Henry walked away in a whirl of mingled passions--resentment mingled
with wounded feelings; and one added force to the other. He had worked
all night, perilling life without a care, but no word had been said on
this subject. He had hastened over, weary and hungry, to confess all to
Mr. Powderham, and advantage had been taken of his absence to get up
stories against him. The sense of unfairness and ill-usage made his
heart smart and bleed; the impossibility of coping with the unfairness
maddened him.
Those who have been born fiery and sensitive may imagine the feelings of
impotent resentment and desire of revenge that swept through his mind,
adding to the inward tumult by the very consciousness of their
impotency. But most men, either from principle or obedience to common
laws of society, govern those feelings, instead of allowing them to be
the governors. But Henry, unfortunately, had yielded too little to
control, knew too little the duty or the importance of self-mastery, to
be able to reason when agitated. His mind lost its balance, and before
he reached his lodgings he had determined to throw up his situation.
“Why had he ever taken it? Why had he ever exposed himself to the
insults of underlings?--to the oppression of masters? Why had he ever
thought it possible that a connexion--any connexion--with his house’s
enemy could bring good luck with it. He renounced it at once and for
ever. Better be a common workman, a railway navvy, than bear what he had
had to bear.”
He was exhausted with want of food when he got to his lodging, for he
had had nothing during the work of the night, or the ride of the
morning, and he called for some breakfast. The refreshment of his bodily
powers in some degree soothed his mind, but did not alter his
resolution; and after breakfast he began to sort out his papers and tear
his letters.
In the course of his hurried inspection he opened Nora’s letter to
himself, and as his eyes fell on the first few sentences a softer mood
stole over him. He did not change his views, but the mood of mind
changed. He would still resign, but he would not throw his resignation
with bitter words in Mr. Powderham’s face; he would see Nora, and calmly
yield up to her the office she had entrusted to him. This decision
stilled and calmed him, and restored him to a sense of dignity. Possibly
even without allowing it, a something in the future which might stay the
offer of resignation floated dimly and consolingly before him; but it
was not consciously seen.
He hurriedly put back his papers, only half sorted and arranged, and
went up to the house to see what was going forward. He was calmed, but
his mood of mind was still sensitive, and everything conspired to add to
this sensitiveness. He found all the workmen busily at work, and no
notice was taken of him as he stood by. This was but natural, since Mr.
Powderham was supreme, and had given his orders; but Henry felt none the
less overlooked. At last he asked if Mr. Powderham was gone. The man
said he thought not. He thought he was going to stay to receive Miss
Smith.
This was natural, but it was another blow to Henry.
“Where is Mr. Field?” he asked next.
There was something going on--a letter or messenger being sent to Miss
Smith, the man said. He thought he was gone to find one.
Henry had intended to be this messenger himself. He felt every way
baffled. He wandered into the house, no longer daring to take on
himself to make arrangements for Nora’s reception; but did not find
comfort there. All indeed were kind; even Hannah, now that she saw the
look of misery on his handsome face, was repentant for her spiteful
speech. But one and all seemed to look on him as the culprit--as without
any doubt the culprit; and a feeling, a reasonless one, but a feeling of
kindliness and chivalry, made him bear it bravely, and not attempt to
shift the blame to other shoulders. Finding little comfort therefore in
the house, he turned away. As he left the kitchen, where he had found
Mrs. Ratcliffe, Sophy, beginning to cry, slipped her hand into his.
“Poor little thing!” he said, patting the little hand. “Were you very
much frightened?”
“She was terribly frightened, sir,” said Mrs. Ratcliffe, “but I think
she frets most for you. She don’t like to have you blamed.”
“Poor little thing!” he said, much touched. He stooped and kissed her;
but feeling overmuch softened by the unexpected kindness, dropped her
hand and strode away.
Sophy gasped a sob, and then sat down again and cried silently.
As Henry returned to his lodgings, he met James Field. “Where do you
come from?” he asked shortly.
“Mr. Powderham has written to Miss Smith. A messenger is to go with the
letter to the Junction. That will save her a surprise when she arrives.”
“I meant to go to the station to meet her.”
“So do I,” said James Field, with a stately manner, “and so does Mr.
Powderham; but still it was right to prepare her.”
“Who is going?”
“Thornhill. He is just off, but you can catch him if you have a private
message to send.”
“I have none.” That word “private,” pronounced in a peculiar tone of
irony, made his flesh creep. “I shall be at the station,” he said, and
walked on.
The storm was renewed within.
He set to work again upon his papers, now and then looking at his watch.
His horse was tired, and he must walk to the station, which was six
miles off. He determined to do it leisurely, and not arrive heated and
excited. The weather was hot, and the sun very powerful; he did not mind
this in general, but his mind was set on this reception at the station,
and his appearance there assumed an enormous importance in his eyes.
Not his personal appearance in any conceited sense; that for which he
felt anxiety was for the dignity and self-possession of his air and
manner.
He wished to be at the station by five. A little before three a message
was brought him that a workman wished to speak to him. He went down and
found a man, who, with an agitated manner, began to tell him that he had
been suspected of stealing a fellow-workman’s tools.
“Now, sir,” he said, “the tools was taken between three and four
yesterday afternoon; that is owned by Thorpe himself; and how could I
have taken them when I was not there? You knows well, sir, that you sent
me to Dollington,” naming the nearest town.
“Yes, I sent you. It was to get a piece of velvet for the chimney-piece
of the unfortunate room.”
“Yes, sir. It is four good miles to Dollington, and I brought it you
back at four o’clock; you knows that.”
“Yes, I am sure of it; and I did not give you the commission till after
your dinner. All right; you can prove it is a mistake.”
“No, sir, that’s what I can’t do; for it seems nobody missed me; or they
won’t say as they did. I’ve got a bit of a temper, sir, and I’m not a
popular man, and they don’t care to see me down; but I value my
character, sir, and I can’t put up with this.”
“Then you want me to prove it?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got to be hauled before the magistrate, Squire Lubbock,
this evening, and if there’s nobody to speak for me, I shall be hauled
to prison; and, sir, I value my character, and if you be so good, I
can’t put up with it.”
Henry’s countenance fell.
“What time are you to go?”
“I am to be at Squire Lubbock’s at half after five; and if you, sir,
will be so good as to meet me there, you may get me out of this scrape,
and I shall be for ever grateful to your honour.”
“Well, my good man, I can’t refuse you,” Henry said. “I know what it is
to be wrongfully accused. Though I would rather be shot, and shoot you,
too,” he added, using in his excitement one of those foolishly forcible
expressions which did him so much injury. “I will do a good turn when I
can. Go. I will meet you.”
“Thank ye, sir,” and the man went away.
Henry was forced to change his plans. Mr. Lubbock was a squire who lived
in an opposite direction to the station, three or four miles over the
heath. He was there by half-past five, but was kept waiting for nearly
an hour, and it was past half-past seven before the business was well
over, and he was at home again. He thought it too late to intrude on
Nora.
“What will she think of me?” he said, as he sat dreary and distracted in
his lodgings. “But it shall all be ended to-morrow morning. I’ll be off
from this unfortunate place before another sun has set.”