of the people; a man of work. You will
belong to--to one of a different order."
She knew he alluded to Arthur Bohun, and laughed slightly.
But, though she said no more, she left her hand in his. Richard
thought it was done solely out of compassion.
And now there was a bustle heard, and in came Mr. Seeley, warm with
hastening. The hands parted, and Mary Dallory went round to the other
side of the table, and stood there in all due decorum.