AN UNPLEASANT MOMENT.
Mr Howroyd and Sarah, it will he remembered, had not been seen since they
arrived at the scene of the fire in the park. Mr Howroyd had vaulted from
the car as soon as his half-brother; and when the latter made his angry
speech, and sent off the townspeople, William Howroyd went after them as
quickly as he could. But he had not gone far when he heard quick, light
footsteps behind him; and, turning to see who it was, he saw Sarah,
looking very hot, coming hurrying after him. 'What do you want, my lass?
You go home. The town's no place for you to-night,' he said.
'Yes it is, Uncle Howroyd. I want to see Jane Mary. I'm sure this is some
of her doing,' she panted as she came up to her uncle.
'And if it is, what good will it do you to know it, even if she owned up,
which she won't, you may be sure?' inquired her uncle, stopping, rather
unwillingly, to talk to his niece.
'Oh, she'll tell me; she's not afraid of me. She knows I'm on her side,'
said Sarah.
'A fine statement that! Then what are you going to do? Incite them to
more outrages? Because, if that's your intention, you certainly won't
come; and I must say, Sarah, you don't show a very nice spirit in taking
this tone.'
'What tone?' demanded Sarah, looking rather defiant.
'Why, rejoicing in your father's loss, and openly taking the part of his
enemies,' said Mr Howroyd.
'I'm not rejoicing in it; I'm awfully sorry. I would have given anything
to have prevented it; and it's just to prevent any more that I am going
down to Ousebank,' replied Sarah.
William Howroyd turned and continued his way towards Ousebank. As it was
evident that Sarah meant to go to the town, it was better that she should
go with him than alone, which he was convinced she would do if he did not
let her come with him; so he only said testily, 'I never did pretend to
understand women, but you beat every one of them. I don't know what you
do mean; but I'm glad to hear you are not so undutiful as I thought you
were. Not that you'll do any good by going to Ousebank, because you'll
not turn these people.'
'If you think I'm going to try to turn Jane Mary because I want to save
papa's property for him you are mistaken, because I don't care a fig if
it is destroyed or not; but I do care about Jane Mary, and I don't want
her to get into trouble, and that's why I am going to see her.'
'You're a queer girl, Sarah; but I think you'll be sorry one of these
days for the part you're acting now. Why, that little schoolfellow of
yours has a more friendly feeling for your father than his own daughter,'
observed Mr Howroyd, as the two walked hurriedly along the path through
the park, which was a short-cut to the town.
'Oh Horatia! You say you don't understand me; but I think I'm much
easier to understand than Horatia. She came up here to be my friend and
companion, and sympathise with me, and, lo and behold! she goes and makes
friends with father, and cares much more for father and mother than for
me,' complained Sarah.
'And I don't blame her,' said Mr Howroyd.
Sarah laughed. 'I wonder you don't follow her example; but you don't, and
you know, Uncle Howroyd, it's no use your pretending to champion my
father, because you don't really care for him a bit except from duty, and
you like me much better,' she announced coolly.
'I don't like you at all to-night, and I disapprove of your behaviour to
your parents very strongly. As I told you before, you will be sorry for
it one day,' said her uncle.
They had reached the outskirts of the park and come out on the high-road
as Mr Howroyd said this; and about a hundred yards to the right of them,
coming down the hill, they saw a crowd of people, and heard the murmur of
many voices. It was the townspeople coming from the fire, who had been
longer in coming because they had kept to the drive, not daring to use
the short-cut.
'It's the hands!' said Sarah.
'You'd best turn back, my lass; you can't do any good, and you're far too
young to mix yourself up with this kind of thing,' her uncle entreated
her.
Sarah shook her head. 'I am going on; but if you want to go ahead, do; I
shall be all right with these people,' she affirmed.
But this was more than Mr Howroyd could bear. 'Nay, you'll not do that if
I can stop it, lass. You don't want to be the talk of the town, do you?
But whether you do or not, you're not going to have your way. There'll be
scandal enough without Mark Clay's daughter adding to it by going
marching through the town with the rabble that have just burnt her
father's barns,' said Mr Howroyd; and he quickened his steps to avoid
being caught up by the rabble, as he called them.
But in spite of his efforts, the crowd behind gained on them, and they
heard the foremost say, 'It's William Howroyd, that's who it is. He's a
different man to his brother, that he is. He'd never turn us out of his
park, wouldn't Mr William.'
'He's got Clay's lass with him, though. What d'ye say lads, shall we let
her come into t' town if he won't let us go into his park, or shall we
turn her back same as he did us?'
There were mingled shouts of 'Let her be!' and 'Nay, nay, let's turn her
back, same as he did us, and teach him a lesson!'
They were close behind now, and Mr William Howroyd could no longer
pretend not to hear what they said. The road was wide, and bordered by
banks and hedges. He took Sarah by the hand and pulled her up on to the
bank with him; but even in that moment he noticed that her hand did not
tremble in the least, but was, as a matter of fact, steadier than his
own.
'I'm not going to run away from them, Uncle Howroyd. I'm not a bit afraid
of them,' she protested, as he pulled her up after him.
'You do as I tell you; but you couldn't run away from them if you wanted
to,' he replied.
Sarah stood on the bank beside her uncle, and waited for the crowd to
come up to them. They were only about fifty in all, and mostly young men,
and they seemed undecided what to do when they saw Mr Howroyd standing
upon the bank by the roadside, with his niece beside him.
William Howroyd's pleasant, cheery face was graver than most present had
ever seen it, as he stood and watched the men come up and stand,
half-sheepishly and half-defiantly, in a kind of irregular semicircle
round them.
As none of them spoke, except in murmurs to each other, Mr Howroyd
decided to break the ice, and began, in his brisk, ringing voice, which
had a very stern tone in it to-night: 'Well, men, what do you want of me?
I've made way for you to go forward. Why don't you go?'
'We want a word with you first, Mr Howroyd,' said one of the foremost,
who had already shown himself to be antagonistic.
'I want no words with men who break the laws of the land,' replied
William Howroyd sternly, and as he said this some of the men remembered
that he was a Justice of the Peace.
'We've broken no laws, Mr William. We never set the barn afire, and you
can't prove that we did,' said one rather anxiously.
'You stood by and let it burn; and you forget that it was my brother's
property,' he replied.
'Mark Clay's no blood-brother of yours. We've nought again' you, Mr
William.--Let 'im be, lad; he've allus right on his side, and he's a
good master, is Mr William,' said an older man, walking on.
'Noa; but we've summat again' Mr Clay, and I say let the Clays stop in
their park--they want it to themselves, and let 'em have it; but we won't
have 'em in Ousebank,' said the first speaker in a surly voice.
'The park's private property, and you've no right there, and my brother
had a right to turn you out to-night. I'd have done the same if you'd
come into my house; but we're all equal on the public road, and if you
molest us here you'll answer for it to me in another place,' said Mr
Howroyd with determination.
All this time Sarah had stood beside her uncle, her eyes flashing, but
giving no other sign that she was moved by the discussion; but she now
said, 'The men are right, Uncle Howroyd. I will go back to Balmoral;' and
she turned to go up the hill.
Poor Mr Howroyd might well say he did not understand women, for this was
the last thing he had expected Sarah to do, and it embarrassed him very
much, for he wanted to get to the town as soon as he could and stop
possible disturbances; but it was impossible to let Sarah return to her
home alone on an evening like this. He stood looking first at the crowd,
which was now passing on, and then at Sarah, doubtful which to accompany,
when the question was decided for him by a man in the crowd, who came
forward and said, 'I'll see Miss Clay home, Mr William; you'll be wanted
down Ousebank to-night.'
'Mickleroyd!' cried Mr Howroyd in amazement. 'You here! I didn't expect
to see you among this lot.'
William Howroyd feared no man, and 'said his mind,' as he was wont to
express it, and he was far too popular for it to be resented, perhaps
because his 'mind' had never anything but kindness in it, though it was
very truthful.
'I'll answer for my presence here if need be, Mr. William; but let me
take the young lady home. She'll be safe with me, and the town'll be
safer if you are there,' said the old man, with sturdy independence.
'I'll come, Luke.--Good-night, uncle,' said Sarah, deciding the question,
as usual, for herself.
'Good-night, Sarah. I'm glad you're going home; your mother'll be
worrying about you, I'll be bound, and she'll want some one to comfort
her,' said her uncle as he turned to go down the hill.
'Oh, Horatia's doing that, I've no doubt. I can't think why she wasn't
me, and I her. She'd have liked to live at Balmoral,' replied Sarah.
'She's a good young lady, Miss Sarah, and, if you'll excuse me, she's
done the master a mint of good. It's what he wants, some one to say a
word in season, and make him a little softer like,' said Luke Mickleroyd.
'You're all alike, Luke; you think there's no one like Horatia
Cunningham, and I can't think why except that she has a pleasant way of
saying things,' said Sarah a little bitterly.
'It isn't only that, miss; it's that she's got a lot of heart. But I know
you've got a heart too, and a heart of gold; only I often think 'tis a
pity some people cover it up so carefully that it wants a lot of digging
to come at,' remarked the man.
'I suppose you are talking about me; but don't I show you any feeling,
Luke?' asked Sarah rather reproachfully.
'Yes, miss, of course; and I wasn't thinking of you at the minute, as it
happened. I'm sorry I said what I did about Miss Cunningham if it annoyed
you, for I know from Naomi how kind you are, and what a true friend to
all our family. If I said anything, it was because I was thinking 'twas a
pity you didn't take things as the other young lady does, for if you had
very likely matters would never have come to this pass.'
Sarah did not answer a word, and the two walked on in silence. Luke
Mickleroyd was thinking bitterly of the part his daughter Jane Mary had
taken in the day's work, and Sarah's thoughts were not more pleasant.
'I dare say you're right, Luke; but one can't change one's character. If
a person's born proud and horrid like me she can't help it; it's her
nature to be so,' she said after a pause.
'There's something above nature, Miss Sarah; and though I'm not one to
preach, I know you know better than me, not being a scholar, that you can
be changed,' replied the man.
Sarah was so surprised at such a speech from a mill-hand that she found
no words to reply; but when he had left her, by her desire, at the back
of the house, she made her way to her room by the back-stairs, and taking
up her favourite attitude on the wide window-seat, sat and gazed out over
Ousebank.
'I hate them all! I hate Ousebank, and the mills, and the hands--the
ungrateful people; they turned against me even, though they know I have
always taken their parts and sympathised with them,' she burst out. Then
the words of her uncle came back to her that she would one day regret the
attitude she had taken up, and she wondered whether she didn't regret it
a little now. And then Luke Mickleroyd's remarks haunted her, and with a
sudden impatient movement she got up and went to the door. There she
paused irresolutely, and then, half-shamefacedly, she turned back and
knelt down by her bedside; and after ten minutes she got up and walked
swiftly out of the room and down the stairs, wondering rather at have
said; and though she said her prayers night and morning as a matter of
habit, she did not remember ever having prayed in the daytime before.