Part 1 dealt first with the diseases of the grinders; but instead of

Produced by Donald Lainson

PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE

By Charles Reade

“I will frame a work of fiction upon notorious fact, so that anybody

shall think he can do the same; shall labor and toil attempting

the same, and fail--such is the power of sequence and connection in

writing.”--HORACE: Art of Poetry.

CHAPTER I.

Hillsborough and its outlying suburbs make bricks by the million, spin

and weave both wool and cotton, forge in steel from the finest needle up

to a ship's armor, and so add considerably to the kingdom's wealth.

But industry so vast, working by steam on a limited space, has been

fatal to beauty: Hillsborough, though built on one of the loveliest

sites in England, is perhaps the most hideous town in creation. All ups

and down and back slums. Not one of its wriggling, broken-backed streets

has handsome shops in an unbroken row. Houses seem to have battled in

the air, and stuck wherever they tumbled down dead out of the melee. But

worst of all, the city is pockmarked with public-houses, and bristles

with high round chimneys. These are not confined to a locality, but

stuck all over the place like cloves in an orange. They defy the law,

and belch forth massy volumes of black smoke, that hang like acres of

crape over the place, and veil the sun and the blue sky even in the

brightest day. But in a fog--why, the air of Hillsborough looks a thing

to plow, if you want a dirty job.

More than one crystal stream runs sparkling down the valleys, and

enters the town; but they soon get defiled, and creep through it heavily

charged with dyes, clogged with putridity, and bubbling with poisonous

gases, till at last they turn to mere ink, stink, and malaria, and

people the churchyards as they crawl.

This infernal city, whose water is blacking, and whose air is coal, lies

in a basin of delight and beauty: noble slopes, broad valleys, watered

by rivers and brooks of singular beauty, and fringed by fair woods in

places; and, eastward, the hills rise into mountains, and amongst them

towers Cairnhope, striped with silver rills, and violet in the setting

sun.

Cairnhope is a forked mountain, with a bosom of purple heather and a

craggy head. Between its forks stood, at the period of my story, a great

curiosity; which merits description on its own account, and also as the

scene of curious incidents to come.

It was a deserted church. The walls were pierced with arrow-slits,

through which the original worshipers had sent many a deadly shaft in

defense of their women and cattle, collected within the sacred edifice

at the first news of marauders coming.

Built up among the heathery hills in times of war and trouble, it had

outlived its uses. Its people had long ago gone down into the fruitful

valley, and raised another church in their midst, and left this old

house of God alone, and silent as the tombs of their forefathers that

lay around it.

It was no ruin, though on the road to decay. One of the side walls was

much lower than the other, and the roof had two great waves, and was

heavily clothed, in natural patterns, with velvet moss, and sprinkled

all over with bright amber lichen: a few tiles had slipped off in two

places, and showed the rafters brown with time and weather: but the

structure was solid and sound; the fallen tiles lay undisturbed beneath

the eaves; not a brick, not a beam, not a gravestone had been stolen,

not even to build the new church: of the diamond panes full half

remained; the stone font was still in its place, with its Gothic cover,

richly carved; and four brasses reposed in the chancel, one of them

loose in its bed.

What had caused the church to be deserted had kept it from being

desecrated; it was clean out of the way. No gypsy, nor vagrant, ever

slept there, and even the boys of the village kept their distance.

Nothing would have pleased them better than to break the sacred windows

time had spared, and defile the graves of their forefathers with

pitch-farthing and other arts; but it was three miles off, and there was

a lion in the way: they must pass in sight of Squire Raby's house; and,

whenever they had tried it, he and his groom had followed them on

swift horses that could jump as well as gallop, had caught them in the

churchyard, and lashed them heartily; and the same night notice to quit

had been given to their parents, who were all Mr. Raby's weekly tenants:

and this had led to a compromise and flagellation.

Once or twice every summer a more insidious foe approached. Some little

party of tourists, including a lady, who sketched in water and never

finished anything, would hear of the old church, and wander up to it.

But Mr. Raby's trusty groom was sure to be after them, with orders

to keep by them, under guise of friendship, and tell them outrageous

figments, and see that they demolished not, stole not, sculptured not.

All this was odd enough in itself, but it astonished nobody who knew Mr.

Raby. His father and predecessor had guarded the old church religiously

in his day, and was buried in it, by his own orders; and, as for Guy

Raby himself, what wonder he respected it, since his own mind, like that

old church, was out of date, and a relic of the past?

An antique Tory squire, nursed in expiring Jacobitism, and cradled in

the pride of race; educated at Oxford, well read in books, versed in

county business, and acquainted with trade and commerce; yet puffed up

with aristocratic notions, and hugging the very prejudices our nobility

are getting rid of as fast as the vulgar will let them.

He had a sovereign contempt for tradespeople, and especially for

manufacturers. Any one of those numerous disputes between masters and

mechanics, which distinguish British industry, might have been safely

referred to him, for he abhorred and despised them both with strict

impartiality.

The lingering beams of a bright December day still gilded the moss-clad

roof of that deserted church, and flamed on its broken panes, when a

young man came galloping toward it, from Hillsborough, on one of those

powerful horses common in that district.

He came so swiftly and so direct, that, ere the sun had been down twenty

minutes, he and his smoking horse had reached a winding gorge about

three furlongs from the church. Here, however, the bridle-road, which

had hitherto served his turn across the moor, turned off sharply

toward the village of Cairnhope, and the horse had to pick his way

over heather, and bog, and great loose stones. He lowered his nose, and

hesitated more than once. But the rein was loose upon his neck, and he

was left to take his time. He had also his own tracks to guide him in

places, for this was by no means his first visit; and he managed so

well, that at last he got safe to a mountain stream which gurgled past

the north side of the churchyard: he went cautiously through the water,

and then his rider gathered up the reins, stuck in the spurs, and put

him at a part of the wall where the moonlight showed a considerable

breach. The good horse rose to it, and cleared it, with a foot to spare;

and the invader landed in the sacred precincts unobserved, for the

road he had come by was not visible from Raby House, nor indeed was the

church itself.

He was of swarthy complexion, dressed in a plain suit of tweed, well

made, and neither new nor old. His hat was of the newest fashion, and

glossy. He had no gloves on.

He dismounted, and led his horse to the porch. He took from his pocket a

large glittering key and unlocked the church-door; then gave his horse

a smack on the quarter. That sagacious animal walked into the church

directly, and his iron hoofs rang strangely as he paced over the brick

floor of the aisle, and made his way under the echoing vault, up to

the very altar; for near it was the vestry-chest, and in that chest his

corn.

The young man also entered the church; but soon came out again with

a leathern bucket in his hand. He then went round the church, and was

busily employed for a considerable time.

He returned to the porch, carried his bucket in, and locked the door,

leaving the key inside.

That night Abel Eaves, a shepherd, was led by his dog, in search of a

strayed sheep, to a place rarely trodden by the foot of man or beast,

viz., the west side of Cairnhope Peak. He came home pale and disturbed,

and sat by the fireside in dead silence. “What ails thee, my man?” said

Janet, his wife; “and there's the very dog keeps a whimpering.”

“What ails us, wife? Pincher and me? We have seen summat.”

“What was it?” inquired the woman, suddenly lowering her voice.

“Cairnhope old church all o' fire inside.”

“Bless us and save us!” said Janet, in a whisper.

“And the fire it did come and go as if hell was a blowing at it. One

while the windows was a dull red like, and the next they did flare so,

I thought it would all burst out in a blaze. And so 'twould, but, bless

your heart, their heads ha'n't ached this hundred year and more, as

lighted that there devilish fire.”

He paused a moment, then said, with sudden gravity and resignation and

even a sort of half business-like air, “Wife, ye may make my shroud, and

sew it and all; but I wouldn't buy the stuff of Bess Crummles; she is an

ill-tongued woman, and came near making mischief between you and me last

Lammermas as ever was.”

“Shroud!” cried Mrs. Eaves, getting seriously alarmed. “Why, Abel, what

is Cairnhope old church to you? You were born in an other parish.”

Abel slapped his thigh. “Ay, lass, and another county, if ye go to

that.” And his countenance brightened suddenly.

“And as for me,” continued Janet, “I'm Cairnhope; but my mother came

from Morpeth, a widdy: and she lies within a hundred yards of where

I sit a talking to thee. There's none of my kin laid in old Cairnhope

churchyard. Warning's not for thee, nor me, nor yet for our Jock. Eh,

lad, it will be for Squire Raby. His father lies up there, and so do all

his folk. Put on thy hat this minute, and I'll hood myself, and we'll go

up to Raby Hall, and tell Squire.”

Abel objected to that, and intimated that his own fireside was

particularly inviting to a man who had seen diabolical fires that came

and went, and shone through the very stones and mortar of a dead church.

“Nay, but,” said Janet, “they sort o' warnings are not to be slighted

neither. We must put it off on to Squire, or I shall sleep none this

night.”

They went up, hand in hand, and often looked askant upon the road.

When they got to the Hall, they asked to see Mr. Raby. After some demur

they were admitted to his presence, and found him alone, so far as they

could judge by the naked eye; but, as they arrived there charged to

the muzzle with superstition, the room presented to their minds some

appearances at variance with this seeming solitude. Several plates were

set as if for guests, and the table groaned, and the huge sideboard

blazed, with old silver. The Squire himself was in full costume, and on

his bosom gleamed two orders bestowed upon his ancestors by James

III. and Charles III. In other respects he was rather innocuous, being

confined to his chair by an attack of gout, and in the act of sipping

the superannuated compound that had given it him--port. Nevertheless,

his light hair, dark eyebrows, and black eyes, awed them, and

co-operated with his brilliant costume and the other signs of company,

to make them wish themselves at the top of Cairnhope Peak. However, they

were in for it, and told their tale, but in tremulous tones and a low

deprecating voice, so that if the room SHOULD happen to be infested with

invisible grandees from the other world, their attention might not be

roused unnecessarily.

Mr. Raby listened with admirable gravity; then fixed his eyes on the

pair, in silence; and then said in a tone so solemn it was almost

sepulchral, “This very day, nearly a century and a half ago, Sir Richard

Raby was beheaded for being true to his rightful king--”

“Eh, dear poor gentleman! so now a walks.” It was Janet who edged in

this--

“And,” continued the gentleman, loftily ignoring the comment, “they say

that on this night such of the Rabys as died Catholics hold high mass in

the church, and the ladies walk three times round the churchyard; twice

with their veils down, once with bare faces, and great eyes that glitter

like stars.”

“I wouldn't like to see the jades,” quavered Abel: “their ladyships I

mean, axing their pardon.”

“Nor I!” said Janet, with a great shudder.

“It would not be good for you,” suggested the Squire; “for the first

glance from those dead and glittering eyes strikes any person of the

lower orders dumb, the second, blind; the third, dead. So I'm INFORMED.

Therefore--LET ME ADVISE YOU NEVER TO GO NEAR CAIRNHOPE OLD CHURCH AT

NIGHT.”

“Not I, sir,” said the simple woman.

“Nor your children: unless you are very tired of them.”

“Heaven forbid, sir! But oh, sir, we thought it might be a warning

like.”

“To whom?”

“Why, sir, th' old Squire lies there; and heaps more of your folk: and

so Abel here was afear'd--but you are the best judge; we be no scholars.

Th' old church warn't red-hot from eend to eend for naught: that's

certain.”

“Oh it is me you came to warn?” said Raby, and his lip curled.

“Well, sir,” (mellifluously), “we thought you had the best right to

know.”

“My good woman,” said the warned, “I shall die when my time comes. But

I shall not hurry myself, for all the gentlemen in Paradise, nor all the

blackguards upon earth.”

He spake, and sipped his port with one hand, and waved them superbly

back to their village with the other.

But, when they were gone, he pondered.

And the more he pondered, the further he got from the prosaic but

singular fact.

CHAPTER II.

In the old oak dining-room, where the above colloquy took place, hung

a series of family portraits. One was of a lovely girl with oval face,

olive complexion, and large dark tender eyes: and this was the gem of

the whole collection; but it conferred little pleasure on the spectator,

owing to a trivial circumstance--it was turned with its face to the

wall; and all that met the inquiring eye was an inscription on the

canvas, not intended to be laudatory.

This beauty, with her back to creation, was Edith Raby, Guy's sister.

During their father's lifetime she was petted and allowed her own way.

Hillsborough, odious to her brother, was, naturally, very attractive to

her, and she often rode into the town to shop and chat with her friends,

and often stayed a day or two in it, especially with a Mrs. Manton, wife

of a wealthy manufacturer.

Guy merely sneered at her, her friends, and her tastes, till he suddenly

discovered that she had formed an attachment to one of the obnoxious

class, Mr. James Little, a great contract builder. He was too shocked at

first to vent his anger. He turned pale, and could hardly speak; and the

poor girl's bosom began to quake.

But Guy's opposition went no further than cold aversion to the

intimacy--until his father died. Then, though but a year older than

Edith, he assumed authority and, as head of the house, forbade the

connection. At the same time he told her he should not object, under the

circumstances, to her marrying Dr. Amboyne, a rising physician, and

a man of good family, who loved her sincerely, and had shown his love

plainly before ever Mr. Little was heard of.

Edith tried to soften her brother; but he was resolute, and said Raby

Hall should never be an appendage to a workshop. Sooner than that, he

would settle it on his cousin Richard, a gentleman he abhorred, and

never called, either to his face or behind his back, by any other name

than “Dissolute Dick.”

Then Edith became very unhappy, and temporized more or less, till her

lover, who had shown considerable forbearance, lost patience at last,

and said she must either have no spirit, or no true affection for him.

Then came a month or two of misery, the tender clinging nature of the

girl being averse to detach itself from either of these two persons. She

loved them both with an affection she could have so easily reconciled,

if they would only have allowed her.

And it all ended according to Nature. She came of age, plucked up a

spirit, and married Mr. James Little.

Her brother declined to be present at the wedding; but, as soon as she

returned from her tour, and settled in Hillsborough, he sent his groom

with a cold, civil note, reminding her that their father had settled

nineteen hundred pounds on her, for her separate use, with remainder to

her children, if any; that he and Mr. Graham were the trustees of this

small fund; that they had invested it, according to the provisions of

the settlement, in a first mortgage on land; and informing her that half

a year's interest at 4 12 per cent was due, which it was his duty to

pay into her own hand and no other person's; she would therefore oblige

him by receiving the inclosed check, and signing the inclosed receipt.

The receipt came back signed, and with it a few gentle lines, “hoping

that, in time, he would forgive her, and bestow on her what she needed

and valued more than money; her own brother's, her only brother's

affection.”

On receiving this, his eyes were suddenly moist, and he actually

groaned. “A lady, every inch!” he said; “yet she has gone and married a

bricklayer.”

Well, blood is thicker than water, and in a few years they were pretty

good friends again, though they saw but little of one another, meeting

only in Hillsborough, which Guy hated, and never drove into now without

what he called his antidotes: a Bible and a bottle of lavender-water. It

was his humor to read the one, and sprinkle the other, as soon as ever

he got within the circle of the smoky trades.

When Edith's little boy was nine years old, and much admired for his

quickness and love of learning, and of making walking-stick heads and

ladies' work-boxes, Mr. Little's prosperity received a severe check, and

through his own fault. He speculated largely in building villas, overdid

the market, and got crippled. He had contracts uncompleted, and was

liable to penalties; and at last saw himself the nominal possessor of a

brick wilderness, but on the verge of ruin for want of cash.

He tried every other resource first; but at last he came to his wife,

to borrow her L1900. The security he offered was a mortgage on twelve

carcasses, or houses the bare walls and roofs of which were built.

Mrs. Little wrote at once to Mr. Raby for her money.

Instead of lending the trust-money hastily, Raby submitted the proposal

to his solicitor, and that gentleman soon discovered the vaunted

security was a second mortgage, with interest overdue on the first; and

so he told Guy, who then merely remarked, “I expected as much. When had

a tradesman any sense of honor in money matters? This one would cheat

his very wife and child.”

He declined the proposal, in two words, “Rotten security!”

Then Mr. James Little found another security that looked very plausible,

and primed his wife with arguments, and she implored Guy to call and

talk it over with them both.

He came that very afternoon, and brought his father's will.

Then Edith offered the security, and tried to convey to the trustee her

full belief that it was undeniable.

Guy picked terrible holes in it, and read their father's will, confining

the funds to consols, or a first mortgage on land. “You take the money

on these conditions: it is almost as improper of you to wish to evade

them, as it would be of me to assist you. And then there is your child;

I am hound in honor not to risk his little fortune. See, here's my

signature to that.”

“My child!” cried Edith. “When he comes of age, I'll go on my knees to

him and say, 'My darling, I borrowed your money to save your father's

credit.' And my darling will throw his arms round me, and forgive me.”

“Simpleton!” said Guy. “And how about your daughters and their husbands?

And their husbands' solicitors? Will they throw their arms round your

neck, and break forth into twaddle? No! I have made inquiries. Your

husband's affairs are desperate. I won't throw your money into his well;

and you will both live to thank me for seeing clearer than you do, and

saving this L1900 for you and yours.”

James Little had writhed in his chair for some time: he now cried out

wildly,

“Edith, you shall demean yourself no more. He always hated me: and now

let him have his will, and seal my dishonor and my ruin. Oblige me by

leaving my house, Mr. Raby.”

“Oh, no, James!” cried Edith, trembling, and shocked at this

affront. But Guy rose like a tower. “I've noticed this trait in all

tradespeople,” said he grimly. “They are obsequious to a gentleman so

long as they hope to get the better of him; but, the moment they find

it is impossible to overreach him, they insult him.” And with this he

stalked out of the house.

“Oh, my poor James, how could you?” said Edith.

“Forgive me,” said he, quietly. “It is all over. That was our last

chance.”

Guy Raby walked down the street, stung to the quick. He went straight to

his solicitor and arranged to borrow L1900 on his own property. “For,”

said he, “I'll show them both how little a snob can understand a

gentleman. I won't tamper with her son's money, but I'll give her my own

to throw into his well. Confound him! why did she ever marry him?”

When the business was virtually settled, he came back to the house in

great haste.

Meantime Mr. James Little went up to his dressing-room, as usual, to

dress for dinner; but he remained there so long that, at last, Mrs.

Little sent her maid to tell him dinner was ready.

The girl had hardly reached the top of the stairs, when she gave a

terrible scream that rang through the whole house.

Mrs. Little rushed upstairs, and found her clinging to the balusters,

and pointing at the floor, with eyes protruding and full of horror.

Her candle-stick had fallen from her benumbed hand; but the hall-lamp

revealed what her finger was quivering and pointing at: a dark fluid

trickling slowly out into the lobby from beneath the bedroom door.

It was blood.

The room was burst into, and the wretched, tottering wife, hanging upon

her sobbing servants, found her lover, her husband, her child's father,

lying on the floor, dead by his own hand; stone dead. A terrible sight

for strangers to see; but for her, what words can even shadow the horror

of it!

I drop the veil on her wild bursts of agony, and piteous appeals to him

who could not hear her cries.

The gaping wound that let out that precious life, her eye never ceased

to see it, nor her own heart to bleed with it, while she lived.

She was gently dragged away, and supported down to another room. Doctor

Amboyne came and did what he could for her; and that was--nothing.

At this time she seemed stupefied. But when Guy came beaming into the

room to tell her he had got her the money, a terrible scene occurred.

The bereaved wife uttered a miserable scream at sight of him, and

swooned away directly.

The maids gathered round her, laid her down, and cut her stays, and told

Guy the terrible tidings, in broken whispers, over her insensible body.

He rose to his feet horrified. He began to gasp and sob. And he yearned

to say something to comfort her. At that moment his house, his heart,

and all he had, were hers.

But, as soon as she came to herself, and caught sight of him, she

screamed out, “Oh, the sight of him! the sight of him!” and swooned away

again.

Then the women pushed him out of the room, and he went away with uneven

steps, and sick at heart.

He shut himself up in Raby Hall, and felt very sad and remorseful.

He directed his solicitor to render Mrs. Little every assistance, and

supply her with funds. But these good offices were respectfully declined

by Mr. Joseph Little, the brother of the deceased, who had come from

Birmingham to conduct the funeral and settle other matters.

Mr. Joseph Little was known to be a small master-cutler, who had risen

from a workman, and even now put blades and handles together with his

own hands, at odd times, though he had long ceased to forge or grind.

Mr. Raby drew in haughtily at this interference.

It soon transpired that Mr. James Little had died hopelessly insolvent,

and the L1900 would really have been ingulfed.

Raby waited for this fact to sink into his sister's mind; and then one

day nature tugged so at his heart-strings, that he dashed off a warm

letter beginning--“My poor Edith, let bygones be bygones,” and inviting

her and her boy to live with him at Raby Hall.

The heart-broken widow sent back a reply, in a handwriting scarcely

recognizable as hers. Instead of her usual precise and delicate hand,

the letters were large, tremulous, and straggling, and the lines slanted

downward.

“Write to me, speak to me, no more. For pity's sake let me forget there

is a man in the world who is my brother and his murderer.

“EDITH.”

Guy opened this letter with a hopeful face, and turned pale as ashes at

the contents.

But his conscience was clear, and his spirit high. “Unjust idiot!” he

muttered, and locked her letter up in his desk.

Next morning he received a letter from Joseph Little, in a clear, stiff,

perpendicular writing:

“SIR,--I find my sister-in-law wrote you, yesterday, a harsh letter,

which I do not approve; and have told her as much. Deceased's affairs

were irretrievable, and I blame no other man for his rash act, which may

God forgive! As to your kind and generous invitation, it deserves her

gratitude; but Mrs. Little and myself have mingled our tears together

over my poor brother's grave, and now we do not care to part. Before

your esteemed favor came to hand, it had been settled she should leave

this sad neighborhood and keep my house at Birmingham, where she will

meet with due respect. I am only a small tradesman; but I can pay my

debts, and keep the pot boiling. Will teach the boy some good trade, and

make him a useful member of society, if I am spared.

“I am, sir, yours respectfully,

“JOSEPH LITTLE.”

“Sir,--I beg to acknowledge, with thanks, your respectable letter.

“As all direct communication between Mrs. James Little and myself is at

an end, oblige me with your address in Birmingham, that I may remit to

you, half-yearly, as her agent, the small sum that has escaped bricks

and mortar.

“When her son comes of age, she will probably forgive me for declining

to defraud him of his patrimony.

“But it will be too late; for I shall never forgive her, alive or dead.

“I am, sir, your obedient servant,

“GUY RABY.”

When he had posted this letter he turned Edith's picture to the wall,

and wrote on the canvas--

“GONE INTO TRADE.”

He sent for his attorney, made a new will, and bequeathed his land,

houses, goods, and chattels, to Dissolute Dick and his heirs forever.

CHAPTER III.

The sorrowful widow was so fond of her little Henry, and the uncertainty

of life was so burnt into her now, that she could hardly bear him out of

her sight. Yet her love was of the true maternal stamp; not childish and

self-indulgent. She kept him from school, for fear he should be brought

home dead to her; but she gave her own mind with zeal to educate him.

Nor was she unqualified. If she had less learning than school-masters,

she knew better how to communicate what she did know to a budding mind.

She taught him to read fluently, and to write beautifully; and she

coaxed him, as only a woman can, over the dry elements of music and

arithmetic. She also taught him dancing and deportment, and to sew on

a button. He was a quick boy at nearly everything, but, when he was

fourteen, his true genius went ahead of his mere talents; he showed

a heaven-born gift for--carving in wood. This pleased Joseph Little

hugely, and he fostered it judiciously.

The boy worked, and thought, and in time arrived at such delicacies of

execution, he became discontented with the humdrum tools then current.

“Then learn to make your own, boy,” cried Joseph Little, joyfully; and

so initiated him into the whole mystery of hardening, forging, grinding,

handle-making, and cutlery: and Henry, young and enthusiastic, took his

turn at them all in right down earnest.

At twenty, he had sold many a piece of delicate carving, and could make

graving-tools incomparably superior to any he could buy; and, for his

age, was an accomplished mechanic.

Joseph Little went the way of all flesh.

They mourned and missed him; and, at Henry's earnest request, his mother

disposed of the plant, and went with him to London.

Then the battle of life began. He was a long time out of employment, and

they both lived on his mother's little fortune.

But Henry was never idle. He set up a little forge hard by, and worked

at it by day, and at night he would often sit carving, while his mother

read to him, and said he, “Mother, I'll never rest till I can carve the

bloom upon a plum.”

Not to dwell on the process, the final result was this. He rose at last

to eminence as a carver: but as an inventor and forger of carving tools

he had no rival in England.

Having with great labor, patience, and skill, completed a masterpiece of

carving (there were plums with the bloom on, and other incredibles),

and also a set of carving-tools equally exquisite in their way, he got a

popular tradesman to exhibit both the work and the tools in his window,

on a huge silver salver.

The thing made a good deal of noise in the trade, and drew many

spectators to the shop window.

One day Mr. Cheetham, a master-cutler, stood in admiration before the

tools, and saw his way to coin the workman.

This Cheetham was an able man, and said to himself, “I'll nail him for

Hillsborough, directly. London mustn't have a hand that can beat us at

anything in our line.”

He found Henry out, and offered him constant employment, as a forger and

cutler of carving-tools, at L4 per week.

Henry's black eyes sparkled, but he restrained himself. “That's to be

thought of. I must speak to my old lady. She is not at home just now.”

He did speak to her, and she put her two hands together and said,

“Hillsborough! Oh Henry!” and the tears stood in her eyes directly.

“Well, don't fret,” said he: “it is only saying no.”

So when Mr. Cheetham called again for the reply, Henry declined, with

thanks. On this, Mr. Cheetham never moved, but smiled, and offered him

L6 per week, and his journey free.

Henry went into another room, and argued the matter. “Come, mother, he

is up to L6 a week now; and that is every shilling I'm worth; and, when

I get an apprentice, it will be L9 clear to us.”

“The sight of the place!” objected Mrs. Little, hiding her face in her

hands instinctively.

He kissed her, and talked good manly sense to her, and begged her to

have more courage.

She was little able to deny him, and she consented; but cried, out of

his sight, a good many times about it.

As for Henry, strong in the consciousness of power and skill, he felt

glad he was going to Hillsborough. “Many a workman has risen to the

top of the tree in that place,” said he. “Why, this very Cheetham was

grinding saws in a water-wheel ten years ago, I've heard uncle Joe say.

Come, mother, don't you be a baby! I'll settle you in a cottage outside

the smoke; you shall make a palace of it; and we'll rise in the very

town where we fell, and friends and foes shall see us.”

Mr. Cheetham purchased both the carving and the tools to exhibit in

Hillsborough; and the purchase-money, less a heavy commission, was paid

to Henry. He showed Mrs. Little thirty pounds, and helped her pack up;

and next day they reached Hillsborough by train.

Henry took a close cab, and carried his mother off to the suburbs in

search of a lodging. She wore a thick veil, and laid her head on her

son's shoulder, and held his brown though elegant hand with her white

fingers, that quivered a little as she passed through the well-known

streets.

As for Henry, he felt quite triumphant and grand, and consoled her in an

off-hand, hearty way. “Come, cheer up, and face the music. They have all

forgotten you by this time, and, when they do see you again, you shall

be as good as the best of them. I don't drink, and I've got a trade all

to myself here, and I'd rather make my fortune in this town than any

other; and, mother, you have been a good friend to me; I won't ever

marry till I have done you justice, and made you the queen of this very

town.”

And so he rattled on, in such high spirits, that the great soft thing

began to smile with motherly love and pride through her tears, ere they

found a lodging.

Next day to the works, and there the foreman showed him a small forge on

the ground floor, and a vacant room above to make his handles in and put

the tools together; the blades were to be ground, whetted, and finished

by cheaper hands.

A quick-eared grinder soon came up to them, and said roughly, “Ain't we

to wet new forge?”

“They want their drink out of you,” said the foreman; and whispered, in

great anxiety, “Don't say no, or you might as well work in a wasp's nest

as here.”

“All right,” said Henry, cheerfully. “I'm no drinker myself, but I'll

stand what is customary.”

“That is right,” said Foreman Bayne. “'Twill cost you fifteen shillings.

But Peace is cheap at as many guineas.”

The word was given, and every man who worked on the same floor with

Henry turned out to drink at his expense, and left off work for a good

hour. With some exceptions they were a rough lot, and showed little

friendliness or good-humor over it. One even threw out a hint that no

cockney forges were wanted in Hillsborough. But another took him up, and

said, “Maybe not; but you are not much of a man to drink his liquor and

grudge him his bread.”

After this waste of time and money, Henry went back to the works, and a

workman told him rather sulkily, he was wanted in the foreman's office.

He went in, and there was a lovely girl of eighteen, who looked at him

with undisguised curiosity, and addressed him thus: “Sir, is it you that

carve wood so beautifully?”

Henry blushed, and hesitated; and that made the young lady blush herself

a very little, and she said, “I wished to take lessons in carving.”

Then, as he did not reply, she turned to Mr. Bayne. “But perhaps he

objects to teach other people?”

“WE should object to his teaching other workmen,” said the foreman;

“but,” turning to Henry, “there is no harm in your giving her a lesson

or two, after hours. You will want a set of the tools, miss?”

“Of course I shall. Please put them into the carriage; and--when will he

come and teach me, I wonder? for I am wild to begin.”

Henry said he could come Saturday afternoon, or Monday morning early.

“Whichever you please,” said the lady, and put down her card on the

desk; then tripped away to her carriage, leaving Henry charmed with her

beauty and ease.

He went home to his mother, and told her he was to give lessons to the

handsomest young lady he had ever seen. “She has bought the specimen

tools too; so I must forge some more, and lose no time about it.”

“Who is she, I wonder?”

“Here is her card. 'Miss Carden, Woodbine Villa, Heath Hill.'”

“Carden!” said the widow. Then, after a moment's thought, “Oh, Henry,

don't go near them. Ah, I knew how it would be. Hillsborough is not like

London. You can't be long hid in it.”

“Why, what is the matter? Do you know the lady?”

“Oh, yes. Her papa is director of an insurance company in London. I

remember her being born very well. The very day she was christened--her

name is Grace--you were six years old, and I took you to her

christening; and oh, Harry, my brother is her godfather. Don't you

go near that Grace Carden; don't visit any one that knew us in better

days.”

“Why, what have we to be ashamed of?” said Henry. “'Tisn't as if we

sat twiddling our thumbs and howling, 'We have seen better days.' And

'tisn't as if we asked favors of anybody. For my part I don't care who

knows I am here, and can make three hundred a year with my own hands

and wrong no man. I'd rather be a good workman in wood and steel than an

arrogant old fool like your b--. No, I won't own him for yours or mine

either--call him Raby. Well, I wouldn't change places with him, nor any

of his sort: I'm a British workman, and worth a dozen Rabys--useless

scum!”

“That you are, dear; so don't demean yourself to give any of them

lessons. Her godfather would be sure to hear of it.”

“Well, I won't, to please you. But you have no more pluck than a

chicken--begging your pardon, mother.”

“No, dear,” said Mrs. Little, humbly, quite content to gain her point

and lose her reputation for pluck; if any.

Henry worked regularly, and fast, and well, and in less than a fortnight

a new set of his carving-tools were on view in Hillsborough, and another

in London; for it was part of Mr. Cheetham's strategy to get all

the London orders, and even make London believe that these superior

instruments had originated in Hillsborough.

One day Miss Carden called and saw Bayne in the office. Her vivid

features wore an expression of vexation, and she complained to him that

the wood-carver had never been near her.

Bayne was surprised at that; but he was a man who always allayed

irritation on the spot. “Rely on it, there's some reason,” said he.

“Perhaps he has not got settled. I'll go for him directly.”

“Thank you,” said the young lady. Then in the same breath, “No, take me

to him, and perhaps we may catch him carving--cross thing!”

Bayne assented cheerfully, and led the way across a yard, and up a

dirty stone stair, which, solid as it was, vibrated with the powerful

machinery that steam was driving on every side of it. He opened a door

suddenly, and Henry looked up from his work, and saw the invaders.

He stared a little at first, and then got up and looked embarrassed and

confused.

“You did not keep your word, sir,” said Grace, quietly.

“No,” he muttered, and hung his head.

He seemed so confused and ashamed, that Bayne came to his assistance.

“The fact is, no workman likes to do a hand's-turn on Saturday

afternoon. I think they would rather break Sunday than Saturday.”

“It is not that,” said Henry, in a low voice.

Grace heard him, but answered Mr. Bayne: “Oh dear, I wish I had known. I

fear I have made an unreasonable request: for, of course, after working

so hard all the week--but then why did you let me purchase the tools to

carve with? Papa says they are very dear, Mr. Bayne. But that is what

gentlemen always say if one buys anything that is really good. But of

course they WILL be dear, if I am not to be taught how to use them.”

She then looked in Mr. Bayne's face with an air of infantine simplicity:

“Would Mr. Cheetham take them back, I wonder, under the circumstances?”

At this sly thrust, Bayne began to look anxious; but Henry relieved him

the next moment by saying, in a sort of dogged way, “There, there; I'll

come.” He added, after a pause, “I will give you six lessons, if you

like.”

“I shall be so much obliged. When will you come, sir?”

“Next Saturday, at three o'clock.”

“I shall be sure to be at home, sir.”

She then said something polite about not disturbing him further, and

vanished with an arch smile of pleasure and victory, that disclosed a

row of exquisite white teeth, and haunted Henry Little for many a day

after.

He told his mother what had happened, and showed so much mortified pride

that she no longer dissuaded him from keeping his word. “Only pray don't

tell her your name,” said she.

“Well, but what am I to do if she asks it?”

“Say Thompson, or Johnson, or anything you like, except Little.”

This request roused Henry's bile. “What, am I a criminal to deny my

name? And how shall I look, if I go and give her a false name, and then

she comes to Bayne and learns my right one? No, I'll keep my name back,

if I can; but I'll never disown it. I'm not ashamed of it, if you are.”

This reduced poor Mrs. Little to silence; followed, in due course, by a

few meek, clandestine tears.

Henry put on his new tweed suit and hat, and went up to the villa. He

announced himself as the workman from Cheetham's; and the footman, who

had probably his orders, ushered him into the drawing-room at once.

There he found Grace Carden seated, reading, and a young woman sewing at

a respectful distance. This pair were types; Grace, of a young English

gentlewoman, and Jael Dence of a villager by unbroken descent. Grace was

tall, supple, and serpentine, yet not thin; Jael was robust and ample,

without being fat; she was of the same height, though Grace looked the

taller. Grace had dark brown eyes and light brown hair; and her blooming

cheek and bewitching mouth shone with expression so varied, yet vivid,

and always appropriate to the occasion, grave or gay, playful or

dignified, that her countenance made artificial faces, and giggling

in-the-wrong-place faces, painfully ridiculous. As for such faces as

Jael's, it killed them on the spot, but that was all. Jael's hair was

reddish, and her full eyes were gray; she was freckled a little under

the eyes, but the rest of her cheek full of rich pure color, healthy,

but not the least coarse: and her neck an alabaster column. Hers was a

meek, monotonous countenance; but with a certain look of concentration.

Altogether, a humble beauty of the old rural type; healthy, cleanly,

simple, candid, yet demure.

Henry came in, and the young lady received him with a manner very

different from that she had worn down at the works. She was polite, but

rather stiff and dignified.

He sat down at her request, and, wondering at himself, entered on the

office of preceptor. He took up the carving-tools, and explained the use

of several; then offered, by way of illustration, to work on something.

“That will be the best way, much,” said Grace quietly, but her eye

sparkled.

“I dare say there's some lumber to be found in a great house like this?”

“Lumber? why, there's a large garret devoted to it. Jael, please take

him to the lumber-room.”

Jael fixed her needle in her work, and laid it down gently on a table

near her, then rose and led the way to the lumber-room.

In that invaluable repository Henry soon found two old knobs lying on

the ground (a four-poster had been wrecked hard by) and a piece of deal

plank jutting out of a mass of things. He pulled hard at the plank; but

it was long, and so jammed in by miscellaneous articles, that he could

not get it clear.

Jael looked on demurely at his efforts for some time; then she suddenly

seized the plank a little higher up. “Now, pull,” said she, and gave

a tug like a young elephant: out came the plank directly, with a great

rattle of dislocated lumber.

“Well, you are a strong one,” said Henry.

“Oh, one and one makes two, sir,” replied the vigorous damsel, modestly.

“That is true, but you threw your weight into it like a workman. Now

hand me that rusty old saw, and I'll cut off as much as we want.”

While he was sawing off a piece of the plank, Jael stood and eyed him

silently a while. But presently her curiosity oozed out. “If you please,

sir, be you really a working man?”

“Why, what else should I be?” was the answer, given rather brusquely.

“A great many gentlefolks comes here as is no better dressed nor you

be.”

“Dress is no rule. Don't you go and take me for a gentleman, or we

sha'n't agree. Wait till I'm as arrogant, and empty, and lazy as they

are. I am a workman, and proud of it.”

“It's naught to be ashamed on, that's certain,” said Jael. “I've carried

many a sack of grain up into our granary, and made a few hundred-weight

of cheese and butter, besides house-work and farm-work. Bless your

heart, I bayn't idle when I be at home.”

“And pray where is your home?” asked Henry, looking up a moment, not

that he cared one straw.

“If you please, sir, I do come from Cairnhope village. I'm old Nat

Dence's daughter. There's two of us, and I'm the youngest. Squire sent

me in here, because miss said Hillsborough girls wasn't altogether

honest. She is a dear kind young lady; but I do pine for home and the

farm at times; and frets about the young calves: they want so much

looking after. And sister, she's a-courting, and can't give her mind to

'em as should be. I'll carry the board for you, sir.”

“All right,” said Henry carelessly; but, as they went along, he thought

to himself, “So a skilled workman passes for a gentleman with rustics:

fancy that!”

On their return to the drawing-room, Henry asked for a high wooden

stool, or chair, and said it would be as well to pin some newspapers

over the carpet. A high stool was soon got from the kitchen, and

Jael went promptly down on her knees, and crawled about, pinning the

newspapers in a large square.

Henry stood apart, superior, and thought to himself, “So much for

domestic servitude. What a position for a handsome girl--creeping about

on all fours!”

When all was ready, he drew some arabesque forms with his pencil on the

board. He then took an exquisite little saw he had invented for this

work, and fell upon the board with a rapidity that, contrasted with

his previous nonchalance, looked like fury. But he was one of your fast

workmen. The lithe saw seemed to twist in his hand like a serpent,

and in a very short time he had turned four feet of the board into

open-work. He finished the edges off with his cutting tools, and there

was a transformation as complete as of linen cloth turned lace.

Grace was delighted. “Shall I ever be able to do that?”

“In half a day. That's not carving; that's trickery. The tool does it

all. Before I invented this saw, a good workman would have been a day

over that; but now YOU can do it in half an hour, when you are master of

the instrument. And now I'll show you honest work.” He took one of the

knobs and examined it; then sawed off a piece, and worked on the rest

so cunningly with his various cutters, that it grew into a human face

toward their very eyes. He even indicated Jael Dence's little flat cap

by a means at once simple and ingenious. All the time he was working the

women's eyes literally absorbed him; only those of Grace flashed vivid

curiosity, Jael's open orbs were fixed with admiration and awe upon his

supernatural cleverness.

He now drew some more arabesques on the remaining part of the board,

and told Miss Carden she must follow those outlines with the saw, and he

would examine her work on Monday morning. He then went off with a quick,

independent air, as one whose every minute was gold.

“If you please, miss,” said Jael, “is he a real working man, or only a

gentleman as makes it his pastime?”

“A gentleman! What an idea! Of course he is a working man. But a very

superior person.”

“To be sure,” continued Jael, not quite convinced, “he don't come up to

Squire Raby; but, dear heart, he have a grander way with him than most

of the Hillsborough gentlefolks as calls here.”

“Nonsense!” said Grace, authoritatively. “Look at his nails.”

Henry came twice a week, and his pupil made remarkable progress. She was

deferential, attentive, enthusiastic.

By degrees the work led to a little conversation; and that, in due

course, expanded into a variety of subjects; and the young lady, to

her surprise, found her carver well-read in History and Sciences, and

severely accurate in his information, whereas her own, though abundant,

was rather loose.

One day she expressed her surprise that he could have found time to be

so clever with his fingers and yet cultivate his mind.

“Well,” said he, “I was lucky enough to have a good mother. She taught

me all she knew, and she gave me a taste for reading; and that has been

the making of me; kept me out of the public-house, for one thing.”

“Ah! you WERE fortunate. I lost my mother, sir, when I was but eight

years old.”

“Oh dear, that was a bad job,” said Henry brusquely but kindly.

“A very bad job,” said Grace, smiling; but the next moment she suddenly

turned her fair head away and tears stole down her cheeks.

Henry looked very sorry, and Jael, without moving, looked at Grace, and

opened those sluices, her eyes, and two big drops of sympathy rolled

down her comely face in a moment.

That day, when young Little shut the street-door of “Woodbine Villa” and

stepped into the road, a sort of dull pain seemed to traverse his chest.

It made his heart ache a little, this contrast of the sweet society

he had left and the smoky town toward which he now turned his face. He

seemed to be ejected from Paradise for the next five days. It was Monday

yet he wished the next day was Saturday, and the intervening period

could be swept away, so that he might be entering that soft Paradise

instead of leaving it.

And this sentiment, once rooted, grew rapidly in an aspiring nature, and

a heart that had never yet entertained a serious passion. Now the fair

head that bowed over the work so near him, the lovely hand he had so

often to direct, and almost to guide, and all the other perfections of

mind and body this enchanting girl possessed, crept in at his admiring

eyes, and began to steal into his very veins, and fill him with soft

complacency. His brusque manner dissolved away, and his voice became low

and soft, whenever he was in her delicious presence. He spoke softly to

Jael even, if Grace was there. The sturdy workman was enthralled.

Often he wondered at himself. Sometimes he felt alarmed at the strength

of his passion and the direction it had taken.

“What,” said he, “have I flirted with so many girls in my own way

of life, and come away heart-whole, and now to fall in love with a

gentlewoman, who would bid her footman show me the door if she knew of

my presumption!”

But these misgivings could neither cure him nor cow him. Let him only

make money, and become a master instead of a workman, and then he would

say to her, “I don't value birth myself, but if you do, why, I am not

come of workpeople.”

He traced a plan with workmanlike precision:--Profound discretion

and self-restraint at “Woodbine Villa:” restless industry and stern

self-denial in Hillsborough.

After his day's work he used to go straight to his mother. She gave him

a cup of tea, and then they had their chat; and after that the sexes

were inverted, so to speak: the man carved fruit, and flowers, and dead

woodcocks, the woman read the news and polities of the day, and the

essays on labor and capital, and any other articles not too flimsy

to bear reading aloud to a man whose time was coin. (There was a free

library in Hillsborough, and a mechanic could take out standard books

and reviews.) Thus they passed the evening hours agreeably, and usefully

too, for Henry sucked in knowledge like a leech, and at the same time

carved things that sold well in London. He had a strong inclination to

open his heart about Miss Carden. Accordingly, one evening he said, “She

lost her mother when she was a child.”

“Who lost her mother?” asked Mrs. Little.

“Miss Carden,” said Henry, very softly.

The tone was not lost on Mrs. Little's fine and watchful ear; at least

her mind seized it a few seconds afterward.

“That is true,” said she. “Poor girl! I remember hearing of it. Henry,

what is that to you? Don't you trouble your head about that young lady,

or she will trouble your heart. I wish you did not go near her.”

And then came question upon question, and vague maternal misgivings.

Henry parried them as adroitly as he could: but never mentioned Miss

Carden's name again.

He thought of her all the more, and counted his gains every week, and

began to inquire of experienced persons how much money was wanted to

set up a wheel with steam power, and be a master instead of a man. He

gathered that a stranger could hardly start fair without L500.

“That is a good lump!” thought Henry: “but I'll have it, if I work night

as well as day.”

Thus inspired, his life became a sweet delirium. When he walked, he

seemed to tread on air: when he forged, his hammer felt a feather in

his hand. The mountains in the way looked molehills, and the rainbow

tangible, to Youth, and Health, and Hope, and mighty Love.

One afternoon, as he put on his coat and crossed the yard, after a

day's work that had passed like a pleasant hour, being gilded with such

delightful anticipations, the foreman of the works made him a mysterious

signal. Henry saw it, and followed him into his office. Bayne looked

carefully out of all the doors, then closed them softly, and his face

betrayed anxiety, and even fear.

“Little,” said he, almost in a whisper, “you know me: I'm a man of

peace, and so for love of peace I'm going to do something that might get

me into a wrangle. But you are the civillest chap ever worked under me

and the best workman, take you altogether, and I can't bear to see you

kept in the dark, when you are the man whose skin--only--if I act like a

man to you, will you act like one to me?”

“I will,” said Henry; “there's my hand on it.”

Then Bayne stepped to his desk, opened it, and took out some letters.

“You must never tell a soul I showed them you, or you will get me into a

row with Cheetham; and I want to be at peace in-doors as well as out.”

“I give you my word.”

“Then read that, to begin.”

And he handed him a letter addressed to Mr. Cheetham.

“SIR,--We beg respectfully to draw your attention to a matter, which

is of a nature to cause unpleasantness between you and the Trades. We

allude to your bringing a workman in from another town to do work that

we are informed can be done on the premises by your own hands.

“We assure you it would be more to your interest to work in harmony

with the smiths and the handle-makers in your employ, and the trade

generally. Yours respectfully,

“THE COMMITTEE OF THE EDGE-TOOL FORGERS' UNION.”

Henry colored up at this, and looked grieved; but he said, “I am sorry

to be the cause of any unpleasantness. But what can I do?”

“Oh,” said Bayne, with a sardonic grin, “they are sure to tell you that,

soon or late. Read this:”

No. 2 was dated a week later, and ran thus:

“MR. CHEETHAM: SIR,--I think you do very ill to annoy a many craftsmen

for one. Remember, you have suffered loss and inconvenience whenever

you have gone against Trades. We had to visit you last year, and when

we came your bands went and your bellows gaped. We have no wish to come

again this year, if you will be reasonable. But, sir, you must part with

London hand, or take consequences.

“BALAAM.”

Henry looked grave. “Can I see a copy of Mr. Cheetham's reply?”

Bayne stared at him, and then laughed in his face, but without the

gayety that should accompany a laugh. “Cheetham's reply to Balaam! And

where would he send it? To Mr. Beor's lodgings, No. 1 Prophet Place, Old

Testament Square. My poor chap, nobody writes replies to these letters.

When you get one, you go that minute to the secretary of whatever Union

you are wrong with, and you don't argue, or he bids you good-morning;

you give in to whatever he asks, and then you get civility; and justice

too, according to Trade lights. If you don't do that, and haven't

learned what a blessing Peace is, why, you make up your mind to fight

the Trade; and if you do, you have to fight them all; and you are safe

to get the worst of it, soon or late. Cheetham has taken no notice of

these letters. All the worse for him and you too. Read that.”

No. 3 ran thus:

“DEAR SIR,--I take the liberty of addressing you on the subject of your

keeping on this knobstick, in defiance of them that has the power to

make stones of Hillsborough too hot for you and him. Are you deaf, or

blind, or a fool, Jack Cheatem? You may cheat the world, but you don't

cheat the devil, nor me. Turn cockney up, with no more ado, or you'll

both get kicked to hell some dark night by

“BALAAM'S ASS.”

Henry was silent; quite silent. When he did speak, it was to ask why Mr.

Cheetham had kept all this from him.

“Because you shouldn't take fright and leave him,” was the unhesitating

reply.

“For that matter they threaten him more than they do me.”

“They warn the master first; but the workman's turn is sure to come,

and he gets it hottest, because they have so many ways of doing him.

Cheetham, he lives miles from here, and rides in across country, and

out again, in daylight. But the days are drawing in, and you have got

to pass through these dark streets, where the Trades have a thousand

friends, and you not one. Don't you make any mistake: you are in their

power; so pray don't copy any hot-headed, wrong-headed gentleman like

Cheetham, but speak them fair. Come to terms--if you can--and let us be

at peace; sweet, balmy peace.”

“Peace is a good thing, no doubt,” said Henry, “but” (rather bitterly)

“I don't thank Cheetham for letting me run blindfold into trouble, and

me a stranger.”

“Oh,” said Bayne, “he is no worse than the rest, believe me. What does

any master care for a man's life? Profit and loss go down in figures;

but life--that's a cipher in all their ledgers.”

“Oh, come,” said Harry, “it is unphilosophical and narrow-minded to

fasten on a class the faults of a few individuals, that form a very

moderate portion of that class.”

Bayne seemed staggered by a blow so polysyllabic; and Henry, to finish

him, added, “Where there's a multitude, there's a mixture.” Now the

first sentence he had culled from the Edinburgh Review, and the second

he had caught from a fellow-workman's lips in a public-house; and

probably this was the first time the pair of phrases had ever walked out

of any man's mouth arm in arm. He went on to say, “And as for Cheetham,

he is not a bad fellow, take him altogether. But you are a better for

telling me the truth. Forewarned, forearmed.”

He went home thoughtful, and not so triumphant and airy as yesterday;

but still not dejected, for his young and manly mind summoned its energy

and spirit to combat this new obstacle, and his wits went to work.

Being unable to sleep for thinking of what he should do he was the first

to reach the works in the morning. He lighted his furnace, and then went

and unlocked the room where he worked as a handle maker, and also as a

cutler. He entered briskly and opened the window. The gray light of the

morning came in, and showed him something on the inside of the door that

was not there when he locked it overnight. It was a very long knife,

broad toward the handle, but keenly pointed, and double-edged. It was

fast in the door, and impaled a letter addressed, in a vile hand--

“TO JAK THRE TRADES.”

Henry took hold of the handle to draw the knife out; but the formidable

weapon had been driven clean through the door with a single blow.

Then Henry drew back, and, as the confusion of surprise cleared away,

the whole thing began to grow on him, and reveal distinct and alarming

features.

The knife was not one which the town manufactured in the way of

business, it was a long, glittering blade, double-edged, finely pointed,

and exquisitely tempered. It was not a tool, but a weapon.

Why was it there, and, above all, how did it come there?

He distinctly remembered locking the door overnight. Indeed, he had

found it locked, and the window-shutters bolted; yet there was this

deadly weapon, and on its point a letter, the superscription of which

looked hostile and sinister.

He drew the note gently across the edge of the keen knife, and the paper

parted like a cobweb. He took it to the window and read it. It ran thus:

“This knifs wun of too made ekspres t'other is for thy hart if thou

doesnt harken Trade and leve Chetm. Is thy skin thicks dore thinks

thou if not turn up and back to Lundon or I cum again and rip thy ----

carkiss with feloe blade to this thou ---- cokny

“SLIPER JACK.”

CHAPTER IV.

Any one who reads it by the fireside may smile at the incongruous

mixture of a sanguinary menace with bad spelling. But deeds of blood had

often followed these scrawls in Hillsborough, and Henry knew it: and,

indeed, he who can not spell his own name correctly is the very man to

take his neighbor's life without compunction; since mercy is a fruit of

knowledge, and cruelty of ignorance.

And then there was something truly chilling in the mysterious entrance

of this threat on a dagger's point into a room he had locked overnight.

It implied supernatural craft and power. After this, where could a man

be safe from these all-penetrating and remorseless agents of a secret

and irresponsible tribunal.

Henry sat down awhile, and pored over the sanguinary scrawl, and glanced

from it with a shudder at the glittering knife. And, while he was in

this state of temporary collapse, the works filled, the Power moved, the

sonorous grindstones revolved, and every man worked at his ease, except

one, the best of them all beyond comparison.

He went to his friend Bayne, and said in a broken voice, “They have put

me in heart for work; given me a morning dram. Look here.” Bayne was

shocked, but not surprised. “It is the regular routine,” said he. “They

begin civil; but if you don't obey, they turn it over to the scum.”

“Do you think my life is really in danger?”

“No, not yet; I never knew a man molested on one warning. This is just

to frighten you. If you were to take no notice, you'd likely get another

warning, or two, at most; and then they'd do you, as sure as a gun.”

“Do me?”

“Oh, that is the Hillsborough word. It means to disable a man from work.

Sometimes they lie in wait in these dark streets, and fracture his skull

with life-preservers; or break his arm, or cut the sinew of his wrist;

and that they call DOING him. Or, if it is a grinder, they'll put powder

in his trough, and then the sparks of his own making fire it, and scorch

him, and perhaps blind him for life; that's DOING him. They have gone as

far as shooting men with shot, and even with a bullet, but never so as

to kill the man dead on the spot. They DO him. They are skilled workmen,

you know; well, they are skilled workmen at violence and all, and it is

astonishing how they contrive to stop within an inch of murder. They'll

chance it though sometimes with their favorite gunpowder. If you're very

wrong with the trade, and they can't DO you any other way, they'll blow

your house up from the cellar, or let a can of powder down the chimney,

with a lighted fuse, or fling a petard in at the window, and they take

the chance of killing a houseful of innocent people, to get at the one

that's on the black books of the trade, and has to be DONE.”

“The beasts! I'll buy a six-shooter. I'll meet craft with craft, and

force with force.”

“What can you do against ten thousand? No; go you at once to the

Secretary of the Edge-Tool Grinders, and get your trade into his Union.

You will have to pay; but don't mind that. Cheetham will go halves.”

“I'll go at dinner-time.”

“And why not now?”

“Because,” said Henry, with a candor all his own, “I'm getting over my

fright a bit, and my blood is beginning to boil at being threatened by a

sneak, who wouldn't stand before me one moment in that yard, knife or no

knife.”

Bayne smiled a friendly but faint smile, and shook his head with grave

disapprobation, and said, with wonder, “Fancy postponing Peace!”

Henry went to his forge and worked till dinner-time. Nay, more, was a

beautiful whistler, and always whistled a little at his work: so to-day

he whistled a great deal: in fact, he over-whistled.

At dinner-time he washed his face and hands and put on his coat to go

out.

But he had soon some reason to regret that he had not acted on Bayne's

advice to the letter. There had been a large trade's meeting overnight,

and the hostility to the London craftsman had spread more widely, in

consequence of remarks that had been there made. This emboldened the

lower class of workmen, who already disliked him out of pure envy, and

had often scowled at him in silence; and, now, as he passed them, they

spoke at him, in their peculiar language, which the great friend

and supporter of mechanics in general, The Hillsborough Liberal,

subsequently christened “THE DASH DIALECT.”

“We want no ---- cockneys here, to steal our work.”

“Did ever a ---- anvil-man handle his own blades in Hillsborough?”

“Not till this ---- knobstick came,” said another.

Henry turned sharp round upon them haughtily, and such was the power of

his prompt defiant attitude, and his eye, which flashed black lightning,

that there was a slight movement of recoil among the actual speakers.

They recovered it immediately, strong in numbers; but in that same

moment Little also recovered his discretion, and he had the address to

step briskly toward the gate and call out the porter; he said to him in

rather a loud voice, for all to hear, “if anybody asks for Henry Little,

say he has gone to the Secretary of the Edge-Tool Forgers' Union.” He

then went out of the works; but, as he went, he heard some respectable

workman say to the scum, “Come, shut up now. It is in better hands than

yours.”

Mr. Jobson, the Secretary of the Edge-Tool Forgers, was not at home,

but his servant-girl advised Little to try the “Rising Sun;” and in the

parlor of that orb he found Mr. Jobson, in company with other magnates

of the same class, discussing a powerful leader of The Hillsborough

Liberal, in which was advocated the extension of the franchise,

a measure calculated to throw prodigious power into the hands of

Hillsborough operatives, because of their great number, and their habit

of living each workman in a tenement of his own, however small.

Little waited till The Liberal had received its meed of approbation,

and then asked respectfully if he might speak to Mr. Jobson on a trade

matter. “Certainly,” said Mr. Jobson. “Who are you?”

“My name is Little. I make the carving-tools at Cheetham's.”

“I'll go home with you; my house is hard by.”

When they got to the house, Jobson told him to sit down, and asked

him, in a smooth and well-modulated voice, what was the nature of the

business. This query, coming from him, who had set the stone rolling

that bade fair to crush him, rather surprised Henry. He put his hand

into his pocket, and produced the threatening note, but said nothing as

to the time or manner of its arrival.

Mr. Jobson perused it carefully, and then returned it to Henry. “What

have we to do with this?” and he looked quite puzzled.

“Why, sir, it is the act of your Union.”

“You are sadly misinformed, Mr. Little. WE NEVER THREATEN. All we do

is to remind the master that, if he does not do certain things, certain

other things will probably be done by us; and this we wrap up in the

kindest way.”

“But, sir, you wrote to Cheetham against me.”

“Did we? Then it will be in my letter-book.” He took down a book,

examined it, and said, “You are quite right. Here's a copy of the

letter. Now surely, sir, comparing the language, the manners, and

the spelling, with that of the ruffian whose scrawl you received this

morning--”

“Then you disown the ruffian's threat?”

“Most emphatically. And if you can trace it home, he shall smart for

interfering in our business.”

“Oh, if the trade disowns the blackguard, I can despise him. But

you can't wonder at my thinking all these letters were steps of the

same--yes, and Mr. Bayne thought so too; for he said this was the

regular routine, and ends in DOING a poor fellow for gaining his bread.”

Mr. Jobson begged to explain.

“Many complaints are brought to us, who advise the trades. When they

are frivolous, we are unwilling to disturb the harmony of employers and

workmen; we reason with the complainant, and the thing dies away. When

the grievance is substantial, we take it out of the individual's hands

and lay it before the working committee. A civil note is sent to the

master; or a respectable member of the committee calls on him, and urges

him to redress the grievance, but always in kind and civil terms. The

master generally assents: experience has taught him it is his wisest

course. But if he refuses, we are bound to report the refusal to a

larger committee, and sometimes a letter emanates from them, reminding

the master that he has been a loser before by acts of injustice, and

hinting that he may be a loser again. I do not quite approve this form

of communication. But certainly it has often prevented the mischief

from spreading further. Well, but perhaps he continues rebellious. What

follows? We can't lock up facts that affect the trade; we are bound to

report the case at the next general meeting. It excites comments, some

of them perhaps a little intemperate; the lower kind of workmen get

inflamed with passion, and often, I am sorry to say, write ruffianly

letters, and now and then do ruffianly acts, which disgrace the town,

and are strongly reprobated by us. Why, Mr. Little, it has been my lot

to send a civil remonstrance, written with my own hand, in pretty fair

English--for a man who plied bellows and hammer twenty years of my

life--and be treated with silent contempt; and two months after to be

offering a reward of twenty or thirty pounds, for the discovery of some

misguided man, that had taken on himself to right this very matter with

a can of gunpowder, or some such coarse expedient.”

“Yes, but, sir, what hurts me is, you don't consider me to be worth a

civil note. You only remonstrated with Cheetham.”

“You can't wonder at that. Our trade hasn't been together many years:

and what drove us together? The tyranny of our employers. What has kept

us together? The bitter experience of hard work and little pay, whenever

we were out of union. Those who now direct the trades are old enough to

remember when we were all ground down to the dust by the greedy masters;

and therefore it is natural, when a grievance arises, we should be

inclined to look to those old offenders for redress in the first

instance. Sometimes the masters convince us the fault lies with workmen;

and then we trouble the master no more than we are forced to do in

order to act upon the offenders. But, to come to the point: what is your

proposal?”

“I beg to be admitted into the union.”

“What union?”

“Why, of course, the one I have offended, through ignorance. The

edge-tool forgers.”

Jobson shook his head, and said he feared there were one or two

objections.

Henry saw it was no use bidding low. “I'll pay L15 down,” said he,

“and I'll engage not to draw relief from your fund, unless disabled by

accident or violence.”

“I will submit your offer to the trade,” said Jobson. He added, “Then

there, I conclude, the matter rests for the present.”

Henry interpreted this to mean that he had nothing to apprehend, unless

his proposal should be rejected. He put the L15 down on the table,

though Mr. Jobson told him that was premature, and went off as light as

a feather. Being nice and clean, and his afternoon's work spoiled, he

could not resist the temptation; he went to “Woodbine Villa.” He found

Miss Carden at home, and she looked quietly pleased at his unexpected

arrival: but Jael's color came and went, and her tranquil bosom rose and

fell slowly, but grandly, for a minute, as she lowered her head over her

work.

This was a heavenly change to Henry Little. Away from the deafening

workshop, and the mean jealousies and brutality of his inferiors, who

despised him, to the presence of a beautiful and refined girl, who was

his superior, yet did not despise him. From sin to purity, from din to

cleanliness, from war to peace, from vilest passions to Paradise.

Her smile had never appeared so fascinating, her manner never so polite

yet placid. How softly and comfortably she and her ample dress nestled

into the corner of the sofa and fitted it! How white her nimble hand!

how bright her delicious face! How he longed to kiss her exquisite

hand, or her little foot, or her hem, or the ground she walked on, or

something she had touched, or her eye had dwelt on.

But he must not even think too much of such delights, lest he should

show his heart too soon. So, after a short lesson, he proposed to go

into the lumber-room and find something to work upon. “Yes, do,” said

Grace. “I would go too; but no; it was my palace of delight for years,

and its treasures inexhaustible. I will not go to be robbed of one more

illusion, it is just possible I might find it really is what the profane

in this house call it--a lumber-room--and not what memory paints it,

a temple of divine curiosities.” And so she sent them off, and she set

herself to feel old--“oh, so old!”

And presently Henry came back, laden with a great wooden bust of Erin,

that had been the figure-head of a wrecked schooner; and set it down,

and told her he should carve that into a likeness of herself, and she

must do her share of the work.

Straightway she forgot she was worn out; and clapped her hands, and her

eyes sparkled. And the floor was prepared, and Henry went to work like

one inspired, and the chips flew in every direction, and the paint was

chiseled away in no time, and the wood proved soft and kindly, and

just the color of a delicate skin, and Henry said, “The Greek Statues,

begging their pardons, have all got hair like mops; but this shall have

real hair, like your own: and the silk dress, with the gloss on; and the

lace; but the face, the expression, how can I ever--?”

“Oh, never mind THEM,” cried Grace. “Jael, this is too exciting. Please

go and tell them 'not at home' to anybody.”

Then came a pretty picture: the workman, with his superb hand, brown and

sinewy, yet elegant and shapely as a duchess's, and the fingers almost

as taper, and his black eye that glowed like a coal over the model,

which grew under his masterly strokes, now hard, now light: the

enchanting girl who sat to him, and seemed on fire with curiosity and

innocent admiration: and the simple rural beauty, that plied the needle,

and beamed mildly with demure happiness, and shot a shy glance upward

now and then.

Yes, Love was at his old mischievous game.

Henry now lived in secret for Grace Carden, and Jael was garnering Henry

into her devoted heart, unobserved by the object of her simple devotion.

Yet, of the three, these two, that loved with so little encouragement,

were the happiest. To them the world was Heaven this glorious afternoon.

Time, strewing roses as he went, glided so sweetly and so swiftly,

that they started with surprise when the horizontal beams glorified the

windows, and told them the brightest day of their lives was drawing to

its end.

Ah, stay a little while longer for them, Western Sun. Stand still,

not as in the cruel days of old, to glare upon poor, beaten, wounded,

panting warriors, and rob them of their last chance, the shelter of the

night: but to prolong these holy rapturous hours of youth, and hope, and

first love in bosoms unsullied by the world--the golden hours of life,

that glow so warm, and shine so bright, and flee so soon; and return in

this world--Never more!

CHAPTER V.

Henry Little began this bust in a fervid hour, and made great progress

the first day; but as the work grew on him, it went slower and slower;

for his ambitious love drove him to attempt beauties of execution that

were without precedent in this kind of wood-carving; and, on the other

hand, the fastidiousness of a true craftsman made him correct his

attempts again and again. As to those mechanical parts, which he

intrusted at first to his pupil, she fell so far short of his ideal even

in these, that he told her bluntly she must strike work for the present:

he could not have THIS spoiled.

Grace thought it hard she might not be allowed to spoil her own image;

however, she submitted, and henceforth her lesson was confined to

looking on. And she did look on with interest, and, at last, with

profound admiration. Hitherto she had thought, with many other persons,

that, if a man's hand was the stronger, a woman's was the neater; but

now she saw the same hand, which had begun by hewing away the coarse

outlines of the model, bestow touches of the chisel so unerring and

effective, yet so exquisitely delicate, that she said to herself, “No

woman's hand could be so firm, yet so feather-like, as all this.”

And the result was as admirable as the process. The very texture of the

ivory forehead began to come under those master-touches, executed with

perfect and various instruments: and, for the first time perhaps in the

history of this art, a bloom, more delicate far than that of a plum,

crept over the dimpled cheek. But, indeed, when love and skill work

together, expect a masterpiece.

Henry worked on it four afternoons, the happiest he had ever known.

There was the natural pleasure of creating, and the distinct glory and

delight of reproducing features so beloved; and to these joys were

added the pleasure of larger conversation. The model gave Grace

many opportunities of making remarks, or asking questions, and Henry

contrived to say so many things in answer to one. Sculptor and sitter

made acquaintance with each other's minds over the growing bust.

And then the young ladies and gentlemen dropped in, and gazed, and said

such wonderfully silly things, and thereby left their characters behind

them as fruitful themes for conversation. In short, topics were never

wanting now.

As for Jael, she worked, and beamed, and pondered every word her idol

uttered, but seldom ventured to say anything, till he was gone, and then

she prattled fast enough about him.

The work drew near completion. The hair, not in ropes, as heretofore,

but its silken threads boldly and accurately shown, yet not so as to

cord the mass, and unsatin it quite. The silk dress; the lace collar;

the blooming cheek, with its every dimple and incident; all these were

completed, and one eyebrow, a masterpiece in itself. This carved

eyebrow was a revelation, and made everybody who saw it wonder at the

conventional substitutes they had hitherto put up with in statuary of

all sorts, when the eyebrow itself was so beautiful, and might it seems

have been imitated, instead of libeled, all these centuries.

But beautiful works, and pleasant habits, seem particularly liable to

interruption. Just when the one eyebrow was finished, and when Jael

Dence had come to look on Saturday and Monday as the only real days in

the week, and when even Grace Carden was brighter on those days, and

gliding into a gentle complacent custom, suddenly a Saturday came and

went, but Little did not appear.

Jaet was restless.

Grace was disappointed, but contented to wait till Monday.

Monday came and went, but no Henry Little.

Jael began to fret and sigh; and, after two more blank weeks, she could

bear the mystery no longer. “If you please, miss,” said she, “shall I go

to that place where he works?”

“Where who works?” inquired Grace, rather disingenuously.

“Why, the dark young man, miss,” said Jael, blushing deeply.

Grace reflected and curiosity struggled with discretion; but discretion

got the better, being aided by self-respect. “No, Jael,” said she; “he

is charming, when he is here; but, when he gets away, he is not always

so civil as he might be. I had to go twice after him. I shall not go nor

send a third time. It really is too bad of him.”

“Dear heart,” pleaded Jael, “mayhap he is not well.”

“Then he ought to write and say so. No, no; he is a radical, and full

of conceit; and he has done this one eyebrow, and then gone off laughing

and saying, 'Now, let us see if the gentry can do the other amongst

them.' If he doesn't come soon, I'll do the other eyebrow myself.”

“Mayhap he will never come again,” said Jael.

“Oh, yes, he will,” said Grace, mighty cunningly; “he is as fond of

coming here as we are of having him. Not that I'm at all surprised; for

the fact is, you are very pretty, extremely pretty, abominably pretty.”

“I might pass in Cairnhope town,” said Jael, modestly, “but not here.

The moon goes for naught when the sun is there. He don't come here for

me.”

This sudden elegance of language, and Jael's tone of dignified

despondency, silenced Grace, somehow, and made her thoughtful. She

avoided the subject for several days. Indeed, when Saturday came, not a

word was said about the defaulter: it was only by her sending for Jael

to sit with her, and by certain looks, and occasional restlessness, she

betrayed the slightest curiosity or expectation.

Jael sat and sewed, and often looked quickly up at the window, as some

footstep passed, and then looked down again and sighed.

Young Little never came. He seemed to have disappeared from both their

lives; quietly disappeared.

Next day, Sunday, Jael came to Miss Carden, after morning church, and

said, meekly, “if you please, miss, may I go home?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Grace, a little haughtily. “What for?”

Jael hung her head, and said she was not used to be long away. Then she

lifted her head, and her great candid eyes, and spoke more frankly. “I

feel to be drawed home. Something have been at me all the night to

that degree as I couldn't close my eyes. I could almost feel it, like a

child's hand, a pulling me East. I'm afeared father's ill, or may be

the calves are bleating for me, that is better acquaint with them than

sister Patty is. And Hillsborough air don't seem to 'gree with me now

not altogether as it did at first. If you please, miss, to let me go;

and then I'll come back when I'm better company than I be now. Oh dear!

oh dear!”

“Why, Jael, my poor girl, what IS the matter?”

“I don't know, miss. But I feel very unked.”

“Are you not happy with me?”

“'Tis no fault of yourn, miss,” said Jael, rustic, but womanly.

“Then you are NOT happy here.”

No reply, but two clear eyes began to fill to the very brim.

Grace coaxed her, and said, “Speak to me like a friend. You know, after

all, you are not my servant. I can't possibly part with you altogether;

I have got to like you so: but, of course, you shall go home for a

little while, if you wish it very, very much.”

“Indeed I do, miss,” said Jael. “Please forgive me, but my heart feels

like lead in my bosom.” And, with these words, the big tears ran over,

and chased one another down her cheeks.

Then Grace, who was very kind-hearted, begged her, in a very tearful

voice, not to cry: she should go home for a week, a fortnight, a month

even. “There, there, you shall go to-morrow, poor thing.”

Now it is a curious fact, and looks like animal magnetism or something,

but the farm-house, to which Jael had felt so mysteriously drawn all

night, contained, at that moment, besides its usual inmates, one Henry

Little: and how he came there is an important part of this tale, which I

must deal with at once.

While Henry was still visiting Woodbine Villa, as related above, events

of a very different character from those soft scenes were taking place

at the works. His liberal offer to the Edge-Tool Forgers had been made

about a week, when, coming back one day from dinner to his forge, he

found the smoky wall written upon with chalk, in large letters, neatly

executed:--

“Why overlook the handlers?

“MARY.”

He was not alarmed this time, but vexed. He went and complained to

Bayne; and that worthy came directly and contemplated the writing, in

silence, for about a minute. Then he gave a weary sigh, and said, with

doleful resignation, “Take the chalk, and write. There it is.”

Henry took the chalk, and prepared to write Bayne's mind underneath

Mary's. Bayne dictated:

“I have offered the Handlers the same as the Forgers.”

“But that is not true,” objected Henry, turning round, with the chalk in

his hand.

“It will be true, in half an hour. We are going to Parkin, the Handlers'

Secretary.”

“What, another L15! This is an infernal swindle.”

“What isn't?” said Bayne, cynically.

Henry then wrote as desired; and they went together to Mr. Parkin.

Mr. Parkin was not at home. But they hunted him from pillar to post,

and caught him, at last, in the bar-parlor of “The Packsaddle.” He knew

Bayne well, and received him kindly, and, on his asking for a private

interview, gave a wink to two persons who were with him: they got up

directly, and went out.

“What, is there any thing amiss between you and the trade?” inquired Mr.

Parkin, with an air of friendly interest.

Bayne smiled, not graciously, but sourly. “Come, come, sir, that is a

farce you and I have worn out this ten years. This is the London workman

himself, come to excuse himself to Mary and Co., for not applying to

them before: and the long and the short is, he offers the Handlers the

same as he has the Smiths, fifteen down, and to pay his natty money, but

draw no scale, unless disabled. What d'y say? Yes, or no?”

“I'll lay Mr. Little's proposal before the committee.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Little. “And, meantime, I suppose I may feel safe

against violence, from the members of your union?”

“Violence!” said Mr. Parkin, turning his eye inward, as if he was

interrogating the centuries. Then to Mr. Bayne, “Pray, sir, do you

remember any deed of darkness that our Union has ever committed, since

we have been together; and that is twelve years?”

“WELL, Mr. Parkin,” said Bayne, “if you mean deeds of blood, and deeds

of gunpowder, et cetera--why, no, not one: and it is greatly to your

honor. But, mind you, if a master wants his tanks tapped and his

hardening-liquor run into the shore or his bellows to be ripped, his

axle-nuts to vanish, his wheel-bands to go and hide in a drain or a

church belfry, and his scythe-blades to dive into a wheel-dam, he has

only to be wrong with your Union, and he'll be accommodated as above. I

speak from experience.”

“Oh, rattening!” said Mr Parkin. “That's is a mighty small matter.”

“It is small to you, that are not in the oven, where the bread is baked,

or cooled, or burnt. But whatever parts the grindstones from the power,

and the bellows from the air, and the air from the fire, makes a hole

in the master's business to-day, and a hole in the workman's pocket

that day six months. So, for heaven's sake, let us be right with you.

Little's is the most friendly and liberal offer that any workman ever

made to any Union. Do, pray, close with it, and let us be at peace;

sweet--balmy--peace.”

Parkin declared he shared that desire: but was not the committee. Then,

to Henry: “I shall put your case as favorably as my conscience will let

me. Meantime, of course, the matter rests as it is.”

They then parted; and Henry, as he returned home, thanked Bayne

heartily. He said this second L15 had been a bitter pill at first; but

now he was glad he had offered it. “I would not leave Hillsborough for

fifteen hundred pounds.”

Two days after this promising interview with Mr. Parkin, Henry received

a note, the envelope of which showed him it came from Mr. Jobson. He

opened it eagerly, and with a good hope that its object was to tell him

he was now a member of the Edge-Tool Forgers' Union.

The letter, however, ran thus:

“DEAR SIR,--I hear, with considerable surprise, that you continue to

forge blades and make handles for Mr. Cheetham. On receipt of this

information I went immediately to Mr. Parkin, and he assured me that he

came to the same terms with you as I did. He says he intimated politely,

but plainly, that he should expect you not to make any more carving-tool

handles for Mr. Cheetham, till his committee had received your proposal.

He now joins me in advising you to strike work for the present.

Hillsborough is surrounded by beautiful scenes, which it might gratify

an educated workman to inspect, during the unavoidable delay caused by

the new and very important questions your case has raised.

“Yours obediently,

“SAML. JOBSON.

“P.S.--A respectable workman was with me yesterday, and objected that

you receive from Mr. Cheetham a higher payment than the list price. Can

you furnish me with a reply to this, as it is sure to be urged at the

trade meeting.”

When he read this, Little's blood boiled, especially at the cool advice

to lay down his livelihood, and take up scenery: and he dashed off a

letter of defiance. He showed it to Bayne, and it went into the fire

directly. “That is all right,” said this worthy. “You have written

your mind, like a man. Now sit down, and give them treacle for their

honey--or you'll catch pepper.”

Henry groaned, and writhed, but obeyed.

He had written his defiance in three minutes. It took him an hour to

produce the following:

“DEAR SIR,--I am sorry for the misunderstanding. I did not, for a

moment, attach that meaning to any thing that fell either from you or

Mr. Parkin.

“I must now remind you that, were I to strike work entirely, Mr.

Cheetham could discharge me, and even punish me, for breach of contract.

All I can do is to work fewer hours than I have done: and I am sure

you will be satisfied with that, if you consider that the delay in the

settlement of this matter rests with you, and not with me,

“I am yours respectfully, HENRY LITTLE.

“I furnish you, as requested, with two replies to the objection of a

respectable workman that I am paid above the list price.

“1.--To sell skilled labor below the statement price is a just offense,

and injury to trade. But to obtain above the statement price is to

benefit trade. The high price, that stands alone to-day, will not stand

alone forever. It gets quoted in bargains, and draws prices up to it.

That has been proved a thousand times.

“2.--It is not under any master's skin to pay a man more than he is

worth. It I get a high price, it is because I make a first-rate article.

If a man has got superior knowledge, he is not going to give it away to

gratify envious ignorance.”

To this, in due course, he received from Jobson the following:

“DEAR SIR,--I advised you according to my judgment and experience: but,

doubtless, you are the best judge of your own affairs.”

And that closed the correspondence with the Secretaries.

The gentle Jobson and the polite Parkin had retired from the

correspondence with their air of mild regret and placid resignation

just three days, when young Little found a dirty crumpled letter on his

anvil, written in pencil. It ran thus:

“Turn up or youl wish you had droped it. Youl be made so as youl never

do hands turn agin, an never know what hurt you.

“MOONRAKER.” (Signed)

Henry swore.

When he had sworn (and, as a Briton, I think he had denied himself

that satisfaction long enough), he caught up a strip of steel with his

pincers, shoved it into the coals, heated it, and, in half a minute,

forged two long steel nails. He then nailed this letter to his wall, and

wrote under it in chalk, “I offer L10 reward to any one who will show

me the coward who wrote this, but was afraid to sign it. The writing is

peculiar, and can easily be identified.”

He also took the knife that had been so ostentatiously fixed in his

door, and carried it about him night and day, with a firm resolve to use

it in self-defense, if necessary.

And now the plot thickened: the decent workmen in Cheetham's works were

passive; they said nothing offensive, but had no longer the inclination,

even if they had the power, to interfere and restrain the lower workmen

from venting their envy and malice. Scarcely a day passed without growls

and scowls. But Little went his way haughtily, and affected not to see,

nor hear them.

However, one day, at dinner-time, he happened, unluckily, to be detained

by Bayne in the yard, when the men came out: and two or three of the

roughs took this opportunity and began on him at once, in the Dash

Dialect, of course; they knew no other.

A great burly forger, whose red matted hair was powdered with coal-dust,

and his face bloated with habitual intemperance, planted himself

insolently before Henry, and said, in a very loud voice, “How many more

trade meetings are we to have for one ---- knobstick?”

Henry replied, in a moment, “Is it my fault if your shilly-shallying

committees can't say yes or no to L15? You'd say yes to it, wouldn't

you, sooner than go to bed sober?”

This sally raised a loud laugh at the notorious drunkard's expense, and

checked the storm, as a laugh generally does.

But men were gathering round, and a workman who had heard the raised

voices, and divined the row, ran out of the works, with his apron full

of blades, and his heart full of mischief. It was a grinder of a certain

low type, peculiar to Hillsborough, but quite common there, where

grinders are often the grandchildren of grinders. This degenerate

face was more canine than human; sharp as a hatchet, and with forehead

villainously low; hardly any chin; and--most characteristic trait of

all--the eyes, pale in color, and tiny in size, appeared to have come

close together, to consult, and then to have run back into the very

skull, to get away from the sparks, which their owner, and his sire, and

his grandsire, had been eternally creating.

This greyhound of a grinder flung down a lot of dull bluish blades, warm

from the forge, upon a condemned grindstone that was lying in the yard;

and they tinkled.

“---- me, if I grind cockney blades!” said he.

This challenge fired a sympathetic handle-maker. “Grinders are right,”

said he. “We must be a ---- mean lot and all, to handle his ---- work.”

“He has been warned enough; but he heeds noane.”

“Hustle him out o' works.”

“Nay, hit him o'er th' head and fling him into shore.”

With these menacing words, three or four roughs advanced on him, with

wicked eyes; and the respectable workmen stood, like stone statues,

in cold and terrible neutrality; and Henry, looking round, in great

anxiety, found that Bayne had withdrawn.

He ground his teeth, and stepped back to the wall, to have all the

assailants in the front. He was sternly resolute, though very pale, and,

by a natural impulse, put his hand into his side-pocket, to feel if

he had a weapon. The knife was there, the deadly blade with which his

enemies themselves had armed him; and, to those who could read faces,

there was death in the pale cheek and gleaming eye of this young man, so

sorely tried.

At this moment, a burly gentleman walked into the midst of them, as

smartly as Van Amburgh amongst his tigers, and said steadily, “What

is to do now, lads?” It was Cheetham himself, Bayne knew he was in the

office, and had run for him in mortal terror, and sent him to keep the

peace. “They insult me, sir,” said Henry; “though I am always civil to

them; and that grinder refuses to grind my blades, there.”

“Is that so? Step out, my lad. Did you refuse to grind those blades?”

“Ay,” said the greyhound-man sullenly.

“Then put on your coat, and leave my premises this minute.”

“He is entitled to a week's warning, Mr. Cheetham,” said one of the

decent workmen, respectfully, but resolutely; speaking now for the first

time.

“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Mr. Cheetham, in exactly the same tone.

(No stranger could have divined the speakers were master and man.) “He

has vitiated his contract by publicly refusing to do his work. He'll get

nothing from me but his wages up to noon this day. But YOU can have a

week's warning, if you want it.”

“Nay, sir. I've naught against you, for my part. But they say it will

come to that, if you don't turn Little up.”

“Why, what's his fault? Come now; you are a man. Speak up.”

“Nay, I've no quarrel with the man. But he isn't straight with the

trade.”

“That is the secretaries' fault, not mine,” said Henry. “They can't see

I've brought a new trade in, that hurts no old trade, and will spread,

and bring money into the town.”

“We are not so ---- soft as swallow that,” said the bloated smith.

“Thou's just come t' Hillsborough to learn forging, and when thou'st

mastered that, off to London, and take thy ---- trade with thee.”

Henry colored to the brow at the inferior workman's vanity and its

concomitant, detraction. But he governed himself, by a mighty effort,

and said, “Oh, that's your grievance now, is it? Mr. Cheetham--sir--will

you ask some respectable grinder to examine these blades of mine?”

“Certainly. You are right, Little. The man to judge a forger's work is

a grinder, and not another forger. Reynolds, just take a look at them,

will ye?”

A wet grinder of a thoroughly different type and race from the

greyhound, stepped forward. He was thick-set in body, fresh-colored,

and of a square manly countenance. He examined the blades carefully, and

with great interest.

“Well,” said Henry, “were they forged by a smith, or a novice that is

come here to learn anvil work?”

Reynolds did not reply to him, nor to Mr. Cheetham: he turned to the

men. “Mates, I'm noane good at lying. Hand that forged these has naught

to learn in Hillsbro', nor any other shop.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reynolds,” said Henry, in a choking voice. “That is the

first gleam of justice that I--” He could say no more.

“Come, don't you turn soft for a word or two,” said Cheetham. “You'll

wear all this out in time. Go to the office. I have something to say to

you.”

The something was said. It amounted to this--“Stand by me and I'll stand

by you.”

“Well, sir,” said Henry, “I think I must leave you if the committees

refuse my offer. It is hard for one man to fight a couple of trades in

such a place as this. But I'm firm in one thing: until those that govern

the unions say 'no' to my offer, I shall go on working, and the scum of

the trades sha'n't frighten me away from my forge.”

“That's right; let the blackguards bluster. Bayne tells me you have had

another anonymous.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, look here: you must take care of yourself, outside the works;

but, I'll take care of you inside. Here, Bayne, write a notice that, if

any man molests, intimidates, or affronts Mr. Little, in my works, I'll

take him myself to the town-hall, and get him two months directly. Have

somebody at the gate to put a printed copy of that into every man's hand

as he leaves.”

“Thank you, sir!” said Henry, warmly. “But ought not the police to

afford me protection, outside?”

“The police! You might as well go to the beadle. No; change your

lodging, if you think they know it. Don't let them track you home. Buy a

brace of pistols, and, if they catch you in a dark place, and try to do

you, give them a barrel or two before they can strike a blow. No one of

THEM will ever tell the police, not if you shot his own brother dead at

that game. The law is a dead letter here, sir. You've nothing to expect

from it, and nothing to fear.”

“Good heavens! Am I in England?”

“In England? No. You are in Hillsborough.”

This epigram put Cheetham in good humor with himself, and, when Henry

told him he did not feel quite safe, even in his own forge, nor in his

handling-room, and gave his reasons, “Oh,” said cheerful Cheetham, “that

is nothing. Yours is a box-lock; the blackguard will have hid in the

works at night, and taken the lock off, left his writing, and then

screwed the lock on again: that is nothing to any Hillsborough hand.

But I'll soon stop that game. Go you to Chestnut Street, and get two

first-class Bramah locks. There's a pocket knife forge upstairs, close

to your handling-room. I'll send the pocket-knife hand down-stairs, and

you fasten the Bramah locks on both doors, and keep the keys yourself.

See to that now at once: then your mind will be easy. And I shall be in

the works all day now, and every day: come to me directly, if there is

any thing fresh.”

Henry's forge was cold, by this time; so he struck work, and spent the

afternoon in securing his two rooms with the Bramah locks. He also took

Cheetham's advice in another particular. Instead of walking home, he

took a cab, and got the man to drive rapidly to a certain alley. There

he left the cab, ran down the alley, and turned a corner, and went home

round about. He doubled like a hare, and dodged like a criminal evading

justice.

But the next morning he felt a pleasing sense of security when he opened

his forge-room with the Bramah key, and found no letters nor threats of

any kind had been able to penetrate.

Moreover, all this time you will understand he was visiting “Woodbine

Cottage” twice a week, and carving Grace Carden's bust.

Those delightful hours did much to compensate him for his troubles in

the town, and were even of some service to him in training him to fence

with the trades of Hillsborough: for at “Woodbine Villa” he had to keep

an ardent passion within the strict bounds of reverence, and in the town

he had constantly to curb another passion, wrath, and keep it within the

bounds of prudence. These were kindred exercises of self-restraint, and

taught him self-government beyond his years. But what he benefited

most by, after all, was the direct and calming effect upon his agitated

heart, and irritated nerves, that preceded, and accompanied, and

followed these sweet, tranquilizing visits. They were soft, solacing,

and soothing; they were periodical and certain, he could count on

leaving his cares and worries, twice every week, at the door of that

dear villa; and, when he took them up again, they were no longer the

same; heavenly balm had been shed over them, and over his boiling blood.

One Saturday he heard, by a side-wind, that the Unions at a general

meeting had debated his case, and there had been some violent speeches,

and no decision come to; but the majority adverse to him. This

discouraged him sadly, and his yearning heart turned all the more toward

his haven of rest, and the hours, few but blissful, that awaited him.

About 11 o'clock, that same day, the postman brought him a letter, so

vilely addressed, that it had been taken to two or three places, on

speculation, before it reached its destination.

Little saw at once it was another anonymous communication. But he was

getting callous to these missives, and he even took it with a certain

degree of satisfaction. “Well done, Bramah! Obliged to send their venom

by post now.” This was the feeling uppermost in his mind. In short, he

opened the letter with as much contempt as anger.

But he had no sooner read the foul scrawl, than his heart died within

him.

“Thou's sharp but not sharp enow. We know where thou goes courting up

hill. Window is all glass and ripe for a Peter shall blow the house

tatums. There's the stuff in Hillsbro and the men that have done others

so, and will do her job as wells thine. Powders a good servant but a bad

master.

“ONE WHO MEANS DOING WHAT HE SAYS.”

At this diabolical threat, young Little leaned sick and broken over the

handle of his bellows.

Then he got up, and went to Mr. Cheetham, and said, patiently, “Sir, I

am sorry to say I must leave you this very day.”

“Don't say that, Little, don't say that.”

“Oh it is with a heavy heart, sir; and I shall always remember your

kindness. But a man knows when he is beat. And I'm beat now.” He hung

his head in silence awhile. Then he said, in a faint voice, “This is

what has done it, sir,” and handed him the letter.

Mr. Cheetham examined it, and said, “I am not surprised at your being

taken aback by this. But it's nothing new to us; we have all been

threatened in this form. Why, the very last time I fought the trades,

my wife was threatened I should be brought home on a shutter, with my

intestines sweeping the ground. That was the purport, only it was put

vernacular and stronger. And they reminded me that the old gal's clothes

(that is Mrs. Cheetham: she is only twenty-six, and the prettiest lass

in Coventry, and has a row of ivories that would do your heart good:

now these Hillsborough hags haven't got a set of front teeth among 'em,

young or old). Well, they told me the old gal's clothes could easily be

spoiled, and her doll's face and all, with a penn'orth of vitriol.”

“The monsters!”

“But it was all brag. These things are threatened fifty times, for once

they are done.”

“I shall not risk it. My own skin, if you like. But not hers: never, Mr.

Cheetham: oh, never; never!”

“Well, but,” said Mr. Cheetham, “she is in no danger so long as you keep

away from her. They might fling one of their petards in at the window,

if you were there; but otherwise, never, in this world. No, no, Little,

they are not so bad as that. They have blown up a whole household,

to get at the obnoxious party; but they always make sure he is there

first.”

Bayne was appealed to, and confirmed this; and, with great difficulty,

they prevailed on Little to remain with them, until the Unions should

decide; and to discontinue his visits to the house on the hill in the

meantime. I need hardly say they had no idea the house on the hill was

“Woodbine Villa.”

He left them, and, sick at heart, turned away from Heath Hill, and

strolled out of the lower part of the town, and wandered almost at

random, and sad as death.

He soon left the main road, and crossed a stile; it took him by the side

of a babbling brook, and at the edge of a picturesque wood. Ever and

anon he came to a water-wheel, and above the water-wheel a dam made

originally by art, but now looking like a sweet little lake. They were

beautiful places; the wheels and their attendant works were old and

rugged, but picturesque and countrified; and the little lakes behind,

fringed by the master-grinder's garden, were strangely peaceful and

pretty. Here the vulgar labor of the grindstone was made beautiful and

incredibly poetic.

“Ah!” thought poor Little, “how happy a workman must be that plies his

trade here in the fresh air. And how unfortunate I am to be tied to a

power-wheel, in that filthy town, instead of being here, where Nature

turns the wheel, and the birds chirp at hand, and the scene and the air

are all purity and peace.”

One place of the kind was particularly charming. The dam was larger

than most, and sloping grass on one side, cropped short by the grinder's

sheep: on the other his strip of garden: and bushes and flowers hung

over the edge and glassed themselves in the clear water. Below the

wheel, and at one side, was the master-grinder's cottage, covered with

creepers.

But Henry's mind was in no state to enjoy these beauties. He envied

them; and, at last, they oppressed him, and he turned his back on them,

and wandered, disconsolate, home.

He sat down on a stool by his mother, and laid his beating temples on

her knees.

“What is it, my darling?” said she softly.

“Well, mother, for one thing, the Unions are against me, and I see I

shall have to leave Hillsborough, soon or late.”

“Never mind, dear; happiness does not depend upon the place we live

in; and oh, Henry, whatever you do, never quarrel with those terrible

grinders and people. The world is wide. Let us go back to London; the

sooner the better. I have long seen there was something worrying you.

But Saturday and Monday--they used to be your bright days.”

“It will come to that, I suppose,” said Henry, evading her last

observation. “Yes,” said he, wearily, “it will come to that.” And he

sighed so piteously that she forbore to press him. She had not the heart

to cross-examine her suffering child.

That evening, mother and son sat silent by the fire: Henry had his own

sad and bitter thoughts; and Mrs. Little was now brooding over the words

Henry had spoken in the afternoon; and presently her maternal anxieties

found a copious vent. She related to him, one after another, all the

outrages that had been perpetrated in Hillsborough, while he was a

child, and had been, each in its turn, the town talk.

It was a subject on which, if her son had been older, and more

experienced in her sex, he would have closed her mouth promptly, she

being a woman whose own nerves had received so frightful a shock by the

manner of her husband's death. But, inadvertently, he let her run on,

till she told him how a poor grinder had been carried home to his wife,

blinded and scorched with gunpowder, and another had been taken home,

all bleeding, to his mother, so beaten and bruised with life-preservers,

that he had laid between life and death for nine days, and never uttered

one word all that time, in reply to all her prayers and tears.

Now Mrs. Little began these horrible narratives with a forced and

unnatural calmness; but, by the time she got to the last; she had

worked herself up to a paroxysm of sympathy with other wretched women in

Hillsborough, and trembled all over, like one in an ague, for herself:

and at last stretched out her shaking hands, and screamed to him, “Oh,

Harry, Harry, have pity on your miserable mother! Think what these

eyes of mine have seen--bleeding at my feet--there--there--I see it

now”--(her eyes dilated terribly at the word)--“oh, promise me, for

pity's sake, that these--same--eyes--shall never see YOU brought and

laid down bleeding like HIM!” With this she went into violent hysterics,

and frightened her son more than all the ruffians in the town had ever

frightened him.

She was a long time in this pitiable condition, and he nursed her: but

at last her convulsion ceased, and her head rested on her son's shoulder

in a pitiable languor.

Henry was always a good son: but he never loved his mother so tenderly

as he did this night. His heart yearned over this poor panting soul, so

stately in form, yet so weak, so womanly, and lovable; his playmate

in childhood; his sweet preceptor in boyhood; the best friend and most

unselfish lover he had, or could ever hope to have, on earth; dear to

him by her long life of loving sacrifice, and sacred by that their great

calamity, which had fallen so much heavier on her than on him.

He soothed her, he fondled her, he kneeled at her feet, and promised

her most faithfully he would never be brought home to her bruised or

bleeding. No; if the Unions rejected his offer he would go back to

London with her at once.

And so, thrust from Hillsborough by the trades, and by his fears for

Miss Carden, and also drawn from it by his mother's terrors, he felt

himself a feather on the stream of Destiny; and left off struggling:

beaten, heart-sick, and benumbed, he let the current carry him like any

other dead thing that drifts.

He still plied the hammer, but in a dead-alive way.

He wrote a few cold lines to Mr. Jobson, to say that he thought it was

time for a plain answer to be given to a business proposal. But, as he

had no great hope the reply would be favorable, he awaited it in a state

bordering on apathy. And so passed a miserable week.

And all this time she, for whose sake he denied himself the joy and

consolation of her company, though his heart ached and pined for it, had

hard thoughts of him, and vented them too to Jael Dence.

The young are so hasty in all their judgments.

While matters were in this condition, Henry found, one morning, two

fresh panes of glass broken in his window.

In these hardware works the windows seldom or never open: air is

procured in all the rooms by the primitive method of breaking a pane

here and a pane there; and the general effect is as unsightly as a

human mouth where teeth and holes alternate. The incident therefore was

nothing, if it had occurred in any other room; but it was not a thing to

pass over in this room, secured by a Bramah lock, the key of which was

in Henry's pocket: the panes must have been broken from the outside. It

occurred to him directly that a stone had been thrown in with another

threatening scrawl.

But, casting his eye all round, he saw nothing of the kind about.

Then, for a moment, a graver suspicion crossed his mind: might not some

detonating substance of a nature to explode when trodden upon, have been

flung in? Hillsborough excelled in deviltries of this kind.

Henry thought of his mother, and would not treat the matter lightly or

unsuspiciously. He stood still till he had lighted a lucifer match, and

examined the floor of his room. Nothing.

He lighted a candle, and examined all the premises. Nothing.

But, when he brought his candle to the window, he made a discovery: the

window had two vertical iron uprights, about three-quarters of an inch

in circumference: and one of these revealed to his quick eye a bright

horizontal line. It had been sawed with a fine saw.

Apparently an attempt had been made to enter his room from outside.

The next question was, had that attempt succeeded.

He tried the bar; it was not quite cut through.

He locked the forge up directly, and went to his handling room. There he

remained till Mr. Cheetham entered the works; then he went to him, and

begged him to visit his forge.

Mr. Cheetham came directly, and examined the place carefully.

He negatived, at once, the notion that any Hillsborough hand had been

unable to saw through a bar of that moderate thickness. “No,” said

he, “they were disturbed, or else some other idea struck them all of a

sudden; or else they hadn't given themselves time, and are coming again

to-morrow. I hope they are. By six o'clock to-night, I'll have a common

wooden shutter hung with six good hinges on each side, easy to open

at the center; only, across the center, I'll fix a Waterloo cracker

inside.”

“A Waterloo cracker!”

“Ay, but such a one as you never saw. I shall make it myself. It shall

be only four inches long, but as broad as my hand, and enough detonating

powder in it to blow the shutter fifty feet into the air: and if there

should be one of Jobson's lads behind the shutter at the time, why he'll

learn flying, and naught to pay for wings.”

“Why, sir, you are planning the man's death!”

“And what is HE planning? Light your forge, and leave the job to me. I'm

Hillsborough too, and they've put my blood up at last.”

While Henry lighted his forge, Mr. Cheetham whipped out a rule, and

measured the window exactly. This done, he went down the stairs, and

crossed the yard to go to his office.

But, before he could enter it, a horrible thing occurred in the room

he had just left; so horrible, it made him, brave as he was, turn and

scream like a woman.

Some miscreant, by a simple but ingenious means, which afterward

transpired, had mixed a quantity of gunpowder with the smithy-slack or

fine cinders of Henry's forge. The moment the forge was hot, the powder

ignited with a tremendous thud, a huge mass of flame rushed out, driving

the coals with it, like shot from a gun; Henry, scorched, blackened,

and blinded, was swept, as by a flaming wind, against the opposite wall;

then, yelling, and stark mad with fright (for nothing drives men out

of their wits like an explosion in a narrow space), he sprang at the

window, head foremost, and with such velocity that the sawed iron

snapped like a stick of barley-sugar, and out he went head foremost;

and this it was made Cheetham scream, to see him head downward, and the

paving-stones below.

But the aperture was narrow: his body flew through, but his tight arm

went round the unbroken upright, and caught it in the bend of the elbow.

Then Cheetham roared, “Hold on, Little! Hold on, I tell you!”

The scared brain of a man accustomed to obey received the command almost

without the mind; and the grinders and forgers, running wildly into the

yard, saw the obnoxious workman, black as a cinder from head to foot,

bleeding at the face from broken glass, hanging up there by one hand,

moaning with terror, and looking down with dilating eye, while thick

white smoke rushed curling out, as if his body was burning. Death by

suffocation was at his back, and broken bones awaited him below.

CHAPTER VI.

At sight of this human cinder, hanging by one hand between two deaths,

every sentiment but humanity vanished from the ruggedest bosom, and

the skilled workmen set themselves to save their unpopular comrade with

admirable quickness and judgment: two new wheel-bands, that had just

come into the works, were caught up in a moment, and four workmen ran

with them and got below the suspended figure: they then turned back to

back, and, getting the bands over their shoulders, pulled hard against

each other. This was necessary to straighten the bands: they weighed

half a hundred weight each. Others stood at the center of the bands, and

directed Little where to drop, and stood ready to catch him should he

bound off them.

But now matters took an unexpected turn. Little, to all appearance, was

blind and deaf. He hung there, moaning, and glaring, and his one sinewy

arm supported his muscular but light frame almost incredibly. He was out

of his senses, or nearly.

“Let thyself come, lad,” cried a workman, “we are all right to catch

thee.”

He made no answer, but hung there glaring and moaning.

“The man will drop noane, till he swouns,” said another, watching him

keenly.

“Then get you closer to the wall, men,” cried Cheetham, in great

anxiety. “He'll come like a stone, when he does come.” This injunction

was given none too soon; the men had hardly shifted their positions,

when Little's hand opened, and he came down like lead, with his hands

all abroad, and his body straight; but his knees were slightly bent, and

he caught the bands just below the knee, and bounded off them into the

air, like a cricket-ball. But many hands grabbed at him, and the grinder

Reynolds caught him by the shoulder, and they rolled on the ground

together, very little the worse for that tumble. “Well done! well done!”

cried Cheetham. “Let him lie, lads, he is best there for a while; and

run for a doctor, one of you.”

“Ay, run for Jack Doubleface,” cried several voices at once.

“Now, make a circle, and give him air, men.” Then they all stood in

a circle, and eyed the blackened and quivering figure with pity and

sympathy, while the canopy of white smoke bellied overhead. Nor were

those humane sentiments silent; and the rough seemed to be even more

overcome than the others: no brains were required to pity this poor

fellow now; and so strong an appeal to their hearts, through their

senses, roused their good impulses and rare sensibilities. Oh, it was

strange to hear good and kindly sentiments come out in the Dash dialect.

“It's a ---- shame!”

“There lies a good workman done for by some ---- thief, that wasn't fit

to blow his bellows, ---- him!”

“Say he WAS a cockney, he was always ---- civil.”

“And life's as sweet to him as to any man in Hillsborough.”

“Hold your ---- tongue, he's coming to.”

Henry did recover his wits enough to speak; and what do you think was

his first word?

He clasped his hands together, and said,--“MY MOTHER! OH, DON'T LET HER

KNOW!”

This simple cry went through many a rough heart; a loud gulp or two were

heard soon after, and more than one hard and coaly cheek was channeled

by sudden tears. But now a burly figure came rolling in; they drew back

and silenced each other.--“The Doctor!” This was the remarkable person

they called Jack Doubleface. Nature had stuck a philosophic head, with

finely-cut features, and a mouth brimful of finesse, on to a corpulent

and ungraceful body, that yawed from side to side as he walked.

The man of art opened with two words. He looked up at the white cloud,

which was now floating away; sniffed the air, and said, “Gunpowder!”

Then he looked down at Little, and said, “Ah!” half dryly, half sadly.

Indeed several sentences of meaning condensed themselves into that

simple interjection. At this moment, some men, whom curiosity had drawn

to Henry's forge, came back to say the forge had been blown up, and “the

bellows torn limb from jacket, and the room strewed with ashes.”

The doctor laid a podgy hand on the prisoner's wrist: the touch was

light, though the fingers were thick and heavy. The pulse, which had

been very low, was now galloping and bounding frightfully. “Fetch him a

glass of brandy-and-water,” said Dr. Amboyne. (There were still doctors

in Hillsborough, though not in London, who would have had him bled on

the spot.)

“Now, then, a surgeon! Which of you lads operates on the eye, in these

works?”

A lanky file-cutter took a step forward. “I am the one that takes the

motes out of their eyes.”

“Then be good enough to show me his eye.”

The file-cutter put out a hand with fingers prodigiously long and thin,

and deftly parted both Little's eyelids with his finger and thumb, so as

to show the whole eye.

“Hum!” said the doctor, and shook his head.

He then patted the sufferer all over, and the result of that examination

was satisfactory. Then came the brandy-and-water; and while Henry's

teeth were clattering at the glass and he was trying to sip the liquid,

Dr. Amboyne suddenly lifted his head, and took a keen survey of the

countenances round him. He saw the general expression of pity on the

rugged faces. He also observed one rough fellow who wore a strange wild

look: the man seemed puzzled, scared, confused like one half awakened

from some hideous dream. This was the grinder who had come into the

works in place of the hand Cheetham had discharged for refusing to grind

cockney blades.

“Hum!” said Dr. Amboyne, and appeared to be going into a brown study.

But he shook that off, and said briskly, “Now, then, what was his crime?

Did he owe some mutual aid society six-and-four-pence?”

“That's right,” said Reynolds, sullenly, “throw every thing on the

Union. If we knew who it was, he'd lie by the side of this one in less

than a minute, and, happen, not get up again so soon.” A growl of assent

confirmed the speaker's words. Cheetham interposed and drew Amboyne

aside, and began to tell him who the man was and what the dispute; but

Amboyne cut the latter explanation short. “What,” said he, “is this the

carver whose work I saw up at Mr. Carden's?”

“This is the very man, no doubt.”

“Why, he's a sculptor: Praxiteles in wood. A fine choice they have made

for their gunpowder, a workman that did honor to the town.”

A faint flush of gratified pride colored the ghastly cheek a moment.

“Doctor, shall I live to finish the bust?” said Henry, piteously.

“That and hundreds more, if you obey me. The fact is, Mr. Cheetham, this

young man is not hurt, but his nerves have received a severe shock; and

the sooner he is out of this place the better. Ah, there is my brougham

at the gate. Come, put him into it, and I'll take him to the infirmary.”

“No,” said Little, “I won't go there; my mother would hear of it.”

“Oh, then your mother is not to know?”

“Not for all the world! She has had trouble enough. I'll just wash my

face and buy a clean shirt, and she'll never know what has happened. It

would kill her. Oh, yes, it would kill her!”

The doctor eyed him with warm approval. “You are a fine young fellow.

I'll see you safe through this, and help you throw dust in your mother's

eyes. If you go to her with that scratched face, we are lost. Come, get

into my carriage, and home with me.”

“Mayn't I wash my face first? And look at my shirt: as black as a

cinder.”

“Wash your face, by all means: but you can button your coat over your

shirt.”

The coat was soon brought, and so was a pail of water and a piece of

yellow soap. Little dashed his head and face into the bucket, and soon

inked all the water. The explosion had filled his hair with black dust,

and grimed his face and neck like a sweep's. This ablution made him

clean, but did not bring back his ruddy color. He looked pale and

scratched.

The men helped him officiously into the carriage, though he could have

walked very well alone.

Henry asked leave to buy a clean shirt. The doctor said he would lend

him one at home.

While Henry was putting it on Dr. Amboyne ordered his dog-cart instead

of his brougham, and mixed some medicines. And soon Henry found himself

seated in the dog-cart, with a warm cloak over him, and whisking over

the stones of Hillsborough.

All this had been done so rapidly and unhesitatingly that Henry, injured

and shaken as he was, had yielded passive obedience. But now he began to

demur a little. “But where are we going, sir?” he asked.

“To change the air and the scene. I'll be frank with you--you are man

enough to bear the truth--you have received a shock that will very

likely bring on brain-fever, unless you get some sleep tonight. But you

would not sleep in Hillsborough. You'd wake a dozen times in the night,

trembling like an aspen leaf, and fancying you were blown up again.”

“Yes, but my mother, sir! If I don't go home at seven o'clock, she'll

find me out.”

“If you went crazy wouldn't she find you out? Come, my young friend,

trust to my experience, and to the interest this attempt to murder you,

and your narrow escape, have inspired in me. When I have landed you in

the Temple of Health, and just wasted a little advice on a pig-headed

patient in the neighborhood (he is the squire of the place), I'll drive

back to Hillsborough, and tell your mother some story or other: you and

I will concoct that together as we go.”

At this Henry was all obedience, and indeed thanked him, with the tears

in his eyes, for his kindness to a poor stranger.

Dr. Amboyne smiled. “If you were not a stranger, you would know that

saving cutlers' lives is my hobby, and one in which I am steadily

resisted and defeated, especially by the cutlers themselves: why, I look

upon you as a most considerate and obliging young man for indulging me

in this way. If you had been a Hillsborough hand, you would insist upon

a brain-fever, and a trip to the lunatic asylum, just to vex me, and

hinder me of my hobby.”

Henry stared. This was too eccentric for him to take it all in at once.

“What!” said Dr. Amboyne, observing his amazement, “Did you never hear

of Dr. Doubleface?”

“No, sir.”

“Never hear of the corpulent lunatic, who goes about the city chanting,

like a cuckoo, 'Put yourself in his place--put yourself in her place--in

their place?'

“No, sir, I never did.”

“Then such is fame. Well, never mind that just now; there's a time for

every thing. Please observe that ruined house: the ancient family to

whom it belongs are a remarkable example of the vicissitude of human

affairs.” He then told him the curious ups and downs of that family,

which, at two distant periods, had held vast possessions in the county;

but were now represented by the shell of one manor house, and its

dovecote, the size of a modern villa. Next he showed him an obscure

battlefield, and told him that story, and who were the parties engaged;

and so on. Every mile furnished its legend, and Dr. Amboyne related them

all so graphically that the patient's mind was literally stolen away

from himself. At last, after a rapid drive of eleven miles through the

pure invigorating air, they made a sudden turn, and entered a pleasant

and singularly rural village: they drew up at a rustic farmhouse, clad

with ivy; and Dr. Amboyne said, “This is the temple: here you can sleep

as safe from gunpowder as a field-marshal born.”

The farmer's daughter came out, and beamed pleasure at sight of the

doctor: he got down, and told her the case, privately, and gave

her precise instructions. She often interrupted the narrative with

“Lawkadaisies,” and other rural interjections, and simple exclamations

of pity. She promised faithful compliance with his orders.

He then beckoned Henry in, and said, “This picture of health was a

patient of mine once, as you are now; there's encouragement for you. I

put you under her charge. Get a letter written to your mother, and I'll

come back for it in half an hour. You had a headache, and were feverish,

so you consulted a doctor. He advised immediate rest and change of air,

and he drove you at once to this village. Write you that, and leave the

rest to me. We doctors are dissembling dogs. We have still something to

learn in curing diseases; but at making light of them to the dying, and

other branches of amiable mendacity, we are masters.”

As soon as he was gone, the comely young hostess began on her patient.

“Dear heart, sir, was it really you as was blowed up with gunpowder?”

“Indeed it was, and not many hours ago. It seems like a dream.”

“Well, now, who'd think that, to look at you? Why, you are none the

worse for, by a scratch or two, and dear heart, I've seen a young chap

bring as bad home, from courting, in these parts; and wed the lass as

marked him--within the year.”

“Oh, it is not the scratches; but feel my hand, how it trembles. And it

used to be as firm as a rock; for I never drink.”

“So it do, I declare. Why, you do tremble all over; and no wonder, poor

soul. Come you in this minut, and sit down a bit by the fire, while I go

and make the room ready for you.”

But, as soon as he was seated by the fire, the current began to flow

again. “Well, I never liked Hillsborough folk much--poor, mean-visaged

tykes they be--but now I do hate 'em. What, blow up a decent young man

like you, and a well-favored, and hair like jet, and eyes in your head

like sloes! But that's their ground of spite, I warrant me; the nasty,

ugly, dirty dogs. Well, you may just snap your fingers at 'em all now.

They don't come out so far as this; and, if they did, stouter men grows

in this village than any in Hillsborough: and I've only to hold up my

finger, for as little as I be, and they'd all be well ducked in father's

horsepond, and then flogged home again with a good cart-whip well laid

on. And, another thing, whatever we do, Squire, he will make it good in

law: he is gentle, and we are simple; but our folk and his has stood by

each other this hundred year and more. But, la, I run on so, and you was

to write a letter again the doctor came back. I'll fetch you some paper

this minut.”

She brought him writing materials, and stood by him with this apology,

“If 'twas to your sweetheart I'd be off. But 'tis to your mother.” (With

a side glance), “She have been a handsome woman in her day, I'll go

bail.”

“She is as beautiful as ever in my eyes,” said Henry, tenderly. “And,

oh, heaven! give me the sense to write to her without frightening her.”

“Then I won't hinder you no more with my chat,” said his hostess, with

kindly good humor, and slipped away upstairs. She lighted a great wood

fire in the bedroom, and laid the bed and the blankets all round it, and

opened the window, and took the homespun linen sheets out of a press,

and made the room very tidy. Then she went down again, and the moment

Henry saw her, he said “I feel your kindness, miss, but I don't know

your name, nor where in the world I am.” His hostess smiled. “That is no

secret. I'm Martha Dence--at your service: and this is Cairnhope town.”

“Cairnhope!” cried Henry, and started back, so that his wooden chair

made a loud creak upon the stones of the farmer's kitchen.

Martha Dence stared, but said nothing; for almost at that moment the

doctor returned, all in a hurry, for the letter.

Henry begged him to look at it, and see if it would do.

The doctor read it. “Hum!” said he, “it is a very pretty, filial letter,

and increases my interest in you; give me your hand: there. Well, it

won't do: too shaky. If your mother once sees this, I may talk till

doomsday, she'll not believe a word. You must put off writing till

to-morrow night. Now give me her address, for I really must get home.”

“She lives on the second floor, No. 13 Chettle Street.”

“Her name?”

“Sir, if you ask for the lady that lodges on the second floor, you will

be sure to see her.”

Dr. Amboyne looked a little surprised, and not very well pleased, at

what seemed a want of confidence. But he was a man singularly cautious

and candid in forming his judgments; so he forbore all comment, and

delivered his final instructions. “Here is a bottle containing only a

few drops of faba Ignatii in water, it is an innocent medicine, and

has sometimes a magical effect in soothing the mind and nerves. A

table-spoonful three times a day. And THIS is a sedative, which you can

take if you find yourself quite unable to sleep. But I wouldn't have

recourse to it unnecessarily; for these sedatives are uncertain in their

operation; and, when a man is turned upside down, as you have been, they

sometimes excite. Have a faint light in your bedroom. Tie a cord to the

bell-rope, and hold it in your hand all night. Fix your mind on that

cord, and keep thinking, 'This is to remind me that I am eleven

miles from Hillsborough, in a peaceful village, safe from all harm.'

To-morrow, walk up to the top of Cairnhope Peak, and inhale the glorious

breeze, and look over four counties. Write to your mother at night, and,

meantime, I'll do my best to relieve her anxiety. Good-by.”

Memory sometimes acts like an old flint-gun: it hangs fire, yet ends

by going off. While Dr. Amboyne was driving home, the swarthy, but

handsome, features of the workman he had befriended seemed to enter his

mind more deeply than during the hurry, and he said to himself, “Jet

black hair; great black eyes; and olive skin; they are rare in these

parts; and, somehow, they remind me a little of HER.”

Then his mind went back, in a moment, over many years, to the days when

he was stalwart, but not unwieldy, and loved a dark but peerless beauty,

loved her deeply, and told his love, and was esteemed and pitied, but

another was beloved.

And so sad, yet absorbing, was the retrospect of his love, his sorrow,

and her own unhappy lot, that it blotted out of his mind, for a time,

the very youth whose features and complexion had launched him into the

past.

But the moment his horse's feet rang on the stones, this burly

philosopher shook off the past, and set himself to recover lost time.

He drove rapidly to several patients, and, at six o'clock, was at 13

Chettle Street, and asked for the lady on the second floor, “Yes,

sir: she is at home,” was the reply. “But I don't know; she lives very

retired. She hasn't received any visits since they came. However, they

rent the whole floor, and the sitting-room fronts you.”

Dr. Amboyne mounted the stair and knocked at the door. A soft and mellow

voice bade him enter. He went in, and a tall lady in black, with plain

linen collar and wristbands, rose to receive him. They confronted

each other. Time and trouble had left their trace, but there were the

glorious eyes, and jet black hair, and the face, worn and pensive, but

still beautiful. It was the woman he had loved, the only one.

“Mrs. Little!” said he, in an indescribable tone.

“Dr. Amboyne!”

For a few moments he forgot the task he had undertaken; and could only

express his astonishment and pleasure at seeing her once more.

Then he remembered why he was there; and the office he had undertaken so

lightly alarmed him now.

His first instinct was to gain time. Accordingly, he began to chide her

gently for having resided in the town and concealed it from him; then,

seeing her confused and uncomfortable at that reproach, and in the mood

to be relieved by any change of topic, he glided off, with no little

address, as follows:--“Observe the consequences: here have I been most

despotically rusticating a youth who turns out to be your son.”

“My son! is there any thing the matter with my son? Oh, Dr. Amboyne!”

“He must have been out of sorts, you know, or he would not have

consulted me,” replied the doctor, affecting candor.

“Consult! Why, what has happened? He was quite well when he left me this

morning.”

“I doubt that. He complained of headache and fever. But I soon found his

MIND was worried. A misunderstanding with the trades! I was very much

pleased with his face and manner; my carriage was at the door; his pulse

was high, but there was nothing that country air and quiet will not

restore. So I just drove him away, and landed him in a farm-house.”

Mrs. Little's brow flushed at this. She was angry. But, in a nature so

gentle as hers, anger soon gave way. She turned a glance of tearful

and eloquent reproach on Dr. Amboyne. “The first time we have ever been

separated since he was born,” said she, with a sigh.

Dr. Amboyne's preconceived plan broke down that moment. He said,

hurriedly,

“Take my carriage, and drive to him. Better do that than torment

yourself.”

“Where is he?” asked the widow, brightening up at the proposal.

“At Cairnhope.”

At this word, Mrs. Little's face betrayed a series of emotions: first

confusion, then astonishment, and at last a sort of superstitious alarm.

“At Cairnhope?” she faltered at last, “My son at Cairnhope?”

“Pray do not torment yourself with fancies,” said the doctor. “All this

is the merest accident--the simplest thing in the world. I cured Patty

Dence of diphtheria, when it decimated the village. She and her family

are grateful; the air of Cairnhope has a magic effect on people who live

in smoke, and Martha and Jael let me send them out an invalid now and

then to be reinvigorated. I took this young man there, not knowing who

he was. Go to him, if you like. But, frankly, as his physician, I would

rather you did not. Never do a wise thing by halves. He ought to be

entirely separated from all his cares, even from yourself (who are

doubtless one of them), for five or six days. He needs no other medicine

but that and the fine air of Cairnhope.”

“Then somebody must see him every day, and tell me. Oh! Dr. Amboyne,

this is the beginning: what will the end be? I am miserable.”

“My man shall ride there every day, and see him, and bring you back a

letter from him.”

“Your man!” said Mrs. Little, a little haughtily.

Dr. Amboyne met her glance. “If there was any ground for alarm, should I

not go myself every day?” said he, gravely, and even tenderly.

“Forgive me,” said the widow, and gave him her hand with a sweet and

womanly gesture.

The main difficulty was now got over; and Dr. Amboyne was careful not to

say too much, for he knew that his tongue moved among pitfalls.

As Dr. Amboyne descended the stairs, the landlady held a door ajar, and

peeped at him, according to a custom of such delicate-minded females as

can neither restrain their curiosity nor indulge it openly. Dr. Amboyne

beckoned to her, and asked for a private interview. This was promptly

accorded.

“Would ten guineas be of any service to you, madam?”

“Eh, dear, that it would, sir. Why, my rent is just coming due.”

Under these circumstances, the bargain was soon struck. Not a syllable

about the explosion at Cheetham's was to reach the second floor lodger's

ears, and no Hillsborough journal was to mount the stairs until the

young man's return. If inquired for, they were to be reported all sold

out, and a London journal purchased instead.

Having secured a keen and watchful ally in this good woman, who, to do

her justice, showed a hearty determination to earn her ten guineas, Dr.

Amboyne returned home, his own philosophic pulse beating faster than it

had done for some years.

He had left Mrs. Little grateful, and, apparently, in good spirits;

but, ere he had been gone an hour, the bare separation from her son

overpowered her, and a host of vague misgivings tortured her, and

she slept but little that night. By noon next day she was thoroughly

miserable; but Dr. Amboyne's man rode up to the door in the afternoon

with a cheerful line from Henry.

“All right, dear mother. Better already. Letter by post.

“Henry.”

She detained the man, and made up a packet of things for Cairnhope, and

gave him five shillings to be sure and take them.

This was followed by a correspondence, a portion of which will suffice

to eke out the narrative.

“DEAREST MOTHER,--I slept ill last night, and got up aching from head

to foot, as if I had been well hided. But they sent me to the top of

Cairnhope Peak, and, what with the keen air and the glorious view, I

came home and ate like a hog. That pleased Martha Dence, and she kept

putting me slices off her own plate, till I had to cry quarter. As soon

as I have addressed this letter, I'm off to bed, for it is all I can do

not to fall asleep sitting.

“I am safe to be all right to-morrow, so pray don't fret. I am, dear

mother,” etc., etc.

“DEAREST MOTHER,--I hope you are not fretting about me. Dr. Amboyne

promised to stop all that. But do write, and say you are not fretting

and fancying all manner of things at my cutting away so suddenly. It was

the doctor's doing. And, mother, I shall not stay long away from you,

for I slept twelve hours at a stretch last night, and now I'm another

man. But really, I think the air of that Cairnhope Peak would cure a

fellow at his last gasp.

“Thank you for the linen, and the brushes, and things. But you are not

the sort to forget anything a fellow might want,” etc.

“No, my darling son. Be in no hurry to leave Cairnhope. Of course, love,

I was alarmed at first; for I know doctors make the best of every thing;

and then the first parting!--that is always a sorrowful thing. But, now

you are there, I beg you will stay till you are quite recovered. Your

letters are a delight, and one I could not have, and you as well, you

know.

“Since you are at Cairnhope--how strange that seems--pray go and see

the old church, where your forefathers are buried. There are curious

inscriptions, and some brasses nobody could decipher when I was a girl;

but perhaps you might, you are so clever. Your grandfather's monument

is in the chancel: I want you to see it. Am I getting very old, that my

heart turns back to these scenes of my youth?

“P.S.--Who is this Martha Dence?”

“DEAR MOTHER,--Martha Dence is the farmer's daughter I lodge with. She

is not so pretty as her sister Jael that is with Miss Carden; but she is

a comely girl, and as good as gold, and bespoke by the butcher. And her

putting slices from her plate to mine is a village custom, I find.

“Mother, the people here are wonderfully good and simple. First of all,

there's farmer Dence, with his high bald head, like a patriarch of old;

and he sits and beams with benevolence, but does not talk much. But he

lets me see I can stay with him six years, if I choose. Then, there's

Martha, hospitality itself, and ready to fly at my enemies like a

mastiff. She is a little hot in the temper, feathers up in a moment;

but, at a soft word, they go down again as quick. Then, there's the

village blacksmith. I call him 'The gentle giant.' He is a tremendous

fellow in height, and size, and sinew; but such a kind, sweet-tempered

chap. He could knock down an ox, yet he wouldn't harm a fly. I am his

idol: I sauntered in to his smithy, and forged him one or two knives;

and of course he had never seen the hammer used with that nicety;

but instead of hating me, as the bad forgers in Hillsborough do, he

regularly worships me, and comes blushing up to the farm-house after

hours, to ask after me and get a word with me. He is the best whistler

in the parish, and sometimes we march down the village at night,

arm-in-arm, whistling a duet. This charms the natives so that we could

take the whole village out at our heels, and put them down in another

parish. But the droll thing is, they will not take me for what I am. My

gentle giant would say 'Sir' till I pretended to be affronted; the women

and girls will bob me courtesies, and the men and white headed boys

will take off their hats and pull their front hair to me. If a skilled

workman wants to burst with vanity, let him settle in Cairnhope.”

[EXTRACT]

“Martha Dence and I have had words, and what do you think it was about?

I happened to let out my opinion of Mr. Raby. Mother, it was like

setting a match to a barrel of gunpowder. She turned as red as fire, and

said, 'Who be you that speaks against Raby to Dence?'

“I tried to pacify her, but it was no use. 'Don't speak to me,' said

she. 'I thought better of you. You and I are out.' I bowed before the

storm, and, to give her time to cool, I obeyed your wishes, and walked

to Cairnhope old church. What a curious place! But I could not get in;

and, on my return, I found Mr. Raby keeps the key. Now, you can't do a

thing here, or say a word, but what it is known all over the village. So

Martha Dence meets me at the door, and says, very stiffly, she thought

I might have told her I wanted to see the old church. I pulled a long,

penitent face, and said, 'Yes; but unfortunately, I was out of her good

books, and had orders not to speak to her.' 'Nay,' says she, 'life is

too short for long quarrels. You are a stranger, and knew no better.'

Then she told me to wait five minutes while she put on her bonnet, as

she calls it. Well, I waited the five and-forty minutes, and she put on

her bonnet, and so many other smart things, that we couldn't possibly

walk straight up to the old church. We had to go round by the butcher's

shop, and order half a pound of suet; no less. 'And bring it yourself,

this evening,' said I, 'or it might get lost on the road.' Says the

butcher, 'Well, sir, that is the first piece of friendly advice any good

Christian has bestowed--' But I heard no more, owing to Martha chasing

me out of the shop.

“To reach the old church we had to pass the old ruffian's door. Martha

went in; I sauntered on, and she soon came after me, with the key in

her hand. 'But,' said she, 'he told me if my name hadn't been Dence he

wouldn't trust me with it, though I went on my bended knees.'

“We opened the church-door, and I spent an hour inside, examining and

copying inscriptions for you. But, when I came to take up a loose brass,

to try and decipher it, Martha came screaming at me, 'Oh, put it down!

put it down! I pledged my word to Squire you should not touch them

brasses.' What could I do, mother? The poor girl was in an agony. This

old ruffian has, somehow, bewitched her, and her father too, into a sort

of superstitious devotion that I can't help respecting, unreasonable as

it is. So I dropped the brass, and took to reflecting. And I give you my

thoughts.

“What a pity and a shame that a building of this size should lie idle!

If it was mine I would carefully remove all the monuments, and the dead

bones, et cetera, to the new church, and turn this old building into a

factory, or a set of granaries, or something useful. It is as great a

sin to waste bricks and mortar as it is bread,” etc.

“MY DEAR HARRY,--Your dear sprightly letters delight me, and reconcile

me to the separation; for I see that your health is improving every day,

by your gayety; and this makes me happy, though I can not quite be gay.

“Your last letter was very amusing, yet, somehow, it set me thinking,

long and sadly; and some gentle remarks from Dr. Amboyne (he called

yesterday) have also turned my mind the same way. Time has softened the

terrible blow that estranged my brother and myself, and I begin to

ask myself, was my own conduct perfect? was my brother's quite without

excuse? I may have seen but one side, and been too hasty in judging him.

At all events, I would have you, who are a man, think for yourself, and

not rush into too harsh a view of that unhappy quarrel. Dearest, family

quarrels are family misfortunes: why should they go down to another

generation? You frighten me, when you wonder that Nathan and his family

(I had forgotten his name was Dence) are attached to Mr. Raby. Why, with

all his faults, my brother is a chivalrous, high-minded gentleman; his

word is his bond, and he never deserts a friend, however humble; and I

have heard our dear father say that, for many generations, uncommon acts

of kindness had passed between that family of yeomen and the knights and

squires of Raby.

“And now, dear, I am going to be very foolish. But, if these Dences

are as great favorites with him as they were with my father, she could

easily get you into the house some day, when he is out hunting; and I do

want you to see one thing more before you come back from Cairnhope--your

mother's picture. It hangs, or used to hang, in the great dining-room,

nearly opposite the fire-place.

“I blush at my childishness, but I SHOULD like my child to see what his

mother was when she brought him into the world, that sad world in which

he has been her only joy and consolation.

“P. S.--What an idea! Turn that dear old church into a factory! But you

are a young man of the day. And a wonderful day it is; I can not quite

keep up with it.”

“DEAR MOTHER,--I have been there. Mr. Raby is a borough magistrate, as

well as a county justice; and was in Hillsborough all day to-day. Martha

Dence took me to Raby Hall, and her name was a passport. When I got to

the door, I felt as if something pulled me, and said, 'It's an enemy's

house; don't go in.' I wish I had obeyed the warning; but I did not.

“Well, I have seen your portrait. It is lovely, it surpasses any woman I

ever saw. And it must have been your image, for it is very like you now,

only in the bloom of your youth.

“And now, dear mother, having done something for you, quite against my

own judgment, and my feelings too, please do something for me. Promise

me never to mention Mr. Raby's name to me again, by letter, or by word

of mouth either. He is not a gentleman: he is not a man; he is a mean,

spiteful, cowardly cur. I'll keep out of his way, if I can; but if he

gets in mine, I shall give him a devilish good hiding, then and there,

and I'll tell HIM the reason why; and I will not tell YOU.

“Dear mother, I did intend to stay till Saturday, but, after this, I

shall come back to you to-morrow. My own sweet dove of a mammy; who but

a beast could hurt or affront you?

“So no more letters from your dutiful and affectionate son,

“Harry.”

Next day young Little took leave of his friends in Cairnhope, with a

promise to come over some Sunday, and see them all. He borrowed a hooked

stick of his devotee, the blacksmith, and walked off with his little

bundle over his shoulder, in high health and spirits, and ripe for any

thing.

Some successful men are so stout-hearted, their minds seem never to

flinch. Others are elastic; they give way, and appear crushed; but, let

the immediate pressure be removed, they fly back again, and their enemy

finds he has not gained an inch. Henry's was of this sort; and, as he

swung along through the clear brisk air, the world seemed his football

once more.

This same morning Jael Dence was to go to Cairnhope, at her own request.

She packed her box, and corded it, and brought it down herself, and put

it in the passage, and the carrier was to call for it at one. As for

herself, four miles of omnibus, and the other seven on foot, was child's

play to her, whose body was as lusty and active as her heart was tender

and clinging.

She came in to the drawing-room, with her bonnet and shawl on, and the

tear in her eye, to bid Miss Carden good-bye. Two male friends would

have parted in five minutes; but this pair were a wonderful time

separating, and still there was always something to say, that kept

Grace detaining, or Jael lingering; and, when she had been going, going,

going, for more than half an hour, all of a sudden she cried, out, “Oh!

There he is!” and flushed all over.

“Who?” asked Grace, eagerly.

“The dark young man. He is at the door now, miss. And me going away,”

she faltered.

“Well then, why go till he has paid his visit? Sit down. You needn't

take off your bonnet.”

Miss Carden then settled herself, took up her work, and prepared to

receive her preceptor as he deserved, an intention she conveyed to Jael

by a glance, just as Henry entered blooming with exercise and the keen

air, and looking extremely handsome and happy.

His reception was a chilling bow from Miss Carden, and from Jael a cheek

blushing with pleasure at the bare sight of him, but an earnest look

of mild reproach. It seemed cruel of him to stay away so long, and then

come just as she was going.

This reception surprised Henry, and disappointed him; however he

constrained himself, and said politely, but rather coldly, that some

unpleasant circumstances had kept him away; but he hoped now to keep his

time better.

“Oh, pray consult your own convenience entirely,” said Miss Carden.

“Come when you have nothing better to do; that is the understanding.”

“I should be always coming, at that rate.”

Grace took no notice. “Would you like to see how I look with my one

eyebrow?” said she. “Jael, please fetch it.”

While Jael was gone for the bust, Henry took a humbler tone, and in a

low voice began to excuse his absence; and I think he would have told

the real truth, if he had been encouraged a little; but he was met with

a cold and withering assurance that it was a matter of no consequence.

Henry thought this unfair, and, knowing in his own heart it was

ungrateful, he rebelled. He bit his lip, sat down as gloomy as the

grave, and resumed his work, silent and sullen.

As for Jael, she brought in the bust, and then sat down with her

bonnet on, quaking; for she felt sure that, in such a dismal dearth of

conversation, Miss Carden would be certain to turn round very soon, and

say, “Well, Jael, you can go now.”

But this Quaker's meeting was interrupted by a doctor looking in to

prescribe for Miss Carden's cold. The said cold was imperceptible to

vulgar eyes, but Grace had detected it, and had written to her friend,

Dr. Amboyne, to come and make it as imperceptible to herself as to the

spectator.

In rolled the doctor, and was not a little startled at sight of Little.

“Hallo!” cried be. “What, cured already? Cairnhope forever!” He then

proceeded to feel his pulse instead of Miss Carden's, and inspect his

eye, at which Grace Carden stared.

“What, is he unwell?”

“Why, a man does not get blown up with gunpowder without some little

disturbance of the system.”

“Blown up with gunpowder! What DO you mean?”

“What, have you not heard about it? Don't you read the newspapers?”

“No; never.”

“Merciful powers! But has he not told you?”

“No; he tells us nothing.”

“Then I'll tell you, it is of no use your making faces at me. There is

no earthly reason why she should be kept in the dark. These Hillsborough

trades want to drive this young man out of town: why--is too long

and intricate for you to follow. He resists this tyranny, gently, but

firmly.”

“I'd resist it furiously,” said Grace.

“The consequence is, they wrote him several threatening letters; and, at

last, some caitiff put gunpowder into his forge; it exploded, and blew

him out of a second-floor window.”

“Oh! oh!” screamed Grace Carden and Jael; and by one womanly impulse

they both put their hands before their faces, as if to shut out the

horrible picture.

“What is that for?” said the doctor. “You see he is all right now. But,

I promise you, he cut a very different figure when I saw him directly

afterward; he was scorched as black as a coal--”

“Oh, doctor, don't; pray don't. Oh, sir, why did you not tell me?”

“And his face bleeding,” continued the merciless doctor.

“Oh dear! oh dear!” And the sweet eyes were turned, all swimming in

water upon Henry, with a look of angelic pity.

“His nerves were terribly shaken, but there were no bones broken. I said

to myself, 'He must sleep or go mad, and he will not sleep in the town

that has blown him up.' I just drove the patient off to peace and pure

air, and confided him to one of the best creatures in England--Martha

Dence.”

Jael uttered an exclamation of wonder, which drew attention to her and

her glowing cheeks.

“Oh yes, Miss Jael,” said Henry, “I was going to tell you. I have been a

fortnight with your people, and, if I live a hundred years, I shall not

forget their goodness to me. God bless them.”

“'Twas the least they could do,” said Jael, softly.

“What a pity you are going out. I should have liked to talk to you about

your father, and Martha, and George the blacksmith. Doctor, who would

live in a town after Cairnhope?”

Jael's fingers trembled at her bonnet-strings, and, turning a look of

piteous supplication on Grace, she faltered out, “If you please, miss,

might I stay over to-day?”

“Of course. And then he will tell you all about your people, and that

will do just as well as you going to see them; and better.”

Off came Jael's bonnet with wonderful celerity.

“Get the whole story out of him,” said Dr. Amboyne. “It is well worth

your attention. As for me, I must go as soon as I have prescribed for

you. What is the matter?”

“The matter is that there's nothing the matter; prescribe for that. And

that I'm a goose--prescribe for that--and don't read the newspapers;

prescribe for that.”

“Well, then, I prescribe the Hillsborough Liberal. It has drawn a strong

picture of this outrage, and shown its teeth to the Trades. And, if I

might advise a lady of your age and experience, I would say, in

future always read the newspapers. They are, compared with books, what

machinery is compared with hand-labor. But, in this one instance, go to

the fountain-head, and ask Mr. Henry Little there, to tell you his own

tragedy, with all the ins and outs.”

“Ah! if he would,” said Grace, turning her eyes on Henry. “But he is not

so communicative to poor us. Is he, Jael?”

“No, miss.”

“He never even told us his name. Did he, Jael?”

“No, miss. He is very close.”

“Open him then,” said the doctor. “Come, come, there are a pair of you;

and evidently disposed to act in concert; if you can not turn a man

inside out, I disown you; you are a discredit to your sex.” He then

shook hands with all three of them, and rolled away.

“Jael,” said Miss Carden, “oblige me by ringing the bell.”

A servant entered.

“Not at home to any human creature,” said the young lady.

The servant retired.

“And, if they see me at the window, all the worse--for THEM. Now, Mr.

Little?”

Henry complied, and told the whole story, with the exception of the

threat to his sweetheart; and passed two delightful hours. Who is

so devoid of egotism as not to like to tell his own adventures to

sympathizing beauty? He told it in detail, and even read them portions

of the threatening letters; and, as he told it, their lovely eyes seemed

on fire; and they were red, and pale, by turns. He told it, like a

man, with dignity, and sobriety, and never used an epithet. It was Miss

Carden who supplied the “Monsters!” “Villains!” “Cowards!” “Wretches!”

at due intervals. And once she started from her seat, and said she

could not bear it. “I see through it all,” she cried. “That Jobson is

a hypocrite; and he is at the bottom of it all. I hate him; and Parkin

worse. As for the assassin, I hope God, who saw him, will punish him.

What I want to do is to kill Jobson and Parkin, one after another; kill

them--kill them--kill them--I'll tell papa.”

As for Jael, she could not speak her mind, but she panted heavily, and

her fingers worked convulsively, and clutched themselves very tight at

last.

When he had done his narrative, he said sadly, “I despise these fellows

as much as you do; but they are too many for me. I am obliged to leave

Hillsborough.”

“What, let the wretches drive you away? I would never do that--if I was

a man.”

“What would you do, then?” asked Henry, his eye sparkling.

“Do? Why fight them; and beat them; and kill them, it is not as if they

were brave men. They are only cunning cowards. I'd meet cunning with

cunning. I'd outwit them somehow. I'd change my lodging every week, and

live at little inns and places. I'd lock up every thing I used, as well

as the rooms. I'd consult wiser heads, the editor of the Liberal, and

the Head of the police. I'd carry fire-arms, and have a bodyguard,

night and day; but they should never say they had frightened me out of

Hillsborough--if I was a man.”

“You are all right,” cried Henry. “I'll do all you advise me, and I

won't be driven out of this place. I love it. I'll live in it or I'll

die in it. I'll never leave it.”

This was almost the last word that passed this delightful afternoon,

when the sense of her own past injustice, the thrilling nature of the

story told by the very sufferer, and, above all, the presence and the

undisguised emotion of another sympathizing woman, thawed Grace Carden's

reserve, warmed her courage, and carried her, quite unconsciously, over

certain conventional bounds, which had, hitherto, been strictly observed

in her intercourse with this young workman.

Henry himself felt that this day was an era in his love. When he left

the door, he seemed to tread on air. He walked to the first cab-stand,

took a conveyance to his mother's door, and soon he was locked in her

arms.

She had been fretting for hours at his delay; but she never let him

know it. The whole place was full of preparations for his comfort, and

certain delicacies he liked were laid out on a little side board,

and the tea-things set, including the silver teapot, used now on high

occasions only.

She had a thousand questions to ask, and he to answer. And, while he

ate, the poor woman leaned back, and enjoyed seeing him eat; and,

while he talked, her fine eyes beamed with maternal joy. She reveled

deliciously in his health, his beauty, and his safe return to her;

and thought, with gentle complacency, they would soon return to London

together.

In the morning, she got out a large, light box, and said. “Harry, dear,

I suppose I may as well begin to pack up. You know I take longer than

you do.”

Henry blushed. “Pack up?” said he, hesitatingly. “We are not going

away.”

“Not going away, love? Why you agreed to leave, on account of those

dreadful Unions.”

“Oh, I was ill, and nervous, and out of spirits; but the air of

Cairnhope has made a man of me. I shall stay here, and make our

fortune.”

“But the air of Cairnhope has not made you friends with the unions.”

She seemed to reflect a moment, then asked him at what time he had left

Cairnhope.

“Eleven o'clock.”

“Ah! And whom did you visit before you came to me?”

“You question me like a child, mother.”

“Forgive me, dear. I will answer my own question. You called on some one

who gave you bad advice.”

“Oh, did I?”

“On some woman.”

“Say, a lady”

“What does it matter to me?” cried Mrs. Little, wildly. “They are all my

enemies. And this one is yours. It is a woman, who is not your mother,

for she thinks more of herself than of you.”

CHAPTER VII.

Henry had now to choose between his mother's advice, and Miss Carden's

commands; and this made him rather sullen and irritable. He was glad

to get out of his mother's house, and went direct to the works. Bayne

welcomed him warmly, and, after some friendly congratulations and

inquiries, pulled out two files of journals, and told him he had

promised to introduce him to the editor of the Liberal. He then begged

Henry to wait in the office, and read the files--he would not be gone

many minutes.

The Constitutional gave a dry narrative of the outrage, and mourned the

frequency of such incidents.

The Liberal gave a dramatic narrative, and said the miscreant must have

lowered himself by a rope from the parapet, and passed the powder inside

without entering. “He periled his life to perpetrate this crime; and he

also risked penal servitude for ten years. That he was not deterred by

the double risk, proves the influence of some powerful motive; and that

motive must have been either a personal feud of a very virulent kind, or

else trade fanaticism. From this alternative there is no escape.”

Next day, both journals recorded a trade-meeting at “The Rising Sun.”

Delegates from the Edge-Tool Forgers' Union, and the Edge-Tool Handlers'

Union, and some other representatives of Hillsborough Unions, were

present, and passed a resolution repudiating, with disgust, the outrage

that had been recently committed, and directed their secretaries to

offer a reward of twenty pounds, the same to be paid to any person

who would give such information as should lead to the discovery of the

culprit.

On this the Constitutional commented as follows:--“Although we never

for a moment suspected these respectable Unions of conniving at this

enormity, yet it is satisfactory to find them not merely passive

spectators, but exerting their energy, and spending their money, in a

praiseworthy endeavor to discover and punish the offenders.”

Henry laid down the paper, and his heart felt very warm to Jobson and

Parkin. “Come,” said he, “I am glad of that. They are not half a bad

sort, those two, after all.”

Then he took up the Liberal, and being young and generous, felt

disgusted at its comment:

“This appears to be creditable to the two Unions in question. But,

unfortunately, long experience proves that these small rewards never

lead to any discovery. They fail so invariably, that the Unions do

not risk a shilling by proffering them. In dramatic entertainments

the tragedy is followed by a farce: and so it is with these sanguinary

crimes in Hillsborough; they are always followed by a repudiation, and

offers of a trumpery reward quite disproportionate to the offense, and

the only result of the farce is to divert attention from the true line

of inquiry as to who enacted the tragedy. The mind craves novelty, and

perhaps these delegates will indulge that desire by informing us for

once, what was the personal and Corsican feud which led--as they would

have us believe--to this outrage; and will, at the same time, explain

to us why these outrages with gunpowder have never, either in this or in

any preceding case, attacked any but non-union men.”

When Henry had read thus far, the writer of the leader entered the room

with Mr. Bayne.

A gentleman not above the middle height, but with a remarkable chest,

both broad and deep; yet he was not unwieldy, like Dr. Amboyne, but

clean-built, and symmetrical. An agreeable face, with one remarkable

feature, a mouth full of iron resolution, and a slight humorous dimple

at the corners.

He shook hands with Henry, and said, “I wish to ask you a question or

two, in the way of business: but first let me express my sympathy, as a

man, and my detestation of the ruffians that have so nearly victimized

you.”

This was very hearty, and Henry thanked him with some emotion. “But,

sir,” said he, “if I am to reply to your questions, you must promise me

you will never publish my name.”

“It is on account of his mother,” whispered Bayne.

“Yes, sir. It was her misfortune to lose my father by a violent death,

and of course you may imagine--”

“Say no more,” said Mr. Holdfast: “your name shall not appear. And--let

me see--does your mother know you work here?”

“Yes, she does.”

“Then we had better keep Cheetham's name out as well.”

“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you. Now I'll answer any questions you like.”

“Well, then, I hear this outrage was preceded by several letters. Could

I see them?”

“Certainly. I carry mine always in my pocket, for fear my poor mother

should see them: and, Mr. Bayne, you have got Cheetham's.”

In another minute the whole correspondence was on the table, and Mr.

Holdfast laid it out in order, like a map, and went through it, taking

notes. “What a comedy,” said he. “All but the denouement. Now, Mr.

Bayne, can any other manufacturers show me a correspondence of this

kind?”

“Is there one that can't? There isn't a power-wheel, or a water-wheel,

within eight miles of Hillsborough, that can't show you just such a

correspondence as this; and rattening, or worse, at the tail of it.”

Mr. Holdfast's eye sparkled like a diamond. “I'll make the round,” said

he. “And, Mr. Little, perhaps you will be kind enough to go with me,

and let me question you, on the road. I have no sub-editor; no staff;

I carry the whole journal on my head. Every day is a hard race between

Time and me, and not a minute to spare.”

Mr. Cheetham was expected at the works this afternoon: so Henry, on

leaving Mr. Holdfast, returned to them, and found him there with Bayne,

looking, disconsolately, over a dozen orders for carving-tools.

“Glad to see you again, my lad,” said Cheetham. “Why, you look all the

better.”

“I'm none the worse, sir.”

“Come to take your balance and leave me?” This was said half

plaintively, half crossly.

“If you wish it, sir.”

“Not I. How is it to be?”

“Well, sir, I say to you what you said to me the other day, Stick to me,

and I'll stick to you.”

“I'll stick to you.”

Bayne held up his hands piteously to them both.

“What sir?” faltered he, turning to Cheetham, “after all your

experience!” then to Henry, “What, fight the Trades, after the lesson

they have given you?”

“I'll fight them all the more for that,” said Henry, grinding his teeth;

“fight them till all is blue.”

“So will I. That for the Trades!”

“Heaven help you both!” groaned Bayne, and looked the picture of

despair.

“You promised me shutters, with a detonator, sir.”

“Ay, but you objected.”

“That was before they blew me up.”

“Just so. Shutters shall be hung to-morrow; and the detonators I'll fix

myself.”

“Thank you, sir. Would you mind engaging a watchman?”

“Hum? Not--if you will share the expense.”

“I'll pay one-third.”

“Why should I pay two thirds? It is not like shutters and Bramah locks:

they are property. However, he'll be good against rattening; and you

have lost a fortnight, and there are a good many orders. Give me a good

day's work, and we won't quarrel over the watchman.” He then inquired,

rather nervously, whether there was anything more.

“No, sir: we are agreed. And I'll give you good work, and full time.”

The die was cast, and now he must go home and face his mother. For the

first time this many years he was half afraid to go near her. He dreaded

remonstrances and tears: tears that he could not dry; remonstrances that

would worry him, but could not shake him.

This young man, who had just screwed his physical courage up to defy the

redoubtable Unions had a fit of moral cowardice, and was so reluctant to

encounter the gentlest woman in England, that he dined at a chop-house,

and then sauntered into a music hall, and did not get home till past

ten, meaning to say a few kind, hurried words, then yawn, and slip to

bed.

But, meantime, Mrs. Little's mind had not been idle. She had long

divined a young rival in her son's heart, and many a little pang of

jealousy had traversed her own. This morning, with a quickness which may

seem remarkable to those who have not observed the watchful keenness

of maternal love, she had seen that her rival had worked upon Henry to

resign his declared intention of leaving Hillsborough. Then she felt her

way, and, in a moment, she had found the younger woman was the stronger.

She assumed as a matter of course, that this girl was in love with Henry

(who would not be in love with him?), and had hung, weeping, round his

neck, when he called from Cairnhope to bid her farewell, and had made

him promise to stay. This was the mother's theory; wrong, but rational.

Then came the question, What should she do? Fight against youth and

nature? Fight, unlikely to succeed, sure to irritate and disturb. Risk

any of that rare affection and confidence her son had always given her?

While her thoughts ran this way, seven o'clock came, and no Henry. Eight

o'clock, and no Henry. “Ah!” thought the mother, “that one word of mine

has had this effect already.”

She prepared an exquisite little supper. She made her own toilet with

particular care; and, when all was ready, she sat down and comforted

herself by reading his letters, and comparing his love with the cavalier

behavior of so many sons in this island, the most unfilial country in

Europe.

At half past ten Henry came up the stairs, not with the usual light

elastic tread, but with slow, hesitating foot. Her quick ear caught

that too, and her gentle bosom yearned. What, had she frightened him? He

opened the door, and she rose to receive him all smiles. “You are rather

late, dear,” she said; “but all the better. It has given me an excuse

for reading your dear letters all over again; and I have a thousand

questions to ask you about Cairnhope. But sit down first, and have your

supper.”

Henry brightened up, and ate a good supper, and his mother plied him

with questions, all about Cairnhope.

Here was an unexpected relief. Henry took a superficial view of all

this. Sharp young men of twenty-four understand a great many things; but

they can't quite measure their mothers yet.

Henry was selfishly pleased, but not ungrateful, and they passed a

pleasant and affectionate time: and, as for leaving Hillsborough, the

topic was avoided by tacit consent.

Next morning, after this easy victory, Henry took a cab and got to

“Woodbine Villa” by a circuitous route. His heart beat high as he

entered the room where Grace was seated. After the extraordinary warmth

and familiarity she had shown him at the last interview, he took for

granted he had made a lasting progress in her regard.

But she received him with a cold and distant manner, that quite benumbed

him. Grace Carden's face and manner were so much more expressive than

other people's, that you would never mistake or doubt the mood she was

in; and this morning she was freezing.

The fact is, Miss Carden had been tormenting herself: and when beauty

suffers, it is very apt to make others suffer as well.

“I am glad you are come, Mr. Little,” said she, “for I have been taking

myself to task ever since, and I blame myself very much for some things

I said. In the first place, it was not for me” (here the fair speaker

colored up to the temples) “to interfere in your affairs at all:

and then, if I must take such a liberty, I ought to have advised you

sensibly, and for your good. I have been asking people, and they all

tell me it is madness for one person to fight against these Unions.

Everybody gets crushed. So now let me hope you will carry out your wise

intention, and leave Hillsborough; and then my conscience will be at

ease.”

Every word fell like an icicle on her hearer's heart. To please this

cold, changeful creature, he had settled to defy the unchangeable

Unions, and had been ready to resist his mother, and slight her immortal

and unchanging love.

“You don't answer me, sir!” said Miss Carden, with an air of lofty

surprise.

“I answered you yesterday,” said he sullenly. “A man can't chop and

change like a weathercock.”

“But it is not changing, it's only going back to your own intention.

You know you were going to leave Hillsborough, before I talked all that

nonsense. Your story had set me on fire, and that's my only excuse.

Well, now, the same person takes the liberty to give you wise and

considerate advice, instead of hot, and hasty, romantic nonsense. Which

ought you to respect most--folly or reason--from the same lips?”

Henry seemed to reflect. “That sounds reasonable,” said he: “but, when

you advised me not to show the white feather, you spoke your heart; now,

you are only talking from your head. Then, your beautiful eyes flashed

fire, and your soul was in your words: who could resist them? And you

spoke to me like a friend; now you speak to me like an enemy.”

“Oh, Mr. Little, that is ridiculous.”

“You do, though. And I'm sure I don't know why.”

“Nor I. Perhaps because I am cross with myself; certainly not with you.”

“I am glad of that. Well, then, the long and the short is, you showed me

you thought it cowardly to fly from the Trades. You wouldn't, said you,

if you were a man. Well, I'm a man; and I'll do as you would do in my

place. I'll not throw my life away, I'll meet craft with craft, and

force with force; but fly I never will. I'll fight while I've a leg to

stand on.”

With these words he began to work on the bust, in a quiet dogged way

that was, nevertheless, sufficiently expressive.

Grace looked at him silently for half a minute, and then rose from her

chair.

“Then,” said she, “I must go for somebody of more authority than I am.”

She sailed out of the room.

Henry asked Jael who she was gone for.

“It will be her papa,” said Jael.

“As if I care for what he says.”

“I wouldn't show HER that, if I was you,” said Jael, quietly, but with a

good deal of weight.

“You are right,” said Henry. “You are a good girl. I don't know which

is the best, you or Martha. I say, I promised to go to Cairnhope some

Sunday, and see them all. Shall I drive you over?”

“And bring me back at night?”

“If you like. I must come back.”

“I'll ask Miss Carden.”

The words were quiet and composed, but the blushing face beamed with

unreasonable happiness; and Grace, who entered at that moment with her

father, was quite struck with its eloquence; she half started, but

took no further notice just then. “There, papa,” said she, “this is Mr.

Little.”

Mr. Carden was a tall gentleman, with somewhat iron features, but a fine

head of gray hair; rather an imposing personage; not the least

pompous though; quite a man of the world, and took a business view of

everything, matrimony, of course, included.

“Oh, this is Mr. Little, is it, whose work we all admire so much?”

“Yes, papa.”

“And whose adventure has made so much noise?”

“Yes, papa.”

“By-the-bye, there is an article to-day on you: have you seen it? No?

But you should see it; it is very smart. My dear” (to Jael), “will you

go to my study, and bring the Liberal here?”

“Yes, but meantime, I want you to advise him not to subject himself

to more gunpowder and things, but to leave the town; that is all the

wretches demand.”

“And that,” said Henry, with a sly, deferential tone, “is a good deal to

demand in a free country, is it not, sir?”

“Indeed it is. Ah, here comes the Liberal. Somebody read the article to

us, while he works. I want to see how he does it.”

Curiosity overpowered Grace's impatience, for a moment, and she read the

notice out with undisguised interest.

“'THE LAST OUTRAGE.

“'In our first remarks upon this matter, we merely laid down an

alternative which admits of no dispute; and, abstaining from idle

conjectures, undertook to collect evidence. We have now had an interview

with the victim of that abominable outrage. Mr.---- is one of those

superior workmen who embellish that class for a few years, but

invariably rise above it, and leave it' (there--Mr. Little!)--'He has

informed us that he is a stranger in Hillsborough, lives retired, never

sits down in a public-house, and has not a single enemy in Hillsborough,

great or small. He says that his life was saved by his fellow-workmen,

and that as he lay scorched--'(Oh, dear!')

“Well, go on, Grace.”

“It is all very well to say go on, papa--'scorched and bleeding on the

ground and unable to distinguish faces' (poor, poor Mr. Little!) 'he

heard, on all sides of him, expressions of rugged sympathy and sobs, and

tears, from rough, but--manly fellows, who--'(oh! oh! oh!”)

Grace could not go on for whimpering, and Jael cried, for company. Henry

left off carving, and turned away his head, touched to the heart by this

sweet and sudden sympathy.

“How badly you read,” said Mr. Carden, and took the journal from her.

He read in a loud business-like monotone, that, like some blessed balm,

dried every tear. “'Manly fellows who never shed a tear before: this

disposed of one alternative, and narrowed the inquiry. It was not a

personal feud; therefore it was a Trade outrage, or it was nothing. We

now took evidence bearing on the inquiry thus narrowed; and we found the

assault had been preceded by a great many letters, all of them breathing

the spirit of Unionism, and none of them intimating a private wrong.

These letters, taken in connection, are a literary curiosity; and we

find there is scarcely a manufacturer in the place who has not endured

a similar correspondence, and violence at the end of it. This curious

chapter of the human mind really deserves a separate heading, and we

introduce it to our readers as

“THE LITERATURE OF OUTRAGE.”

“'First of all comes a letter to the master intimating that he is doing

something objectionable to some one of the many Unions that go to make

a single implement of hardware. This letter has three features. It is

signed with a real name. It is polite. It is grammatical.

“'If disregarded, it is speedily followed by another. No. 2 is

grammatical, or thereabouts; but, under a feigned politeness, the

insolence of a vulgar mind shows itself pretty plainly, and the master

is reminded what he suffered on some former occasion when he rebelled

against the trades. This letter is sometimes anonymous, generally

pseudonymous.

“'If this reminder of the past and intimation of the future is

disregarded, the refractory master gets a missive, which begins with

an affectation of coarse familiarity, and then rises, with a ludicrous

bound, into brutal and contemptuous insolence. In this letter, grammar

is flung to the winds, along with good manners; but spelling survives,

by a miracle. Next comes a short letter, full of sanguinary threats, and

written in, what we beg leave to christen, the Dash dialect, because,

though used by at least three million people in England, and three

thousand in Hillsborough, it can only be printed with blanks, the

reason being simply this, that every sentence is measled with oaths and

indecencies. These letters are also written phonetically, and, as the

pronunciation, which directs the spelling, is all wrong, the double

result is prodigious. Nevertheless, many of these pronunciations are

ancient, and were once universal. An antiquarian friend assures us the

orthography of these blackguards, the scum of the nineteenth century, is

wonderfully like that of a mediaeval monk or baron.

“'When the correspondence has once descended to the Dash dialect,

written phonetically, it never remounts toward grammar, spelling

or civilization; and the next in the business is rattening, or else

beating, or shooting, or blowing-up the obnoxious individual by himself,

or along with a houseful of people quite strange to the quarrel. Now, it

is manifest to common sense, that all this is one piece of mosaic, and

that the criminal act it all ends in is no more to be disconnected from

the last letter, than the last letter from its predecessor, or letter

three from letter two. Here is a crime first gently foreshadowed, then

grimly intimated, then directly threatened, then threatened in words

that smell of blood and gunpowder, and then--done. The correspondence

and the act reveal--

“The various talents, but the single mind.”

“'In face of this evidence, furnished by themselves, the trades Unions,

some member of which has committed this crime, will do well to drop the

worn-out farce of offering a trumpery reward and to take a direct and

manly course. They ought to accept Mr.----'s preposterously liberal

offer, and admit him to the two Unions, and thereby disown the criminal

act in the form most consolatory to the sufferer: or else they should

face the situation, and say, “This act was done under our banner, though

not by our order, and we stand by it.” The Liberal will continue to

watch the case.'”

“This will be a pill,” said Mr. Carden, laying down the paper. “Why,

they call the Liberal the workman's advocate.”

“Yes, papa,” said Grace; “but how plainly he shows--But Mr. Little is a

stranger, and even this terrible lesson has not--So do pray advise him.”

“I shall be very happy; but, when you are my age, you will know it is of

little use intruding advice upon people.”

“Oh, Mr. Little will treat it with proper respect, coming from one so

much older than himself, and better acquainted with this wretched town.

Will you not, Mr. Little?” said she, with so cunning a sweetness that

the young fellow was entrapped, and assented, before he knew what he was

about; then colored high at finding himself committed.

Mr. Carden reflected a moment. He then said, “I can't take upon myself

to tell any man to give up his livelihood. But one piece of advice I can

conscientiously give Mr. Little.”

“Yes, papa.”

“And that is--TO INSURE HIS LIFE.”

“Oh, papa!” cried Grace.

As for Henry he was rather amused, and his lip curled satirically. But

the next moment he happened to catch sight of Jael Dence's face; her

gray eyes were expanded with a look of uneasiness; and, directly she

caught his eye she fixed it, and made him a quick movement of the head,

directing him to assent.

There was something so clear and decided in the girl's manner that it

overpowered Henry who had no very clear idea to oppose to it, and he

actually obeyed the nod of this girl, whom he had hitherto looked on as

an amiable simpleton.

“I have no objection to that,” said he, turning to Mr. Carden. Then,

after another look at Jael, he said, demurely, “Is there any insurance

office you could recommend?”

Mr. Carden smiled. “There is only one I have a right to recommend, and

that is the 'Gosshawk.' I am a director. But,” said he, with sudden

stiffness, “I could furnish you with the names of many others.”

Henry saw his way clear by this time. “No, sir, if I profit by your

advice, the least I can do is to choose the one you are a director of.”

Grace, who had latterly betrayed uneasiness and irritation, now rose,

red as fire. “The conversation is taking a turn I did not at all

intend,” said she, and swept out of the room with royal disdain.

Her father apologized carelessly for her tragical exit. “That is a

young lady who detests business; but she does not object to its

fruits--dresses, lace, footmen, diamonds, and a carriage to drive about

in. On the contrary, she would be miserable without them.”

“I should hope she never will be without them, sir.”

“I'll take care of that.”

Mr. Carden said this rather dryly, and then retired for a minute; and

Grace who was not far off, with an ear like a hare, came back soon

after.

But in the meantime Henry left his seat and went to Jael, and, leaning

over her as she worked, said, “There is more in that head of yours than

I thought.”

“Oh, they all talk before me,” said Jael, blushing faintly, and avoiding

his eye.

“Jael Dence,” said the young man, warmly, “I'm truly obliged to you.”

“What for?”

“For your good advice. I didn't see how good it was till after I had

taken it.”

“I'm afeard Miss Grace gave you better.”

“She advised me against my heart. What is the use of that?”

“Ay, young men are willful.”

“Come, come, don't you go back. You are my friend and counselor.”

“That is something,” said Jael, in a low voice; and her hands trembled

at her side.

“Why, my dear girl, what's the matter?”

“Hush! hush?”

CHAPTER VIII.

Grace came in, that moment, with a superb air. She settled herself on

the sofa.

“Now, it is my turn, if you please. Pray, sir, do you think your life

will be any safer for your insuring it? Insuring does not mean that

you are not to be killed; but that, when you ARE, for your obstinacy,

somebody else will get paid some money, to dance with over your grave.”

“I beg your pardon, Grace,” said Mr. Carden, entering with some printed

papers in his hand. “That is not the only use of an insurance. He may

want to marry, or to borrow a sum of money to begin business; and then

a policy of insurance, with two or three premiums paid, smooths the

difficulty. Everybody should make a will, and everybody should insure

his life.”

“Well then, sir, I will do both.”

“Stop!” said Mr. Carden, who could now afford to be candid. “First of

all, you ought to satisfy yourself of the flourishing condition of the

company.” He handed him a prospectus. “This will show you our capital,

and our disbursements last year, and the balance of profit declared. And

this gives the balance sheet of the 'Vulture' and the 'Falcon,' which

have assigned their business to us, and are now incorporated in the

'Gosshawk.'”

“Oh, what a voracious bird!” observed Grace. “I hope these other

chickabiddies will not prove indigestible. Were they plucked first,

papa? or did the 'Gosshawk' swallow them feathers and all?”

Little laughed heartily at this pert sally, but Mr. Carden winced under

it.

Then Grace saw she was not quite weaponless, and added, “After such a

meal, as that, Mr. Little, you will go down like a crumb.”

“Grace, that is enough,” said Mr. Carden, rather severely.

Grace held her tongue directly, and the water came into her eyes.

Anything like serious remonstrance was a novelty to her.

When Henry had read the papers, Mr. Carden asked him, rather carelessly,

what sum he wished to be insured for.

Now Henry had so little wish about the matter, that he had not given it

a thought, and the question took him quite aback. He looked helplessly

at Jael. To his surprise, she decided on the sum for him, without a

moment's hesitation, and conveyed the figure with that dexterity which

the simplest of her sex can command whenever telegraphy is wanted. She

did it with two unbroken movements; she put up all the fingers of her

right hand to her brow, and that meant five: then she turned her hand

rapidly, so as to hide her mouth from the others, who were both on her

right hand, and she made the word thousand clear, with her lips and

tongue, especially the “th.”

But the sum staggered Henry; and made him think he must be

misinterpreting her.

He hesitated, to gain time. “Hum!” said he, “the sum?”

Jael repeated her pantomime as before.

Still Henry doubted, and, to feel his way, said, half interrogatively,

“Five--thou--sand?”

Jael nodded.

“Five thousand pounds,” said Henry, as bold as brass.

“Five thousand pounds!” cried Mr. Carden. “A workman insure his life for

five thousand pounds!”

“Well, a man's life is worth five thousand pounds, or it is worth

nothing. And, sir, how long do you think I shall be a workman,

especially in Hillsborough, where from workman to master is no more than

hopping across a gutter?”

Mr. Carden smiled approval. “But five thousand pounds! The annual

premium will be considerable. May I ask about how much you make a year?”

“Oh, papa!”

“Well, sir, Mr. Cheetham pays me L300 a year, at the rate of, and I can

make another L100 by carving at odd times. But, if you doubt my ability,

let us stay as we are, sir. It was your proposal, not mine, you know.”

“Young man,” said Mr. Carden, “never be peppery in business.” He

said this so solemnly and paternally, it sounded like the eleventh

commandment.

To conclude, it was arranged Henry should take the higher class of

insurance, which provided for accidents, voyages, everything, and should

be insured for L5000, provided the physician appointed by the company

should pronounce him free from disease.

Henry then rose, and said, sorrowfully, to Grace, “You will not see me

here very often now; and never on Saturday afternoon or Monday morning.

I am not going to have some blackguard tracking me, and flinging a

can of gunpowder in at your window. When I do come, it will be in the

morning, and on a working day; and I shall perhaps go ten miles round

to get here. It must be diamond cut diamond, for many a month to come,

between the Trades and me.” He uttered these words with manly gravity,

as one who did not underrate the peril he was resolved to face; and left

them with a respectful bow.

“That's a rising man,” said Mr. Carden; “and may draw a hundred of his

class to the 'Gosshawk.' It was a good stroke of business, quite out of

the common.”

Grace said not a word, but she shook her head and looked pained and ill

at ease. Jael watched her fixedly.

Henry called at the works that night, and examined the new defenses,

with Mr. Cheetham. He also bought a powerful magnifying-glass; and next

morning he came to the factory, examined the cinders, and everything

else, with the magnifier, lighted his forge, and resumed his work.

At dinner-time he went out and had his chop, and read the Liberal; it

contained a letter from Jobson, in reply to the editor.

Jobson deplored the criminal act, admitted that the two Unions had

decided no individual could be a forger, a handler, and a cutler; such

an example was subversive of all the Unions in the city, based, as they

were, on subdivision of crafts. “But,” said Mr Jobson, “we were dealing

with the matter in a spirit quite inconsistent with outrages, and I

am so anxious to convince the public of this, that I have asked a

very experienced gentleman to examine our minute-books, and report

accordingly.”

This letter was supplemented by one from Mr. Grotait, secretary of the

Saw-Grinders, which ran thus:--“Messrs. Parkin and Jobson have appealed

to me to testify to certain facts. I was very reluctant to interfere,

for obvious reasons; but was, at last, prevailed on to examine the

minute-books of those two Unions, and they certainly do prove that on

the very evening before the explosion, those trades had fully discussed

Mr. ----'s case” (the real name was put, but altered by the editor),

“and had disposed of it as follows. They agreed, and this is entered

accordingly, to offer him his traveling expenses (first class) to

London, and one pound per week, from their funds, until such time as he

should obtain employment. I will only add, that both these secretaries

spoke kindly to me of Mr. ----; and, believing them to be sincere, I

ventured to advise them to mark their disapproval of the criminal act,

by offering him two pounds per week, instead of one pound; which advice

they have accepted very readily.”

Henry was utterly confounded by these letters.

Holdfast commented on them thus:

“Messrs. Jobson and Parkin virtually say that if A, for certain reasons,

pushes a man violently out of Hillsborough, and B draws him gently

out of Hillsborough for the same reasons, A and B can not possibly be

co-operating. Messrs. Parkin and Jobson had so little confidence in

this argument, which is equivalent to saying there is no such thing as

cunning in trade, that they employed a third party to advance it with

all the weight of his popularity and seeming impartiality. But who is

this candid person that objects to assume the judge, and assumes the

judge? He is the treasurer and secretary of an Union that does not

number three hundred persons; yet in that small Union, of which he

is dictator, there has been as much rattening, and more shooting, and

blowing-up wholesale and retail, with the farcical accompaniment of

public repudiation, than in all the other Unions put together. We

consider the entrance of this ingenuous personage on the scene a bad

omen, and shall watch all future proceedings with increased suspicion.”

Henry had hardly done reading this, when a man came into the works,

and brought him his fifteen pounds back from Mr. Jobson, and a line,

offering him his expenses to London, and two pounds per week, from the

Edge-Tool Forgers' box, till he should find employment. Henry took his

money, and sent back word that the proposal came too late; after the

dastardly attempt to assassinate him, he should defy the Unions, until

they accepted his terms. Jobson made no reply. And Henry defied the

Unions.

The Unions lay still, like some great fish at the bottom of a pool, and

gave no sign of life or animosity. This did not lull Henry into a false

security. He never relaxed a single precaution. He avoided “Woodbine

Villa;” he dodged and doubled like a hare, to hide his own abode. But he

forged, handled, and finished, in spite of the Unions.

The men were civil to him in the yard, and he had it all his own way,

apparently.

He was examined by a surgeon, and reported healthy. He paid the

insurance premium, and obtained the policy. So now he felt secure, under

the aegis of the Press, and the wing of the “Gosshawk.” By-and-by, that

great fish I have mentioned gave a turn of its tail, and made his placid

waters bubble a little.

A woman came into the yard, with a can of tea for her husband, and a

full apron. As she went out, she emptied a set of tools out of her apron

on to an old grindstone, and slipped out.

The news of this soon traveled into the office, and both Cheetham and

Bayne came out to look at them.

They were a set of carving-tools, well made, and highly polished; and

there was a scrap of paper with this distich:

“We are Hillsborough made,

Both haft and blade.”

Cheetham examined them, and said, “Well, they are clever fellows. I

declare these come very near Little's: call him down and let us draw

him.”

Bayne called to Henry, and that brought him down, and several more, who

winded something.

“Just look at these,” said Cheetham.

Little colored: he saw the finger of the Unions at once, and bristled

all over with caution and hostility.

“I see them, sir. They are very fair specimens of cutlery; and there are

only about twenty tools wanting to make a complete set; but there is one

defect in them as carving-tools.”

“What is that?”

“They are useless. You can't carve wood with them. None but a practical

carver can design these tools, and then he must invent and make the

steel molds first. Try and sell them in London or Paris, you'll soon

find the difference. Mr. Bayne, I wonder you should call me from

my forge to examine 'prentice-work.” And, with this, he walked off

disdainfully, but not quite easy in his mind, for he had noticed a

greedy twinkle in Cheetham's eye.

The next day all the grinders in Mr. Cheetham's employ, except the

scissors-grinders, rose, all of a sudden, like a flock of partridges,

and went out into the road.

“What is up now?” inquired Bayne. The answer was, their secretaries had

sent for them.

They buzzed in the road, for a few minutes, and then came back to work.

At night there was a great meeting at the “Cutlers' Arms,” kept by Mr.

Grotait.

At noon the next day, all the grinders aforesaid in Mr. Cheetham's

employ walked into the office, and left, each of them, a signed paper to

this effect:

“This is to give you notice that I will leave your service a week after

the date thereof.” (Meaning “hereof,” I presume.)

Cheetham asked several of them what was up. Some replied civilly, it was

a trade matter. Others suggested Mr. Cheetham knew as much about it as

they did.

Not a single hot or uncivil word was spoken on either side. The game had

been played too often for that, and with results too various.

One or two even expressed a sort of dogged regret. The grinder Reynolds,

a very honest fellow, admitted, to Mr. Cheetham, that he thought it

a sorry trick, for a hundred men to strike against one that had had a

squeak for his life. “But no matter what I think or what I say, I must

do what the Union bids me, sir.”

“I know that, my poor fellow,” said Cheetham. “I quarrel with none of

you. I fight you all. The other masters, in this town, are mice, but I'm

a man.”

This sentiment he repeated very often during the next six days.

The seventh came and the grinders never entered the works.

Cheetham looked grave. However, he said to Bayne, “Go and find out where

they are. Do it cleverly now. Don't be noticed.”

Bayne soon ascertained they were all in the neighboring public-houses.

“I thought so,” said Cheetham. “They will come in, before night. They

sha'n't beat me, the vagabonds. I'm a man, I'm not a mouse.”

“Orders pouring in, sir,” sighed Bayne. “And the grinders are rather

behind the others in their work already.”

“They must have known that: or why draw out the grinders? How could they

know it?”

“Sir,” said Bayne, “they say old Smitem is in this one. Wherever he is,

the master's business is known, or guessed, heaven knows how; and,

if there is a hole in his coat, that hole is hit. Just look at the

cleverness of it, sir. Here we are, wrong with the forgers and handlers.

Yet they come into the works and take their day's wages. But they draw

out the grinders, and mutilate the business. They hurt you as much as if

they struck, and lost their wages. But no, they want their wages to help

pay the grinders on strike. Your only chance was to discharge every man

in the works, the moment the grinders gave notice.”

“Why didn't you tell me so, then?”

“Because I'm not old Smitem. He can see a thing beforehand. I can see it

afterward. I'm like the weatherwise man's pupil; as good as my master,

give me time. The master could tell you, at sunrise, whether the day

would be wet or dry, and the pupil he could tell you at sunset: and that

is just the odds between old Smitem and me.”

“Well, if he is old Smitem, I'm old Fightem.”

At night, he told Bayne he had private information, that the grinders

were grumbling at being made a cat's-paw of by the forgers and the

handlers. “Hold on,” said he; “they will break up before morning.”

At ten o'clock next day he came down to the works, and some peremptory

orders had poured in. “They must wait,” said he, peevishly.

At twelve he said, “How queer the place seems, and not a grindstone

going. It seems as still as the grave. I'm a man; I'm not a mouse.”

Mr. Cheetham repeated this last fact in zoology three times, to leave no

doubt of it in his own mind, I suppose.

At 1.00, he said he would shut up the works rather than be a slave.

At 1.15 he blustered.

At 1.20 he gave in: collapsed in a moment, like a punctured bladder.

“Bayne,” said he, with a groan, “go to Jobson, and ask him to come and

talk this foolish business over.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Bayne. “Don't be offended; but you are vexed and

worried, and whoever the Union sends to you will be as cool as marble. I

have just heard it is Redcar carries the conditions.”

“What, the foreman of my own forgers! Is he to dictate to me?” cried

Cheetham, grinding his teeth with indignation.

“Well, sir, what does it matter?” said Bayne, soothingly. “He is no more

than a mouthpiece.”

“Go for him,” said Cheetham, sullenly.

“But, sir, I can't bear that your own workman should see you so

agitated.”

“Oh, I shall be all right the moment I see my man before me.”

Bayne went off, and soon returned with Redcar. The man had his coat on,

but had not removed his leathern apron.

Cheetham received him as the representative of the Unions. “Sit down,

Redcar, and let us put an end to this little bother. What do you

require?”

“Mr. Little's discharge, sir.”

“Are you aware he is with me on a month's notice?”

“They make a point of his leaving the works at once, sir; and I was to

beg you to put other hands into his room.”

“It is taking a great liberty to propose that.”

“Nay. They only want to be satisfied. He has given a vast o' trouble.”

“I'll give him a month's warning. If I discharge him on the spot, he can

sue me.”

“That has been thought on. If he sues you, you can talk to the Unions,

and they will act with you. But the grinders are not to come in till

Little is out.”

“Well, so be it, then.”

“And his rooms occupied by Union men?”

“If I swallow the bolus, I may as well swallow the pills. Anything

more?”

“The grinders are not to lose their time; a day and a half.”

“What! am I to pay them for not working?”

“Well, sir, if we had come to you, of course the forgers and handlers

would have paid the grinders for lost time; but, as you have come to us,

you will have to pay them.”

Cheetham made a wry face; but acquiesced.

“And then, sir,” said Redcar, “there's another little matter. The

incidental expenses of the strike.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“The expenses incurred by the secretaries, and a little present

to another gentleman, who advised us. It comes to thirty pounds

altogether.”

“What!” cried Cheetham, struggling with his rising choler. “You want me

to pay men thirty pounds for organizing a strike, that will cost me so

dear, and rob me of a whole trade that was worth L300 a year? Why not

charge me for the gunpowder you blew up Little with, and spoiled my

forge? No, Bayne, no; this is too unjust and too tyrannical. Flesh

and blood won't bear it. I'll shut up the works, and go back to my

grindstone. Better live on bread and water than live like a slave.”

Redcar took a written paper out of his pocket. “There are the terms

written down,” said he, “if you sign them, the strike ends; if you

don't, it continues--till you do.”

Cheetham writhed under the pressure. Orders were pouring in; trade

brisk; hands scarce. Each day would add a further loss of many pounds

for wages, and doubtless raise fresh exactions. He gulped down something

very like a sob, and both his hand and his voice shook with strong

passion as he took the pen. “I'll sign it; but if ever my turn comes,

I'll remember this against you. This shows what they really are, Bayne.

Oh, if ever you workmen get power, GOD HELP THE WORLD!”

These words seemed to come in a great prophetic agony out of a bursting

heart.

But the representative of the Unions was neither moved by them nor

irritated.

“All right,” said he, phlegmatically; “the winner takes his bite: the

loser gets his bark: that's reason.”

Henry Little was in his handling-room, working away, with a bright

perspective before him, when Bayne knocked at the door, and entered with

Redcar. Bayne's face wore an expression so piteous, that Henry divined

mischief at once.

“Little, my poor fellow, it is all over. We are obliged to part with

you.”

“Cheetham has thrown me over?”

“What could he do? I am to ask you to vacate these rooms, that we may

get our half-day out of the grinders.”

Henry turned pale, but there was no help for it.

He got up in a very leisurely way; and, while he was putting on his

coat, he told Bayne, doggedly, he should expect his month's salary.

As he was leaving, Redcar spoke to him in rather a sheepish way. “Shake

hands, old lad,” said he; “thou knows one or t'other must win; and

there's not a grain of spite against thee. It's just a trade matter.”

Henry stood with his arms akimbo, and looked at Redcar. “I was in

hopes,” said he, grinding his teeth, “you were going to ask me to take a

turn with you in the yard, man to man. But I can't refuse my hand to one

of my own sort that asks it. There 'tis. After all, you deserve to win,

for you are true to each other; but a master can't be true to a man, nor

to anything on earth, but his pocket.”

He then strolled out into the yard, with his hands in his pockets, and

whistled “The Harmonious Blacksmith” very sick at heart.

CHAPTER IX.

The strike was over, the grinders poured into the works, and the

grindstones revolved. Henry Little leaned against an angle of the

building, and listened with aching heart to their remorseless thunder.

He stood there disconsolate--the one workman out of work--and sipped

the bitter cup, defeat. Then he walked out at the gates, and wandered

languidly into the streets. He was miserable, and had nobody to mourn

to, for the main cause of his grief lay beneath the surface of this

defeat; and how could he reveal it, now that his ambitious love looked

utter madness? Young as he was, he had seen there is no sympathy in the

world for any man who loves out of his sphere. Indeed, whatever cures

or crushes such a passion, is hailed by the by-standers as a sharp but

wholesome medicine.

He sauntered about, and examined all the shops with lack-luster eye. He

looked in at everything, but observed nothing, scarcely saw anything.

All his senses were turned inward. It was such a pitiable and galling

result of a gallant fight. Even the insurance office had got the better

of him. It had taken one-third of his savings, and the very next day his

trade was gone, and his life in no danger. The “Gosshawk” had plucked

him, and the trade had tied his hands. Rack his invention how he would,

he could see no way of becoming a master in Hillsborough, except by

leaving Hillsborough, and working hard and long in some other town. He

felt in his own heart the love and constancy to do this; but his reason

told him such constancy would be wasted; for while he was working at a

distance, the impression, if any, he had made on her would wear away,

and some man born with money, would step in and carry her gayly off.

This thought returned to him again and again, and exasperated him so at

last, that he resolved to go to “Woodbine Villa,” and tell her his heart

before he left the place. Then he should be rejected, no doubt, but

perhaps pitied, and not so easily forgotten as if he had melted silently

away.

He walked up the hill, first rapidly, then slowly. He called at

“Woodbine Villa.”

The answer was “Not at home.”

“Everything is against me,” said he.

He wandered wearily down again, and just at the entrance of the town

he met a gentleman with a lady on each arm, and one of those ladies was

Miss Carden. The fortunate cavalier was Mr. Coventry, whom Henry would

have seen long before this, but he had been in Paris for the last four

months. He had come back fuller than ever of agreeable gossip, and Grace

was chatting away to him, and beaming with pleasure, as innocent girls

do, when out on a walk with a companion they like. She was so absorbed

she did not even see Henry Little. He went off the pavement to make room

for their tyrannical crinolines, and passed unnoticed.

He had flushed with joy at first sight of her, but now a deadly qualm

seized him. The gentleman was handsome and commanding; Miss Carden

seemed very happy, hanging on his arm; none the less bright and happy

that he, her humble worshiper, was downcast and wretched.

It did not positively prove much; yet it indicated how little he must

be to her: and somehow it made him realize more clearly the great

disadvantage at which he lay, compared with an admirer belonging to her

own class. Hitherto his senses had always been against his reason: but

now for once they co-operated with his judgment, and made him feel that,

were he to toil for years in London, or Birmingham, and amass a fortune,

he should only be where that gentleman was already; and while the

workman, far away, was slaving, that gentleman and others would be

courting her. She might refuse one or two. But she would not refuse them

all.

Then, in his despair, he murmured, “Would to God I had never seen her!”

He made a fierce resolve he would go home, and tell his mother she could

pack up.

He quickened his steps, for fear his poor sorrowful heart should falter.

But, when he had settled on this course, lo! a fountain of universal

hatred seemed to bubble in his heart. He burned to inflict some mortal

injury upon Jobson, Parkin, Grotait, Cheetham, and all who had taken

a part, either active or passive, in goading him to despair. Now Mr.

Cheetham's works lay right in his way; and it struck him he could make

Cheetham smart a little. Cheetham's god was money. Cheetham had thrown

him over for money. He would go to Cheetham, and drive a dagger into his

pocket.

He walked into the office. Mr. Cheetham was not there: but he found

Bayne and Dr. Amboyne.

“Mr. Bayne,” said he, abruptly, “I am come for my month's wages.”

The tone was so aggressive, Bayne looked alarmed. “Why, Little, poor Mr.

Cheetham is gone home with a bad headache, and a sore heart.”

“All the better. I don't want to tell him to his face he is a bragging

cur; all I want out of him now is my money; and you can pay me that.”

The pacific Bayne cast a piteous glance at Dr. Amboyne. “I have told you

the whole business, sir. Oughtn't Mr. Little to wait till to-morrow, and

talk it over with Mr. Cheetham? I'm only a servant: and a man of peace.”

“Whether he ought or not, I think I can answer for him that he will.”

“I can't, sir,” said Henry, sturdily. “I leave the town to-morrow.”

“Oh, that alters the case. But must you leave us so soon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am very sorry for that. Tell me your reason. I don't ask out of mere

curiosity.”

Henry replied with less than his usual candor; “Is it not reason enough

for leaving a place, that my life has been attempted in it, and now my

livelihood is taken?”

“Those are strong reasons. But, on the other hand, your life is no

longer in danger; and your livelihood is not gone; for, to speak

plainly, I came over here the moment I heard you were discharged, to

ask if you would enter my service on the same terms as Mr. Cheetham gave

you, only guineas instead of pounds.”

“What, turn doctor?”

“Oh dear, no; the doctors' Union would forbid that. No, Mr. Little, I am

going to ask you to pay me a compliment; to try my service blindfold for

one week. You can leave it if you don't like it; but give me one week's

trial.”

“How can I refuse you that?” said Henry, hanging his head. “You have

been a good friend to me. But, sir, mark my words, this place will be my

destruction. Well, when am I to begin work?”

“To-morrow, at ten.”

“So be it,” said Henry, wearily, then left the works and went home;

but, as he went, he said to himself. “It is not my doing.” And his

double-faced heart glowed and exulted secretly.

He told his mother how the Trades had beaten him, and he was out of

work.

Mrs. Little consoled him hypocritically. She was delighted. Then he told

her his departure had been delayed by Dr. Amboyne: that made her look a

little anxious.

“One question, dear: now the Union has beaten you, they will not be so

spiteful, will they?”

“Oh, no. That is all over. The conquerors can afford to be good-natured.

Confound them!”

“Then that is all I care about. Then do not leave Hillsborough. Why

should you? Wait here patiently. You do not know what may turn up.”

“What, mother, do YOU want to stay here now?” said Henry, opening his

eyes with astonishment.

“Wherever my son is happy and safe from harm, there I wish to stay--of

course.”

Next morning Henry called on Dr. Amboyne, and found him in his study,

teaching what looked a boy of sixteen, but was twenty-two, to read

monosyllables. On Little's entrance the pupil retired front his uphill

work, and glowered with vacillating eyes. The lad had a fair feminine

face, with three ill things in it: a want, a wildness, and a weakness.

To be sure Henry saw it at a disadvantage: for vivid intelligence would

come now and then across this mild, wild, vacant face, like the breeze

that sweeps a farm-yard pond.

“Good-morning, Little. This is your fellow-workman.”

“He does not look up to much,” said Henry, with all a workman's

bluntness.

“What, you have found him out! Never mind; he can beat the town at one

or two things, and it is for these we will use him. Some call him an

idiot. The expression is neat and vigorous, but not precise; so I have

christened him the Anomaly. Anomaly, this is Mr. Little; go and shake

hands with him, and admire him.”

The Anomaly went directly, and gazed into Little's face for some time.

He then made his report. “He is beautiful and black.”

“I've seen him blacker. Now leave off admiring him, and look at these

pictures while I prose. Two thousand philosophers are writing us

dead with 'Labor and Capital.' But I vary the bore. 'Life, Labor, and

Capital,' is my chant: and, whereas Life has hitherto been banished from

the discussion, I put Life in its true place, at the head of the trio.

(And Life I divide into long Life, and happy Life.) The subject is too

vast to be dealt with all at once; but I'll give you a peep of it. The

rustic laborer in the South sells his labor for too little money to

support life comfortably. That is a foul wrong. The rustic laborer in

the North has small wages, compared with a pitman, or a cutler; but he

has enough for health, and he lives longer and more happily than either

the pitman or the cutler; so that account is square, in my view of

things. But now dive into the Hillsborough trades, and you will find

this just balance of Life, Labor, and Capital regarded in some, but

defied in others: a forger is paid as much or more than a dry-grinder,

though forging is a hard but tolerably healthy trade, and dry-grinding

means an early death after fifteen years of disease and misery. The

file-cutters are even more killed and less paid. What is to be done

then? Raise the wages of the more homicidal trades! But this could only

be done by all the Unions acting in concert. Now the rival philosophers,

who direct the Unions, are all against Democritus--that's myself; they

set no value on life. And indeed the most intelligent one, Grotait,

smiles blandly on Death, and would grind his scythe for him--AT THE

STATEMENT PRICE--because that scythe thins the labor market, and so

helps keep up prices.”

“Then what can we do? I'm a proof one can't fight the Unions.”

“Do? Why, lay hold of the stick at the other end. Let Pseudo-Philosophy

set the means above the end, and fix its shortsighted eyes on Labor and

Capital, omitting Life. (What does it profit a file-cutter if he gains

his master's whole capital and loses his own life?) But you and I, Mr.

Little, are true philosophers and the work we are about to enter on

is--saving cutlers' lives.”

“I'd rather help take them.”

“Of course; and that is why I made the pounds guineas.”

“All right, sir,” said Henry, coloring. “I don't expect to get six

guineas a week for whistling my own tune. How are we to do the job?”

“By putting our heads together. You have, on the side of your temple, a

protuberance, which I have noticed in the crania of inventors. So I want

you to go round the works, and observe for yourself how Life is thrown

gayly away, in a moment, by needless accident, and painfully gnawed away

by steel-dust, stone grit, sulphuret of lead, etc.; and then cudgel your

brain for remedies.”

“Sir,” said Henry, “I am afraid I shall not earn my money. My heart is

not in the job.”

“Revenge is what you would like to be at, not Philanthropy--eh?”

“Ay, doctor.” And his black eye flashed fire.

“Well, well, that is natural. Humor my crotchet just now, and perhaps I

may humor yours a month or two hence. I think I could lay my hand on the

fellow who blew you up.”

“What, sir! Ah! tell me that, and I'll do as much philanthropy as you

like--after--”

“After you have punched your fellow-creature's head.”

“But it is impossible, sir. How can you know? These acts are kept as

secret as the grave.”

“And how often has the grave revealed its secrets to observant men? Dr.

Donne sauntered about among graves, and saw a sexton turn up a skull.

He examined it, found a nail in it, identified the skull, and had the

murderess hung. She was safe from the sexton and the rest of the parish,

but not from a stray observer. Well, the day you were blown up, I

observed something, and arrived at a conclusion, by my art.”

“What, physic?”

“Oh, dear, no; my other art, my art of arts, that I don't get paid for;

the art of putting myself in other people's places. I'll tell you. While

you lay on the ground, in Mr. Cheetham's yard, I scanned the workmen's

faces. They were full of pity and regret, and were much alike in

expression--all but one. That one looked a man awakened from a dream.

His face was wild, stupid, confused, astonished. 'Hallo!' said I, 'why

are your looks so unlike the looks of your fellows?' Instantly I

put myself in his place. I ceased to be the Democritus, or laughing

philosopher of Hillsborough, and became a low uneducated brute of a

workman. Then I asked this brute, viz, myself, why I was staring and

glaring in that way, stupidly astonished, at the injured man? 'Were you

concerned in the criminal act, ye blackguard?' said I to myself. The

next step was to put myself in the place of the criminal. I did so; and

I realized that I, the criminal, had done the act to please the Unions,

and expecting the sympathy of all Union workmen to be with me. Also that

I, being an ignorant brute, had never pictured to myself what suffering

I should inflict. But what was the result? I now saw the sufferer, and

did not like my own act; and I found all the sympathy of my fellows went

with him, and that I was loathed and execrated, and should be lynched

on the spot were I to own my act. I now whipped back to Dr. Amboyne with

the theory thus obtained, and compared it with that face; the two fitted

each other, and I saw the criminal before me.”

“Good heavens! This is very deep.”

“No slop-basin was ever deeper. So leave it for the present, and go

to work. Here are cards admitting you, as my commissioner, to all the

principal works. Begin with--Stop a moment, while I put myself in your

place. Let me see, 'Cheetham's grinders think they have turned me out of

Hillsborough. That mortifies a young man of merit like me. Confound

'em! I should like to show them they have not the power to drive me out.

Combine how they will, I rise superior. I forge as they could not forge:

that was my real crime. Well, I'll be their superior still. I'm their

inspector, and their benefactor, at higher wages than they, poor devils,

will ever earn at inspecting and benefiting, or any thing else.' Ah!

your color rises. I've hit the right nail, isn't it an excellent and

most transmigratory art? Then begin with Cheetham. By-the-bye, the

Anomaly has spotted a defective grindstone there. Scrutinize all his

departments severely; for no man values his people's lives less than my

good friend John Cheetham. Away with you both; and God speed you.”

Henry walked down the street with the Anomaly, and tried to gauge his

intellects.

“What's your real name, my man?”

“Silly Billy.”

“Oh, then I'm afraid you can't do much to help me.”

“Oh yes, I can, because--”

“Because what?”

“Because I like you.”

“Well, that's lucky, any way.”

“Billy can catch trout when nobody else can,” said the youngster,

turning his eyes proudly up to Henry's.

“Oh, indeed! But you see that is not exactly what the doctor wants us

for.”

“Nay; he's wrapped up in trout. If it wasn't for Billy and the trout,

he'd die right off.”

Henry turned a look of silent pity on the boy, and left him in his

pleasing illusion. He wondered that Dr. Amboyne should have tacked this

biped on to him.

They entered Cheetham's works, and Henry marched grimly into the office,

and showed Mr. Bayne his credentials.

“Why, Little, you had no need of that.”

“Oh, it is as well to have no misunderstanding with your employer's

masters. I visit these works for my present employer, Dr. Amboyne, with

the consent of Mr. Cheetham, here written.”

“Very well, sir,” said Bayne, obsequiously; “and I respectfully solicit

the honor of conducting our esteemed visitor.”

A young man's ill-humor could not stand against this. “Come along, old

fellow,” said Henry. “I'm a bear, with a sore heart; but who could be

such a brute as quarrel with you? Let us begin with the chaps who drove

me out--the grinders. I'm hired to philanthropize 'em--d--n 'em.”

They went among the dry-grinders first; and Henry made the following

observations. The workman's hair and clothes were powdered with grit

and dust from the grindstones. The very air was impregnated with it,

and soon irritated his own lungs perceptibly. Here was early death,

by bronchitis and lung diseases, reduced to a certainty. But he

also learned from the men that the quantity of metal ground off

was prodigious, and entered their bodies they scarce knew how. A

razor-grinder showed him his shirt: it was a deep buff-color. “There,

sir,” said he, “that was clean on yesterday. All the washerwomen in

Hillsbro' can't make a shirt of mine any other color but that.” The

effect on life, health, and happiness was visible; a single glance

revealed rounded shoulders and narrow chests, caused partly by the

grinder's position on his horsing, a position very injurious to the

organs of breathing, and partly by the two devil's dusts that filled the

air; cadaverous faces, the muscles of which betrayed habitual suffering,

coughs short and dry, or with a frothy expectoration peculiar to the

trade. In answer to questions, many complained of a fearful tightness

across the chest, of inability to eat or to digest. One said it took him

five minutes to get up the factory stairs, and he had to lean against

the wall several times.

A razor-grinder of twenty-two, with death in his face, told Henry he had

come into that room when he was eleven. “It soon takes hold of boys,”

said he. “I've got what I shall never get shut on.”

Another, who looked ill, but not dying, received Henry's sympathy with a

terrible apathy. “I'm twenty-eight,” said he; “and a fork-grinder is an

old cock at thirty. I must look to drop off my perch in a year or two,

like the rest.”

Only one, of all these victims, seemed to trouble his head about whether

death and disease could be averted. This one complained that some

employers provided fans to drive the dust from the grinder, but Cheetham

would not go to the expense.

The rest that Henry spoke to accepted their fate doggedly. They were

ready to complain, but not to move a finger in self-defense. Their

fathers had been ground out young, and why not they?

Indifferent to life, health, and happiness, they could nevertheless be

inflamed about sixpence a week. In other words, the money-price of their

labor was every thing to them, the blood-price nothing.

Henry found this out, and it gave him a glimpse into the mind of

Amboyne.

He felt quite confused, and began to waver between hate, contempt, and

pity. Was it really these poor doomed wretches who had robbed him of his

livelihood? Could men so miscalculate the size of things, as to strike

because an inoffensive individual was making complete caring-tools all

by himself, and yet not strike, nor even stipulate for fans, to carry

disease and death away from their own vitals? Why it seemed wasting

hate, to bestow it on these blind idiots.

He went on to the wet-grinders, and he found their trade much healthier

than dry-grinding: yet there were drawbacks. They suffered from the grit

whenever a new stone was hung and raced. They were also subject to

a canker of the hands, and to colds, coughs, and inflammations, from

perspiration checked by cold draughts and drenched floors. These floors

were often of mud, and so the wet stagnated and chilled their feet,

while their bodies were very hot. Excellent recipe for filling graves.

Here Bayne retired to his books, and Henry proceeded to the

saw-grinders, and entered their rooms with no little interest, for they

were an envied trade. They had been for many years governed by Grotait,

than whom no man in England saw clearer; though such men as Amboyne

saw further. Grotait, by a system of Machiavellian policy, ingeniously

devised and carried out, nobly, basely, craftily, forcibly,

benevolently, ruthlessly, whichever way best suited the particular

occasion, had built a model Union; and still, with unremitting zeal and

vigilance, contrived to keep numbers down and prices up--which is the

great Union problem.

The work was hard, but it was done in a position favorable to the lungs,

and the men were healthy, brawny fellows; one or two were of remarkable

stature.

Up to this moment Silly Billy had fully justified that title. He had

stuck to Henry's side like a dog, but with no more interest in the

inquiry than a calf, indeed, his wandering eye and vacant face had

indicated that his scanty wits were wool-gathering miles from the place

that contained his body.

But, as soon as he entered the saw-grinders' room, his features lighted

up, and his eye kindled. He now took up a commanding position in the

center, and appeared to be listening keenly. And he had not listened

many seconds before he cried out, “There's the bad music! there! there!”

And he pointed to a grindstone that was turning and doing its work

exactly like the others. “Oh, the bad music!” cried Billy. “It is out of

tune. It says, 'Murder! murder! Out of tune!'”

Henry thought it his duty to inspect the grindstone so vigorously

denounced, and, naturally enough, went in front of the grinder. But

Billy pulled him violently to the side. “You musn't stand there,” said

he. “That is the way they fly when they break, and kill the poor father,

and then the mother lets down her hair, and the boy goes crazed.”

By this time the men were attracted by the Anomaly's gestures and

exclamations, and several left their work, and came round him. “What is

amiss, Billy? a flawed stone, eh? which is it?”

“Here! here!” said the boy. “This is the wheel of death. Kill it, break

it, smash it, before it kills another father.”

Henry spoke to the grinder, and asked him if there was anything amiss

with the stone.

The man seemed singularly uneasy at being spoken to: however he made

answer sullenly that he had seen better ones, and worse ones, and all.

Henry was, however, aware, that the breaking of a large grindstone,

while revolving by steam power, was a serious, and often a fatal thing;

he therefore made a private mark upon the wall opposite the grindstone,

and took his excited companion to Bayne. “This poor lad says he has

found a defective grindstone. It is impossible for me to test it while

it is running. Will you let us into the works when the saw-grinders have

left?”

Bayne hem'd and haw'd a little, but consented. He would remain behind

half an-hour to oblige Little.

Henry gave the Anomaly his dinner, and then inspected the file-cutters

in two great works. Here he found suicide reduced to a system. Whereof

anon.

Returning, to keep his appointment with Bayne he met a well-dressed man,

who stopped Billy, and accosted him kindly.

Henry strolled on.

He heard their voices behind him all the way, and the man stopped at

Cheetham's gate, which rather surprised him. “Has Billy told you what we

are at?” said he.

“Yes. But the very look of him was enough. I know Billy and his ways,

better than you do.”

“Very likely. What, are you coming in with us?”

“If you have no objection.”

The door was opened by Bayne in person. He started at the sight of the

companion his friend had picked up, and asked him, with marked civility,

if there was anything amiss. “Not that I know of,” was the reply. “I

merely thought that my experience might be of some little service to you

in an inquiry of this kind.”

“Not a doubt of it, sir,” said Bayne, and led the way with his lantern,

for it was past sunset. On the road, the visitor asked if anybody had

marked the accused stone. Henry said he should know it again. “That is

right,” said the other.

On entering the room, this personage took Billy by the arm, and held

him. “Let us have no false alarms,” he said, and blindfolded the boy

with his handkerchief in a moment.

And now an examination commenced, which the time and the place rendered

curious and striking.

It was a long, lofty room; the back part mainly occupied by the drums

that were turned by the driving-power. The power was on the floor above,

and acted by means of huge bands that came down through holes in the

ceiling and turned the drums. From each of these drums came two leather

bands, each of which turned a pulley-wheel, and each pulley-wheel a

grindstone, to whose axle it was attached; but now the grindstones

rested in the troughs, and the great wheel-bands hung limp, and the

other bands lay along loose and serpentine. In the dim light of a single

lamp, it all looked like a gigantic polypus with its limbs extended

lazily, and its fingers holding semi-circular claws: for of the

grindstones less than half is visible.

Billy was a timid creature, and this blindfolding business rather scared

him: he had almost to be dragged within reach of these gaunt antennae.

But each time they got him to touch a grindstone, his body changed its

character from shrinking and doubtful, to erect and energetic, and he

applied his test. This boy carried with him, night and day, a little

wooden hammer, like an auctioneer's, and with this he now tapped each

stone several times, searching for the one he had denounced: and, at

each experiment, he begged the others to keep away from him and leave

him alone with the subject of his experiment; which they did, and held

up the lamp and threw the light on him.

Six heavy grindstones he tapped, and approved, three he even praised and

called “good music.”

The seventh he struck twice, first gently, then hard and drew back from

it, screaming “Oh, the bad music! Oh, the wheel of death!” and tried to

tear the handkerchief from his eyes.

“Be quiet, Billy,” said the visitor, calmly; and, putting his arm round

the boy's neck, drew him to his side, and detached the handkerchief, all

in a certain paternal way that seemed to betoken a kindly disposition.

But, whilst he was doing this, he said to Henry, “Now--you marked a

stone in daylight; which was it?”

“No, no, I didn't mark the stone, but I wrote on the wall just opposite.

Lend us the light, Bayne. By George! here is my mark right opposite this

stone.”

“Then Billy's right. Well done, Billy.” He put his hand in his pocket

and gave him a new shilling. He then inquired of Bayne, with the air of

a pupil seeking advice from a master, whether this discovery ought not

to be acted upon.

“What would you suggest, sir?” asked Bayne, with equal deference.

“Oh, if I was sure I should not be considered presumptuous in offering

my advice, I would say, Turn the stone into the yard, and bang a new

one. You have got three excellent ones outside; from Buckhurst quarry,

by the look of them.”

“It shall be done, sir.”

This effective co-operation, on the part of a stranger, was naturally

gratifying to Henry, and he said to him: “I should be glad to ask you a

question. You seem to know a good deal about this trade--”

A low chuckle burst out of Bayne, but he instantly suppressed it, for

fear of giving offense--

“Are serious accidents really common with these grindstones?”

“No, no,” said Bayne, “not common. Heaven forbid.”

“They are not common--in the newspapers,” replied the other. “But” (to

Bayne), “will you permit me to light these two gaslights for a moment?”

“Well, sir, it is contrary to our rules,--but--”

“All the more obliging of you,” said the visitor, coolly, and lighted

them, with his own match, in a twinkling. He then drew out of his

waistcoat pocket a double eyeglass, gold-mounted, and examining the

ceiling with it, soon directed Henry's attention to two deep dents and

a brown splash. “Every one of those marks,” said he, “is a history, and

was written by a flying grindstone. Where you see the dents the stone

struck the ceiling;” he added very gravely, “and, when it came down

again, ask yourself, did it ALWAYS fall right? These histories are

written only on the ceiling and the walls. The floor could tell its

tales too; but a crushed workman is soon swept off it, and the wheels go

on again.”

“That is too true,” said Henry. “And it does a chap's heart good to hear

a gentleman like you--”

“I'm not a gentleman. I'm an old Saw.”

“Excuse me, sir, you look like a gentleman, and talk like one.”

“And I try to conduct myself like one: but I AM an old Saw.”

“What! and carry a gold eyeglass?”

“The Trade gave it me. I'm an old Saw.”

“Well, then, all the better, for you can tell me, and please do: have

you ever actually known fatal accidents from this cause?”

“I have known the light grinders very much shaken by a breaking stone,

and away from work a month after it. And, working among saw-grinders,

who use heavy stones, and stand over them in working, I've seen--Billy,

go and look at thy shilling, in the yard, and see which is brightest, it

or the moon. Is he gone? I've seen three men die within a few yards of

me. One, the stone flew in two pieces; a fragment, weighing about four

hundredweight I should say, struck him on the breast, and killed him on

place; he never spoke. I've forgotten his very name. Another; the stone

went clean out of window, but it kicked the grinder backward among the

machinery, and his head was crushed like an eggshell. But the worst of

all was poor Billy's father. He had been warned against his stone; but

he said he would run it out. Well, his little boy, that is Billy, had

just brought him in his tea, and was standing beside him, when the stone

went like a pistol-shot, and snapped the horsing chains like a thread; a

piece struck the wall, and did no harm, only made a hole; but the bigger

half went clean up to the ceiling, and then fell plump down again; the

grinder he was knocked stupid like, and had fallen forward on his

broken horsing; the grindstone fell right on him, and, ah--I saw the son

covered with the father's blood.”

He shuddered visibly, at the recollection. “Ay,” said he, “the man a

corpse, and the lad an idiot. One faulty stone did that, within four

yards of me, in a moment of time.”

“Good heavens!”

“I was grinding at the next stone but one. He was taken, and I was left.

It might just as well have been the other way. No saw-grinder can make

sure, when he gets on his horsing, that he will come off it alive.”

The visitor left Henry to think of this while he drew Bayne aside, and

spoke on another matter.

Afterward, all three left the works together; and Henry was so pleased

with his new ally, that he told him, at the gate, he should be glad if

he might be allowed to make his acquaintance.

“By all means,” said the other. “I am quite at your service. You will

find me at the 'Cutlers' Arms.'”

“Who shall I ask for?”

“George Grotait.”

“Grotait. The devil!”

“No, no. Not quite so bad as that.”

“What,” said Henry, roughly, “do you mean to say you are old Smitem?”

“That is a name FOOLS give me.”

Henry had no reply ready, and so the sturdy old secretary got the better

of him again, and went his way unruffled.

Henry scolded Bayne for not telling him. Bayne excused himself on the

ground that he thought everybody knew Grotait. He added, “He knew you,

and told me if he could serve you, without being unjust to the Trades, I

was to tell him.”

Henry replied to this only by a snort of defiance, and bade him

good-night.

The next day and the next were spent in other works, and then Henry,

having no more facts to learn, fell into deep dejection again. He saw

he must either cheat Dr. Amboyne, by shamming work, or else must leave

Hillsborough.

He had the honesty to go to the doctor and say that he had mastered

the whole matter, and didn't see his way to take any more wages from a

friend.

“You mean you have mastered the broad facts.”

“I have, sir, and they are beyond belief; especially the file-cutters.

They are the most numerous of all the Trades, and die like sheep. If

your notion about Life, Labor, and Capital is right, the Trades are

upside down; for the deadliest are the worst paid.”

“And are you prepared with the remedies?”

“Not I.”

“Yet you fancy you are at the end of your work. Why, you are only

beginning. Now comes the real brain work; invention. Now are craniology

and you upon your trial. But you are quite right about weekly salary.

Invention must not be so degraded, but paid by the piece. Life, Labor,

and Capital are upside down in this place, are they? Then you shall be

the man to set them on their legs.”

Henry shook his head. “Never, sir, unless I could give the masters

bowels, and the men brains.”

“Well, and why not? To invention all things are possible. You carry a

note-book?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Got it in your pocket?”

“No; on my shoulders.”

“Haw! haw! haw! Then write this down in it--'THERE'S A KEY TO EVERY

LOCK'”

“It's down, sir.”

“Now you must go out trout-fishing with Billy. He will take you on

the hills, where the air is pure, and favorable to invention. You will

divert your mind from all external subjects, especially Billy, who is

a fool, and his trout-killing inhumane, and I a merciless glutton for

eating them; and you will think, and think, and think, and forge the

required key to this lock with three wards--Life, Labor, Capital. And,

when forged, the Philanthropic Society shall pay you a good price for

it. Meantime, don't dream of leaving Hillsborough, or I shall give you a

stirrup-cup that will waft you much further than London; for it shall be

'of prussic acid all composed,' or 'juice of cursed Hebenon in a vial.'

Come, away with you.”

“Good-by, doctor. God bless you. You have found 'the key to my heart'

somehow. I come to you a miserable broken-hearted dog, and you put life

and hope into me directly. I declare talking with you it's like drinking

sunshine. I'll try all I know to please you.”

He went down the street with his old elastic tread, and muttered to

himself, “There's no lock without a key.”

Next day he went out on the hills with Billy, and saw him tickle trout,

and catch them under stones, and do many strange things, and all the

time he thought of Grace Carden, and bemoaned his sad fate. He could not

command his mind, and direct it to philanthropy. His heart would not let

him, and his personal wrongs were too recent. After a short struggle,

these got so thoroughly the better, that he found himself stealing the

doctor's words for his own purposes. “No lock without a key.” Then there

must be some way of outwitting these cursed Trades, and so making money

enough to set up as a master, and then court her, and woo her, and marry

her. Heaven seemed to open on him at this prospect, and he fell into

a deep reverie. By-and-by, as he pondered, it seemed to him as if the

shadow of a coming idea was projected in advance of the idea itself.

He knew somehow there was a way to baffle his enemies, and resume his

business, and yet he could not see the way; but still he was absolutely

conscious it existed.

This conviction took such hold of him, that he became restless, and

asked Billy to leave off and come away. The youth consented, and they

returned to the town with a basket of trout. Henry sent Billy on to the

doctor with half of them, and took the other half to his friend Bayne.

On what a trifle things turn. Bayne was very much pleased with his

little attention, and asked him to take them to his lodging, and beg

the landlady to cook them for dinner. “Tell her you dine with me, old

fellow.”

“Oh, hang it, I wasn't fishing for a dinner.”

“As if I didn't know that. But you must. Then I shall enjoy your company

in peace. I shall be there in an hour.”

And so he was: but in that one hour events had occurred that I shall

leave Mr. Bayne to relate.

During dinner neither of the friends wasted much time in talk; but

after dinner, Bayne produced a bottle of port, notwithstanding Henry's

remonstrances at being treated like a stranger, and it soon became

apparent that the host himself was not in the habit of drinking that

generous mixture every day. At the second glass he so far forgot himself

as to utter the phrase “Eternal friendship,” and, soon after, he began

to writhe in his chair, and, at last, could no longer refrain himself,

but told Henry that Miss Carden had been canvassing customers. She had

just sent in six orders for sets of carving-tools, all for friends of

her own.

Henry colored to the temples at this unexpected proof that she he loved

thought of him too.

“Oh, Bayne,” cried the poor young man, almost choking, “I little

thought--God bless her!”

“Let us drink her health,” said Bayne, excitedly.

“Ah, that I will!” and this was the first glass Henry drank honestly.

“Now, Little, I'm not doing quite right, you know; but I MUST tell you.

When we lost you--you know that set of tools the Union dropped in our

yard--well, he sent them to London for yours.”

“That is just like him,” said Henry, bitterly.

“And I'll tell you a good joke; they were in the place when you called,

only not unpacked till just before I came away. Returned, sir! with a

severe reprimand. 'Wonder you should send us such things as these for

carving-tools by Little. If the error is not repaired shall consider

ourselves at liberty to communicate direct with that workman.' A regular

sugar-plum.”

“Oh, thank you, my kind friend, for telling me. The world isn't all

bitterness, after all: a poor fellow gets a sweet drop of friendship now

and then.”

“Yes, and a good drop of port now and then, though I say it that

shouldn't. Fill up. Well, my boy, Cheetham is in a fine way. I left him

walking about the office like a hyena. So now is your time. You can't

fight the Trades; but, if Cheetham will go in with you, and I know he

will, for he is sorer than you are, you can trick the Trades yet.”

“Ah! tell me how, that is all.”

“Oh, I can't tell you exactly. I'll try, though. I say, what a glorious

thing the Ruby is: it inspires us, and fires us, et cetera, and gives

us ideas beyond our sphere. Did you ever see one of these new portable

forges?”

“No; never heard of them.”

“No wonder; they are just out. Well, buy one of them--they were invented

here--and carry it to some dismal cavern, where the foot of man never

treads: make Cheetham grind your blades in another county: and who will

ever know? Go to him, and don't say a word, but just ask him for your

month's salary. Then he will open the door of business himself--safe.

I'll drink his health. He's not a bad sort, Cheetham: only he'd sell his

soul for money. I hate such rubbish. Here's 'Perdition to the lot; and

no heel-taps.'”

These words of fire set Henry pondering deeply; and, as he pondered,

Bayne stuck to the port, and so effectually, that, at last, after an

interval of silence, he came out in a new character. He disturbed his

companion's reverie by informing him, in a loud, aggressive tone, that

it had long been his secret wish to encounter the Hillsborough Trades,

in the persons of their secretaries, under the following conditions: a

twenty-four feet ring, an experienced referee, and a kingdom looking

on. As to the order of the pugilistic events, he was not unreasonably

fastidious; must stipulate to begin with old Smitem; but, after that,

they might encounter their fate in any order they chose, one down

t'other come on. He let him know that this ardent desire for single

combats, in an interminable series, arose from their treatment of his

friend--“the best friend--the best heart--oh!--the best company--oh!

oh!--the best--oh! oh! oh!” Whereupon he wept, the bellicose Bayne. And,

after weeping the usual quantity, he twaddled, and, after twaddling, he

became as pacific as ever, for he went to sleep in his chair.

And, while he snoozed, the words he had uttered set his friend's brain

boiling and bubbling.

When the time came at which Bayne ought to return to the works, Henry

called the landlady, and said, “Mr. Bayne is not very well. I am going

to make his excuses. I wouldn't disturb him till five, if I was you, and

then I'd give him a strong cup of tea.”

Henry then went direct to the office, and found Mr. Cheetham there.

“Well?” said Mr. Cheetham, rather surlily.

“I am come to ask for my month, sir.”

“So I guessed. Do you really mean to exact that?”

“Why not, sir?”

“Haven't you heard how they ground me down?”

“Yes, sir. But why did you give in? I was true to you, but you failed

me. I'd have shut up the works for three months, rather than be made a

slave of, and go from my word.”

“Ay, ay; that's bachelor's talk. I've got a wife and children, and they

make a man a mouse.”

“Well, sir, I forgive you: but as to my month's wages--now all I say

is--PUT YOURSELF IN MY PLACE!”

“Well?”

“You are me. You are brought from London, under an agreement, a

month's notice on either side. You work, and give satisfaction. You are

threatened, but you don't run from your employer. You are blown up,

and nearly killed. You lose a fortnight, but you don't charge for it;

'twasn't your employer's fault. You come back to him, and face the music

again. You work with the sword hanging over you. But your employer gives

in, and sacks you in a minute. Oughtn't you to have your month? Come

now, man to man, oughtn't you?”

“I ought, and that's the truth. I didn't look at it that way. I saw

my own side. There--no more about it--I'll draw the check--with a good

heart.”

He drew his check-book to him, with a face as if vultures were tearing

his vitals.

When Henry found him Amboynable, and saw his piteous look, he felt a

little softened toward him, and he said, very impressively, “Wait one

moment, sir, I've got an idea. I'm not the sort that likes to be beat.

Are YOU?” The men looked steadily at each other.

Cheetham lowered his voice. “I've had hell inside me ever since. I

thought I was a man, but they made a mouse of me. If you know any way to

beat them, I'll go in with you.”

“Well, sir, there is a key to every lock.”

“That is well said, and I believe it; but one can't always find the

key.”

“I almost think I have, sir.”

“See nobody is listening. Where is Bayne? He is due.”

“Oh, he is not very well, sir; and I was to ask you for an hour's

absence.”

“Let him have the whole afternoon. I'll not have a soul in this but us

two. Now come close, and tell me.”

They sat opposite each other, and put their heads together over the

table, and the following dialogue passed almost in a whisper. To see

them, you would have thought they were conspiring against the law,

instead of combining to hide a lawful act from the violaters of the law.

“I can forge the blades a dozen miles from Hillsborough.”

“Not you; you will be told of. That won't do.”

“I shall not be told of; for nobody will know but you. I shall only

forge at night; and the building is out of the world, and wedged in, out

of sight, between two bleak hills. Sir, it is a deserted church.”

“What, forge blades in a church?”

“A deserted church; why not?”

“Little, you are A 1. Go on.”

“I can get the blades ground by a friend at Birmingham; and my mother

and I can put them together at home. The complete articles will come to

you in parcels of a certain colored paper, invoiced in cipher outside,

so that they need not be opened; you can trust the invoice, and dispatch

them to your London agent.”

“All right.”

“The steel you must supply me at the current price, and charge it

against me.”

“Certainly. But your price per gross? For this work can't be done by

time.”

“Of course not.” And Henry named a price per gross at which Cheetham

lifted up his hands. “Why, you'll take nine pounds a week at that!”

“Ay, and more,” said Henry, coolly. “But I sha'n't make it. Why, this

scheme entails no end of expenses. A house, and stables with back

entrance. A swift horse, to gallop to the forge at sunset, and back

by noon. A cart to take the things to the railway and back, and to the

parcel delivery for you. And, besides that, I must risk my neck, riding

over broken ground at night: and working night and day shortens life.

You can't reduce these things to Labor and Capital. It's Life, Labor,

and Capital.”

“Hallo! There's a new cry. I tell ye what; you know too much for me. You

read the Beehive. I take you at your price.”

Then he had a misgiving. “That old Smitem's as crafty as a fox. If he

finds you stay here, with no visible employment, he will soon be down on

us.”

“Ay; but in the day-time I shall appear as a carver of wood, and also an

inspector of factories for Dr. Amboyne. Who will suspect me of a night

trade, as well as two day trades?”

Cheetham slapped the table triumphantly: but, recovering his caution, he

whispered, “It's planned first-rate.”

“And now, sir, there is one difficulty you must help me in, if you

please. It is to set up the forge unobserved.”

“What, am I to find the forge?”

“There's a question, sir! Of course you are. One of these new portable

forges.”

Cheetham reflected for some little time. He then said it was a ticklish

thing, and he saw but one way. “The forge must come here, after closing

hours, and you and I must fetch it away in the dead of night, and take

it down to the old church, and set it up.”

“Well, but, sir, we shall want assistance.”

“Nay, nay. I've got the last suit of moleskin I ever worked in laid

away. I'll air 'em, and put 'em on again; and, when I've got em on once

more, I shall feel a man again. I'll have neither fool nor spy in it:

the thing is too serious. I might bring some country fellow, that can't

read or write; but no, these portables are small things, and I'm one of

the strongest men in Hillsborough. Best keep it to ourselves. When is it

to be?”

“Say next Wednesday, two hours after midnight.”

“Then that is settled. And now I'll square the old account agreed.” He

drew his check-book toward him again.

But Henry slopped him. “Fair play's a jewel,” said he smiling. “The

moment you sacked me--”

“Say the Trades, not me.”

“Dr. Amboyne hired me, at six guineas a week, to inspect the works. So

you owe me nothing; but to be true to me.”

This trait, though it was one of simple probity, astonished and

gratified Mr. Cheetham. He looked on the young man with marked respect.

“You are hard; but you are very square. I'll be true as steel to you,

and we'll outwit our tyrants together, till I get a chance to put my

foot on them. Yes, I'll be open with you; there are plenty of orders

from London and the Continent, and one for six sets from swells in

Hillsborough.”

“Might I see that order?”

“Why not? There, run your eye over it. I want to go into the

packing-room for a minute.”

He then tossed Henry the order, as if it was nothing more than an order.

But it was a great deal more than that to Henry. It was Grace Carden's

handwriting, the first specimen he had ever seen.

He took the paper in his hand, and a slight perfume came from it that

went to his heart. He devoured the delicately formed letters, and they

went to his heart too: he thrilled all over. And the words were as

like her as the perfume. She gave the order, and the addresses of her

friends, with a pretty little attempt at the businesslike; but, this

done, she burst out, “and we all entreat you to be good to poor Mr.

Little, and protect him against the wicked, cruel, abominable Unions.”

These sweet words made his heart beat violently, and brought the tears

of tenderness into his eyes. He kissed the words again and again. He put

them into his bosom, and took them out again, and gloated over them till

they danced before his manly eyes. Then his love took another turn: he

started up, and marched and strutted, like a young stag, about the

room, with one hand pressing the paper to his bosom. Why had he said

Wednesday? It could all have been got ready on Tuesday. No matter, he

would make up for that lost day. He was on the road, once more, the road

to fortune, and to her.

Cheetham came in, and found him walking excitedly, with the paper in his

hand, and of course took the vulgar view of his emotion.

“Ay, lad,” said he, “and they are all swells, I promise you. There's

Miss Laura Craske. That's the mayor's daughter. Lady Betty Tyrone. She's

a visitor. Miss Castleton! Her father is the county member.”

“And who is this Mr. Coventry?” asked Henry.

“Oh, he is a landed gentleman, but spends his tin in Hillsborough; and

you can't blame him. Mr. Coventry? Why, that is Miss Carden's intended.”

“Her intended!” gasped Henry.

“I mean her beau. The gentleman she is going to marry, they say.”

Henry Little turned cold, and a tremor ran through him; but he did not

speak a word; and, with Spartan fortitude, suppressed all outward sign

of emotion. He laid the paper down patiently, and went slowly away.

Loyal to his friend even in this bitter moment, he called at Bayne's

place and left word with the landlady that Mr. Bayne was not wanted at

the works any more that day.

But he could not bear to talk to Bayne about his plans. They had lost

their relish. He walked listlessly away, and thought it all over.

For the first time he saw his infatuation clearly. Was ever folly like

his? If she had been a girl in humble life, would he not have asked

whether she had a sweetheart? Yet he must go and give his heart to a

lady without inquiry. There, where wisdom and prudence were most needed,

he had speculated like an idiot. He saw it, and said to himself, “I have

acted like a boy playing at pitch-farthing, not like a man who knew the

value of his heart.”

And so he passed a miserable time, bemoaning the treasure that was now

quite inaccessible instead of nearly, and the treasure of his own heart

he had thrown away.

He awoke with a sense of misery and deep depression, and could not eat;

and that was a novelty in his young and healthy life. He drank a cup of

tea, however, and then went out, to avoid his mother's tender looks of

anxious inquiry. He meant to tell her all one day; but to-day he was

not strong enough. He must wait till he was cured; for cured he must be,

cured he would be.

He now tried to give his mind to the task Amboyne had set him; but it

was too hard: he gave it up, with rage and despair.

Then he made a desperate resolve, which will not surprise those who

know the human heart. He would harden himself. He would see more of Miss

Carden than ever; only it should be in quite a new light. He would look

at her, and keep saying to himself all the time, “You are another man's

wife.”

With this determination, he called at “Woodbine Villa.”

Miss Carden was not at home.

“Are you sure she is not at home?”

“Not at home,” replied the man stiffly.

“But you needn't to keep him at the door,” said a mellow female voice.

“No, miss,” said the man, with a sudden change of manner, for he was a

desperate and forlorn admirer of the last speaker. “Come in, sir.” And

he ushered him in to Jael Dence. She was in her bonnet, and just going

out. They shook hands, and she told him Miss Carden was out walking.

“Walking with her beau?” said Henry, affecting a jaunty air, but sick

within.

“That's more than I can say,” replied Jael.

“You know nothing about it, of course,” said Henry, roughly.

Jael looked surprised at the uncalled-for tone, and turned a mild glance

of inquiry and reproach upon him.

The young man was ashamed of himself, and at that moment, too, he

remembered he had already been rather ungrateful to her. So, to make

amends, he said, “Didn't I promise to take you to Cairnhope?”

“Ay,” said Jael; and she beamed and blushed in a moment.

“Well, I must go there, Sunday at the latest. So I will come for you, if

you like. Will you be ready at ten o'clock?”

“Yes.”

“I'll bring a gig, and take you like a lady.”

“Anyway you please. I'd as lieve walk as ride.”

“I prefer riding. Ten o'clock, the day after to-morrow. Good-by.”

And he hurried away, provoked, not pleased, at the manifest pleasure he

had given. The woman he loved--inaccessible! The woman he only liked--he

could spend the whole day with her. So the reasonable youth was cross

with her for that, and for being so pleased, when he was wretched.

That feeling soon wore off, however, and, being a man of business,

he wrote a line to Martha Dence, and told her he should visit her on

Sunday. He added, with a gleam of good-humor, “and look out, for I shall

bring my lass,” intending to give them all an agreeable surprise; for

Jael, he knew, was an immense favorite.

Next day he went on the hills with Billy, and, instead of thinking for

the benefit of his enemies, as agreed with Amboyne, he set himself to

hate every body, especially Miss Carden's lover, and the Hillsborough

Unions. The grinders and file-cutters might die like sheep. What did he

care? As much as they cared for him. Dr. Amboyne was too good for this

world, and should keep his money to himself. He (Henry Little) would

earn none of it, would take none of it. What invention he had should all

go to outwit the Trades, and turn that old ruffian's church into his own

smithy. This double master-stroke, by which he was to defeat one enemy,

and secretly affront another, did make him chuckle one or twice, not

with joy, but with bitterness.

He awoke in a similar mood next morning: but there was eight o'clock

service near, and the silver-toned bell awakened better thoughts. He

dressed hurriedly, and went to church.

He came back sadder, but rather less hot, less bitter: he had his

breakfast, improved his toilet, went to the livery stable, and drove to

“Woodbine Villa.”

Mr. and Miss Carden had just finished breakfast, when he drove up to the

door.

“Who is this?” said Mr. Carden.

“What, have you forgotten Mr. Little?”

“Indeed! Why, how he is dressed. I took him for a gentleman.”

“You were not very far wrong, papa. He is a gentleman at heart.”

Jael came in equipped for the ride. She was neatly dressed, and had a

plain shepherd's-plaid shawl, that suited her noble bust. She looked a

picture of health and happiness.

“If you please, miss, he is come to take me to Cairnhope.”

“Oh! is it for that? And I declare you expected him, too.”

“Yes,” said Jael, and blushed.

“You never told me,” said Grace, with a light touch of asperity.

“I didn't feel very sure he would keep his word.”

“Then you don't know him as well as I do.”

“I haven't the chance. He speaks a deal more to you than he do to me.”

“Well, Jael, you needn't snub me, because you are going with Mr.

Little.”

As a bone, put between two friendly dogs, causes a growl, so when a

handsome young man enters on the scene, I have seen young women lose a

little of that unmitigated sweetness which marked them a moment before.

With Grace, however, to snap and to repent generally followed in

a breath. “I hope you will have a happy day, dear, as happy as you

deserve.” She then went to kiss her, but gave her cheek, instead of

her lips. “There,” said she, in rather a flurried way, “don't keep Mr.

Little waiting.”

Just as they drove off, Grace came to the window, after a slight

irresolution, and kissed her hand to them enchantingly; at which a

sudden flood of rapture rushed through Little's heart, and flushed his

cheek, and fired his dark eye; Grace caught its flash full in hers, and

instinctively retired a step. They were off.

“How bright and happy they look,” said she to her father. And no wonder.

She sat down, and, somehow, she felt singularly dull and lonely.

Then she dressed for church, languidly. Then she went to church.

By-and-by she came back from church.

Then she sat down, in her bonnet, and felt alone in the world, and

sad; and at last she found herself quietly crying, as young ladies will

sometimes, without any visible cause.

Then she asked herself what on earth she was crying about, and herself

told her she was a little hysterical fool, and wanted a good beating.

Then she plucked up spirit, and dried her eyes. Then she took to

yawning, and said Sunday was a dull day, and life itself rather a

wearisome thing.

Then a servant came to inquire if she was at home.

“What, on Sunday? Of course not. Who is it?”

“Mr. Coventry, miss.”

“I am at home.”

CHAPTER X.

People that met Jael Dence and Henry Little driving to Cairnhope

were struck with their faces; his so dark, hers so fair, and both so

handsome: but the woman's lit up with lively delight, the man's clouded

and sorrowful, and his brow knit with care. This very day he must take

the lock off Cairnhope old church, in spite of his Uncle Raby. He had

got the requisite tools with him hidden in the gig; but, even should

he succeed, it was but the first step of a difficult and, perhaps,

dangerous enterprise; and he was entering on it all with a heart no

longer buoyed by hopeful love. But for his pledge to Mr. Cheetham he

could hardly have persisted in the struggle.

As for Jael Dence, she had no great reason to be happy either: the man

she loved loved another. Still he was kind to HER, and they belonged to

the same class; she had a chance, and gleams of hope. And, after all,

the future was uncertain, but the present certain: she had him to

herself for the day. She was close to him--so close, that she could feel

him--and he was driving her out, and to those who loved her: she basked

in the present delight, and looked as if she was being taken to heaven

by an angel, instead of driving to Cairnhope by a gloomy young man, whom

the passers-by envied, and wondered at his good luck in having such a

companion. She talked to him, and got the short answers of an absent

man. But she continued to make her little remarks occasionally, and, ere

they reached Cairnhope, he found himself somehow soothed by her sex, her

beauty, and her mellow, kindly voice.

As they drove up to the farm-house, he told her to hide her face a

moment, for they didn't know who it was.

Martha ran out. “Y'are welcome, y'are welcome; and so is your--Eh! Why

it's our Jael. 'Tis no avail to hide thy face, thou jade; I know every

bit o' thee.” And Patty had her out of the gig in a moment, and there

was a cuddling match it did one good to see.

Henry perked up for a moment and offered a suggestion. “Some of that

ought to come my way, for bringing her here.”

“Oh, you'll get enough o' that fun before you die,” said Patty. “Now

come you in; the carter's boy will take the horse.”

They went in and greeted the old farmer; and soon the bell began to ring

for church, and Nathan Dence told Martha to put on her bonnet.

“La, father!” said she, piteously.

“She prefers to stay at home and chat with Jael,” said Henry. The fact

is, he wanted to be rid of them both.

Old Dence shook his head. He was one of those simple, grand, old rustic

Christians, who have somehow picked out the marrow of religion, and left

the devil the bone, yclept theology. “What?” said he, “my lasses! can't

ye spare God a slice out of his own day?”

“Nay, it is not that, father.”

The old man continued his remonstrance. “To be sure our Jael is a

cordial. But she'll dine and sup with us. Take my word for 't, all

lawful pleasures are sweeter on the Lord's day after a bit o' church.”

“And so they are, father; but dear heart! to think of you forgetting.

Will nobody tell him? They're sworn to give me a red face, Jael and

all.”

This piteous appeal set Jael's wits working. “Eh, father, it will be the

first of her bans!”

“Is it me you are asking such a question?” cried Patty, and turned her

head away with absurd mock-modesty.

“And so 'tis,” said Dence; “ah, that is a different thing.”

Henry thought that was no reason for Patty's staying at home; she ought

rather to go and hear the bans were cried all right.

At this proposal both sisters lifted up their hands, and he was

remonstrated with, and lectured, and at last informed that, if a girl

was in church when her bans were cried, her children would be all born

deaf and dumb.

“Oh, indeed!” said Little, satirically. “That's a fact in natural

history I was not aware of. Well, farmer, then let's you and I go by

ourselves.”

So Patty stayed at home, in obedience to rural superstition, and Jael

stayed to keep her company, and Farmer Dence went to church out of

piety; and as for Henry, to tell the truth, he went to church to escape

the girls' tongues, and to be in a quiet, somniferous place, where he

could think out his plans undisturbed.

The men were no sooner gone than the sisters began to gossip hard.

“Eh, Jael, thou's gotten a prize.”

“Not as I know of.”

“I do adore a dark young man.”

“So do I; but this one is not mine.”

“I'll take his word before thine. Why, he calls thee his lass in his

very letter.”

“Not he. Show me his letter.”

“What will ye give me?”

“Nay, Patty, pray show it me.”

“Well, and so I will.”

She brought her the letter. Jael read it and changed color, and was

delighted for a moment or two; but soon her good sense and humility

prevailed. “'Twas to surprise you, like. I do know he looks higher than

me.”

“More fool he. But I don't believe it.”

“You may,” said Jael, and turned the conversation to Patty's

approaching marriage; once launched in that direction, it flowed without

intermission till the men returned, and dinner smoked upon the board.

After dinner Henry watched an opportunity, and slipped out into the

yard, got the tools out, put his great-coat over them, and away to

Cairnhope Church. He knew better than go past Raby Hall to it: he went

back toward Hillsborough, full three miles, and then turned off the road

and got on the heather. He skirted the base of a heathery mound, and at

last saw the church on an elevation before him, made for it incautiously

over some boggy ground, and sank in up to his waist.

He extricated himself with considerable difficulty, and cast a woful

look at his clothes.

Then he turned to, and piled up a heap of stones to mark the dangerous

spot; for he foresaw he must often travel that way in all weathers. At

last he reached the church, removed the lock, and fastened the door with

screws. He then went back to the farm as fast as he could. But all this

had taken a long time, and the sun was sinking as he got into the yard.

He was in the very act of concealing the lock in the gig, when Martha

Dence came out at him, as red as a turkey-cock.

“You thought but little of my sister, young man, to leave her all these

hours, and you come out to spend the day with her.”

“Stuff and nonsense! I came out on my own business.”

“So it seems. And it have taken you into worse company. A fine figure

she has made you.”

“Who?”

“The hussy you have been after this while.”

“That's so like you girls. You think a man has nothing to do but to run

after women.”

“What business can you have on the Sabbath-day, I'd like to know.”

“Would you? Well, I'll tell you--when I tell the bellman.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Little. Trust none but your friends.”

This was a bitter remark. Henry could not reply to it, and that moved

his bile. Patty pursued her advantage, and let him know that, when a

young man brought a young woman out for the day, he did not leave her

for three hours at a stretch, unless he meant to affront her. She raised

her voice in saying this, and so did he in replying, “Tell you I came

out on my own business, not Jael's; but I am a good-natured fellow,

considering all I endure, so I took that opportunity to bring your

sister out to see you. Could I guess you two couldn't make yourselves

happy for one afternoon without flirting? So much for sisterly

affection! Well, next time I'll come alone--if I come at all.”

Jael came out at the raised voices, and received this last sentence full

in the face. She turned pale.

“Oh, Patty, Patty, what have you been saying?”

“I've been speaking my mind, that is all.”

“Ay, and you've made him say the only unkind word I ever heard from his

lips.”

“I'm very sorry, Jael,” said the young man, penitently.

“Oh, then I'm to blame, because he is so ill-tempered.” And Patty

bridled.

“Partly. You should not interfere between friends.” Having delivered

this admonition, Jael softened it by kissing her, and whispered,

“Father's asking for his tea.”

Patty went in as meek as Moses.

Then Jael turned to Henry, and laid her hand on his arm, while her gray

eyes searched his face.

“There's something amiss. You are never cross, except when you are

unhappy. What is it?”

“Oh, Jael, my heart is broken. She is going to be married.”

“Who says so?”

“Mr. Cheetham told me she was engaged to a Mr. Coventry.”

“What can Mr. Cheetham know? To be sure the gentleman is a good deal

with her, and I hear he has courted her this two years; and she likes

his company, that's certain. But she is used to be admired, and she is

very hard to please.”

“What, then, you think it is not quite hopeless?”

“While there's life there's hope.”

“What had I better do?”

“Nay, you shouldn't ask me.”

“Oh, yes: you advised me so wisely about the insurance.”

“Ay, but then I saw it clear. He is purse-proud, and I knew he'd think a

deal more of you if you insured your life for a vast o' money. But now I

don't see clear; and I'm loath to advise. Happen you'd hate me afterward

if it went wrong.”

“No, no, I wouldn't be so ungrateful.”

Jael shook her head, doubtfully.

“Well, then,” said Henry, “don't advise me; but put yourself in my

place. (I'll tell you a secret I daren't trust to Patty. I have found a

way to beat the Trades, and make my fortune in a year or two.) Now what

would you do, if you were me?”

This question raised a tumult in Jael's heart. But her strong will, her

loyalty, and, above all, her patience, conquered, though not without

signs of the struggle, a bosom that heaved somewhat higher, and a

low voice that trembled a little. “If I was a young man, I wouldn't

shilly-shally, nor wait till I was rich, before I spoke. I'd have it out

with her. I'd get her alone, and tell her all. Then, if she showed

any sign of liking, I'd beg her to wait a bit, and say I'd soon be a

gentleman for her sake. And if she cares naught for you, better know it,

and leave her, than fare in heaven one hour and in hell the next, as I

have seen thee do this while, my poor lad.”

“It is wise and good advice, and I'll take it. I've kept all my courage

for the Trades; I'd better have shown her a little. But there's one

thing more I want to ask you.”

This was too much. Jael's courage and patience failed her for once.

“Keep it,” she cried almost wildly. “I can't bear no more. There's not

one lass in a hundred would do what I have done for you: yet you want

more. D'ye think I'm not flesh and blood, as well as her?”

And she began to cry bitterly.

This took Henry quite by surprise, and grieved him. He consoled her, and

coaxed her, in vague terms, that did not produce any effect. So then he

kissed her cheek, and dried her eyes with his own handkerchief, and that

was not quite so ineffectual. She gave a final sob, and said, with some

slight remains of passion, “There, there; never heed me. It takes a deal

of patience to go through the world.” And so she left him.

He was not sorry to be alone a minute, and think. This short dialogue

with Jael gave him some insight into female character. It made him

suspect that he had been too timid with Grace Carden, and also that

there were two women in the game instead of one.

When the time came to return he asked leave to borrow a horse-cloth.

He aired it by the fire, and remarked that it had turned very cold.

“Why,” said Patty, “you have got your top-coat. Well, you are a soft

one.”

“And you are a sharp one,” said Henry, ironically.

When Jael came to the gig, Henry put the cloth over her shoulders.

“'Twasn't for me, ye see,” said he: “'twas for my betters.”

“I like you for that,” said Patty.

Then there was much kissing, and shaking of hands, and promising to come

again, and away they drove to Hillsborough.

On the road Henry, for the first time, was very respectful, as well as

kind, to Jael. She was soft and gentle, but rather silent and reserved.

They parted at the door of “Woodbine Villa.”

Next day, Henry called early, and found Miss Carden alone. His heart

beat tumultuously. She was very gracious, and hoped he had spent a

pleasant day yesterday.

“Pretty well.”

“Is that all? Why I quite envied you your ride, and your companion.”

“She is a very good girl.”

“She is something more than that: but one does not find her out all at

once.”

Now it was Henry's turn. But he was flustered, and thinking how he

should begin. And, while he hesitated, the lady asked him was he come to

finish the bust.

“No. I didn't come for that. I will finish it though.” And thus he was

diverted from his purpose, for the moment.

He took a carving tool, and eyed his model, but soon laid down the tool,

and said: “I haven't thanked you yet. And I don't know how to thank

you.”

“What for?”

“For what you sent to Mr. Cheetham.”

“Oh!” said Grace, and blushed. Then she turned it off, and said she

thought if any body ought to thank her for that, it was Mr. Cheetham.

“Ay, for the order. But the sweet words that came with it? Do you think

I don't prize them above all the orders in the world?”

She colored high again. “What! did he show you my note?”

“He did: and that has made me his friend. Shall I tell you the effect of

those words on me?”

“No; never mind. But I'm glad I put them in, if they did you any good.”

“Any good? They made me a new man. I was defeated by the Trades: I was

broken-hearted: and I hated every body. Good Dr. Amboyne had set me work

to do; to save the lives of my fellow-creatures. But I couldn't; I hated

them so. The world had been too unjust to me, I could not return it good

for evil. My heart was full of rage and bitterness.”

“That's a great pity--at your age. But really it is no wonder. Yes; you

have been cruelly used.” And the water stood in Grace's eyes.

“Ay, but it is all over; those sweet words of yours made a man of me

again. They showed me you cared a little for me. Now I have found a

way to outwit the Trades. Now I'm on the road to fortune. I won't be a

workman this time next year. I'll be a master, and a thriving one.”

“Ay, do, do. Beat them, defeat them; make them scream with envy. But I

am afraid you are too sanguine.”

“No; I can do it, if you will only give me another word of hope to keep

me going; and oh, I need it, if you knew all.”

Grace began to look uneasy. “Mr. Little, can you doubt that you have

my best wishes?” said she, guardedly, and much less warmly than she had

spoken just before.

“No, I don't doubt that; but what I fear is, that, when I have gained

the hard battle, and risen in the world, it will be too late. Too late.”

Grace turned more and more uncomfortable.

“Oh, pray wait a few months, and see what I can do, before you--”

Will it be believed that Mr. Carden, who seldom came into this room at

all, must walk in just at this moment, and interrupt them. He was too

occupied with his own affairs, to pay much attention to their faces, or

perhaps he might have asked himself why the young man was so pale, and

his daughter so red.

“I heard you were here, Little, and I want to speak to you on a matter

of some importance.”

Grace took this opportunity, and made her escape from the room promptly.

Henry, burning inwardly, had to listen politely to a matter he thought

pitiably unimportant compared with that which had been broken off. But

the “Gosshawk” had got him in its clutches; and was resolved to make

him a decoy duck. He was to open a new vein of Insurances. Workmen had

hitherto acted with great folly and imprudence in this respect, and he

was to cure them, by precept as well as example.

Henry assented, to gratify a person whose good-will he might require,

and to get rid of a bore. But that was not so easy; the “Gosshawk” was

full of this new project, and had a great deal to say, before he came to

the point, and offered Henry a percentage on the yearly premium of every

workman that should be insured in the “Gosshawk.”

This little bargain struck, Henry was left alone; and waited for the

return of Miss Carden.

He was simple enough to hope she would come back, and have it out with

him.

She kept carefully out of his way, and, at last, he went sadly home.

“Ah,” said he, “Jael gave me bad advice. I have been premature, and

frightened her.”

He would go to work his own way again.

In forty-eight hours he moved into his new house, furnished it partly:

bought a quantity of mediocre wood-carving, and improved it; put

specimens in his window, and painted his name over the door. This, at

his mother's request and tearful entreaties, he painted out again, and

substituted “Rowbotham.”

Nor was Rowbotham a mere nom de plume. It was the real name of Silly

Billy. The boy had some turn for carving, but was quite uncultivated:

Henry took him into his employ, fed him, and made free with his name.

With all this he found time to get a key made to fit the lock of

Cairnhope old Church.

At one o'clock on Thursday morning he came to Cheetham's works, and

scratched at the gate. A big workman opened it. It turned out to be

Cheetham himself, in a moleskin suit, and a long beard.

The forge on wheels was all ready, also a cart containing anvil,

bellows, hammers, pincers, leathern buckets, and a quantity of steel

laths. They attached the forge to the tail of the cart, and went on

their silent expedition. Cheetham drove the cart. Henry followed afar

off until they had cleared the suburbs.

They passed “Woodbine Villa.” A single light was burning. Henry eyed

it wistfully, and loitered long to look at it. Something told him

that light was in her bedroom. He could hardly tear himself away from

contemplating it: it was his pole-star.

There was only one great difficulty in their way; a man on a horse might

cross the moor, but a cart must go by “Raby Hall” to reach the church:

and, before they got within a furlong of the Hall, a watch-dog began to

bark.

“Stop, sir,” whispered Henry. “I expected this.” He then produced some

pieces of thick felt, and tied them with strings round the wheels.

They then drove by the house as fast as they could. They did not deceive

the dogs; but no man heard them, nor saw them.

They got to the church, opened the door, and drew the forge into the

deserted building.

As soon as they got inside, Cheetham cast his eyes round and gave a

shudder. “You must have a stout heart: no money should tempt me to work

here by myself. Lord! What's that?”

For a low musical moan was heard.

Cheetham darted back, and got to the church-door.

Henry's heart beast faster: but he lighted his lantern, and went up

the aisle. The place was solemn, grim, gaunt, and moldering, and echoed

strangely; but it was empty. He halloed to his companion that it was all

right. Then they set the forge up near a pillar at the entrance into the

chancel. When they had done this, and brought in the steel laths, the

sacks of coals, etc., Cheetham produced a flask, and took a pull of

neat brandy. This gave him courage, and he proposed to have a look round

before they went. Accordingly they inspected the building.

When they came round to the chancel, suddenly there was a rattle, and a

tremendous rush of some huge thing that made a cold wind, and blew out

the light.

Henry was appalled, and Cheetham dropped the lantern, and ran, yelling.

And soon Henry heard his voice in the churchyard calling on him to come

out.

He did go out, and felt very much puzzled and alarmed. However, he got

matches from Cheetham, and went back, and lighted the lantern, quaking

a little, and then he found that the great moldering picture over the

altar had rotted away from some of its supports, and one half of it was

now drooping, like a monstrous wing, over the altar.

He returned with the lantern, and told Cheetham what it was. Then

he screwed on the lock, locked the church, and they went back to

Hillsborough in good spirits.

But, as he lay in bed, Henry thought the matter over, and, for the first

time in his life, felt superstitious.

“It is very odd,” he said, “that old picture my forefathers have

worshiped under, and prayed to, no doubt, should flap out in my face

like that, the moment I offered to set up my forge among their dead

bones.”

Daylight dispersed these superstitious feelings, and the battle began.

As usual, the first step toward making money was to part with it. He

could do nothing without a horse and a light cart. In Hillsborough they

drive magnificent horses in public cabs: Henry knew one in particular,

that had often spun up the steepest hills with him; a brute of

prodigious bone and spirit. He bought this animal for a moderate price,

considering his value: and then the next thing was--and indeed with some

of us it precedes the purchase of the animal--to learn to ride.

He had only two days to acquire this accomplishment in: so he took a

compendious method. He went to the circus, at noon, and asked to see

the clown. A gloomy fellow was fished out of the nearest public, and

inquired what he wanted.

“The clown.”

“Well, I am the clown.”

“What! you the merry chap that makes the fun?” said Henry,

incredulously.

“I make the fun at night,” replied the man, dolefully. “If you want fun

out of me, come and pay your shilling, like a man.”

“But it isn't fun I'm come for. I want to learn to ride.”

“Then you are too old. Why, we begin as soon as we can stand on a

horse's back.”

“Oh, I don't mean to ride standing. I want to sit a horse, rearing, or

plunging, or blundering over rough ground.”

“What will you stand?”

“A sovereign.”

The clown dived into the public-house, and told a dark seedy man, with

his black hair plastered and rolled effeminately, that he had got a

bloke who would stand a quid for a mount. The two came out, and the

plastered Italian went to the stables: the melancholy punster conducted

Henry into the arena, and stood beside him like Patience on a monument.

Presently a quiet mare ran in, and stuck.

Henry was mounted, and cantered her round, the two men instinctively

following in a smaller circle, with jaws as long as your arm.

“This is delightful,” said Henry; “but I might as well be sitting in a

chair. What I want is a Prancer.”

Then they brought him another horse, just as docile as the mare. The

obedient creature, at a signal, reared suddenly, and seated Mr. Little

on the sawdust behind him. A similar result was attained several times,

by various means. But Henry showed himself so tough, courageous, and

persistent, that he made great progress, and his good-humor won his

preceptors. They invited him to come tomorrow, at an earlier hour,

and bring half a quid with him. He did so, and this time there was an

American rider rehearsing, who showed Henry what to do, and what not

to do; and gave him a most humorous and instructive lesson. Indeed, his

imitations of bad riding were so truthful and funny, that even the clown

was surprised into one laugh; he who rarely smiled, unless in the way of

business.

“Well, sir,” said Henry, “you have given me a good lesson; now take a

hint from me; just you go and do all this before the public; for I never

saw you do any thing half as droll.”

They all three shook their heads with one accord. Go out of the beaten

track, before an audience? Never. Such vagaries were only admissible in

private.

After this second day the fee was reduced to a gallon of ale.

But, on the third day, the pupil combined theory with practice. He told

his mother he was going to Cairnhope for the night. He then rode off to

Cairnhope Church. He had two large saddle-bags, containing provisions,

and tools of all sorts. He got safe across the moor just before sunset.

He entered the church, led the horse in with him, and put him into the

Squire's pew. He then struck a light, went into the chancel, and

looked at the picture. It was as he had left it; half on the wall, half

drooping over the altar-place. The walls were dank, and streaked here

and there with green. His footsteps echoed, and the edifice was all

dark, except within the rays of his lantern; it also sang and moaned in

a way to be accounted for by the action of the wind on a number of small

apertures; but, nevertheless, it was a most weird and ghostly sound. He

was glad of the companionship of his very horse.

He took his buckets to the mountain stream, and, in due course, filled

his trough, and left one bucket full for other uses. He then prepared

and lighted his forge. As he plied the bellows, and the coals gleamed

brighter and brighter, monumental figures came out and glared at him;

mutilated inscriptions wavered on the walls; portions of the dark walls

themselves gleamed in the full light, and showed the streaks and stains

of age and weather, and the shadow of a gigantic horse's head; and, as

the illuminated part seemed on fire by contrast, so the dark part of

the church was horribly black and mysterious, and a place out of which

a ghost or phantom might be expected, at any moment, to come forth into

that brilliant patch of light.

Young Little, who had entered on this business in all the skepticism of

the nineteenth century, felt awed, and began to wish he had selected

any other building in the world but this. He seemed to be desecrating a

tomb.

However, he mustered up his manly resolution. He looked up at a small

aperture in the roof, and saw a star glittering above: it seemed close,

and a type of that omniscient eye “from which no secrets are hid.”

He clasped his hands together, and said, “I hope God, who has seen me

driven from the haunts of men, will forgive me for taking refuge here;

and, if he does, I don't care who else is offended, alive or dead.” And,

with this, he drew the white-hot strip of steel from the forge on to the

anvil, and down came his hammer with a blow that sent the fiery steel

flying all round, and rang and echoed through the desolate building,

instantly there was a tremendous plunge and clatter, followed by a

shaking sound, and, whiz, the church was fanned by black wings going

zigzag.

“Ten thousand devils!” yelled Henry, and heaved the hammer high, in his

own defense.

But it was only the horse plunging and quivering with fear, and a score

of bats the blow of the hammer had frightened out of the rotten pulpit.

He resumed work with a beating heart, and the building rang and echoed

and re-echoed with the rapid blows; and no more interruption came. The

nineteenth century conquered.

After four hours of earnest work, he fed his horse, ate a slice of bread

and meat, drank water from the bucket, gave his horse some, and went to

sleep in a pew beside that useful animal.

Back to Hillsborough, at peep of day, with the blades he had forged.

He now took his mother, in a great measure, into his confidence, under

a strict promise to tell nobody, not even Dr. Amboyne. Mrs. Little

received the communication in a way that both surprised and encouraged

him. She was as willing to outwit the Unions, as she was willing to

resist them openly; and Henry found her an admirable coadjutor.

Had she known where Henry had set up his forge, she would have been

very unhappy. But he merely told her it was in a secluded place, near

Cairnhope, where he could never be detected.

The carving business, being merely a blind, was not pushed. But Henry

gave his apprentice, Billy, instruction, and the youth began to show an

aptitude which contrasted remarkably with his general incapacity.

Mrs. Little paid one or two visits to factories, to see what women could

do in this sort of work; and, one day, she told Henry she was sure she

could sharpen and finish the blades.

“No, mother,” said Henry. “You are a lady. I can't have you made a slave

of, and your beautiful white hands spoiled.”

“I shall be happier, helping you, dear; and I won't spoil my hands,

since you care about them.”

She insisted on a trial, and soon acquired a remarkable knack: she had

a fine light hand: and it is an art easily learned by an attentive and

careful woman. Indeed they can beat the men at it, if they will only

make up their minds.

And so the enterprise was launched, and conducted thus: in the day time,

Henry showed himself in the town, and talked big about carving; and, in

the afternoon, he rode out, and did the real work of his life, over the

dead bodies of his ancestors.

His saddle-bags were always full, and, gradually, he collected some

comforts about him in the deserted church.

He called, more than once, at “Woodbine Villa,” but Miss Carden was on a

visit.

He was in the full career of fortune again, and sanguine of success,

before they met. One day, having ascertained from Jael what day she

would be at home, he called and was admitted. The room was empty, but

Miss Carden soon came into it, accompanied by Jael carrying the bust.

“Ah, Mr. Little,” said she, before he could possibly utter a word, “this

is fortunate. There is a party here on Thursday, and I want to show the

bust complete, if you don't mind.”

Henry said he would finish it for her. He accordingly set to work, and

waited quietly till Jael should leave the room, to have it out with

Grace.

She, for her part, seemed to have forgotten his strange manner to her

the other day; perhaps she chose to forget it, or overlook it. But

Henry observed that Jael was not allowed to quit the room. Whatever

Miss Carden wanted she fetched herself, and came back softly, and rather

suddenly, as if she had a mind to surprise Jeel and the other too.

Female subtlety was clearly at work.

“What do you advise me?” said Henry to Jael, during one of these

intervals.

Jael never lifted her eyes from her work, and spoke under her breath,

“I think I'd be patient to-day. She must give you a chance to speak

some day. Talk to me, when she comes back--about the Cairnhope folk, or

anything.”

Henry followed this advice, and Grace, for the first time, found herself

a little ignored in the conversation. She was astonished at this and I

don't think she quite liked it.

Henry was still going on with warmth and volubility about the Cairnhope

folk, their good hearts, and their superstitions, when a visitor was

announced.

“Mr. Coventry.”

Henry stopped in the middle of a sentence.

Grace brightened up, and said she was at home.

Mr. Coventry entered the room; a tall, well-made man, with an aquiline

nose, and handsome face, only perhaps there were more lines in it than

he was entitled to at his age, for he was barely thirty. He greeted Miss

Carden with easy grace, and took no more notice of the other two, than

if they were chairs and tables.

Mr. Frederick Coventry had studied the great art of pleasing, and

had mastered it wonderfully; but he was not the man to waste it

indiscriminately.

He was there to please a young lady, to whom he was attached, not to

diffuse his sunshine indiscriminately.

He courted her openly, not indelicately, but with a happy air of respect

and self-assurance.

Henry sat, sick with jealousy, and tried to work and watch; but he could

only watch: his hand trembled too much to work.

What may be called oblique flattery is very pleasing to those

quick-witted girls, who have had a surfeit of direct compliments: and it

is oblique flattery, when a man is supercilious and distant to others,

as well as tender and a little obsequious to her he would please.

Grace Carden enjoyed this oblique flattery of Mr. Coventry's all the

more that it came to her just at a moment when her companions seemed

disposed to ignore her. She rewarded Mr. Coventry accordingly, and made

Henry Little's heart die within him. His agony became intolerable. What

a position was his! Set there, with a chisel in his hand, to copy the

woman he loved, while another wooed her before his face, and she smiled

at his wooing!

At last his chisel fell out of his hand, and startled everybody: and

then he rose up with pale cheek, and glittering eyes, and Heaven only

knows what he was going to do or say. But at that moment another visitor

was announced, to whom indeed the door was never closed. He entered the

next moment, and Grace ran to meet him, crying, “Oh, Mr. Raby! this IS a

surprise.”

Mr. Raby kissed her, and shook hands with Mr. Coventry. He then said

a kind word to Jael Dence, who got up and courtesied to him. He cast

a careless glance on Henry and the bust, but said nothing. He was in a

hurry, and soon came to the object of his visit.

“My dear,” said he, “the last time I saw you, you said you were sorry

that Christmas was no longer kept in Hillsborough as it used to be.”

“And so I am.”

“Well, it is kept in Cairnhope, thank Heaven, pretty much as it was

three centuries ago. Your father will be in London, I hear; will you

honor my place and me with a visit during the Christmas holidays?”

Grace opened her eyes with astonishment. “Oh, that I will,” said she,

warmly.

“You will take your chance of being snowed up?”

“I am afraid I shall not be so fortunate,” was the charming reply.

The Squire turned to Coventry, and said slyly, “I would ask you to join

us, sir; but it is rather a dull place for a gentleman who keeps such

good company.”

“I never heard it spoken of as a dull place before,” said the young man;

“and, if it was, you have taken a sure means to make it attractive.”

“That is true. Well, then, I have no scruple in asking you to join us;”

and he gave Grace a look, as much as to say, “Am I not a considerate

person?”

“I am infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Raby,” said Coventry, seriously; “I

will come.”

“You will stay to luncheon, godpapa?”

“Never touch it. Good-by. Well, then, Christmas-eve I shall expect you

both. Dinner at six. But come an hour or two before it, if you can: and

Jael, my girl, you know you must dine at the hall on Christmas-eve, and

old Christmas-eve as usual, you and your sister and the old man.”

Jael courtesied, and said with homely cordiality, “We shall be there,

sir, please God we are alive.”

“Bring your gun, Coventry. There's a good sprinkling of pheasants left.

By-the-bye, what about that pedigree of yours; does it prove the point?”

“Completely. Dorothy Raby, Sir Richard's youngest sister, married Thomas

Coventry, who was out in the forty-five. I'm having the pedigree copied

for you, at a stationer's near.”

“I should like to see it.”

“I'll go with you, and show it to you, if you like.”

Mr. Raby was evidently pleased at this attention, and they went off

together.

Grace accompanied them to the door. On her return she was startled by

the condition of young Little.

This sudden appearance of his uncle, whom he hated, had agitated him not

a little, and that uncle's interference had blasted his last hope. He

recognized this lover, and had sided with him: was going to shut the

pair up, in a country house, together. It was too much. He groaned, and

sank back in his chair, almost fainting, and his hands began to shake in

the air, as if he was in an ague.

Both the women darted simultaneously toward him. “Oh! he's fainting!”

cried Grace. “Wine! wine! Fly.” Jael ran out to fetch some, in spite of

a despairing gesture, by which the young man tried to convey to her it

was no use.

“Wine can do me no good, nor death no harm. Why did I ever enter this

house?”

“Oh, Mr. Little, don't look so; don't talk so,” said Grace, turning

pale, in her turn. “Are you ill? What is the matter?”

“Oh, nothing. What should ail me? I'm only a workman. What business have

I with a heart? I loved you dearly. I was working for you, fighting for

you, thinking for you, living for you. And you love that Coventry, and

never showed it.”

Jael came in with a glass of wine for him, but he waved her off with all

the grandeur of despair.

“You tell me this to my face!” said Grace, haughtily; but her bosom

panted.

“Yes; I tell you so to your face. I love you, with all my soul.”

“How dare you? What have I ever done, to justify--Oh, if you weren't so

pale, I'd give you a lesson. What could possess you? It's not my fault,

thank heaven. You have insulted me, sir. No; why should I? You must be

unhappy enough. There, I'll say but one word, and that, of course, is

'good morning.'”

And she marched out of the room, trembling secretly in every limb.

Henry sat down, and hid his face, and all his frame shook.

Then Jael was all pity. She threw herself on her knees, and kissed his

trembling hands with canine fidelity, and wept on his shoulder.

He took her hand, and tried hard to thank her, but the words were

choked.

Grace Carden opened the door, and put her head cautiously in, for she

wanted to say a word to Jael without attracting Henry's attention. But,

when she saw Jael and Henry in so loving an attitude, she started, and

then turned as red as fire; and presently burst out laughing.

Jael and Henry separated directly.

Grace laughed again, an unpleasant laugh. “I beg pardon, good people.

I only wanted Mr. Little's address. I thought you could get it for me,

Jael. And now I'm sure you can. Ha! ha! ha!”

And she was heard laughing after the door closed.

Now there was a world of contempt and insolence in this laugh. It

conveyed, as plainly as words, “I was going to be so absurd as to

believe in your love, and pity it, at all events, though I can't approve

it: but now you have just set my mind at ease. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Let me go,” cried Henry, wildly.

“Nay, tell me your address.”

“What for? To tell that cruel--laughing--”

“Nay then, for myself.”

“That's a different thing. I respect you. But her, I mean to hate, as

much as I loved her.”

He gave Jael his address, and then got out of the house as fast as he

could.

That evening Grace Carden surprised her father, by coming into his

study. “Papa,” said she, “I am come to ask a favor. You must not refuse

me. But I don't know that you ever did. Dearest, I want L50.”

“Well, my child; just tell me what it is for.”

“It is for Mr. Little; for his lessons.”

“Well, but L50!”

“He has given me a good many. And to tell you the truth, papa, I

dismissed him rather unceremoniously; and now I should be glad to soften

the blow a little, if I can. Do be very good and obedient, dear papa,

and write what I shall dictate. PLEASE.”

“Well, spoiled child: who can resist you?”

Then Grace dictated, and Mr. Carden wrote:

“DEAR SIR,--My daughter informs me that, as yet, you have received no

remuneration for the lessons you have given her. I beg your acceptance

of the inclosed check, and, at the same time, should be glad if you

would put a price on the admirable bust you have executed of her.

“Yours obediently,

“WALTER CARDEN.”

The reply to this letter surprised Mr. Carden, so that he brought it to

Grace, and showed it her.

“DEAR SIR,--The lessons are not worth speaking of. I have learned more

in your house than I taught. I beg to return the check with thanks.

Price of the bust, five hundred guineas.

“Yours obediently,

“HENRY LITTLE.”

Grace colored up, and her eyes sparkled. “That young man wants

humbling.”

“I don't see that, really. He is very civil, and I presume this five

hundred guineas is just a polite way of saying that he means to keep it.

Wants it for an advertisement, eh?”

Grace smiled and bit her lip. “Oh, what a man of business you are!” And

a little while after the tears came into her eyes. “Madman!” said she to

herself. “He won't let me be his friend. Well, I can't help it.”

After the brief excitement of this correspondence, Little soon relapsed

into dull misery. His mother was alarmed, and could restrain herself no

longer. She implored his confidence. “Make me the partner of your grief,

dear,” she said; “not that you can tell me anything I have not guessed

already; but, dearest, it will do you good to open your heart; and, who

knows, I may assist you. I know my sex much better than you do.”

Henry kissed her sadly, and said it was too late now. “It is all over.

She is going to marry another man.”

“Has she told you so?”

“Not in words; but I have seen it. She has burned it into my heart.”

“I wish I knew her,” said Mrs. Little, very earnestly, and almost in a

whisper.

“Some day, mother, some day; but not now. Oh, the tortures one heart can

suffer, and yet not break.”

Mrs. Little sighed. “What, not even tell me her name?”

“I can't, I can't. Oh, mother, you mean well, but you will drive me

mad.”

Mrs. Little forebore to press him further just then. She sat silent at

her work, and he at his, till they were aroused by a fly drawing up at

the door.

A fine young woman got out with something heavy, and holding it like a

child in one arm, rapped at the door with the hand that was disengaged.

Mrs. Little opened the door to her, and she and Jael Dence surveyed each

other with calm but searching eyes.

“If you please, ma'am, does Mr. Little bide here?”

Mrs. Little said yes, with a smile: for Jael's face and modesty pleased

her at first sight.

“I have something for him.”

“I'll give it to him.”

“If you please, ma'am, I was to give it him myself.”

Henry recognized the voice, opened the door, and invited her in.

Mrs. Little followed her, full of suppressed curiosity.

This put Jael out, but she was too patient to show it.

“It is the bust,” said she; and put it softly down on the table with her

strong arms.

Henry groaned. “She despises even that; she flings it at my head without

a word.”

“Nay; I have got a note for you.”

“Then why didn't you give it me at once?” cried Henry impatiently.

She handed him the note without a word.

It ran thus:

“Miss Carden presents her compliments to Mr. Little, and sends him his

beautiful bust. She is grieved that he will accept no remuneration

for his lessons; and begs permission to offer her best wishes for his

happiness and prosperity.”

The gentleness of this disarmed Henry, and at the same time the firmness

crushed him. “It is all over!” he cried, despairingly: “and yet I can't

hate her.”

He ran from the room, unable to restrain his tears, and too proud and

fiery to endure two spectators of his grief.

Mrs. Little felt as mothers feel toward those who wound their young.

“Is it the woman's likeness?” said she bitterly, and then trembled with

emotion.

“Ay.”

“May I see it?”

“Surely, ma'am.” And Jael began to undo the paper.

But Mrs. Little stopped her. “No, not yet. I couldn't bear the sight of

a face that has brought misery upon him. I would rather look at yours.

It is a very honest one. May I inquire your name?”

“Jael Dence--at your service.”

“Dence! ah, then no wonder you have a good face: a Cairnhope face. My

child, you remind me of days gone by. Come and see me again, will you?

Then I shall be more able to talk to you quietly.”

“Ay, that I will, ma'am.” And Jael colored all over with surprise, and

such undisguised pleasure that Mrs. Little kissed her at parting.

She had been gone a considerable time, when Henry came back; he found

his mother seated at the table, eying his masterpiece with stern and

bitter scrutiny.

It was a picture, those two rare faces in such close opposition. The

carved face seemed alive; but the living face seemed inspired, and to

explore the other to the bottom with merciless severity. At such work

the great female eye is almost terrible in its power.

“It is lovely,” said she. “It seems noble. I can not find what I know

must be there. Oh, why does God give such a face as this to a fool?”

“Not a word against her,” said Henry. “She is as wise, and as noble, and

as good, as she is beautiful. She has but one fault; she loves another

man. Put her sweet face away; hide it from me till I am an old man, and

can bring it out to show young folks why I lived and die a bachelor.

Good-by, dear mother, I must saddle Black Harry, and away to my night's

work.”

The days were very short now, and Henry spent two-thirds of his time

in Cairnhope Church. The joyous stimulus of his labor was gone but the

habit remained, and carried him on in a sort of leaden way. Sometimes he

wondered at himself for the hardships he underwent merely to make money,

since money had no longer the same charm for him; but a good workman is

a patient, enduring creature, and self-indulgence, our habit, is after

all, his exception. Henry worked heavily on, with his sore, sad heart,

as many a workman had done before him. Unfortunately his sleep began

to be broken a good deal. I am not quite clear whether it was the

after-clap of the explosion, or the prolonged agitation of his young

heart, but at this time, instead of the profound sleep that generally

rewards the sons of toil, he had fitful slumbers, and used to dream

strange dreams, in that old church, so full of gaunt sights and strange

sounds. And, generally speaking, however these dreams began, the figure

of Grace Carden would steal in ere he awoke. His senses, being only half

asleep, colored his dreams; he heard her light footstep in the pattering

rain, and her sweet voice in the musical moan of the desolate building;

desolate as his heart when he awoke, and behold it was a dream.

The day after Christmas-day began brightly, but was dark and lowering

toward afternoon. Mrs. Little advised Henry to stay at home. But

he shook his head. “How could I get through the night? Work is my

salvation. But for my forge, I should perhaps end like--” he was going

to say “my poor father.” But he had the sense to stop.

Unable to keep him at home, the tender mother got his saddlebags, and

filled his flask with brandy, and packed up a huge piece of Yorkshire

pie, and even stuffed in a plaid shawl. And she strained her anxious

eyes after him as he rode off.

When he got among the hills, he found it was snowing there very hard;

and then, somehow, notwithstanding all the speed he made, it was nearly

dark when he got on the moor, and the tracks he used to go by, over the

dangerous ground, were effaced.

He went a snail's pace, and at last dismounted, and groped his way. He

got more than one fall in the snow, and thought himself very fortunate,

when, at last, something black towered before him, and it was the old

church.

The scene was truly dismal: the church was already overburdened with

snow, and still the huge flakes fell fast and silently, and the little

mountain stream, now swollen to a broad and foaming torrent, went

roaring by, behind the churchyard wall.

Henry shivered, and made for the shelter.

The horse, to whom this church was merely a well-ventilated stable, went

in and clattered up the aisle, saddle-bags and all.

Henry locked the door inside, and soon blew the coals to a white heat.

The bellows seemed to pant unnaturally loud, all was so deadly still.

The windows were curtained with snow, that increased the general gloom,

though some of the layers shone ghostly white and crystalline, in the

light of the forge, and of two little grates he had set in a monument.

Two heaps of snow lay in the center aisle, just under two open places

in the roof, and, on these, flakes as big as a pennypiece kept falling

through the air, and glittered like diamonds as they passed through the

weird light of the white coals.

Oh! it was an appalling place, that night; youth and life seemed

intruders. Henry found it more than he could bear. He took a couple of

candles, placed them in bottles, and carried them to the western window,

and there lighted them. This one window was protected by the remains of

iron-work outside, and the whole figure of one female saint in colored

glass survived.

This expedient broke the devilish blackness, and the saint shone out

glorious.

The horrid spell thus broken in some degree, Henry plied his hammer, and

made the church ring, and the flaming metal fly.

But by-and-by, as often happened to him now, a drowsiness overcame him

at the wrong time. In vain he battled against it. It conquered him even

as he worked; and, at last, he leaned with his arms against the handle

of the bellows, and dozed as he stood.

He had a dream of that kind which we call a vision, because the dream

seems to come to the dreamer where he is.

He dreamed he was there at his forge, and a soft voice called to him.

He turned, and lo! between him and the western window stood six female

figures, all dressed in beautiful dresses, but of another age, and of

many colors, yet transparent; and their faces fair, but white as snow:

and the ladies courtesied to him, with a certain respectful majesty

beyond description: and, somehow, by their faces, and their way of

courtesying to him, he knew they were women of his own race, and

themselves aware of the relationship.

Then several more such figures came rustling softly through the wall

from the churchyard, and others rose from the vaults and took their

places quietly, till there was an avenue of dead beauties; and they

stood in an ascending line up to the west window. Some stood on the

ground, some on the air; that made no difference to them.

Another moment, and then a figure more lovely than them all shone in the

window, at the end of that vista of fair white faces.

It was Grace Carden. She smiled on him and said, “I am going where I

can love you. There the world will not divide us. Follow me: follow;

follow!”

Then she melted away; then all melted: and he awoke with a loud cry that

echoed through the edifice, now dark and cold as the grave; and a great

white owl went whirling, and with his wings made the only air that

stirred.

The fire was out, and the place a grave. Yet, cold as it was, the

dreamer was bathed in perspiration, so clear had been that unearthly

vision, so ghostly was now that flitting owl.

Shuddering all over, he lighted his fire again, and plied his bellows

with fury, till the fire glowed brighter than ever; and even then he

prayed aloud that he might never see the like again, even in a dream.

He worked like mad, and his hand trembled as he struck. Ere he had

thoroughly recovered the shock, a wild cry arose outside.

He started back, awe-struck.

What with the time, the place, and that strange vision, the boundaries

of the natural and the supernatural were a little confused in his mind.

“Help, help!” cried a voice; and now the familiar tone of that voice

made him utter a loud cry in return.

He searched for the key, and made his way to the door; but, just as he

began to insert the key, the voice was at the door outside.

“Oh, save me! A dying girl! Save me!”

The cry was now a moan, and the next moment an inert mass fell like lead

against the door in a vain attempt to knock at it.

The voice was Grace Carden's, and it was Grace Carden's body that fell

so inert and powerless against the church-door, within a yard of Henry

Little's hand.

CHAPTER XI.

On the twenty-fourth of December Miss Carden and Jael Dence drove to

Cairnhope village, and stopped at the farm: but Nathan and his eldest

daughter had already gone up to the Hall; so they waited there but a

minute or two to light the carriage lamps, and then went on up the hill.

It was pitch dark when they reached the house. Inside, one of Mr. Raby's

servants was on the look-out for the sound of wheels, and the visitors

had no need to knock or ring; this was a point of honor with the master

of the mansion; when he did invite people, the house opened its arms;

even as they drove up, open flew the great hall-door, and an enormous

fire inside blazed in their faces, and shot its flame beyond them out

into the night.

Grace alighted, and was about to enter the house, when Jael stopped her,

and said, “Oh, miss, you will be going in left foot foremost. Pray don't

do that: it is so unlucky.”

Grace laughed, but changed her foot, and entered a lofty hall, hung

with helmets, pikes, breast-plates, bows, cross-bows, antlers etc., etc.

Opposite her was the ancient chimneypiece and ingle-nook, with no grate

but two huge iron dogs, set five feet apart; and on them lay a birch log

and root, the size of a man, with a dozen beech billets burning briskly

and crackling underneath and aside it. This genial furnace warmed the

staircase and passages, and cast a fiery glow out on the carriage, and

glorified the steep helmets and breast-plates of the dead Rabys on the

wall, and the sparkling eyes of the two beautiful women who now stood

opposite it in the pride of their youth, and were warmed to the heart by

its crackle and glow. “Oh! what a glorious fire, this bitter night. Why,

I never saw such a--”

“It is the yule log, miss. Ay, and you might go all round England,

and not find its fellow, I trow. But our Squire he don't go to the

chandler's shop for his yule log, but to his own woods, and fells a

great tree.”

A housemaid now came forward with bed candles, to show Miss Carden to

her room. Grace was going up, as a matter of course, when Jael, busy

helping the footman with her boxes, called after her: “The stocking,

miss! the stocking!”

Grace looked down at her feet in surprise.

“There it is, hung up by the door. We must put our presents into it

before we go upstairs.”

“Must we? what on earth am I to give?”

“Oh, any thing will do. See, I shall put in this crooked sixpence.”

Grace examined her purse, and complained that all her stupid sixpences

were straight.

“Never mind, miss; put in a hairpin, sooner than pass the stocking o'

Christmas Eve.”

Grace had come prepared to encounter old customs. She offered her

shawl-pin: and Jael, who had modestly inserted her own gift, pinned

Grace's offering on the outside of the stocking with a flush of pride.

Then they went upstairs with the servant, and Grace was ushered into

a bedroom of vast size, with two huge fires burning at each end; each

fireplace was flanked with a coal-scuttle full of kennel coal in large

lumps, and also with an enormous basket of beech billets. She admired

the old-fashioned furniture, and said, “Oh, what a palace of a bedroom!

This will spoil me for my little poky room. Here one can roam about

and have great thoughts. Hillsborough, good-by! I end my days in the

country.”

Presently her quick ears caught the rattle of swift wheels upon the

hard road: she ran to the window, and peeped behind the curtain. Two

brilliant lamps were in sight, and drew nearer and nearer, like great

goggling eyes, and soon a neat dog-cart came up to the door. Before it

had well-stopped, the hospitable door flew open, and the yule fire

shone on Mr. Coventry, and his natty groom, and his dog cart with plated

axles; it illumined the silver harness, and the roan horse himself, and

the breath that poured into the keen air from his nostrils red inside.

Mr. Coventry dropped from his shoulders, with easy grace, something

between a coat and a cloak, lined throughout with foxes' skin; and,

alighting, left his groom to do the rest. The fur was reddish, relieved

with occasional white; and Grace gloated over it, as it lay glowing

in the fire-light. “Ah,” said she, “I should never do for a poor man's

wife: I'm so fond of soft furs and things, and I don't like poky rooms.”

With that she fell into a reverie, which was only interrupted by the

arrival of Jael and her boxes.

Jael helped her unpack, and dress. There was no lack of conversation

between these two, but most of it turned upon nothings. One topic, that

might have been interesting to the readers of this tale, was avoided

by them both. They had now come to have a high opinion of each other's

penetration, and it made them rather timid and reserved on that subject.

Grace was dressed, and just going down, when she found she wanted a pin.

She asked Jael for one.

Jael looked aghast. “Oh, miss, I'd rather you would take one, in spite

of me.”

“Well, so I will. There!” And she whipped one away from the bosom of

Jael's dress.

“Mind, I never gave it you.”

“No. I took it by brute force.”

“I like you too well to give you a pin.”

“May I venture to inquire what would be the consequence?”

“Ill luck, you may be sure. Heart-trouble, they do say.”

“Well, I'm glad to escape that so easily. Why, this is the temple of

superstition, and you are the high-Priestess. How shall I ever get on

at dinner, without you? I know I shall do something to shock Mr. Raby.

Perhaps spill the very salt. I generally do.”

“Ay, miss, at home. But, dear heart, you won't see any of them nasty

little salt-cellars here, that some crazy creature have invented to

bring down bad luck. You won't spill the salt here, no fear: but don't

ye let any body help you to it neither, if he helps you to salt, he

helps you to sorrow.”

“Oh, does he? Then it is fortunate nobody ever does help anybody to

salt. Well, yours is a nice creed. Why, we are all at the mercy of other

people, according to you. Say I have a rival: she smiles in my face, and

says, 'My sweet friend, accept this tribute of my esteem;' and gives me

a pinch of salt, before I know where I am. I wither on the spot; and

she sails off with the prize. Or, if there is no salt about, she comes

behind me with a pin, and pins it to my skirt, and that pierces my

heart. Don't you see what abominable nonsense it all is?”

The argument was cut short by the ringing of a tremendous bell.

Grace gave the last, swift, searching, all-comprehensive look of her sex

into the glass, and went down to the drawing-room. There she found Mr.

Raby and Mr. Coventry, who both greeted her cordially; and the next

moment dinner was announced.

“Raby Hall” was a square house, with two large low wings. The left wing

contained the kitchen, pantry, scullery, bakehouse, brew-house, etc.;

and servants' bedrooms above. The right wing the stables, coach-houses,

cattle-sheds, and several bedrooms. The main building of the hall,

the best bedrooms, and the double staircase, leading up to them

in horse-shoe form from the hall: and, behind the hall, on the

ground-floor, there was a morning-room, in which several of the Squire's

small tenants were even now preparing for supper by drinking tea, and

eating cakes made in rude imitation of the infant Saviour. On the right

of the hall were the two drawing-rooms en suite, and on the left was

the remarkable room into which the host now handed Miss Carden, and Mr.

Coventry followed. This room had been, originally, the banqueting-hall.

It was about twenty feet high, twenty-eight feet wide, and fifty feet

long, and ended in an enormous bay window, that opened upon the lawn.

It was entirely paneled with oak, carved by old Flemish workmen, and

adorned here and there with bold devices. The oak, having grown old in

a pure atmosphere, and in a district where wood and roots were generally

burned in dining-rooms, had acquired a very rich and beautiful color,

a pure and healthy reddish brown, with no tinge whatever of black; a

mighty different hue from any you can find in Wardour Street. Plaster

ceiling there was none, and never had been. The original joists, and

beams, and boards, were still there, only not quite so rudely fashioned

as of old; for Mr. Raby's grandfather had caused them to be planed and

varnished, and gilded a little in serpentine lines. This woodwork above

gave nobility to the room, and its gilding, though worn, relieved the

eye agreeably.

The further end was used as a study, and one side of it graced with

books, all handsomely bound: the other side, with a very beautiful organ

that had an oval mirror in the midst of its gilt dummy-pipes. All this

made a cozy nook in the grand room.

What might be called the dining-room part, though rich, was rather

somber on ordinary occasions; but this night it was decorated

gloriously. The materials were simple--wax-candles and holly; the effect

was produced by a magnificent use of these materials. There were eighty

candles, of the largest size sold in shops, and twelve wax pillars,

five feet high, and the size of a man's calf; of these, four only

were lighted at present. The holly was not in sprigs, but in enormous

branches, that filled the eye with glistening green and red: and, in the

embrasure of the front window stood a young holly-tree entire, eighteen

feet high, and gorgeous with five hundred branches of red berries. The

tree had been dug up, and planted here in an enormous bucket, used for

that purpose, and filled with mold.

Close behind this tree were placed two of the wax pillars, lighted, and

their flame shone through the leaves and berries magically.

As Miss Carden entered, on Mr. Raby's arm, her eye swept the room with

complacency, and settled on the holly-tree. At sight of that she

pinched Mr. Raby's arm, and cried “Oh!” three times. Then, ignoring the

dinner-table altogether, she pulled her host away to the tree, and stood

before it, with clasped hands. “Oh, how beautiful!”

Mr. Raby was gratified. “So then our forefathers were not quite such

fools as some people say.”

“They were angels, they were ducks. It is beautiful, it is divine.”

Mr. Raby looked at the glowing cheek, and deep, sparkling, sapphire eye.

“Come,” said he; “after all, there's nothing here so beautiful as the

young lady who now honors the place with her presence.”

With this he handed her ceremoniously to a place at his right hand; said

a short grace, and sat down between his two guests.

“But, Mr. Raby,” said Grace, ruefully, “I'm with my back to the

holly-tree.”

“You can ask Coventry to change places.”

Mr. Coventry rose, and the change was effected.

“Well, it is your doing, Coventry. Now she'll overlook YOU.”

“All the better for me, perhaps. I'm content: Miss Carden will look at

the holly, and I shall look at Miss Carden.”

“Faute de mieux.”

“C'est mechant.”

“And I shall fine you both a bumper of champagne, for going out of the

English language.”

“I shall take my punishment like a man.”

“Then take mine as well. Champagne with me means frenzy.”

But, in the midst of the easy banter and jocose airy nothings of the

modern dining-room, an object attracted Grace's eye. It was a picture,

with its face turned to the wall, and some large letters on the back of

the canvas.

This excited Grace's curiosity directly, and, whenever she could,

without being observed, she peeped, and tried to read the inscription;

but, what with Mr. Raby's head, and a monster candle that stood before

it, she could not decipher it unobserved. She was inclined to ask Mr.

Raby; but she was very quick, and, observing that the other portraits

were of his family, she suspected at once that the original of this

picture had offended her host, and that it would be in bad taste, and

might be offensive, to question him. Still the subject took possession

of her.

At about eight o'clock a servant announced candles in the drawing-room.

Upon this Mr. Raby rose, and, without giving her any option on the

matter, handed her to the door with obsolete deference.

In the drawing-room she found a harpsichord, a spinet, and a piano, all

tuned expressly for her. This amused her, as she had never seen either

of the two older instruments in her life. She played on them all three.

Mr. Raby had the doors thrown open to hear her.

She played some pretty little things from Mendelssohn, Spohr, and

Schubert.

The gentlemen smoked and praised.

Then she found an old music-book, and played Hamlet's overture to Otho,

and the minuet.

The gentlemen left off praising directly, and came silently into the

room to hear the immortal melodist. But this is the rule in music; the

lips praise the delicate gelatinous, the heart beats in silence at the

mighty melodious.

Tea and coffee came directly afterward, and ere they were disposed of, a

servant announced “The Wassailers.”

“Well, let them come in,” said Mr. Raby.

The school-children and young people of the village trooped in, and made

their obeisances, and sang the Christmas Carol--

“God rest you, merry gentlemen,

Let nothing you dismay.”

Then one of the party produced an image of the Virgin and Child, and

another offered comfits in a box; a third presented the wassail-cup,

into which Raby immediately poured some silver, and Coventry followed

his example. Grace fumbled for her purse, and, when she had found it,

began to fumble in it for her silver.

But Raby lost all patience, and said, “There, I give this for the lady,

and she'll pay me NEXT CHRISTMAS.”

The wassailers departed, and the Squire went to say a kind word to his

humbler guests.

Miss Carden took that opportunity to ask Mr. Coventry if he had noticed

the picture with its face to the wall. He said he had.

“Do you know who it is?”

“No idea.”

“Did you read the inscription?”

“No. But, if you are curious, I'll go back to the dining-room, and read

it.”

“I'm afraid he might be angry. There is no excuse for going there now.”

“Send me for your pocket-handkerchief.”

“Please see whether I have left my pocket-handkerchief in the

dining-room, Mr. Coventry,” said Grace, demurely.

Mr. Coventry smiled, and hurried away. But he soon came back to say that

the candles were all out, the windows open, and the servants laying the

cloth for supper.

“Oh, never mind, then,” said Grace; “when we go in to supper I'll look

myself.”

But a considerable time elapsed before supper, and Mr. Coventry spent

this time in making love rather ardently, and Grace in defending herself

rather feebly.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Mr. Raby rejoined them, and they all

went in to supper. There were candles lighted on the table and a few

here and there upon the walls; but the room was very somber: and Mr.

Raby informed them this was to remind them of the moral darkness,

in which the world lay before that great event they were about to

celebrate.

He then helped each of them to a ladleful of frumety, remarking at the

same time, with a grim smile, that they were not obliged to eat

it; there would be a very different supper after midnight. Then a

black-letter Bible was brought him, and he read it all to himself at a

side-table.

After an interval of silence so passed there was a gentle tap at the

bay window. Mr. Raby went and threw it open, and immediately a woman's

voice, full, clear, and ringing, sang outside:

“The first Noel the angels did say,

Was to three poor shepherds, in fields as they lay,

In fields where they were keeping their sheep,

On a cold winter's night that was so deep.

Chorus.--Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,

Born is the King of Israel.”

The chorus also was sung outside.

During the chorus one of the doors opened, and Jael Dence came in by it;

and the treble singer, who was the blacksmith's sister, came in at the

window, and so the two women met in the room, and sang the second verse

in sweetest harmony. These two did not sing like invalids, as their

more refined sisters too often do; from their broad chests, and healthy

lungs, and noble throats, and above all, their musical hearts, they

poured out the harmony so clear and full, that every glass in the room

rang like a harp, and a bolt of ice seemed to shoot down Grace Carden's

backbone; and, in the chorus, gentle George's bass was like a diapason.

“They looked up and saw a star

That shone in the East beyond them far,

And unto the earth it gave a great light,

And so it continued both day and night.

Chorus--Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,

Born is the King of Israel.”

As the Noel proceeded, some came in at the window, others at the doors,

and the lower part of the room began to fill with singers and auditors.

The Noel ended: there was a silence, during which the organ was opened,

the bellows blown, and a number of servants and others came into the

room with little lighted tapers, and stood, in a long row, awaiting a

signal from the Squire.

He took out his watch, and, finding it was close on twelve o'clock,

directed the doors to be flung open, that he might hear the great clock

in the hall strike the quarters.

There was a solemn hush of expectation, that made the sensitive heart of

Grace Carden thrill with anticipation.

The clock struck the first quarter--dead silence; the second--the

third--dead silence.

But, at the fourth, and with the first stroke of midnight, out burst the

full organ and fifty voices, with the “Gloria in excelsis Deo;” and, as

that divine hymn surged on, the lighters ran along the walls and lighted

the eighty candles, and, for the first time, the twelve waxen pillars,

so that, as the hymn concluded, the room was in a blaze, and it was

Christmas Day.

Instantly an enormous punch-bowl was brought to the host. He put his

lips to it, and said, “Friends, neighbors, I wish you all a merry

Christmas.” Then there was a cheer that made the whole house echo; and,

by this time, the tears were running down Grace Carden's cheeks.

She turned aside, to hide her pious emotion, and found herself right

opposite the picture, with this inscription, large and plain, in the

blaze of light--

“GONE INTO TRADE”

If, in the middle of the pious harmony that had stirred her soul, some

blaring trumpet had played a polka, in another key, it could hardly have

jarred more upon her devotional frame, than did this earthly line, that

glared out between two gigantic yule candles, just lighted in honor of

Him, whose mother was in trade when he was born.

She turned from it with deep repugnance, and seated herself in silence

at the table.

Very early in the supper she made an excuse, and retired to her room:

and, as she went out, her last glance was at the mysterious picture.

She saw it again next morning at breakfast-time; but, it must be owned,

with different eyes. It was no longer contrasted with a religious

ceremony, and with the sentiments of gratitude and humility proper to

that great occasion, when we commemorate His birth, whose mother had

gone into trade. The world, and society, whose child she was, seemed now

to speak with authority from the canvas, and to warn her how vain

and hopeless were certain regrets, which lay secretly, I might say

clandestinely, at her heart.

She revered her godfather, and it was no small nor irrelevant discovery

to find that he had actually turned a picture in disgrace to the wall,

because its owner had descended to the level, or probably not quite to

the level, of Henry Little.

Jael Dence came up from the farm on Christmas afternoon, and almost the

first word Grace spoke was to ask her if she knew whose picture that was

in the dining-room. This vague description was enough for Jael. She said

she could not tell for certain, but she had once heard her father say

it was the Squire's own sister; but, when she had pressed him on the

subject, the old man had rebuked her--told her not to meddle too much

with other folks' business. “And, to be sure, Squire has his reasons, no

doubt,” said Jael, rather dryly.

“The reason that is written on the back?”

“Ay: and a very poor reason too, to my mind.”

“You are not the best judge of that--excuse me for saying so. Oh dear, I

wish I could see it.”

“Don't think of such a thing, miss. You can't, however, for it's

padlocked down that way you could never loose it without being found

out. No longer agone than last Yule-time 'twas only turned, and not

fastened. But they say in the kitchen, that one day last month Squire

had them all up, and said the picture had been tampered with while he

was at Hillsboro'; and he scolded, and had it strapped and padlocked

down as 'tis.”

The reader can imagine the effect of these fresh revelations. And a

lover was at hand, of good birth, good manners, and approved by her

godfather. That lover saw her inclining toward him, and omitted nothing

to compliment and please her. To be sure, that was no uphill work, for

he loved her better than he had ever loved a woman in his life, which

was a good deal to say, in his case.

They spent Christmas Day very happily together. Church in the morning;

then luncheon; then thick boots, a warmer shawl, and a little walk

all together; for Mr. Raby took a middle course; since no positive

engagement existed, he would not allow his fair guest to go about with

Mr. Coventry alone, and so he compromised, even in village eyes; but, on

the other hand, by stopping now and then to give an order, or exchange

a word, he gave Coventry many opportunities, and that gentleman availed

himself of them with his usual tact.

In the evening they sat round the great fire, and Mr. Raby mulled and

spiced red wine by a family receipt, in a large silver saucepan; and

they sipped the hot and generous beverage, and told stories and

legends, the custom of the house on Christmas night. Mr. Raby was an

inexhaustible repertory of ghost-stories and popular legends. But I

select one that was told by Mr. Coventry, and told with a certain easy

grace that gave it no little interest.

MR. COVENTRY'S TALE.

“When I was quite a child, there was a very old woman living in our

village, that used to frighten me with her goggle eyes, and muttering.

She passed for a witch, I think; and when she died--I was eight years

old then--old people put their heads together, and told strange stories

about her early life. It seems that this Molly Slater was away in

service at Bollington, a village half way between our place and

Hillsborough, and her fellow-servants used to quiz her because she had

no sweetheart. At last, she told them to wait till next Hilisboro' fair,

and they should see. And just before the fair, she reminded them of

their sneers, and said she would not come home without a sweetheart,

though she took the Evil one himself. For all that, she did leave the

fair alone. But, as she trudged home in the dark, a man overtook her,

and made acquaintance with her. He was a pleasant fellow, and told her

his name was William Easton. Of course she could not see his face very

well, but he had a wonderfully sweet voice. After that night, he used to

court her, and sing to her, but always in the dark. He never would face

a candle, though he was challenged to more than once. One night there

was a terrible noise heard--it is described as if a number of men were

threshing out corn upon the roof--and Molly Slater was found wedged in

between the bed and the wall, in a place where there was scarcely room

to put your hand. Several strong men tried to extricate her by force;

but both the bed and the woman's body resisted so strangely that,

at last, they thought it best to send for the parson. He was a great

scholar, and himself under some suspicion of knowing more than it would

be good for any less pious person to know. Well, the parson came, and

took a candle that was burning, and held it to the place where poor

Molly was imprisoned, and moaning; and they say he turned pale, and

shivered, for all his learning. I forget what he said or did next; but

by-and-by there was a colloquy in a whisper between him and some person

unseen, and they say that this unseen whisper was very sweet, and

something like the chords of a harp, only low and very articulate. The

parson whispered, 'God gives a sinner time.' The sweet voice answered,

'He can afford to; he is the stronger.' Then the parson adjured the

unseen one to wait a year and a day. But he refused, still in the

gentlest voice. Then the parson said these words: 'By all we love and

fear, by all you fear and hate, I adjure you to loose her, or wait till

next Christmas Eve.'

“I suppose the Evil Spirit saw some trap in that proposal, for he is

said to have laughed most musically. He answered, 'By all I fear

and hate, I'll loose her never; but, but I'll wait for her--till the

candle's burnt out;' and he chuckled most musically again.

“'Then wait to all eternity,' the parson roared; and blew the candle out

directly, and held it, with his hands crossed over it.”

Grace Carden's eyes sparkled in the firelight. “Go on,” she cried,

excitedly.

“The girl was loosed easily enough after that; but she was found to be

in a swoon; and not the least bruised, though ten villagers had been

pulling at her one after another.”

“And what became of her afterward?”

“She lived to be ninety-six, and died in my time. I think she had money

left her. But she never married; and when she was old she wandered about

the lanes, muttering, and frightening little boys, myself among the

number. But now my little story follows another actor of the tale.”

“Oh, I'm so glad it is not over.”

“No. The parson took the candle away, and it was never seen again. But,

somehow, it got wind that he had built it into the wall of the church;

perhaps he didn't say so, but was only understood to say so. However,

people used to look round the church for the place. And now comes

the most remarkable thing of all; three years ago the present rector

repaired the floor of the chancel, intending to put down encaustic

tiles. Much to his surprise, the workmen found plenty of old encaustic

tiles; they had been interred as rubbish at some period, when antiquity

and beauty were less respected than they are now, I suppose.”

Mr. Raby broke in, “The Puritans. Barbarians! beasts! It was just like

them. Well, sir--?”

“When the rector found that, he excavated more than was absolutely

necessary for his purpose, and the deeper he went the more encaustic

tiles. In one place they got down to the foundation, and they found an

oak chest fast in the rock--a sort of channel had been cut in the rock

for this chest, or rather box (for it was only about eighteen inches

long), to lie in. The master mason was there luckily, and would not move

it till the rector had seen it. He was sent for, but half the parish

was there before him; and he tells me there were three theories firmly

established and proved, before he could finish his breakfast and get to

the spot. Theory of Wilder, the village grocer: 'It is treasure hidden

by them there sly old monks.' Mr. Wilder is a miser, and is known to lay

up money. He is, I believe, the only man left in the North Country who

can show you a hundred spade guineas.”

Mr. Raby replied, energetically, “I respect him. Wilder forever! What

was the next theory?”

“The skeleton of a child. I forget who propounded this; but I believe

it carried the majority. But the old sexton gave it a blow. 'Nay, nay,'

said he; 'them's the notions of strangers. I was born here, and my

father afore me. It will be Molly Slater's candle, and naught else.'

Then poor Molly's whole story came up again over the suspected box. But

I am very tedious.”

“Tedious! You are delightful, and thrilling, and pray go on. The rector

had the box opened?”

“On the spot.”

“Well!”

“The box went to pieces, in spite of all their care. But there was no

doubt as to its contents.”

Grace exclaimed, enthusiastically, “A candle. Oh, do say a candle!”

Mr. Coventry responded, “It's awfully tempting; but I suspect the

traditional part of my story is SLIGHTLY EMBELLISHED, so the historical

part must be accurate. What the box did really contain, to my knowledge,

was a rush-wick, much thicker than they are made nowadays: and this

rush-wick was impregnated with grease, and even lightly coated with a

sort of brown wafer-like paste. The rector thinks it was a combination

of fine dust from the box with the original grease. He shall show it

you, if you are curious to see it.”

“Of course we are curious. Oh, Mr. Raby, what a strange story. And how

well he told it.”

“Admirably. We must drink his health.”

“I'll wish it him instead, because I require all my reason just now to

understand his story. And I don't understand it, after all. There:

you found the candle, and so it is all true. But what does the rector

think?”

“Well, he says there is no connection whatever between the rush-wick

and--”

“Don't tell her what HE says,” cried Raby, with a sudden fury that made

Grace start and open her eyes. “I know the puppy. He is what is called

a divine nowadays; but used to be called a skeptic. There never was so

infidel an age. Socinus was content to prove Jesus Christ a man; but

Renan has gone and proved him a Frenchman. Nothing is so gullible as an

unbeliever. The right reverend father in God, Cocker, has gnawed away

the Old Testament: the Oxford doctors are nibbling away the New: nothing

escapes but the apocrypha: yet these same skeptics believe the impudent

lies, and monstrous arithmetic of geology, which babbles about a

million years, a period actually beyond the comprehension of the human

intellect; and takes up a jaw-bone, that some sly navvy has transplanted

over-night from the churchyard into Lord knows what stratum, fees the

navvy, gloats over the bone, and knocks the Bible down with it. No, Mr.

Coventry, your story is a good one, and well told; don't let us defile

it with the comments of a skeptical credulous pedant. Fill your glass,

sir. Here's to old religion, old stories, old songs, old houses, old

wine, old friends, or” (recovering himself with admirable grace) “to

new friends that are to be old ones ere we die. Come, let the stronger

vessel drink, and the weaker vessel sip, and all say together, after

me--

“Well may we all be,

Ill may we never see,

That make good company,

Beneath the roof of Raby.”

When this rude rhyme had been repeated in chorus, there was a little

silence, and the conversation took a somewhat deeper tone. It began

through Grace asking Mr. Raby, with all the simplicity of youth,

whether he had ever seen anything supernatural with his own eyes. “For

instance,” said she, “this deserted church of yours, that you say the

shepherd said he saw on fire--did YOU see that?”

“Not I. Indeed, the church is not in sight from here. No, Grace, I

never saw any thing supernatural: and I am sorry for it, for I laugh at

people's notion that a dead man has any power to injure the living; how

can a cold wind come from a disembodied spirit? I am all that a ghost

is, and something more; and I only wish I COULD call the dead from

their graves; I'd soon have a dozen gentlemen and ladies out of that old

church-yard into this very room. And, if they would only come, you would

see me converse with them as civilly and as calmly as I am doing with

you. The fact is, I have some questions to put, which only the dead can

answer--passages in the family correspondence, referring to things I

can't make out for the life of me.”

“Oh, Mr. Raby, pray don't talk in this dreadful way, for fear they

should be angry and come.” And Grace looked fearfully round over her

shoulder.

Mr. Raby shook his head; and there was a dead silence.

Mr. Raby broke it rather unexpectedly. “But,” said he, gravely, “if I

have seen nothing, I've heard something. Whether it was supernatural,

I can't say; but, at least, it was unaccountable and terrible. I have

heard THE GABRIEL HOUNDS.”

Mr. Coventry and Grace looked at one another, and then inquired, almost

in a breath, what the Gabriel hounds were.

“A strange thing in the air that is said, in these parts, to foretell

calamity.”

“Oh dear!” said Grace, “this is thrilling again; pray tell us.”

“Well, one night I was at Hillsborough on business, and, as I walked

by the old parish church, a great pack of beagles, in full cry, passed

close over my head.”

“Oh!”

“Yes; they startled me, as I never was startled in my life before. I had

never heard of the Gabriel hounds then, and I was stupefied. I think

I leaned against the wall there full five minutes, before I recovered

myself, and went on.”

“Oh dear! But did any thing come of it?”

“You shall judge for yourself. I had left a certain house about an hour

and a half: there was trouble in that house, but only of a pecuniary

kind. To tell the truth, I came back with some money for them, or

rather, I should say, with the promise of it. I found the wife in a

swoon: and, upstairs, her husband lay dead by his own hand.”

“Oh, my poor godpapa!” cried Grace, flinging her arm tenderly round his

neck.

“Ay, my child, and the trouble did not end there. Insult followed;

ingratitude; and a family feud, which is not healed yet, and never will

be--till she and her brat come on their knees to me.”

Mr. Raby had no sooner uttered these last words with great heat, than

he was angry with himself. “Ah!” said he, “the older a man gets, the

weaker. To think of my mentioning that to you young people!” And he rose

and walked about the room in considerable agitation and vexation. “Curse

the Gabriel hounds! It is the first time I have spoken of them since

that awful night; it is the last I ever will speak of them. What they

are, God, who made them, knows. Only I pray I may never hear them again,

nor any friend of mine.”

Next morning Jael Dence came up to the hall, and almost the first

question Grace asked her was, whether she had ever heard of the Gabriel

hounds.

Jael looked rather puzzled. Grace described them after Mr. Raby.

“Why, that will be Gabble Retchet,” said Jael. “I wouldn't talk much

about the like, if I was you, miss.”

But Grace persisted, and, at last, extracted from her that sounds had

repeatedly been heard in the air at night, as of a pack of hounds in

full cry, and that these hounds ran before trouble. “But,” said Jael,

solemnly, “they are not hounds at all; they are the souls of unbaptized

children, wandering in the air till the day of judgment.”

This description, however probable, had the effect of making Grace

disbelieve the phenomenon altogether, and she showed her incredulity by

humming a little air.

But Jael soon stopped that. “Oh, miss, pray don't do so. If you sing

before breakfast, you'll cry before supper.”

At breakfast, Mr. Coventry invited Miss Carden to go to the top of

Cairnhope Peak, and look over four counties. He also told her she could

see Bollinghope house, his own place, very well from the Peak.

Grace assented: and, immediately after breakfast, begged Jael to be in

the way to accompany her. She divined, with feminine quickness, that Mr.

Coventry would be very apt, if he pointed out Bollinghope House to her

from the top of a mountain, to say, “Will you be its mistress?” but,

possibly, she did not wish to be hurried, or it may have been only a

mere instinct, an irrational impulse of self-defense, with which the

judgment had nothing to do; or perhaps it was simple modesty. Any way,

she engaged Jael to be of the party.

It was talked of again at luncheon, and then Mr. Raby put in a word. “I

have one stipulation to make, young people, and that is that you go up

the east side, and down the same way. It is all safe walking on that

side. I shall send you in my four-wheel to the foot of the hill, and

George will wait for you there at the 'Colley Dog' public-house, and

bring you home again.”

This was, of course, accepted with thanks, and the four-wheel came round

at two o'clock. Jael was seated in front by the side of George, who

drove; Mr. Coventry and Grace, behind. He had his fur-cloak to keep his

companion warm on returning from the hill; but Mr. Raby, who did nothing

by halves, threw in some more wraps, and gave a warm one to Jael; she

was a favorite with him, as indeed were all the Dences.

They started gayly, and rattled off at a good pace. Before they had got

many yards on the high-road, they passed a fir-plantation, belonging to

Mr. Raby, and a magpie fluttered out of this, and flew across the road

before them.

Jael seized the reins, and pulled them so powerfully, she stopped the

pony directly. “Oh, the foul bird!” she cried, “turn back! turn back!”

“What for?” inquired Mr. Coventry.

“We shall meet with trouble else. One magpie! and right athwart us too.”

“What nonsense!” said Grace.

“Nay, nay, it is not; Squire knows better. Wait just one minute, till

I speak to Squire.” She sprang from the carriage with one bound, and,

holding up her dress with one hand, ran into the house like a lapwing.

“The good, kind, silly thing!” said Grace Carden.

Jael soon found Mr. Raby, and told him about the magpie, and begged him

to come out and order them back.

But Mr. Raby smiled, and shook his head. “That won't do. Young ladies

and gentlemen of the present day don't believe in omens.”

“But you do know better, sir. I have heard father say you were going

into Hillsborough with him one day, and a magpie flew across, and father

persuaded you to turn back.”

“That is true; he was going in to buy some merino sheep, and I to

deposit my rents in Carrington's bank. Next day the bank broke. And the

merino sheep all died within the year. But how many thousand times does

a magpie cross us and nothing come of it? Come, run away, my good girl,

and don't keep them waiting.”

Jael obeyed, with a sigh. She went back to her party--they were gone.

The carriage was just disappearing round a turn in the road. She looked

at it with amazement, and even with anger. It seemed to her a brazen act

of bad faith.

“I wouldn't have believed it of her,” said she, and went back to the

house, mortified and grieved. She did not go to Mr. Raby again; but he

happened to catch sight of her about an hour afterward, and called

to her--“How is this, Jael? Have you let them go alone, because of a

magpie?” And he looked displeased.

“Nay, sir: she gave me the slip, while I went to speak to you for her

good; and I call it a dirty trick, saving your presence. I told her I'd

be back in a moment.”

“Oh, it is not her doing, you may be sure; it is the young gentleman. He

saw a chance to get her alone, and of course he took it. I am not

very well pleased; but I suppose she knows her own mind. It is to be a

marriage, no doubt.” He smoothed it over, but was a little put out,

and stalked away without another word: he had said enough to put Jael's

bosom in a flutter, and open a bright prospect to her heart; Miss

Carden once disposed of in marriage, what might she not hope? She now

reflected, with honest pride, that she had merited Henry's love by rare

unselfishness. She had advised him loyally, had even co-operated with

him as far as any poor girl, with her feelings for him, could do; and

now Mr. Coventry was going to propose marriage to her rival, and she

believed Miss Carden would say “yes,” though she could not in her heart

believe that even Miss Carden did not prefer the other. “Ay, lad,” said

she, “if I am to win thee, I'll be able to say I won thee fair.”

These sweet thoughts and hopes soon removed her temporary anger, and

nothing remained to dash the hopeful joy that warmed that large and

loyal heart this afternoon, except a gentle misgiving that Mr. Coventry

might make Grace a worse husband than she deserved. It was thus she read

the magpie, from three o'clock till six that afternoon.

When a man and a woman do any thing wrong, it is amusing to hear the

judgments of other men and women thereupon. The men all blame the man,

and the women all the woman. That is judgment, is it not?

But in some cases our pitch-farthing judgments must be either heads or

tails; so Mr. Raby, who had cried heads, when a Mrs. Raby would have

cried “woman,” was right; it WAS Mr. Coventry, and not Miss Carden, who

leaned over to George, and whispered, “A sovereign, to drive on without

her! Make some excuse.”

The cunning Yorkshire groom's eye twinkled at this, and he remained

passive a minute or two: then, said suddenly, with well-acted fervor, “I

can't keep the pony waiting in the cold, like this;” applied the

whip, and rattled off with such decision, that Grace did not like

to interfere, especially as George was known to be one of those hard

masters, an old servant.

So, by this little ruse, Mr. Coventry had got her all to himself for the

afternoon. And now she felt sure he would propose that very day.

She made no movement whatever either to advance or to avoid the

declaration.

It is five miles from Raby Hall, through Cairnhope village, to the

eastern foot of Cairnhope; and while George rattles them over the hard

and frosty road, I will tell the reader something about this young

gentleman, who holds the winning cards.

Mr. Frederick Coventry was a man of the world. He began life with a good

estate, and a large fund accumulated during his minority.

He spent all the money in learning the world at home and abroad; and,

when it was all gone, he opened one eye.

But, as a man cannot see very clear with a single orb, he exchanged

rouge-et-noir, etc., for the share-market, and, in other respects, lived

as fast as ever, till he had mortgaged his estate rather heavily. Then

he began to open both eyes.

Next, he fell in love with Grace Carden; and upon that he opened both

eyes very wide, and wished very much he had his time to live over again.

Nevertheless, he was not much to be pitied. He had still an estate

which, with due care, could pay off its incumbrances; and he had

gathered some valuable knowledge. He knew women better than most men,

and he knew whist profoundly. Above all, he had acquired what Voltaire

justly calls “le grand art de plaire;” he had studied this art, as many

women study it, and few men. Why, he even watched the countenance, and

smoothed the rising bristles of those he wished to please, or did not

wish to displease. This was the easier to him that he had no strong

convictions on any great topic. It is your plaguy convictions that make

men stubborn and disagreeable.

A character of this kind is very susceptible, either of good or evil

influences; and his attachment to Grace Carden was turning him the right

way.

Add to this a good figure and a distinguished air, and you have some

superficial idea of the gentleman toward whom Grace Carden found herself

drawn by circumstances, and not unwillingly, though not with that sacred

joy and thrill which marks a genuine passion.

They left George and the trap at the “Colley Dog,” and ascended the

mountain. There were no serious difficulties on this side; but still

there were little occasional asperities, that gave the lover an

opportunity to offer his arm; and Mr. Coventry threw a graceful

devotion even into this slight act of homage. He wooed her with perfect

moderation at first; it was not his business to alarm her at starting;

he proceeded gradually; and, by the time they had reached the summit, he

had felt his way, and had every reason to hope she would accept him.

At the summit the remarkable beauty of the view threw her into raptures,

and interrupted the more interesting topic on which he was bent.

But the man of the world showed no impatience (I don't say he felt

none); he answered all Grace's questions, and told her what all the

places were.

But, by-and-by, the atmosphere thickened suddenly in that quarter, and

he then told her gently he had something to show her on the other side

of the knob.

He conducted her to a shed the shepherds had erected, and seated her on

a rude bench. “You must be a little tired,” he said.

Then he showed her, in the valley, one of those delightful old red brick

houses, with white stone facings. “That is Bollinghope.”

She looked at it with polite interest.

“Do you like it?”

“Very much. It warms the landscape so.”

He expected a more prosaic answer; but he took her cue. “I wish it was

a great deal prettier than it is, and its owner a much better man;

richer--wiser--”

“You are hard to please, Mr. Coventry.”

“Miss Carden--Grace--may I call you Grace?”

“It seems to me you have done it.”

“But I had no right.”

“Then, of course, you will never do it again.”

“I should be very unhappy if I thought that. Miss Carden, I think you

know how dear you are to me, and have been ever since I first met you. I

wish I had ten times more to offer you than I have. But I am only a poor

gentleman, of good descent, but moderate means, as you see.” Comedie!

(Bollinghope was the sort of house that generally goes with L5000 a year

at least.)

“I don't care about your means, Mr. Coventry,” said Grace, with a lofty

smile. “It is your amiable character that I esteem.”

“You forgive me for loving you; for hoping that you will let me lead you

to my poor house there, as my adored wife?”

It had come; and, although she knew it was coming, yet her face was dyed

with blushes.

“I esteem you very much,” she faltered. “I thank you for the honor you

do me; but I--oh, pray, let me think what I am doing.” She covered her

face with her hands, and her bosom panted visibly.

Mr. Coventry loved her sincerely, and his own heart beat high at

this moment. He augured well from her agitation; but presently he saw

something that puzzled him, and gave a man of his experience a qualm.

A tear forced its way between her fingers; another, and another, soon

followed.

Coventry said to himself, “There's some other man.” And he sighed

heavily; but even in this moment of true and strong feeling he was on

his guard, and said nothing.

It was his wisest course. She was left to herself, and an amazing piece

of female logic came to Mr. Coventry's aid. She found herself crying,

and got frightened at herself. That, which would have made a man pause,

had just the opposite effect on her. She felt that no good could come to

any body of those wild and weak regrets that made her weep. She saw she

had a weakness and a folly to cure herself of; and the cure was at hand.

There was a magic in marriage; a gentleman could, somehow, MAKE a girl

love him when once she had married him. Mr. Coventry should be enabled

to make her love him; he should cure her of this trick of crying; it

would be the best thing for every body--for HIM, for Jael, for Mr.

Coventry, and even for herself.

She dried her eyes, and said, in a low, tremulous voice: “Have you

spoken to papa of--of this?”

“No. I waited to be authorized by you. May I speak to him?”

“Yes.”

“May I tell him--?”

“Oh I can't tell you what to tell him. How dark it is getting. Please

take me home.” Another tear or two.

Then, if Coventry had not loved her sincerely, and also been a man of

the world, he would have lost his temper; and if he had lost his temper,

he would have lost the lady, for she would have seized the first fair

opportunity to quarrel. But no, he took her hand gently, and set himself

to comfort her. He poured out his love to her, and promised her a life

of wedded happiness. He drew so delightful a picture of their wedded

life, and in a voice so winning, that she began to be consoled, and her

tears ceased.

“I believe you love me,” she murmured; “and I esteem you sincerely.”

Mr. Coventry drew a family ring from his pocket. It was a sapphire of

uncommon beauty.

“This was my mother's,” said he. “Will you do me the honor to wear it,

as a pledge?”

But the actual fetter startled her, I think. She started up, and said,

“Oh, please take me home first! IT IS GOING TO SNOW.”

Call her slippery, if you don't like her; call her unhappy and wavering,

if you do like her.

Mr. Coventry smiled now at this attempt to put off the inevitable, and

complied at once.

But, before they had gone a hundred yards, the snow did really fall, and

so heavily that the air was darkened.

“We had better go back to the shed till it is over,” said Mr. Coventry.

“Do you think so?” said Grace, doubtfully. “Well.”

And they went back.

But the snow did not abate, and the air got darker. So, by-and-by, Grace

suggested that Mr. Coventry should run down the hill, and send George up

to her with an umbrella.

“What, and leave you alone?” said he.

“Well, then, we had better go together.”

They started together.

By this time the whole ground was covered about three inches deep; not

enough to impede their progress; but it had the unfortunate effect of

effacing the distinct features of the ground; and, as the declining sun

could no longer struggle successfully through the atmosphere, which was

half air, half snow, they were almost in darkness, and soon lost their

way. They kept slanting unconsciously to the left, till they got over

one of the forks of the mountain and into a ravine: they managed to get

out of that, and continued to descend; for the great thing they had to

do was to reach the valley, no matter where.

But, after a long laborious, and even dangerous descent, they found

themselves beginning to ascend. Another mountain or hill barred their

progress. Then they knew they must be all wrong, and began to feel

rather anxious. They wished they had stayed up on the hill.

They consulted together, and agreed to go on for the present; it might

be only a small rise in the ground.

And so it proved. After a while they found themselves descending again.

But now the path was full of pitfalls, hidden by the snow and the

darkness.

Mr. Coventry insisted on going first.

In this order they moved cautiously on, often stumbling.

Suddenly Mr. Coventry disappeared with a sudden plunge, and rolled down

a ravine, with a loud cry.

Grace stood transfixed with terror.

Then she called to him.

There was no answer.

She called again.

A faint voice replied that he was not much hurt, and would try to get

back to her.

This, however, was impossible, and all he could do was to scramble along

the bottom of the ravine.

Grace kept on the high ground, and they called to each other every

moment. They seemed to be a long way from each other; yet they were

never sixty yards apart. At last the descent moderated, and Grace

rejoined him.

Then they kept in the hollow for some time, but at last found another

acclivity to mount: they toiled up it, laden with snow, yet perspiring

profusely with the exertion of toiling uphill through heather clogged

with heavy snow.

They reached the summit, and began to descend again. But now their

hearts began to quake. Men had been lost on Cairnhope before to-day,

and never found alive: and they were lost on Cairnhope; buried in the

sinuosities of the mountain, and in a tremendous snowstorm.

They wandered and staggered, sick at heart; since each step might be for

the worse.

They wandered and staggered, miserably; and the man began to sigh, and

the woman to cry.

At last they were so exhausted, they sat down in despair: and, in a few

minutes, they were a couple of snow-heaps.

Mr. Coventry was the first to see all the danger they ran by this

course.

“For God's sake, let us go on!” he said; “if we once get benumbed, we

are lost. We MUST keep moving, till help comes to us.”

Then they staggered, and stumbled on again, till they both sank into a

deep snow-drift.

They extricated themselves, but, oh, when they felt that deep cold snow

all round them, it was a foretaste of the grave.

The sun had set, it was bitterly cold, and still the enormous flakes

fell, and doubled the darkness of the night.

They staggered and stumbled on, not now with any hope of extricating

themselves from the fatal mountain, but merely to keep the blood alive

in their veins. And, when they were exhausted, they sat down, and soon

were heaps of snow.

While they sat thus, side by side, thinking no more of love, or any

other thing but this: should they ever see the sun rise, or sit by a

fireside again? suddenly they heard a sound in the air behind them, and,

in a moment, what seemed a pack of hounds in full cry passed close over

their heads.

They uttered a loud cry.

“We are saved!” cried Grace. “Mr. Raby is hunting us with his dogs. That

was the echo.”

Coventry groaned. “What scent would lie?” said he. “Those hounds were in

the air; a hundred strong.”

Neither spoke for a moment, and then it was Grace who broke the terrible

silence.

“THE GABRIEL HOUNDS!”

“The Gabriel hounds; that run before calamity! Mr. Coventry, there's

nothing to be done now, but to make our peace with God. For you are a

dead man, and I'm a dead woman. My poor papa! poor Mr. Little!”

She kneeled down on the snow, and prayed patiently, and prepared to

deliver up her innocent soul to Him who gave it.

Not so her companion. He writhed away from death. He groaned, he sighed,

he cursed, he complained. What was Raby thinking of, to let them perish?

Presently he shouted out--“I'll not die this dog's death, I will not.

I'll save myself, and come back for you.”

The girl prayed on, and never heeded him.

But he was already on his feet, and set off to run: and he actually

did go blundering on for a furlong and more, and fell into a

mountain-stream, swollen by floods, which whirled him along with it like

a feather, it was not deep enough to drown him by submersion, but

it rolled him over and over again, and knocked him against rocks and

stones, and would infallibly have destroyed him, but that a sudden sharp

turn in the current drove him, at last, against a projecting tree, which

he clutched, and drew himself out with infinite difficulty. But when he

tried to walk, his limbs gave way; and he sank fainting on the ground,

and the remorseless snow soon covered his prostrate body.

All this time, Grace Carden was kneeling on the snow, and was, literally

a heap of snow. She was patient and composed now, and felt a gentle

sleep stealing over.

That sleep would have been her death.

But, all of a sudden something heavy touched her clothes, and startled

her, and two dark objects passed her.

They were animals.

In a moment it darted through her mind that animals are wiser than

man in some things. She got up with difficulty, for her limbs were

stiffened, and followed them.

The dark forms struggled on before. They knew the ground, and soon took

her to the edge of that very stream into which Coventry had fallen.

They all three went within a yard of Mr. Coventry, and still they

pursued their way; and Grace hoped they were making for some shelter.

She now called aloud to Mr. Coventry, thinking he must be on before her.

But he had not recovered his senses.

Unfortunately, the cry startled the sheep, and they made a rush, and

she could not keep up with them: she toiled, she called, she prayed for

strength; but they left her behind, and she could see their very forms

no more. Then she cried out in agony, and still, with that power

of self-excitement, which her sex possess in an eminent degree, she

struggled on and on, beyond her strength till, at last, she fell down

from sheer exhaustion, and the snow fell fast upon her body.

But, even as she lay, she heard a tinkling. She took it for sheep-bells,

and started up once more, and once more cried to Mr. Coventry; and

this time he heard her, and shook off his deadly lethargy, and tried to

hobble toward her voice.

Meantime, Grace struggled toward the sound, and lo, a light was before

her, a light gleaming red and dullish in the laden atmosphere. With her

remnant of life and strength, she dashed at it, and found a wall in her

way. She got over it somehow, and saw the light quite close, and heard

the ringing of steel on steel.

She cried out for help, for she felt herself failing. She tottered along

the wall of the building, searching for a door. She found the porch. She

found the church door. But by this time she was quite spent; her senses

reeled; her cry was a moan.

She knocked once with her hands. She tried to knock again; but the

door flew suddenly open, and, in the vain endeavor to knock again, her

helpless body, like a pillar of snow, fell forward; but Henry Little

caught her directly, and then she clutched him feebly, by mere instinct.

He uttered a cry of love and alarm. She opened her filmy eyes, and

stared at him. Her cold neck and white cheek rested on his bare and

glowing arm.

The moment he saw it was really Grace Carden that had fallen inanimate

into his arms, Henry Little uttered a loud cry of love and terror, and,

putting his other sinewy arm under her, carried her swiftly off to his

fires, uttering little moans of fear and pity as he went; he laid her

down by the fire, and darted to the forge, and blew it to a white heat;

and then darted back to her, and kissed her cold hands with pretty moans

of love; and then blew up the other fires; and then back to her, and

patted her hands, and kissed them with all his soul, and drew them to

his bosom to warm them; and drew her head to his heart to warm her; and

all with pretty moans of love, and fear, and pity; and the tears rained

out of his eyes at sight of her helpless condition, and the tears

fell upon her brow and her hands; and all this vitality and love soon

electrified her; she opened her eyes, and smiled faintly, but such a

smile, and murmured, “It's you,” and closed her eyes again.

Then he panted out, “Yes, it is I,--a friend. I won't hurt you--I won't

tell you how I love you any more--only live! Don't give way. You shall

marry who you like. You shall never be thwarted, nor worried, nor made

love to again; only be brave and live; don't rob the world of the only

angel that is in it. Have mercy, and live! I'll never ask more of you

than that. Oh, how pale! I am frightened. Cursed fires, have you no

warmth IN you?” And he was at the bellows again. And the next moment

back to her, imploring her, and sighing over her, and saying the

wildest, sweetest, drollest things, such as only those who love can say,

in moments when hearts are bursting.

How now? Her cheek that was so white is pink--pinker--red--scarlet. She

is blushing.

She had closed her eyes at love's cries. Perhaps she was not altogether

unwilling to hear that divine music of the heart, so long as she was not

bound to reply and remonstrate--being insensible.

But now she speaks, faintly, but clearly, “Don't he frightened. I

promise not to die. Pray don't cry so.” Then she put out her hand

to him, and turned her head away, and cried herself, gently, but

plenteously.

Henry, kneeling by her, clasped the hand she lent him with both his, and

drew it to his panting heart in ecstasy.

Grace's cheeks were rosy red.

They remained so a little while in silence.

Henry's heart was too full of beatitude to speak. He drew her a little

nearer to the glowing fires, to revive her quite; but still kneeled by

her, and clasped her hand to his heart. She felt it beat, and turned her

blushing brow away, but made no resistance: she was too weak.

“Halloo!” cried a new voice, that jarred with the whole scene; and Mr.

Coventry hobbled in sight. He gazed in utter amazement on the picture

before him.

CHAPTER XII.

Grace snatched her hand from Henry, and raised herself with a vigor that

contrasted with her late weakness. “Oh, it is Mr. Coventry. How wicked

of me to forget him for a moment. Thank Heaven you are alive. Where have

you been?”

“I fell into the mountain stream, and it rolled me down, nearly to here.

I think I must have fainted on the bank. I found myself lying covered

with snow; it was your beloved voice that recalled me to life.”

Henry turned yellow, and rose to his feet.

Grace observed him, and replied, “Oh, Mr. Coventry, this is too

high-flown. Let us both return thanks to the Almighty, who has preserved

us, and, in the next place, to Mr. Little: we should both be dead but

for him.” Then, before he could reply, she turned to Little, and said,

beseechingly, “Mr. Coventry has been the companion of my danger.”

“Oh, I'll do the best I can for him,” said Henry, doggedly. “Draw nearer

the fire, sir.” He then put some coal on the forge, and blew up an

amazing fire: he also gave the hand-bellows to Mr. Coventry, and set him

to blow at the small grates in the mausoleum. He then produced a pair of

woolen stockings. “Now, Miss Carden,” said he, “just step into that pew,

if you please, and make a dressing-room of it.”

She demurred, faintly, but he insisted, and put her into the great pew,

and shut her in.

“And now, please take off your shoes and stockings, and hand them over

the pew to me.”

“Oh, Mr. Little: you are giving yourself so much trouble.”

“Nonsense. Do what you are bid.” He said this a little roughly.

“I'll do whatever YOU bid me,” said she, meekly: and instantly took off

her dripping shoes, and stockings, and handed them over the pew. She

received, in return, a nice warm pair of worsted stockings.

“Put on these directly,” said he, “while I warm your shoes.”

He dashed all the wet he could out of the shoes, and, taking them to the

forge, put hot cinders in: he shook the cinders up and down the shoes

so quickly, they had not time to burn, but only to warm and dry them. He

advised Coventry to do the same, and said he was sorry he had only one

pair of stockings to lend. And that was a lie: for he was glad he had

only one pair to lend. When he had quite dried the shoes, he turned

round, and found Grace was peeping over the pew, and looking intolerably

lovely in the firelight. He kissed the shoes furtively, and gave them to

her. She shook her head in a remonstrating way, but her eyes filled.

He turned away, and, rousing all his generous manhood, said, “Now you

must both eat something, before you go.” He produced a Yorkshire pie,

and some bread, and a bottle of wine. He gave Mr. Coventry a saucepan,

and set him to heat the wine; then turned up his sleeves to the

shoulder, blew his bellows, and, with his pincers, took a lath of steel

and placed it in the white embers. “I have only got one knife, and you

won't like to eat with that. I must forge you one apiece.”

Then Grace came out, and stood looking on, while he forged knives, like

magic, before the eyes of his astonished guests. Her feet were now as

warm as a toast, and her healthy young body could resist all the rest.

She stood, with her back to the nearest pew, and her hands against

the pew too, and looked with amazement, and dreamy complacency, at the

strange scene before her: a scene well worthy of Salvator Rosa; though,

in fact, that painter never had the luck to hit on so variegated a

subject.

Three broad bands of light shot from the fires, expanding in size, but

weakening in intensity. These lights, and the candles at the west

end, revealed in a strange combination the middle ages, the nineteenth

century, and eternal nature.

Nature first. Snow gleaming on the windows. Oh, it was cozy to see it

gleam and sparkle, and to think “Aha! you all but killed me; now King

Fire warms both thee and me.” Snow-flakes, of enormous size, softly

descending, and each appearing a diamond brooch, as it passed through

the channels of fiery light.

The middle ages. Massive old arches, chipped, and stained; a moldering

altar-piece, dog's-eared (Henry had nailed it up again all but the top

corner, and in it still faintly gleamed the Virgin's golden crown).

Pulpit, richly carved, but moldering: gaunt walls, streaked and stained

by time. At the west end, one saint--the last of many--lit by two

candles, and glowing ruby red across the intervening gulf of blackness:

on the nearest wall an inscription, that still told, in rusty letters,

how Giles de la Beche had charged his lands with six merks a year

forever, to buy bread and white watered herrings, the same to be brought

into Cairnhope Church every Sunday in Lent, and given to two poor men

and four women; and the same on Good Friday with a penny dole, and, on

that day, the clerk to toll the bell at three of the clock after noon,

and read the lamentation of a sinner, and receive one groat.

Ancient monuments, sculptures with here an arm gone, and here a head,

that yet looked half-alive in the weird and partial light.

And between one of those mediaeval sculptures, and that moldering

picture of the Virgin, stood a living horse, munching his corn; and in

the foreground was a portable forge, a mausoleum turned into fires and

hot plate, and a young man, type of his century, forging table-knives

amidst the wrecks of another age.

When Grace had taken in the whole scene with wonder, her eye was

absorbed by this one figure, a model of manly strength, and skill, and

grace. How lightly he stepped: how easily his left arm blew the coals to

a white heat, with blue flames rising from them. How deftly he drew out

the white steel. With what tremendous force his first blows fell,

and scattered hot steel around. Yet all that force was regulated to a

hair--he beat, he molded, he never broke. Then came the lighter blows;

and not one left the steel as it found it. In less than a minute the bar

was a blade, it was work incredibly unlike his method in carving; yet,

at a glance, Grace saw it was also perfection, but in an opposite style.

In carving, the hand of a countess; in forging, a blacksmith's arm.

She gazed with secret wonder and admiration; and the comparison was to

the disadvantage of Mr. Coventry; for he sat shivering, and the other

seemed all power. And women adore power.

When Little had forged the knives and forks, and two deep saucers, with

magical celerity, he plunged them into water a minute, and they hissed;

he sawed off the rim of a pew, and fitted handles.

Then he washed his face and hands, and made himself dry and glowing;

let down his sleeves, and served them some Yorkshire pie, and bread, and

salt, and stirred a little sugar into the wine, and poured it into the

saucers.

“Now eat a bit, both of you, before you go.”

Mr. Coventry responded at once to the invitation.

But Grace said, timidly, “Yes, if you will eat with us.”

“No, no,” said he. “I've not been perished with snow, nor rolled in a

river.”

Grace hesitated still; but Coventry attacked the pie directly. It was

delicious. “By Jove, sir,” said he, “you are the prince of blacksmiths.”

“Blacksmiths!” said Grace, coloring high. But Little only smiled

satirically.

Grace, who was really faint with hunger, now ate a little; and then the

host made her sip some wine.

The food and wine did Mr. Coventry so much good, that he began to

recover his superiority, and expressed his obligations to Henry in a

tone which was natural, and not meant to be offensive; but yet, it

was so, under all the circumstances: there was an underlying tone of

condescension, it made Grace fear he would offer Henry his purse at

leaving.

Henry himself writhed under it; but said nothing. Grace, however, saw

his ire, his mortification, and his jealousy in his face, and that

irritated her; but she did not choose to show either of the men how much

it angered her.

She was in a most trying situation, and all the woman's wit and tact

were keenly on their guard.

What she did was this; she did not utter one word of remonstrance, but

she addressed most of her remarks to Mr. Little; and, though the remarks

were nothing in themselves, she contrived to throw profound respect into

them. Indeed, she went beyond respect. She took the tone of an inferior

addressing a superior.

This was nicely calculated to soothe Henry, and also to make Coventry,

who was a man of tact, change his own manner.

Nor was it altogether without that effect. But then it annoyed Coventry,

and made him wish to end it.

After a while he said, “My dear Grace, it can't be far from Raby Hall. I

think you had better let me take you home at once.”

Grace colored high, and bit her lip.

Henry was green with jealous anguish.

“Are you quite recovered yourself?” said Grace, demurely, to Mr.

Coventry.

“Quite; thanks to this good fellow's hospitality.”

“Then WOULD you mind going to Raby, and sending some people for me? I

really feel hardly equal to fresh exertion just yet.”

This proposal brought a flush of pleasure to Henry's cheek, and

mortified Mr. Coventry cruelly in his turn.

“What, go and leave you here? Surely you can not be serious.”

“Oh, I don't wish you to leave me. Only you seemed in a hurry.”

Henry was miserable again.

Coventry did not let well alone, he alluded delicately but tenderly to

what had passed between them, and said he could not bear her out of his

sight until she was safe at Raby. The words and the tone were those of a

lover, and Henry was in agony: thereupon Grace laughed it off, “Not bear

me out of your sight!” said she. “Why, you ran away from me, and tumbled

into the river. Ha! ha! ha! And” (very seriously) “we should both be in

another world but for Mr. Little.”

“You are very cruel,” said Mr. Coventry. “When you gave up in despair, I

ran for help. You punish me for failure; punish me savagely.”

“Yes, I was ungenerous,” said Grace. “Forgive me.” But she said it

rather coolly, and not with a very penitent air.

She added an explanation more calculated to please Henry than him. “Your

gallantry is always graceful; and it is charming, in a drawing-room; but

in this wild place, and just after escaping the grave, let us talk like

sensible people. If you and I set out for Raby Hall alone, we shall lose

our way again, and perish, to a certainty. But I think Mr. Little must

know the way to Raby Hall.”

“Oh, then,” said Coventry, catching at her idea, “perhaps Mr. Little

would add to the great obligation, under which he has laid us both, by

going to Raby Hall and sending assistance hither.”

“I can't do that,” said Henry, roughly.

“And that is not at all what I was going to propose,” said Grace,

quietly. “But perhaps you would be so good as to go with us to Raby

Hall? Then I should feel safe; and I want Mr. Raby to thank you, for I

feel how cold and unmeaning all I have said to you is; I seem to have no

words.” Her voice faltered, and her sweet eyes filled.

“Miss Carden,” said the young man, gravely, “I can't do that. Mr. Raby

is no friend of mine, and he is a bigoted old man, who would turn me out

of this place if he knew. Come, now, when you talk about gratitude to me

for not letting you be starved to death, you make me blush. Is there a

man in the world that wouldn't? But this I do say; it would be rather

hard if you two were to go away, and cut my throat in return; and, if

you open your mouths ever so little, either of you, you WILL cut my

throat. Why, ask yourselves, have I set up my workshop in such a place

as this--by choice? It takes a stout heart to work here, I can tell you,

and a stout heart to sleep here over dead bones.”

“I see it all. The Trades Unions!”

“That is it. So, now, there are only two ways. You must promise me never

to breathe a word to any living soul, or I must give up my livelihood,

and leave the country.”

“What can not you trust me? Oh, Mr. Little!”

“No, no; it's this gentleman. He is a stranger to me, you know; and, you

see, my life may be at stake, as well as my means.”

“Mr. Coventry is a gentleman, and a man of honor. He is incapable of

betraying you.”

“I should hope so,” said Coventry. “I pledge you the word of a gentleman

I will never let any human creature know that you are working here.”

“Give me your hand on that, if you please.”

Coventry gave him his hand with warmth and evident sincerity.

Young Little was reassured. “Come,” said he, “I feel I can trust

you both. And, sir, Miss Carden will tell you what happened to me in

Cheetham's works; and then you will understand what I risk upon your

honor.”

“I accept the responsibility; and I thank you for giving me this

opportunity to show you how deeply I feel indebted to you.”

“That is square enough. Well, now my mind is at ease about that, I'll

tell you what I'll do; I won't take you quite to Raby Hall; but I'll

take you so near to it, you can't miss it; and then I'll go back to my

work.”

He sighed deeply at the lonely prospect, and Grace heard him.

“Come,” said he, almost violently, and led the way out of church. But he

stayed behind to lock the door, and then joined them.

They all three went together, Grace in the middle.

There was now but little snow falling, and the air was not so thick; but

it was most laborious walking, and soon Mr. Coventry, who was stiff and

in pain, fell a little behind, and groaned as he hobbled on.

Grace whispered to Henry: “Be generous. He has hurt himself so.”

This made Henry groan in return. But he said nothing. He just turned

back to Coventry--“You can't get on without help, sir; lean on me.”

The act was friendly, the tone surly. Coventry accepted the act, and

noted the tone in his memory.

When Grace had done this, she saw Henry misunderstood it, and she was

sorry, and waited an opportunity to restore the balance; but, ere one

came, a bell was heard in the air; the great alarm-bell of Raby Hall.

Then faint voices were heard of people calling to each other here and

there in the distance.

“What is it?” asked Grace.

Henry replied, “What should it be? The whole country is out after you.

Mr Raby has sense enough for that.”

“Oh, I hope they will not see the light in the church, and find you

out.”

“You are very good to think of that. Ah! There's a bonfire: and here

comes a torch. I must go and quench my fires. Good-by, Miss Carden.

Good-evening, sir.”

With this, he retired: but, as he went, he sighed.

Grace said to Coventry, “Oh, I forgot to ask him a question;” and ran

after him. “Mr. Little!”

He heard and came back to her.

She was violently agitated. “I can't leave you so,” she said. “Give me

your hand.”

He gave it to her.

“I mortified you; and you have saved me.” She took his hand, and,

holding it gently in both her little palms, sobbed out,--“Oh, think of

something I can do, to show my gratitude, my esteem. Pray, pray, pray.”

“Wait two years for me.”

“Oh, not that. I don't mean that.”

“That or nothing. In two years, I'll be as good a gentleman as HE is.

I'm not risking my life in that church, for nothing. If you have one

grain of pity or esteem for me, wait two years.”

“Incurable!” she murmured: but he was gone.

Coventry heard the prayer. That was loud and earnest enough. Her reply

he could not bear.

She rejoined him, and the torch came rapidly forward.

It was carried by a lass, with her gown pinned nearly to her knees, and

displaying grand and powerful limbs; she was crying, like the tenderest

woman, and striding through the snow, like a young giant.

When the snow first came down, Mr. Raby merely ordered large fires to

be lighted and fed in his guests' bedrooms; he feared nothing worse for

them than a good wetting.

When dinner-time came, without them, he began to be anxious, and sent a

servant to the little public-house, to inquire if they were there.

The servant had to walk through the snow, and had been gone about an

hour, and Mr. Raby was walking nervously up and down the hall, when Jael

Dence burst in at the front door, as white as a sheet, and gasped out in

his face: “THE GABRIEL HOUNDS!!”

Raby ran out directly, and sure enough, that strange pack were passing

in full cry over the very house. It was appalling. He was dumb with awe

for a moment. Then he darted into the kitchen and ordered them to

ring the great alarm-bell incessantly; then into the yard, and sent

messengers to the village, and to all his tenants, and in about an

hour there were fifty torches, and as many sheep-bells, directed upon

Cairnhope hill; and, as men and boys came in from every quarter, to know

why Raby's great alarm-bell was ringing, they were armed with torches

and sent up Cairnhope.

At last the servant returned from “The Colley Dog,” with the alarming

tidings that Miss Carden and Mr. Coventry had gone up the hill, and

never returned. This, however, was hardly news. The Gabriel hounds

always ran before calamity.

At about eleven o'clock, there being still no news of them, Jael Dence

came to Mr. Raby wringing her hands. “Why do all the men go east for

them?”

“Because they are on the east side.”

“How can ye tell that? They have lost their way.”

“I am afraid so,” groaned Raby.

“Then why do you send all the men as if they hadn't lost their way? East

side of Cairnhope! why that is where they ought to be, but it is not

where they are, man.”

“You are a good girl, and I'm a fool,” cried Raby. “Whoever comes in

after this, I'll send them up by the old church.”

“Give me a torch, and I'll run myself.”

“Ay, do, and I'll put on my boots, and after you.”

Then Jael got a torch, and kilted her gown to her knees, and went

striding through the snow with desperate vigor, crying as she went, for

her fear was great and her hope was small, from the moment she heard the

Gabriel hounds.

Owing to the torch, Grace saw her first, and uttered a little scream; a

loud scream of rapture replied: the torch went anywhere, and gentle and

simple were locked in each other's arms, Jael sobbing for very joy after

terror, and Grace for sympathy, and also because she wanted to cry, on

more accounts than one.

Another torch came on, and Jael cried triumphantly, “This way, Squire.

She is here!” and kissed her violently again.

Mr. Raby came up, and took her in his arms, without a word, being broken

with emotion: and, after he had shaken Coventry by both hands, they all

turned homeward, and went so fast that Coventry gave in with a groan.

Then Grace told Jael what had befallen him, and just then another torch

came in, held by George the blacksmith, who, at sight of the party,

uttered a stentorian cheer, and danced upon the snow.

“Behave, now,” said Jael, “and here's the gentleman sore hurt in the

river; Geordie, come and make a chair with me.”

George obeyed and put out his hands, with the fingers upward, Jael did

the same, with the fingers downward: they took hands, and, putting their

stalwart arms under Coventry, told him to fling an arm round each of

their necks: he did so, and up he went; he was no more than a feather to

this pair, the strongest man and woman in Cairnhope.

As they went along, he told them his adventure in the stream, and, when

they heard it, they ejaculated to each other, and condoled with him

kindly, and assured him he was alive by a miracle.

They reached Raby, and, in the great hall, the Squire collected his

people and gave his orders. “Stop the bell. Broach a barrel of ale,

and keep open house, so long as malt, and bacon, and cheese last. Turn

neither body nor beast from my door this night, or may God shut His gate

in your faces. Here are two guineas, George, to ring the church-bells,

you and your fellows; but sup here first. Cans of hot water upstairs,

for us. Lay supper, instead of dinner; brew a bowl of punch. Light all

the Yule candles, as if it was Christmas eve. But first down on your

knees, all of ye, whilst I thank God, who has baffled those Gabriel

Hell-hounds for once, and saved a good man and a bonny lass from a dog's

death.”

They all went down on their knees, on the marble floor, directly, and

the Squire uttered a few words of hearty thanksgiving, and there was

scarcely a dry eye.

Then the guests went upstairs, and had their hot baths, and changed

their clothes, and came down to supper in the blazing room.

Whilst they were at supper, the old servant who waited on them said

something in a low voice to his master. He replied that he would speak

to the man in the hall.

As soon as he was gone, Miss Carden said in French, “Did you hear that?”

“No.”

“Well, I did. Now, mind your promise. We shall have to fib. You had

better say nothing. Let me speak for you; ladies fib so much better than

gentlemen.”

Mr. Raby came back, and Grace waited to see if he would tell her.

I don't think he intended to, at first: but he observed her eyes

inquiring, and said, “One of the men, who was out after you tonight, has

brought in word there is a light in Cairnhope old church.”

“Do you believe it?”

“No. But it is a curious thing; a fortnight ago (I think, I told you) a

shepherd brought me the same story. He had seen the church on fire; at

least he said so. But mark the paralyzing effect of superstition. My

present informant no sooner saw this light--probably a reflection from

one of the distant torches--than he coolly gave up searching for you.

'They are dead,' says he, 'and the spirits in the old church are saying

mass for their souls. I'll go to supper.' So he came here to drink my

ale, and tell his cock-and-bull story.”

Grace put in her word with a sweet, candid face. “Sir, if there had been

a light in that church, should we not have seen it?”

“Why, of course you would: you must have been within a hundred yards of

it in your wanderings. I never thought of that.”

Grace breathed again.

“However, we shall soon know. I have sent George and another man right

up to the church to look. It is quite clear now.”

Grace felt very anxious, but she forced on a careless air. “And suppose,

after all, there should be a light?”

“Then George has his orders to come back and tell me; if there is a

light, it is no ghost nor spirit, but some smuggler, or poacher, or

vagrant, who is desecrating that sacred place; and I shall turn out with

fifty men, and surround the church, and capture the scoundrel, and make

an example of him.”

Grace turned cold and looked at Mr. Coventry. She surprised a twinkle of

satisfaction in his eye. She never forgot it.

She sat on thorns, and was so distraite she could hardly answer the

simplest question.

At last, after an hour of cruel suspense, the servant came in, and said,

“George is come back, sir.”

“Oh, please let him come in here, and tell us.”

“By all means. Send him in.”

George appeared, the next moment, in the doorway. “Well?” said Mr. Raby.

“Well?” said Grace, pale, but self-possessed.

“Well,” said George, sulkily, “it is all a lie. Th' old church is as

black as my hat.”

“I thought as much,” said Mr. Raby. “There, go and get your supper.”

Soon after this Grace went up to bed, and Jael came to her, and they

talked by the fire while she was curling her hair. She was in high

spirits, and Jael eyed her with wonder and curiosity.

“But, miss,” said Jael, “the magpie was right. Oh, the foul bird! That's

the only bird that wouldn't go into the ark with Noah and his folk.”

“Indeed! I was not aware of the circumstance.”

“'Twas so, miss; and I know the reason. A very old woman told me.”

“She must have been very old indeed, to be an authority on that subject.

Well, what was the reason?”

“She liked better to perch on the roof of th' ark, and jabber over the

drowning world; that was why. So, ever after that, when a magpie flies

across, turn back, or look to meet ill-luck.”

“That is to say the worst creatures are stronger than their Creator,

and can bring us bad luck against His will. And you call yourself a

Christian? Why this is Paganism. They were frightened at ravens, and you

at magpies. A fig for your magpies! and another for your Gabriel hounds!

God is high above them all.”

“Ay, sure; but these are signs of His will. Trouble and all comes from

God. And so, whenever you see a magpie, or hear those terrible hounds--”

“Then tremble! for it is all to end in a bowl of punch, and a roaring

fire; and Mr. Raby, that passes for a Tartar, being so kind to me; and

me being in better spirits than I have been for ever so long.”

“Oh, miss!”

“And oh, miss, to you. Why, what is the matter? I have been in danger!

Very well; am I the first? I have had an adventure! All the better.

Besides, it has shown me what good hearts there are in the world, yours

amongst the rest.” (Kissing her.) “Now don't interrupt, but listen to

the words of the wise and their dark sayings. Excitement is a blessing.

Young ladies need it more than anybody. Half the foolish things we do,

it is because the old people are so stupid and don't provide us enough

innocent excitement. Dancing till five is a good thing now and then;

only that is too bodily, and ends in a headache, and feeling stupider

than before. But to-night, what glorious excitement! Too late for

dinner--drenched with snow--lost on a mountain--anxiety--fear--the

Gabriel hounds--terror--despair--resignation--sudden

relief--warm stockings--delightful sympathy--petted on every

side--hungry--happy--fires--punch! I never lived till to-night--I never

relished life till now. How could I? I never saw Death nor Danger near

enough to be worth a straw.”

Jael made no attempt to arrest this flow of spirits. She waited quietly

for a single pause, and then she laid her hand on the young lady's, and,

fastening her eyes on her, she said quietly,--

“You have seen HIM.”

Grace Carden's face was scarlet in a moment, and she looked with a

rueful imploring glance, into those great gray searching eyes of Jael

Dence.

Her fine silvery tones of eloquence went off into a little piteous whine

“You are very cunning--to believe in a magpie.” And she hid her blushing

face in her hands. She took an early opportunity of sending this too

sagacious rustic to bed.

Next day Mr. Coventry was so stiff and sore he did not come down to

breakfast. But Grace Carden, though very sleepy, made her appearance,

and had a most affectionate conversation with Mr. Raby. She asked leave

to christen him again. “I must call you something, you know, after

all this. Mr. Raby is cold. Godpapa is childish. What do you say

to--'Uncle'?”

He said he should be delighted. Then she dipped her forefinger in water.

He drew back with horror.

“Come, young lady,” said he, “I know it is an age of burlesque. But let

us spare the sacraments, and the altar, and such trifles.”

“I am not half so wicked as you think,” said Grace. Then she wrote

“Uncle” on his brow, and so settled that matter.

Mr. Coventry came down about noon, and resumed his courtship. He

was very tender, spoke of the perils they had endured together as an

additional tie, and pressed his suit with ardor.

But he found a great change in the lady.

Yesterday, on Cairnhope Peak, she was passive, but soft and complying.

To-day she was polite, but cool, and as slippery as an eel. There was no

pinning her.

And, at last, she said, “The fact is I'm thinking of our great

preservation, and more inclined to pray than flirt, for once.”

“And so am I,” said the man of tact; “but what I offer is a sacred and

life-long affection.”

“Oh, of course.”

“A few hours ago you did me the honor to listen to me. You even hinted I

might speak to your father.”

“No, no. I only asked if you HAD spoken to him.”

“I will not contradict you. I will trust to your own candor. Dear Grace,

tell me, have I been so unfortunate as to offend you since then?”

“No.”

“Have I lost your respect?”

“Oh, no.”

“Have I forfeited your good opinion?”

“Dear me, no.” (A little pettishly.)

“Then how is it that I love you better, if possible, than yesterday, and

you seem not to like me so well as yesterday?”

“One is not always in the same humor.”

“Then you don't like me to-day?”

“Oh yes, but I do. And I shall always like you: if you don't tease me,

and urge me too much. It is hardly fair to hurry me so; I am only a

girl, and girls make such mistakes sometimes.”

“That is true; they marry on too short an acquaintance. But you have

known me more than two years, and, in all that time, have I once given

you reason to think that you had a rival in my admiration, my love?”

“I never watched you to see. But all that time you have certainly

honored me with your attention, and I do believe you love me more than

I deserve. Please do not be angry: do not be mortified. There is no

occasion; I am resolved not to marry until I am of age; that is all; and

where's the harm of that?”

“I will wait your pleasure; all I ask you, at present, is to relieve me

of my fears, by engaging yourself to me.”

“Ah! but I have always been warned against long engagements.”

“Long engagements! Why, how old are you, may I ask?”

“Only nineteen. Give me a little time to think.”

“If I wait till you are of age, THAT WILL BE TWO YEARS.”

“Just about. I was nineteen on the 12th of December. What is the

matter?”

“Oh, nothing. A sudden twinge. A man does not get rolled over sharp

rocks, by a mountain torrent, for nothing.”

“No, indeed.”

“Never mind that, if I'm not to be punished in my heart as well. This

resolution, not to marry for two years, is it your own idea? or has

somebody put it into your head since we stood on Cairnhope, and looked

at Bollinghope?”

“Please give me credit for it,” said Grace, turning very red: “it is the

only sensible one I have had for a long time.”

Mr. Coventry groaned aloud, and turned very pale.

Grace said she wanted to go upstairs for her work, and so got away from

him.

She turned at the door, and saw him sink into a chair, with an agony in

his face that was quite new to him.

She fled to her own room, to think it all over, and she entered it so

rapidly that she caught Jael crying, and rocking herself before the

fire.

The moment she came in Jael got up, and affected to be very busy,

arranging things; but always kept her back turned to Grace.

The young lady sat down, and leaned her cheek on her hand, and reflected

very sadly and seriously on the misery she had left in the drawing-room,

and the tears she had found here.

Accustomed to make others bright and happy by her bare presence, this

beautiful and unselfish young creature was shocked at the misery she

was sowing around her, and all for something her judgment told her would

prove a chimera. And again she asked herself was she brave enough, and

selfish enough, to defy her father and her godfather, whose mind was

written so clearly in that terrible inscription.

She sat there, cold at heart, a long time, and at last came to a

desperate resolution.

“Give me my writing-desk.”

Jael brought it her.

“Sit down there where I can see you; and don't hide your tears from

me. I want to see you cry. I want every help. I wasn't born to make

everybody miserable: I am going to end it.”

She wrote a little, and then she stopped, and sighed; then she wrote a

little more, and stopped, and sighed. Then she burned the letter, and

began again; and as she wrote, she sighed; and as she wrote on, she

moaned.

And, as she wrote on, the tears began to fall upon the paper.

It was piteous to see the struggle of this lovely girl, and the patient

fortitude that could sigh, and moan, and weep, yet go on doing the brave

act that made her sigh, and moan, and weep.

At last, the letter was finished, and directed; and Grace put it in her

bosom, and dismissed Jael abruptly, almost harshly, and sat down, cold

and miserable, before the fire.

At dinner-time her eyes were so red she would not appear. She pleaded

headache, and dined in her own room.

Meantime Mr. Coventry passed a bitter time.

He had heard young Little say, “Wait two years.” And now Grace was

evading and procrastinating, and so, literally, obeying that young man,

with all manner of false pretenses. This was a revelation, and cast back

a bright light on many suspicious things he had observed in the church.

He was tortured with jealous agony. And it added to his misery that he

could not see his way to any hostilities.

Little could easily be driven out of the country, for that matter; he

had himself told them both how certainly that would befall him if he was

betrayed to the Unions. But honor and gratitude forbade this line; and

Coventry, in the midst of his jealous agony, resisted that temptation

fiercely, would not allow his mind even to dwell upon it for a moment.

He recalled all his experiences; and, after a sore struggle of passion,

he came to some such conclusion as this: that Grace would have married

him if she had not unexpectedly fallen in with Little, under very

peculiar and moving circumstances; that an accident of this kind would

never occur again, and he must patiently wear out the effect of it.

He had observed that in playing an uphill game of love the lover must

constantly ask himself, “What should I do, were I to listen to my

heart?” and having ascertained that, must do the opposite. So now Mr.

Coventry grimly resolved to control his wishes for a time, to hide his

jealousy, to hide his knowledge of her deceit, to hide his own anger. He

would wait some months before he again asked her to marry him, unless he

saw a change in her; and, meantime, he would lay himself out to please

her, trusting to this, that there could be no intercourse by letter

between her and a workman, and they were not likely to meet again in a

hurry.

It required considerable fortitude to curb his love and jealousy, and

settle on this course. But he did conquer after a hard struggle, and

prepared to meet Miss Carden at dinner with artificial gayety.

But she did not appear; and that set Mr. Coventry thinking again.

Why should she have a headache? He had a rooted disbelief in women's

headaches. His own head had far more reason to ache, and his heart too.

He puzzled himself all dinner-time about this headache, and was very bad

company.

Soon after dinner he took a leaf out of her book, pretended headache,

and said he should like to take a turn by himself in the air.

What he really wanted to do was to watch Miss Carden's windows, for he

had all manner of ugly suspicions.

There seemed to be a strong light in the room. He could see no more.

He walked moodily up and down, very little satisfied with himself, and

at last he got ashamed of his own thoughts.

“Oh, no!” he said, “she is in her room, sure enough.”

He turned his back, and strolled out into the road.

Presently he heard the rustle of a woman's dress. He stepped into the

shade of the firs directly, and his heart began to beat hard.

But it was only Jael Dence. She came out within a few yards of him.

She had something white in her hand, which, however, she instinctively

conveyed into her bosom the moment she found herself in the moonlight.

Coventry saw her do it though.

She turned to the left, and walked swiftly up the road.

Now Coventry knew nothing about this girl, except that she belonged to

a class with whom money generally goes a long way. And he now asked

himself whether it might not be well worth his while to enlist her

sympathies on his side.

While he was coming to this conclusion, Jael, who was gliding along at

a great pace, reached a turn in the road, and Mr. Coventry had to run

after her to catch her.

When he got to the turn in the road, she was just going round another

turn, having quickened her pace.

Coventry followed more leisurely. She might be going to meet her

sweetheart; and, if so, he had better talk to her on her return.

He walked on till he saw at some distance a building, with light shining

though it in a peculiar way; and now the path became very rugged and

difficult. He came to a standstill, and eyed the place where his

rival was working at that moment. He eyed it with a strange mixture

of feelings. It had saved his life and hers, after all. He fell into

another mood, and began to laugh at himself for allowing himself to be

disturbed by such a rival.

But what is this? Jael Dence comes in sight again: she is making for the

old church.

Coventry watched her unseen. She went to the porch, and, after she had

been there some time, the door was opened just a little, then wide,

and she entered the building. He saw it all in a moment: the girl was

already bought by the other side, and had carried his rival a letter

before his eyes.

A clandestine correspondence!

All his plans and his resolutions melted away before this discovery.

There was nothing to be done but to save the poor girl from this

miserable and degrading attachment, and its inevitable consequences.

He went home, pale with fury, and never once closed his eyes all night.

Next day he ordered his dog-cart early; and told Mr. Raby and Grace he

was going to Hillsborough for medical advice: had a pain in his back he

could not get rid of.

He called on the chief constable of Hillsborough, and asked him,

confidentially, if he knew any thing about a workman called Little.

“What; a Londoner, sir? the young man that is at odds with the Trades?”

“I shouldn't wonder. Yes; I think he is. A friend of mine takes an

interest in him.”

“And so do I. His case was a disgrace to the country, and to the

constabulary of the place. It occurred just ten days before I came here,

and it seems to me that nothing was done which ought to have been done.”

Mr. Coventry put in a question or two, which elicited from Mr. Ransome

all he knew about the matter.

“Where does this Little live?” was the next inquiry.

“I don't know; but I think you could learn at Mr. Cheetham's. The only

time I ever saw Little, he was walking with the foreman of those works.

He was pointed out to me. A dark young man; carries himself remarkably

well--doesn't look like a workman. If they don't know at Cheetham's,

I'll find him out for you in twenty-four hours.”

“But this Grotait. Do you know him?”

“Oh, he is a public character. Keeps 'The Cutlers' Arms,' in Black

Street.”

“I understand he repudiates all these outrages.”

“He does. But the workmen themselves are behind the scenes; and what do

they call him? Why, 'Old Smitem.'”

“Ah! You are one of those who look below the surface,” said the

courtier.

He then turned the conversation, and, soon after, went away. He had been

adroit enough to put his questions in the languid way of a man who had

no personal curiosity, and was merely discharging a commission.

Mr. Ransome, as a matter of form, took a short note of the conversation;

but attached no importance to it. However, he used the means at his

command to find out Little's abode. Not that Mr. Coventry had positively

asked him to do it; but, his attention being thus unexpectedly called to

the subject, he felt desirous to talk to Little on his own account.

Mr. Coventry went straight to “The Cutlers' Arms,” but he went slowly.

A powerful contest was now going on within him; jealousy and rage

urged him onward, honor and gratitude held him back. Then came his

self-deceiving heart, and suggested that Miss Carden had been the first

to break her promise (she had let Jael Dence into Little's secret),

and that he himself was being undermined by cunning and deceit: strict

notions of honor would be out of place in such a combat. Lastly, he felt

it his DUTY to save Miss Carden from a degrading connection.

All these considerations, taken together, proved too strong for his good

faith; and so stifled the voice of conscience, that it could only keep

whispering against the deed, but not prevent it.

He went direct to “The Cutlers' Arms.” He walked into the parlor and

ordered a glass of brandy-and-water, and asked if he could see Mr.

Grotait, privately. Mr. Grotait came in.

“Sit down, Mr. Grotait. Will you have any thing?”

“A glass of ale, sir, if you please.”

When this had been brought, and left, and the parties were alone,

Coventry asked him whether he could receive a communication under a

strict promise of secrecy.

“If it is a trade matter, sir, you can trust me. A good many have.”

“Well then, I can tell you something about a workman called Little. But

before I say a word, I must make two express conditions. One is, that no

violence shall be used toward him; the other, that you never reveal to

any human creature, it was I who told you.”

“What, is he working still?”

“My conditions, Mr. Grotait?”

“I promise you absolute secrecy, sir, as far as you are concerned. As to

your other condition, the matter will work thus: if your communication

should be as important as you think, I can do nothing--the man is not in

the saw-trade--I shall carry the information to two other secretaries,

and shall not tell them I had it from Mr. Coventry, of Bollinghope.”

(Mr. Coventry started at finding himself known.) “Those gentlemen will

be sure to advise with me, and I shall suggest to them to take effectual

measures, but to keep it, if possible, from the knowledge of all those

persons who discredit us by their violent acts.”

“Well then, on that understanding--the man works all night in a deserted

church at Cairnhope; it is all up among the hills.”

Grotait turned red. “Are you sure of this?”

“Quite sure?”

“You have seen him?”

“Yes.”

“Has he a forge?”

“Yes; and bellows, and quantities of molds, and strips of steel. He is

working on a large scale.”

“It shall be looked into, sir, by the proper persons. Indeed, the sooner

they are informed, the better.”

“Yes, but mind, no violence. You are strong enough to drive him out of

the country without that.”

“I should hope so.”

Coventry then rose, and left the place; but he had no sooner got into

the street, than a sort of horror fell on him; horror of himself,

distrust and dread of the consequences, to his rival but benefactor.

Almost at the door he was met by Mr. Ransome, who stopped him and gave

him Little's address; he had obtained it without difficulty from Bayne.

“I am glad you reminded me, sir,” said he; “I shall call on him myself,

one of these days.”

These words rang in Coventry's ears, and put him in a cold perspiration.

“Fool!” thought he, “to go and ask a public officer, a man who hears

every body in turn.”

What he had done disinclined him to return to Cairnhope. He made a call

or two first, and loitered about, and then at last back to Raby, gnawed

with misgivings and incipient remorse.

Mr. Grotait sent immediately for Mr. Parkin, Mr. Jobson, and Mr. Potter,

and told them the secret information he had just received.

They could hardly believe it at first; Jobson, especially, was

incredulous. He said he had kept his eye on Little, and assured them the

man had gone into woodcarving, and was to be seen in the town all day.

“Ay,” said Parkin, “but this is at night; and, now I think of it, I met

him t'other day, about dusk, galloping east, as hard as he could go.”

“My information is from a sure source,” said Grotait, stiffly.

Parkin.--“What is to be done?”

Jobson.--“Is he worth another strike?”

Potter.--“The time is unfavorable: here's a slap of dull trade.”

The three then put their heads together, and various plans were

suggested and discussed, and, as the parties were not now before the

public, that horror of gunpowder, vitriol, and life-preservers, which

figured in their notices and resolutions, did not appear in their

conversation. Grotait alone was silent and doubtful. This Grotait was

the greatest fanatic of the four, and, like all fanatics, capable of

vast cruelty: but his cruelty lay in his head, rather than in his heart.

Out of Trade questions, the man, though vain and arrogant, was of a

genial and rather a kindly nature; and, even in Trade questions, being

more intelligent than his fellows, he was sometimes infested with a

gleam of humanity.

His bigotry was, at this moment, disturbed by a visitation of that kind.

“I'm perplexed,” said he: “I don't often hesitate on a Trade question

neither. But the men we have done were always low-lived blackguards, who

would have destroyed us, if we had not disabled them. Now this Little is

a decent young chap. He struck at the root of our Trades, so long as

he wrought openly. But on the sly, and nobody knowing but ourselves,

mightn't it be as well to shut our eyes a bit? My informant is not in

trade.”

The other three took a more personal view of the matter. Little was

outwitting, and resisting them. They saw nothing for it but to stop him,

by hook or by crook.

While they sat debating his case in whispers, and with their heads so

close you might have covered them all with a tea-tray, a clear musical

voice was heard to speak to the barmaid, and, by her direction, in

walked into the council-chamber--Mr. Henry Little.

This visit greatly surprised Messrs. Parkin, Jobson, and Potter, and

made them stare, and look at one another uneasily. But it did not

surprise Grotait so much, and it came about in the simplest way. That

morning, at about eleven o'clock, Dr. Amboyne had called on Mrs. Little,

and had asked Henry, rather stiffly, whether he was quite forgetting

Life, Labor and Capital. Now the young man could not but feel that,

for some time past, he had used the good doctor ill; had neglected and

almost forgotten his benevolent hobby; so the doctor's gentle reproach

went to his heart, and he said, “Give me a day or two, sir, and I'll

show you how ashamed I am of my selfish behavior.” True to his pledge,

he collected all his notes together, and prepared a report, to be

illustrated with drawings. He then went to Cheetham's, more as a matter

of form than any thing, to see if the condemned grindstone had been

changed. To his infinite surprise he found it had not, and Bayne told

him the reason. Henry was angry, and went direct to Grotait about it.

But as soon as he saw Jobson, and Parkin, and Potter, he started, and

they started. “Oh!” said he, “I didn't expect to find so much good

company. Why, here's the whole quorum.”

“We will retire, sir, if you wish it.”

“Not at all. My orders are to convert you all to Life, Labor, and

Capital (Grotait pricked up his ears directly); and, if I succeed,

the Devil will be the next to come round, no doubt. Well, Mr. Grotait,

Simmons is on that same grindstone you and I condemned. And all for

a matter of four shillings. I find that, in your trade, the master

provides the stone, but the grinder hangs and races it, which, in

one sense, is time lost. Well, Simmons declines the new stone, unless

Cheetham will pay him by time for hanging and racing it; Cheetham

refuses; and so, between them, that idiot works on a faulty stone. Will

you use your influence with the grinder?”

“Well, Mr. Little, now, between ourselves don't you think it rather

hard that the poor workman should have to hang and race the master's

grindstone for nothing?”

“Why, they share the loss between them. The stone costs the master three

pounds; and hanging it costs the workman only four or five shillings.

Where's the grievance?”

“Hanging and racing a stone shortens the grinder's life; fills his lungs

with grit. Is the workman to give Life and Labor for a forenoon, and

is Capital to contribute nothing? Is that your view of Life, Labor, and

Capital, young man?”

Henry was staggered a moment. “That is smart,” said he. “But a rule of

trade is a rule, till it is altered by consent of the parties that made

it. Now, right or wrong, it is the rule of trade here that the small

grinders find their own stones, and pay for power; but the saw-grinders

are better off, for they have not to find stones, nor power, and their

only drawback is that they must hang and race a new stone, which costs

the master sixty shillings. Cheetham is smarting under your rules, and

you can't expect him to go against any rule, that saves him a shilling.”

“What does the grinder think?”

“You might as well ask what the grindstone thinks.”

“Well, what does the grinder say, then?”

“Says he'd rather run the stone out, than lose a forenoon.”

“Well, sir, it is his business.”

“It may be a man's business to hang himself; but it is the bystanders'

to hinder him.”

“You mistake me. I mean that the grinder is the only man who knows

whether a stone is safe.”

“Well, but this grinder does not pretend his stone is safe. All he says

is, safe or not, he'll run it out. So now the question is, will you

pay four shillings from your box for this blockhead's loss of time in

hanging and racing a new stone?”

All the four secretaries opened their eyes with surprise at this. But

Grotait merely said he had no authority to do that; the funds of the

Union were set apart for specified purposes.

“Very likely,” said Henry, getting warm: “but, when there's life to be

TAKEN, your Union can find money irregularly; so why grudge it, when

there's life to be saved perhaps, and ten times cheaper than you pay for

blood?”

“Young man,” said Grotait, severely, “did you come here to insult us

with these worn-out slanders?”

“No, but I came to see whether you secretaries, who can find pounds to

assassinate men, and blow up women and children with gunpowder, can find

shillings to secure the life of one of your own members; he risks it

every time he mounts his horsing.”

“Well, sir, the application is without precedent, and I must decline it;

but this I beg to do as courteously, as the application has been made

uncourteously.”

“Oh, it is easy to be polite, when you've got no heart.”

“You are the first ever brought that charge against me.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said Potter, warmly. “No heart!

Mr. Grotait is known for a good husband, a tender father, and the truest

friend in Hillsborough.”

The others echoed these sentiments warmly and sincerely; for, as strange

as it may appear to those who have not studied human nature at first

hand, every word of this eulogy was strictly true.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Grotait. “But we must make allowances. Mr.

Little is smarting under a gross and dastardly outrage, and also under

a fair defeat; and thinks his opponents must be monsters. Now I should

like to show him the contrary. Let Simmons take care of himself. You

have given him good advice, and much to your credit: now have you

nothing to say to us, on your own account?”

“Not a word,” said Henry, steadily

“But suppose I could suggest a way by which you could carry on your

trade in Hillsborough, and offend nobody?”

“I should decline to hear it even. You and I are at war on that. You

have done your worst, and I shall do my best to make you all smart for

it, the moment I get a chance.”

Grotait's cheek reddened with anger at this rebuff, and it cost him an

effort to retain his friendly intentions. “Come, come,” said he, rather

surlily, “don't be in a hurry till you have heard the nature of my

proposal. Here, Jess, a quart of the best ale. Now, to begin, let us

drink and be comfortable together.”

He passed the glass to Little first. But the young man's blood was

boiling with his wrongs, and this patronizing air irritated him to boot.

He took the glass in his hand, “Here's quick exposure--sudden death--and

sure damnation--to all hypocrites and assassins!” He drained the glass

to this toast, flung sixpence on the table, and strode out, white with

passion himself, and leaving startled faces behind him.

“So be it,” said Grotait; and his wicked little eye glittered

dangerously.

That same evening, a signal, well known to certain workmen in

Hillsborough, peeped in the window of “The Cutlers' Arms.” And, in

consequence, six or seven ill-conditioned fellows gathered about the

doors and waited patiently for further information.

Amongst these was a sturdy fellow of about nine-and-twenty, whose

existence was a puzzle to his neighbors. During the last seven years he

had worked only eighteen months all together. The rest of the time

he had been on the Saw-Grinders' box, receiving relief, viz.: seven

shillings and sixpence for his wife, and two shillings for each child;

and every now and then he would be seen with three or four sovereigns in

his possession.

The name of this masterful beggar, of this invalid in theory, who, in

fact, could eat three pounds of steak at a sitting, was Biggs; but it

is a peculiarity of Hillsborough to defy baptismal names, and substitute

others deemed spicier. Out of the parish register and the records of the

police courts, the scamp was only known as Dan Tucker.

This Dan stood, with others, loitering about “The Cutlers' Arms.”

Presently out came Grotait, and surveyed the rascally lot. He beckoned

to Dan, and retired.

Dan went in after him.

“Drat his luck!” said one of the rejected candidates, “he always gets

the job.” The rest then dispersed.

Tucker was shown into a pitch-dark room, and there a bargain was struck

between him and men unseen. He and two more were to go to Cairnhope,

and DO Little. He was to avoid all those men who had lately stood at the

door with him, and was to choose for his companions Simmons the grinder,

and one Sam Cole, a smooth, plausible fellow, that had been in many a

dark job, unsuspected even by his wife and family, who were respectable.

Thus instructed, Tucker went to the other men, and soon reported to

Grotait that he had got Cole all right, but that Simmons looked coldly

on the job. He was in full work, for one thing, and said Little had had

his squeak already, and he didn't see following him eleven miles off;

he had, however, asked him whether Little had a wife and children, which

question he, Tucker, could not answer.

“But I can,” said Grotait. “He is a bachelor. You can tell Simmons so.

There are reasons why Ned Simmons must be in this. Try him to-morrow at

dinner-time. Bid two pounds more; and--his wife is near her time--tell

him this job will help him buy her wine and things,” said the kind,

parental, diabolical Grotait.

Next morning Henry worked with the pen for Dr. Amboyne till twelve

o'clock. He then, still carrying out his friend's views, went down to Mr

Cheetham's words to talk to Simmons.

But he found an ill-looking fellow standing by the man's side, and close

at his ear. This was no other than Dan Tucker, who by a neat coincidence

was tempting him to DO Little.

Yesterday's conversation had unsettled Simmons, and he did not come

to work till twelve o'clock. He then fixed a small pulley-wheel to his

grindstone, to make up for lost time.

He was still resisting the tempter, but more faintly than yesterday,

when Little came in, and spoke to him. Both he and Dan were amazed

at his appearance on the scene at that particular moment. They glared

stupidly but said nothing.

“Look here, Simmons,” said Little. “I have been to your friend Grotait,

and asked him to pay you for what you call time lost in hanging and

racing a new stone. He won't do it. That's your FRIEND. Now I'm your

ENEMY; so the Union says. Well, enemy or not, I'll do what Grotait

won't. I'll pay you the four shillings for lost time, if you will stop

that stone at once, and hang another.”

“Why, what's wrong with the stone?”

“The best judge in Hillsborough condemned it; and now, if you are not

running it with an undersized pulley-wheel, to try it worse!”

Simmons got stupid and irritated between the two. His bit of manhood

revolted against Little's offer, made whilst he was half lending his ear

to Tucker's proposal; and, on the other hand, that very offer irritated

him with Tucker, for coming and tempting him to DO this very Little, who

was a good sort.

“---- you both!” said the rough fellow. “I wish you'd let me alone. Here

I've lost my morning's work already.” Then to Little, “Mind thyself, old

lad. Happen thou's in more danger than I am.”

“What d'ye mean by that?” said Little, very sharply.

But Simmons saw he had gone too far, and now maintained a sullen

silence.

Henry turned to Tucker. “I don't know who you are, but I call you

witness that I have done all I can for this idiot. Now, if he comes to

harm, his blood be upon his own head.”

Then Henry went off in dudgeon, and, meeting Bayne in the yard, had a

long discussion with him on the subject.

The tempter took advantage of Little's angry departure, and steadily

resumed his temptation.

But he was interrupted in his turn.

The defect in this grindstone was not so serious but that the stone

might perhaps have been ground out with fair treatment: but, by fixing

a small pulley-wheel, Simmons had caused it to rotate at furious speed.

This tried it too hard, and it flew in two pieces, just as the grinder

was pressing down a heavy saw on it with all his force.

One piece, weighing about five hundredweight, tore the horsing chains

out of the floor, and went clean through the window (smashing the

wood-work), out into the yard, and was descending on Little's head; but

he heard the crash and saw it coming; he ran yelling out of the way,

and dragged Bayne with him. The other fragment went straight up to the

ceiling, and broke a heavy joist as if it had been a cane; then fell

down again plump, and would have destroyed the grinder on the spot, had

he been there; but the tremendous shock had sent him flying clean over

the squatter board, and he fell on his stomach on the wheel-band of the

next grindstone, and so close to the drum, that, before any one could

recover the shock and seize him, the band drew him on to the drum, and

the drum, which was drawing away from the window, pounded him against

the wall with cruel thuds.

One ran and screamed to stop the power, another to cut the big

wheel-bands. All this took several seconds; and here seconds were torn

flesh and broken bones. Just as Little darted into the room, pale with

his own narrow escape, and awe-stricken at the cries of horror within,

the other grinders succeeded in dragging out, from between the wall and

the drum, a bag of broken bones and blood and grease, which a minute

before was Ned Simmons, and was talking over a deed of violence to be

done.

The others carried him and laid him on a horsing; and there they still

supported his head and his broken limbs, sick with horror.

The man's face was white, and his eyes stared, and his body quivered.

They sprinkled him with water.

Then he muttered, “All right. I am not much hurt.--Ay, but I am though.

I'm done for.”

After the first terror of the scene had passed, the men were for taking

him to the infirmary. But Little interposed, eagerly, “No, no. I'll pay

the doctor myself sooner. He shall be nursed at home, and have all that

skill can do to save him. Oh, why, why would he not listen to me?”

A stretcher was got, and a mattress put on it, and they carried him

through the streets, while one ran before to tell the unhappy wife,

and Little took her address, and ran to Dr. Amboyne. The doctor went

instantly to the sufferer.

Tucker assisted to carry the victim home. He then returned to Grotait,

and told him the news. Dan was not so hardened but what he blubbered in

telling it, and Grotait's eyes were moist with sympathy.

They neither of them spoke out, and said, “This upsets our design on

Little.” Each waited to see whether that job was to go on. Each was

ashamed to mention it now. So it came to a standstill.

As for Little, he was so shocked by this tragedy and so anxious about

its victim, that he would not go out to Cairnhope. He came, in the

evening to Dr. Amboyne, to inquire, “Can he live?”

“I can't say yet. He will never work again.”

Then, after a silence, he fixed his eyes on young Little, and said,

“I am going to make a trial of your disposition. This is the man I

suspected of blowing you up; and I'm of the same opinion still.”

“Then he has got his deserts,” were Henry's first words, after a pause

of astonishment.

“Does that mean you forgive him, or you don't forgive him?”

“I dare say I should forgive the poor wretch, if he was to ask me.”

“And not without?”

“No. I might try and put it out of my head; but that is all I could do.”

“Is it true that you are the cause of his not being taken to the

infirmary?”

“Yes, I said I'd pay out of my own pocket sooner; and I'm not the sort

to go from my word. The man shall want for nothing, sir. But please

don't ask me to love my enemies, and all that Rot. I scorn hypocrisy.

Every man hates his enemies; he may hate 'em out like a man, or palaver

'em, and beg God to forgive 'em (and that means damn 'em), and hate 'em

like a sneak; but he always hates 'em.”

The doctor laughed heartily. “Oh, how refreshing a thing it is to fall

in with a fellow who speaks his real mind. However, I am not your enemy,

am I?”

“No. You are the best friend I ever had--except my mother.”

“I am glad you think so; because I have a favor to ask you.”

“Granted, before ever you speak.”

“I want to know, for certain, whether Simmons was the man who blew you

up; and I see but one way of learning it. You must visit him and be

kind to him; and then my art tells me, he won't leave the world without

telling you. Oblige me by taking him this bottle of wine, at once, and

also this sedative, which you can administer if he is in violent pain,

but not otherwise.”

“Doctor,” said the young man, “you always get your own way with me. And

so you ought.”

Little stood by Simmons's bedside.

The man's eye was set, his cheek streaked with red, and his head was

bandaged. He labored in breathing.

Young Little looked at him gravely, and wondered whether this battered

figure was really the man who had so nearly destroyed him.

After some minutes of this contemplation, he said gravely “Simmons, I

have brought you some wine.”

The man stared at him, and seemed confused. He made no reply.

“Give me a spoon,” said Henry.

Mrs. Simmons sat by the bedside rocking herself; she was stupefied with

grief; but her sister, a handy girl, had come to her in her trouble: she

brought Henry a spoon directly.

He poured out a little wine, and put it to the sufferer's lips. He drank

it, and said it was rare good stuff. Henry gave him a little more.

Simmons then looked at him more intelligently and attentively, and gave

a sort of shiver. “Who be you?”

“Henry Little; who advised you not to run that stone.”

“Ah!” said Simmons, “I thought it was you.” He seemed puzzled. But,

after a while, he said, “I wish I had hearkened thee, lad. Give me some

more of yonder stuff. What is it?”

“Port wine.” Then he turned to the girl, and gave her a sovereign, and

sent her out for some mutton-chops. “Meat and wine are all the physic

you are to have, my poor fellow.”

“It won't be for long, lad. And a good job too. For I'm a bad 'un. I'm a

bad 'un.”

Henry then turned to the poor woman, and tried to say something to

console her, but the words stuck in his throat. She was evidently near

her confinement; and there lay her husband, worse than in his grave.

Little broke down himself, while trying to comfort her.

The sufferer heard him, and said, all of a sudden, “Hold a light here.”

Henry took the candle, and held it over him.

“Nay, nay, it is thy face I want to see.”

Henry was puzzled at the request, but did as he was asked.

Simmons gave a groan. “Ay,” said he, “thou'st all right. And I lie here.

That seems queer.”

The sister now returned, and Henry wrote her his address, and conversed

with her, and told her the whole story of the grindstone, and said that,

as he had hindered Simmons from being taken to the infirmary, he felt

bound to see he did not suffer by that interference. He gave her his

address, and said, if anything was wanted, she must come to him, or to

his mother if he should be out.

No doubt the women talked of his kindness by the sick bed, and Simmons

heard it.

Early in the morning Eliza Watney called at Little's house, with her

eyes very red, and said her brother-in-law wanted to speak to him.

He went with her directly; and, on the road, asked her what it was

about.

“I'm ashamed to tell you,” said she, and burst out crying. “But I hope

God will reward you; and forgive him: he is a very ignorant man.”

“Here I am, Simmons.”

“So I see.”

“Anything I can do for you?”

“No.”

“You sent for me.”

“Did I? Well, I dare say I did. But gi' me time. Gi' me time. It's noane

so easy to look a man in the face, and tell him what I'm to tell thee.

But I can't die with it on me. It chokes me, ever since you brought me

yonder stuff, and the women set a-talking. I say--old lad--'twas I did

thee yon little job at Cheetham's. But I knew no better.”

There was a dead silence. And then Henry spoke.

“Who set you on?”

“Nay, that's their business.”

“How did you do it?”

At this question--will it be believed?--the penitent's eye twinkled with

momentary vanity. “I fastened a tea-cup to an iron rake, and filled the

cup with powder; then I passed it in, and spilt the powder out of cup,

and raked it in to the smithy slack, and so on, filling and raking in.

But I did thee one good turn, lad; I put powder as far from bellows as I

could. Eh, but I was a bad 'un to do the like to thee; and thou's a good

'un to come here. When I saw thee lie there, all scorched and shaking,

I didn't like my work; and now I hate it. But I knew no better at the

time. And, you see, I've got it worse myself. And cheap served too.”

“Oh, Mr. Little,” said Eliza Watney; “TRY and forgive him.”

“My girl,” said Henry, solemnly, “I thought I never could forgive the

man who did that cruel deed to me, and I had never injured any one. But

it is hard to know one's own mind, let alone another man's. Now I look

at him lying pale and battered there, it seems all wiped out. I forgive

you, my poor fellow, and I hope God will forgive you too.”

“Nay. He is not so soft as thou. This is how He forgives me. But I knew

no better. Old gal, learn the young 'un to read, that's coming just as

I'm going; it is sore against a chap if he can't read. Right and wrong

d--n 'em, they are locked up in books, I think: locked away from a chap

like me. I know a little better now. But, eh, dear, dear, it is come too

late.” And now the poor wretch began to cry at a gleam of knowledge of

right and wrong having come to him only just when he could no longer

profit by it.

Henry left him at last, with the tears in his eyes. He promised them all

to come every day.

He called on Dr. Amboyne, and said, “You are always right, doctor.

Simmons was the man, he has owned it, and I forgave him.”

He then went and told Mr. Holdfast. That gentleman was much pleased at

the discovery, and said, “Ah, but who employed him? That is what you

must discover.”

“I will try,” said Henry. “The poor fellow had half a mind to make a

clean breast; but I didn't like to worry him over it.”

Returning home he fell in with Grotait and Parkin. They were talking

earnestly at the door of a public-house, and the question they were

discussing was whether or not Little's affair should be revived.

They were both a good deal staggered by the fate of Simmons, Parkin

especially, who was rather superstitious. He had changed sides, and was

now inclined to connive, or, at all events to temporize; to abandon the

matter till a more convenient time. Grotait, on the other hand, whose

vanity the young man had irritated, was bent on dismounting his forge.

But even he had cooled a little, and was now disinclined to violence.

He suggested that it must be easy to drive a smith out of a church, by

going to the parochial authorities; and they could also send Little an

anonymous letter, to tell him the Trades had their eyes on him; by this

double stroke, they would probably bring him to some reasonable terms.

It certainly was a most unfortunate thing that Little passed that way

just then; unfortunate that Youth is so impetuous.

He crossed the street to speak to these two potentates, whom it was his

interest to let alone--if he could only have known it.

“Well, gentlemen, have you seen Simmons?”

“No,” said Mr. Parkin.

“What, not been to see the poor fellow who owes his death to you?”

“He is not dead yet.”

“No, thank Heaven! He has got a good work to do first; some hypocrites,

assassins, and cowards to expose.”

Parkin turned pale; Grotait's eye glistened like a snake's: he made

Parkin a rapid signal to say nothing, but only listen.

“He has begun by telling me who it was that put gunpowder into my forge,

and how it was done. I have forgiven him. He was only the tool of much

worse villains; base, cowardly, sneaking villains. Those I shall not

forgive. Oh, I shall know all about it before long. Good-morning.”

This information and threat, and the vindictive bitterness and

resolution with which the young man had delivered it, struck terror into

the gentle Parkin, and shook even Grotait. The latter, however, soon

recovered himself, and it became a battle for life or death between him

and Little.

He invited Parkin to his own place, and there the pair sat closeted.

Dan Tucker and Sam Cole were sent for.

Tucker came first. He was instantly dispatched to Simmons, with money

from the Saw Grinders' box. He was to ascertain how much Simmons had let

out, and to adjure him to be true to the Trade, and split on no man but

himself. When he had been gone about twenty minutes, Sam Cole came in,

and was instructed to get two other men in place of Simmons, and be in

readiness to do Little.

By-and-by Tucker returned with news. Simmons had at present split only

on himself; but the women were evidently in love with Little; said

he was their only friend; and he, Tucker, foresaw that, with their

co-operation, Simmons would be turned inside out by Little before he

died.

Grotait struck his hand on the table. “The Unions are in danger,” said

he. “There is but one way, Little must be made so that he can't leave

Cairnhope while Simmons is alive.”

So important did the crisis appear to him, that he insisted on Parkin

going with him at once to Cairnhope, to reconnoiter the ground.

Parkin had a gig and a fast horse: so, in ten minutes more, they were on

the road.

They reached Cairnhope, put up at the village inn, and soon extracted

some particulars about the church. They went up to it, and examined it,

and Grotait gave Parkin a leg up, to peer through the window.

In this position they were nailed by old George.

“What be you at?”

“What is that to you?” said Grotait.

“It is plenty. You mustn't come trespassing here. Squire won't have it.”

“Trespassing in a churchyard! Why it belongs to all the world.”

“Nay, this one belongs to the Lord o' the manor.”

“Well, we won't hurt your church. Who keeps the key?”

“Squire Raby.”

Old George from this moment followed them about everywhere, grumbling at

their heels, like a mastiff.

Grotait, however, treated him with cool contempt, and proceeded to make

a sketch of the door, and a little map showing how the church could be

approached from Hillsborough on foot without passing through Cairnhope

village. This done, he went back with Parkin to the inn, and thence to

Hillsborough.

It was old Christmas Eve. Henry was working at his forge, little

dreaming of danger. Yet it was close at hand, and from two distinct

quarters.

Four men, with crape masks, and provided with all manner of tools, and

armed with bludgeons, were creeping about the churchyard, examining and

listening. Their orders were to make Little so that he should not leave

Cairnhope for a month. And that, in plain English, meant to beat him

within an inch of his life, if not kill him.

At the same time, a body of nine men were stealing up the road, with

designs scarcely less hostile to Little.

These assailants were as yet at a considerable distance, but more

formidable in appearance than the others being most of them armed with

swords, and led by a man with a double-barreled gun.

Grotait's men, having well surveyed the ground, now crept softly up to

the porch, and examined the lock.

The key was inside, and they saw no means of forcing the lock without

making a noise, and putting their victim on his guard.

After a long whispered consultation, they resolved to unscrew the

hinges.

These hinges were of great length, and were nailed upon the door, but

screwed into the door-post with four screws each.

Two men, with excellent tools, and masters of the business, went softly

to work. One stood, and worked on the upper screws; the other kneeled,

and unfastened the lower screws.

They made no more noise than a rat gnawing; yet, such was their caution,

and determination to surprise their victim, that they timed all their

work by Little's. Whenever the blows of his hammer intermitted, they

left off; and began again when he did.

When all the screws were out but two, one above, one below, they

beckoned the other two men, and these two drove large gimlets into the

door, and so held it that it might not fall forward when the last screw

should come out.

“Are all screws out?” whispered Cole, who was the leader.

“Ay,” was the whispered reply.

“Then put in two more gimlets.”

That was done.

“Now, men,” whispered Cole. “Lay the door softly down outside: then, up

sticks--into church--and DO HIM!”

CHAPTER XIII.

If Mr. Coventry, before he set all this mischief moving, could have seen

the INSIDE of Grace Carden's letter to Henry Little!

“DEAR MR. LITTLE,--I do not know whether I ought to write to you at all,

nor whether it is delicate of me to say what I am going; but you have

saved my life, and I do so want to do all I can to atone for the pain I

have given you, who have been so good to me. I am afraid you will never

know happiness, if you waste your invaluable life longing after what is

impossible. There is an impassable barrier between you and me. But

you might be happy if you would condescend to take my advice, and let

yourself see the beauty and the goodness of another. The person who

bears this letter comes nearer to perfection than any other woman I ever

saw. If you would trust my judgment (and, believe me, I am not to be

mistaken in one of my own sex), if you could turn your heart toward her,

she would make you very happy. I am sure she could love you devotedly,

if she only heard those words from your lips, which every woman requires

to hear before she surrenders her affections. Pray do not be angry with

me; pray do not think it cost me little to give this strange but honest

advice to one I admire so. But I feel it would be so weak and selfish in

me to cling to that, which, sooner or later, I must resign, and to make

so many persons unhappy, when all might be happy, except perhaps myself.

“Once more, forgive me. Do not think me blind; do not think me

heartless; but say, this is a poor girl, who is sadly perplexed, and is

trying very hard to be good and wise, and not selfish.

“One line, to say you will consider my advice, and never hate nor

despise your grateful and unhappy friend.

“GRACE CARDEN.”

When she had dispatched this letter, she felt heroic.

The next day, she wished she had not written it, and awaited the reply

with anxiety.

The next day, she began to wonder at Little's silence: and by-and-by she

was offended at it. Surely what she had written with so great an effort

was worth a reply.

Finally, she got it into her head that Little despised her. Upon this

she was angry with him for not seeing what a sacrifice she had made,

and for despising her, instead of admiring her a little, and pitying

her ever so much. The old story in short--a girl vexed with a man for

letting her throw dust in his eyes.

And, if she was vexed with Little for not appreciating her sacrifice,

she was quite as angry with Coventry and Jael for being the causes of

that unappreciated sacrifice. So then she was irritable and cross. But

she could not be that long: so she fell into a languid, listless state:

and then she let herself drift. She never sent Jael to the church again.

Mr. Coventry watched all her moods; and when she reached the listless

stage, he came softly on again, and began to recover his lost ground.

On the fifth of January occurred a rather curious coincidence. In

Hillsborough Dr. Amboyne offered his services to Mrs. Little to

reconcile her and her brother. Mrs. Little feared the proposal came too

late: but showed an inclination to be reconciled for Henry's sake. But

Henry said he would never be reconciled to a man who had insulted his

mother. He then reminded her she had sent him clandestinely into Raby

Hall to see her picture. “And what did I see? Your picture was

turned with its face to the wall, and insulting words written on the

back--'Gone into trade.' I didn't mean to tell yell, mother; but you see

I have. And, after that, you may be reconciled to the old scoundrel

if you like; but don't ask me.” Mrs. Little was deeply wounded by this

revelation. She tried to make light of it, but failed. She had been a

beauty, and the affront was too bitter. Said she, “You mustn't judge him

like other people: he was always so very eccentric. Turn my picture to

the wall! My poor picture! Oh, Guy, Guy, could one mother have borne you

and me?” Amboyne had not a word more to say; he was indignant himself.

Now that very afternoon, as if by the influence of what they call a

brain-wave, Grace Carden, who felt herself much stronger with Mr. Raby

than when she first came, was moved to ask him, with many apologies, and

no little inward tremor, whether she might see the other side of that

very picture before she went.

“What for?”

“Don't be angry, uncle dear. Curiosity.”

“I do not like to refuse you anything, Grace. But--Well, if I lend you

the key, will you satisfy your curiosity, and then replace the picture

as it is?”

“Yes, I will.”

“And you shall do it when I am not in the room. It would only

open wounds that time has skinned. I'll bring you down the key at

dinner-time.” Then, assuming a lighter tone, “Your curiosity will be

punished; you will see your rival in beauty. That will be new to you.”

Grace was half frightened at her own success, and I doubt whether she

would ever have asked for the key again; but Raby's word was his bond;

he handed her the key at dinner-time.

Her eyes sparkled when she got it; but she was not to open it before

him; so she fell thinking: and she determined to get the gentlemen into

the drawing-room as soon as she could, and then slip back and see this

famous picture.

Accordingly she left the table rather earlier than usual, and sat down

to her piano in the drawing-room.

But, alas, her little maneuver was defeated. Instead of the gentlemen

leaving the dining-room, a servant was sent to recall her.

It was old Christmas Eve, and the Mummers were come.

Now, of all the old customs Mr. Raby had promised her, this was the

pearl.

Accordingly, her curiosity took for the time another turn, and she was

soon seated in the dining-room, with Mr. Raby and Mr. Coventry, awaiting

the Mummers.

The servants then came in, and, when all was ready, the sound of a

fiddle was heard, and a fiddler, grotesquely dressed, entered along with

two clowns, one called the Tommy, dressed in chintz and a fox's skin

over his shoulders and a fox's head for a cap; and one, called the

Bessy, in a woman's gown and beaver hat.

This pair introduced the true dramatis personae, to the drollest violin

accompaniment, consisting of chords till the end of each verse, and then

a few notes of melody.

“Now the first that I call on

Is George, our noble king,

Long time he has been at war,

Good tidings back he'll bring.

Too-ral-loo.”

Thereupon in came a man, with black breeches and red stripes at the

side, a white shirt decked with ribbons over his waistcoat, and a little

hat with streamers, and a sword.

The clown walked round in a ring, and King George followed him, holding

his sword upright.

Meantime the female clown chanted,--

“The next that we call on,

He is a squire's son;

He's like to lose his love,

Because he is so young.

Too-ral-loo.”

The Squire's Son followed King George round the ring; and the clowns,

marching and singing at the head, introduced another, and then another

sword-dancer, all attired like the first, until there were five marching

round and round, each with his sword upright.

Then Foxey sang, to a violin accompaniment,

“Now, fiddler, then, take up thy fiddle,

Play the lads their hearts' desire,

Or else we'll break thy fiddle,

And fling thee a-back o' the fire.”

On this the fiddler instantly played a dance-tune peculiar to this

occasion, and the five sword-dancers danced by themselves in a ring,

holding their swords out so as to form a cone.

Then a knot, prepared beforehand, was slipped over the swords, and all

the swords so knotted were held aloft by the first dancer; he danced in

the center awhile, under the connected swords, then deftly drew his own

sword out and handed it to the second dancer; the second gave the third

dancer his sword, and so on, in rotation, till all the swords were

resumed.

Raby's eyes sparkled with delight at all this, and he whispered his

comments on the verses and the dance.

“King George!” said he. “Bosh! This is the old story of St. George and

the Dragon, overburdened with modern additions.” As to the dance, he

assured her that, though danced in honor of old Christmas, it was older

than Christianity, and came from the ancient Goths and Swedes.

These comments were interrupted by a man, with a white face, who burst

into the assembly crying, “Will ye believe me now? Cairnhope old church

is all afire!”

CHAPTER XIV.

“Ay, Squire,” said Abel Eaves, for he was the bearer of this strange

news, “ye wouldn't believe ME, now come and see for yourself.”

This announcement set all staring; and George the blacksmith did

but utter the general sentiment when, suddenly dropping his assumed

character of King George, he said, “Bless us and save us! True Christmas

Eve; and Cairnhope old church alight!”

Then there was a furious buzz of tongues, and, in the midst of it Mr.

Raby disappeared, and the sword-dancers returned to the kitchen, talking

over this strange matter as they went.

Grace retired to the drawing-room followed by Coventry.

She sat silent some time, and he watched her keenly.

“I wonder what has become of Mr. Raby?”

Mr. Coventry did not know.

“I hope he is not going out.”

“I should think not, it is a very cold night; clear, but frosty.”

“Surely he would never go to see.”

“Shall I inquire?”

“No; but that might put it into his head. But I wish I knew where he

was.”

Presently a servant brought the tea in.

Miss Carden inquired after Mr. Raby.

“He is gone out, miss; but he won't be long, I was to tell you.”

Grace felt terribly uneasy and restless! rang the bell and asked for

Jael Dence. The reply was that she had not been to the hall that day.

But, soon afterward, Jael came up from the village, and went into the

kitchen of Raby. There she heard news, which soon took her into the

drawing-room.

“Oh, miss,” said she, “do you know where the squire is?”

“Gone to the church?” asked Grace, trembling.

“Ay, and all the sword-dancers at his back.” And she stood there and

wrung her hands with dismay.

The ancients had a proverb, “Better is an army of stags with a lion for

their leader, than an army of lions with a stag for their leader.”

The Cairnhope sword-dancers, though stout fellows and strong against

a mortal foe, were but stags against the supernatural; yet, led by Guy

Raby, they advanced upon the old church with a pretty bold front, only

they kept twenty yards in their leader's rear. The order was to march in

dead silence.

At the last turn in the road their leader suddenly halted, and, kneeling

on one knee, waved to his men to keep quiet: he had seen several dark

figures busy about the porch.

After many minutes of thrilling, yet chilling, expectation, he rose and

told his men, in a whisper, to follow him again.

The pace was now expedited greatly, and still Mr. Raby, with his

double-barreled gun in his hand, maintained a lead of some yards and his

men followed as noiselessly as they could, and made for the church: sure

enough it was lighted inside.

The young man who was thus beset by two distinct bands of enemies,

deserved a very different fate at the hands of his fellow-creatures.

For, at this moment, though any thing but happy himself, he was working

some hours every day for the good of mankind; and was every day visiting

as a friend the battered saw-grinder who had once put his own life in

mortal peril.

He had not fathomed the letter Grace had sent him. He was a young man

and a straightforward; he did not understand the amiable defects of the

female character. He studied every line of this letter, and it angered

and almost disgusted him. It was the letter of a lady; but beneath the

surface of gentleness and politeness lay a proposal which he considered

mean and cold-blooded. It lowered his esteem for her.

His pride and indignation were roused, and battled with his love,

and they were aided by the healthy invigorating habits into which Dr.

Amboyne had at last inveigled him, and so he resisted: he wrote more

than one letter in reply to Grace Carden; but, when he came to read them

over and compare them with her gentle effusion, he was ashamed of his

harshness, and would not send the letter.

He fought on; philanthropy in Hillsborough, forging in Cairnhope Church;

and still he dreamed strange dreams now and then: for who can work, both

night and day, as this man did--with impunity?

One night he dreamed that he was working at his forge, when suddenly the

floor of the aisle burst, and a dead knight sprang from the grave with

a single bound, and stood erect before him, in rusty armor: out of his

helmet looked two eyes like black diamonds, and a nose like a falcon's.

Yet, by one of the droll contradictions of a dream, this impetuous,

warlike form no sooner opened its lips, than out issued a lackadaisical

whine. “See my breastplate, good sir,” said he. “It was bright as silver

when I made it--I was like you, I forged my own weapons, forged them

with these hands. But now the damps of the grave have rusted it.

Odsbodikins! is this a thing for a good knight to appear in before his

judge? And to-morrow is doomsday, so they all say.”

Then Henry pitied the poor simple knight (in his dream), and offered his

services to polish the corslet up a bit against that great occasion. He

pointed toward his forge, and the knight marched to it, in three wide

steps that savored strongly of theatrical burlesque. But the moment he

saw the specimens of Henry's work lying about, he drew back, and wheeled

upon the man of the day with huge disdain. “What,” said he, “do you

forge toys! Learn that a gentleman can only forge those weapons of war

that gentlemen do use. And I took you for a Raby!”

With these bitter words he vanished, with flashing eyes and a look

of magnificent scorn, and left his fiery, haughty features imprinted

clearly on Henry's memory.

One evening, as he plied his hammer, he heard a light sound at a window,

in an interval of his own noise. He looked hastily up, and caught a

momentary sight of a face disappearing from the window. It was gone like

a flash even as he caught sight of it.

Transient as the glance was, it shook him greatly. He heated a bar of

iron white hot at one end, and sallied out into the night. But there was

not a creature to be seen.

Then he called aloud, “Who's there?” No reply. “Jael, was it you?” Dead

silence.

He returned to his work, and set the appearance down to an ocular

illusion. But his dreams had been so vivid, that this really seemed only

one step more into the realm of hallucination.

This was an unfortunate view of the matter.

On old Christmas Eve he lighted the fires in his mausoleum first, and

at last succeeded in writing a letter to Grace Carden. He got out of

the difficulty in the best way, by making it very short. He put it in

an envelope, and addressed it, intending to give it to Jael Dence, from

whom he was always expecting a second visit.

He then lighted his forge, and soon the old walls were ringing again

with the blows of his hammer.

It was ten o'clock at night; a clear frosty night; but he was heated

and perspiring with his ardent work, when, all of a sudden, a cold air

seemed to come in upon him from a new quarter--the door. He left his

forge, and took a few steps to where he could see the door. Instead of

the door, he saw the blue sky.

He uttered an exclamation, and rubbed his eyes.

It was no hallucination. The door lay flat on the ground, and the stars

glittered in the horizon.

Young Little ran toward the door; but, when he got near it, he paused,

and a dire misgiving quelled him. A workman soon recognizes a workman's

hand; and he saw Hillsborough cunning and skill in this feat, and

Hillsborough cunning and cruelty lurking in ambush at the door.

He went back to his forge, and, the truth must be told, his knees felt

weak under him with fears of what was to come.

He searched about for weapons, and could find nothing to protect him

against numbers. Pistols he had: but, from a wretched over-security, he

had never brought them to Cairnhope Church.

Oh, it was an era of agony that minute, in which, after avoiding the

ambuscade that he felt sure awaited him at the door, he had nothing on

earth he could do but wait and see what was to come next.

He knew that however small his chance of escape by fighting, it was his

only one; and he resolved to receive the attack where he was. He blew

his bellows and, cold at heart, affected to forge.

Dusky forms stole into the old church.

CHAPTER XV.

Little blew his coals to a white heat: then took his hammer into his

left hand, and his little iron shovel, a weapon about two feet long,

into his right.

Three assailants crept toward him, and his position was such that two at

least could assail him front and rear. He counted on that, and measured

their approach with pale cheek but glittering eye, and thrust his shovel

deep into the white coals.

They crept nearer and nearer, and, at last, made an almost simultaneous

rush on him back and front.

The man in the rear was a shade in advance of the other. Little, whose

whole soul was in arms, had calculated on this, and turning as they came

at him, sent a shovelful of fiery coals into that nearest assailant's

face, then stepped swiftly out of the way of the other, who struck at

him too immediately for him to parry; ere he could recover the wasted

blow, Little's hot shovel came down in his head with tremendous force,

and laid him senseless and bleeding on the hearth, with blood running

from his ears.

Little ladled the coals right and left on the other two assailants, one

of whom was already yelling with the pain of the first shovelful; then,

vaulting suddenly over a pew, he ran for the door.

There he was encountered by Sam Cole, an accomplished cudgel-player,

who parried his blows coolly, and gave him a severe rap on the head that

dazzled him. But he fought on, till he heard footsteps coming behind

him, and then rage and despair seized him, he drew back, shifted his

hammer into his right hand and hurled it with all his force at Cole's

breast, for he feared to miss his head. Had it struck him on the breast,

delivered as it was, it would probably have smashed his breastbone, and

killed him; but it struck him on his throat, which was, in some degree,

protected by a muffler: it struck him and sent him flying like a

feather: he fell on his back in the porch, yards from where he received

that prodigious blow.

Henry was bounding out after him, when he was seized from behind, and

the next moment another seized him too, and his right hand was now

disarmed by throwing away the hammer.

He struggled furiously with them, and twice he shook them off, and

struck them with his fist, and jobbed them with his shovel quick and

short, as a horse kicking.

But one was cunning enough to make a feint at his face, and then fell

down and lay hold of his knees: he was about to pulverize this fellow

with one blow of his shovel, when the other flung his arms round him. It

became a mere struggle. Such was his fury and his vigor, however, that

they could not master him. He played his head like a snake, so that they

could not seize him disadvantageously; and at last he dropped his shovel

and got them both by the throat, and grasped them so fiercely that their

faces were purple, and their eyes beginning to fix, when to his dismay,

he received a violent blow on the right arm that nearly broke it: he

let go, with a cry of pain, and with his left hand twisted the other man

round so quickly, that he received the next blow of Cole's cudgel. Then

he dashed his left fist into Cole's eye, who staggered, but still barred

the way; so Little rushed upon him, and got him by the throat, and would

soon have settled him: but the others recovered themselves ere he could

squeeze all the wind out of Cole, and it became a struggle of three to

one.

He dragged them all three about with him; he kicked, he hit, he did

every thing that a man with one hand, and a lion's heart, could do.

But gradually they got the better of him; and at last it came to this,

that two were struggling on the ground with him, and Cole standing over

them all three, ready to strike.

“Now, hold him so, while I settle him,” cried Cole, and raised his

murderous cudgel.

It came down on Little's shoulder, and only just missed his head.

Again it came down, and with terrible force.

Up to this time he had fought as mute as a fox. But now that it had

come to mere butchery, he cried out, in his agony, “They'll kill me. My

mother! Help! Murder! Help!”

“Ay! thou'lt never forge no more!” roared Cole, and thwack came down the

crushing bludgeon.

“Help! Murder! Help!” screamed the victim, more faintly; and at the next

blow more faintly still.

But again the murderous cudgel was lifted high, to descend upon his

young head.

As the confederates held the now breathless and despairing victim to

receive the blow, and the butcher, with one eye closed by Henry's fist,

but the other gleaming savagely, raised the cudgel to finish him,

Henry saw a huge tongue of flame pour out at them all, from outside the

church, and a report, that sounded like a cannon, was accompanied by the

vicious ping of shot. Cole screamed and yelled, and dropped his cudgel,

and his face was covered with blood in a moment; he yelled, and covered

his face with his hands; and instantly came another flash, another

report, another cruel ping of shot, and this time his hands were covered

with blood.

The others rolled yelling out of the line of fire, and ran up the aisle

for their lives.

Cole, yelling, tried to follow; but Henry, though sick and weak with the

blows, caught him, and clung to his knees, and the next moment the place

was filled with men carrying torches and gleaming swords, and led by a

gentleman, who stood over Henry, in evening dress, but with the haughty

expanded nostrils, the brilliant black eyes, and all the features of

that knight in rusty armor who had come to him in his dream and left him

with scorn.

At this moment a crash was heard: two of the culprits, with desperate

agility, had leaped on to the vestry chest, and from that on to the

horse, and from him headlong out of the window.

Mr. Raby dispatched all his men but one in pursuit, with this brief

order--“Take them, alive or dead--doesn't matter which--they are only

cutlers; and cowards.”

His next word was to Cole. “What, three blackguards to one!--that's how

Hillsborough fights, eh?”

“I'm not a blackguard,” said Henry, faintly.

“That remains to be proved, sir,” said Raby, grimly.

Henry made answer by fainting away.

CHAPTER XVI.

When Henry Little came to himself, he was seated on men's hands, and

being carried through the keen refreshing air. Mr. Raby was striding on

in front; the horse's hoofs were clamping along on the hard road behind;

and he himself was surrounded by swordsmen in fantastic dresses.

He opened his eyes, and thought, of course, it was another vision.

But no, the man, with whose blows his body was sore, and his right

arm utterly numbed, walked close to him between two sword-dancers with

Raby-marks and Little-marks upon him, viz., a face spotted with blood,

and a black eye.

Little sighed.

“Eh, that's music to me,” said a friendly voice close to him. It was

the King George of the lyrical drama, and, out of poetry, George the

blacksmith.

“What, it is you, is it?” said Little.

“Ay, sir, and a joyful man to hear you speak again. The cowardly

varmint! And to think they have all got clear but this one! Are ye sore

hurt, sir?”

“I'm in awful pain, but no bones broken.” Then, in a whisper--“Where are

you taking me, George?”

“To Raby Hall,” was the whispered reply.

“Not for all the world! if you are my friend, put me down, and let me

slip away.”

“Don't ask me, don't ask me,” said George, in great distress. “How could

I look Squire in the face? He did put you in my charge.”

“Then I'm a prisoner!” said Henry, sternly.

George hung his head, but made no reply.

Henry also maintained a sullen silence after that.

The lights of Raby came in sight.

That house contained two women, who awaited the result of the nocturnal

expedition with terrible anxiety.

Its fate, they both felt, had been determined before they even knew that

the expedition had started.

They had nothing to do but to wait, and pray that Henry had made his

escape, or else had not been so mad as to attempt resistance.

In this view of things, the number and even the arms of his assailants

were some comfort to them, as rendering resistance impossible.

As for Mr. Coventry, he was secretly delighted. His conscience was

relieved. Raby would now drive his rival out of the church and out of

the country without the help of the Trades, and his act of treachery and

bad faith would be harmless. Things had taken the happiest possible turn

for him.

For all that, this courtier affected sympathy, and even some anxiety, to

please Miss Carden, and divert all suspicion from himself. But the true

ring was wanting to his words, and both the women felt them jar, and got

away from him, and laid their heads together, in agitated whispers. And

the result was, they put shawls over their heads, and went together out

into the night.

They ran up the road, sighing and clasping their hands, but no longer

speaking.

At the first turn they saw the whole body coming toward them.

“I'll soon know,” said Jael, struggling with her agitation. “Don't

you be seen, miss; that might anger the Squire; and, oh, he will be a

wrathful man this night, if he caught him working in yonder church.”

Grace then slipped back, and Jael ran on. But no sooner did she come

up with the party, than Raby ordered her back, in a tone she dared not

resist.

She ran back, and told Grace they were carrying him in, hurt, and the

Squire's eyes were like hot coals.

Grace slipped into the drawing-room and kept the door ajar.

Soon afterward, Raby, his men, and his prisoners, entered the hall, and

Grace heard Raby say, “Bring the prisoners into the dining-room.”

Grace Carden sat down, and leaned her head upon her hand, and her little

foot beat the ground, all in a flutter.

But this ended in a spirited resolve. She rose, pale, but firm,

and said, “Come with me, Jael;” and she walked straight into the

dining-room. Coventry strolled in after her.

The room was still brilliantly lighted. Mr. Raby was seated at his

writing-table at the far end, and the prisoners, well guarded, stood

ready to be examined.

“You can't come in here,” was Mr. Raby's first word to Grace.

But she was prepared for this, and stood her ground. “Excuse me, dear

uncle, but I wish to see you administer justice; and, besides, I believe

I can tell you something about one of the prisoners.”

“Indeed! that alters the case. Somebody give Miss Carden a chair.”

She sat down, and fixed her eyes upon Henry Little--eyes that said

plainly, “I shall defend you, if necessary:” his pale cheek was flushing

at sight of her.

Mr. Raby arranged his papers to make notes, and turned to Cole. “The

charge against you is, that you were seen this night by several persons

engaged in an assault of a cruel and aggravated character. You, and two

other men, attacked and overpowered an individual here present; and,

while he was helpless, and on the ground, you were seen to raise a heavy

cudgel (Got the cudgel, George?)--”

“Ay, your worship, here 'tis.”

“--And to strike him several times on the head and limbs, with all your

force.”

“Oh, cruel! cruel!”

“This won't do, Miss Carden; no observations, please. In consequence

of which blows he soon after swooned away, and was for some time

unconscious, and--”

“Oh!”

“--For aught I know, may have received some permanent injury.”

“Not he,” said Cole; “he's all right. I'm the only man that is hurt; and

I've got it hot; he hit me with his hammer, and knocked me down like a

bullock. He's given me this black eye too.”

“In self-defense, apparently. Which party attacked the other first?”

“Why they attacked me, of course,” said Henry. “Four of them.”

“Four! I saw but three.”

“Oh, I settled one at starting, up near the forge. Didn't you find him?”

(This to George.)

“Nay, we found none of the trash but this,” indicating Cole, with a

contemptuous jerk of the thumb.

“Now, don't all speak at once,” said Mr. Raby. “My advice to you is to

say nothing, or you'll probably make bad worse. But if you choose to say

anything, I'm bound to hear it.”

“Well, sir,” said Cole, in a carrying voice, “what I say is this: what

need we go to law over this? If you go against me for hitting him with

a stick, after he had hit me with a blacksmith's hammer, I shall have to

go against you for shooting me with a gun.”

“That is between you and me, sir. You will find a bystander may shoot

a malefactor to save the life of a citizen. Confine your defense, at

present, to the point at issue. Have you any excuse, as against this

young man?” (To Henry.)--“You look pale. You can sit down till your turn

comes.”

“Not in this house.”

“And why not in this house, pray? Is your own house a better?”

No answer from Henry. A look of amazement and alarm from Grace. But she

was afraid to utter a word, after the admonition she had received.

“Well, sir,” said Cole, “he was desecrating a church.”

“So he was, and I shall talk to him in his turn. But you desecrated

it worse. He turned it into a blacksmith shop; you turned it into

a shambles. I shall commit you. You will be taken to Hillsborough

to-morrow; to-night you will remain in my strong-room. Fling him down

a mattress and some blankets, and give him plenty to eat and drink; I

wouldn't starve the devil on old Christmas Eve. There, take him away.

Stop; search his pockets before you leave him alone.”

Cole was taken away, and Henry's turn came.

Just before this examination commenced, Grace clasped her hands, and

cast a deprecating look on Henry, as much as to say, “Be moderate.” And

then her eyes roved to and fro, and the whole woman was in arms, and on

the watch.

Mr. Raby began on him. “As for you, your offense is not so criminal in

the eye of the law; but it is bad enough; you have broken into a church

by unlawful means; you have turned it into a smithy, defiled the graves

of the dead, and turned the tomb of a good knight into an oven, to the

scandal of men and the dishonor of god. Have you any excuse to offer?”

“Plenty. I was plying an honest trade, in a country where freedom is

the law. The Hillsborough Unions combined against me, and restrained my

freedom, and threatened my life, ay, and attempted my life too, before

to-day: and so the injustice and cruelty of men drove me to a sanctuary,

me and my livelihood. Blame the Trades, blame the public laws, blame the

useless police: but you can't blame me; a man must live.”

“Why not set up your shop in the village? Why wantonly desecrate a

church?”

“The church was more secret, and more safe: and nobody worships in it.

The wind and the weather are allowed to destroy it; you care so little

for it you let it molder; then why howl if a fellow uses it and keeps it

warm?”

At this sally there was a broad rustic laugh, which, however, Mr. Raby

quelled with one glance of his eye.

“Come, don't be impertinent,” said he to Little.

“Then don't you provoke a fellow,” cried Henry, raising his voice.

Grace clasped her hands in dismay.

Jael Dence said, in her gravest and most mellow voice, “You do forget

the good Squire saved your life this very night.”

This was like oil on all the waters.

“Well, certainly I oughtn't to forget that,” said Henry, apologetically.

Then he appealed piteously to Jael, whose power over him struck every

body directly, including Grace Carden. “Look here, you mustn't think,

because I don't keep howling, I'm all right. My arm is disabled: my back

is almost broken: my thigh is cut. I'm in sharp pain, all this time: and

that makes a fellow impatient of being lectured on the back of it all.

Why doesn't he let me go? I don't want to affront him now. All I want is

to go and get nursed a bit somewhere.”

“Now that is the first word of reason and common sense you have uttered,

young man. It decides me not to detain you. All I shall do, under the

circumstances, is to clear your rubbish out of that holy building,

and watch it by night as well as day. Your property, however, shall be

collected, and delivered to you uninjured: so oblige me with your name

and address.”

Henry made no reply.

Raby turned his eye full upon him.

“Surely you do not object to tell me your name.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me.”

“What are you afraid of? Do you doubt my word, when I tell you I shall

not proceed against you?”

“No: it is not that at all. But this is no place for me to utter my

father's name. We all have our secrets, sir. You have got yours. There's

a picture, with its face to the wall. Suppose I was to ask you to tell

all the world whose face it is you insult and hide from the world?”

Raby turned red with wrath and surprise, at this sudden thrust. “You

insolent young scoundrel!” he cried. “What is that to you, and what

connection can there be between that portrait and a man in your way of

life?”

“There's a close connection,” said Henry, trembling with anger, in his

turn: “and the proof is that, when that picture is turned to the light,

I'll tell you my name: and, till that picture is turned to the light,

I'll not tell you my name; and if any body here knows my name, and tells

it you, may that person's tongue be blistered at the root!”

“Oh, how fearful!” cried Grace, turning very pale. “But I'll put an end

to it all. I've got the key, and I've his permission, and I'll--oh, Mr.

Raby, there's something more in this than we know.” She darted to the

picture, and unlocked the padlock, and, with Jael's assistance, began to

turn the picture. Then Mr. Raby rose and seemed to bend his mind inward,

but he neither forbade, nor encouraged, this impulsive act of Grace

Carden's.

Now there was not a man nor a woman in the room whose curiosity had not

been more or less excited about this picture; so there was a general

movement toward it, of all but Mr. Raby, who stood quite still, turning

his eye inward, and evidently much moved, though passive.

There happened to be a strong light upon the picture, and the lovely

olive face, the vivid features, and glorious black eyes and eyebrows,

seemed to flash out of the canvas into life.

Even the living faces, being blondes, paled before it, in the one

particular of color. They seemed fair glittering moons, and this a

glowing sun.

Grace's first feelings were those of simple surprise and admiration.

But, as she gazed, Henry's words returned to her, and all manner of

ideas struck her pell-mell. “Oh, beautiful! beautiful!” she cried. Then,

turning to Henry, “You are right; it was not a face to hide from the

world--oh! the likeness! just look at HIM, and then at her! can I be

mistaken?”

This appeal was made to the company, and roused curiosity to a high

pitch; every eye began to compare the dark-skinned beauty on the wall

with the swarthy young man, who now stood there, and submitted in

haughty silence to the comparison.

The words caught Mr. Raby's attention. He made a start, and elbowing

them all out of his way, strode up to the picture.

“What do you say, Miss Carden? What likeness can there be between

my sister and a smith?” and he turned and frowned haughtily on Henry

Little.

Henry returned his look of defiance directly.

But that very exchange of defiance brought out another likeness, which

Grace's quick eye seized directly.

“Why, he is still liker you,” she cried. “Look, good people! Look at

all three. Look at their great black eyes, and their brown hair. Look

at their dark skins, and their haughty noses. Oh, you needn't blow

your nostrils out at me, gentlemen; I am not a bit afraid of either of

you.--And then look at this lovely creature. She is a Raby too, only

softened down by her sweet womanliness. Look at them all three, if they

are not one flesh and blood, I have no eyes.”

“Oh yes, miss; and this lady is his mother. For I have SEEN her; and she

is a sweet lady; and she told me I had a Cairnhope face, and kissed me

for it.”

Upon this from Jael, the general conviction rose into a hum that buzzed

round the room.

Mr. Raby was struck with amazement. At last he turned slowly upon Henry,