So they talked and meantime Abel's sorrow ran into the channels of

evil. It may be that the presence of Estelle had determined this

misfortune; but he was ripe for it and his feeling prompted him to let

his misery run over, that others might drink of the cup. He had long

contemplated a definite deed and planned a stroke against Raymond

Ironsyde; but he had postponed the act, partly from fear, partly because

the thought of it was a pleasure. Inverted instincts and a mind fouled

by promptings from without, led him to understand that Ironsyde was his

mother's enemy and therefore his own. Baggs had told him so in a

malignant moment and Abel believed it. To injure his enemy was to honour

his mother. And the time had come to do so. He was ripe for it to-night.

He told himself that Peter Grim would have approved the blow, and with

his mind a chaos of mistaken opinions, at once ludicrous and mournful,

he set himself to his task. He ate his supper as usual and went to bed;

but when the house was silent in sleep, he rose, put on his clothes and

hastened out of doors. He departed by a window on the ground floor and

slipped into a night of light and shade, for the moon was full and rode

through flying clouds.

The boy felt a youthful malefactor's desire to get his task done as

swiftly as possible. He was impatient to feel the deed behind him. He

ran through the deserted village, crossed a little bridge over the

river, and then approached the Mill by a meadow below them. Thus he

always came to see Mr. Baggs, or anybody who was friendly.

The roof of the works shone in answer to fitful moonlight, and they

presented to his imagination a strange and unfamiliar appearance. Under

the sleight of the hour they were changed and towered majestically above

him. The Mill slept and in the creepy stillness, the river's voice,

which he had hardly heard till now, was magnified to a considerable

murmur. From far away down the valley came the song of the sea, where a

brisk, westerly wind threw the waves on the shingle.

A feeling of awe numbed him, but it was not powerful enough to arrest

his purpose. His plans had been matured for many days.

He meant to burn down the Mill.

Nothing was easier and a match in the inflammable material, of which the

hackler's shop was usually full, must quickly involve the mass of the

buildings.

It was fitting that where he had been impregnated by Mr. Baggs with much

lawless opinion, Abel should give expression to his evil purpose. From

the tar-pitched work-room of the hackler, fire would very quickly leap

to the main building against which it stood, and might, indeed, under

the strong wind, involve the stores also and John Best's dwelling

between them. But it was fated otherwise. A very small incident served

to prevent a considerable catastrophe, and when Abel broke the window of

the hackling room, turned the hasp, raised it, and got in, a man lay

awake in pain not thirty yards distant. The lad lighted a candle, which

he had brought with him, and it was then, while he collected a heap of

long hemp and prepared to set it on fire, that John Best, in torture

from toothache, went downstairs for a mouthful of brandy.

Upon the staircase he passed a window and, glancing through it, he saw a

light in the hackling shop. It was not the moon and meant a presence

there that needed instant explanation. Mr. Best forgot his toothache,

called his sailor son, who happened to be holiday-making at home, and

hastened as swiftly and silently as possible over the bridge to the

Mill. John Best the younger, an agile man of thirty, may be said to have

saved the situation, for he was far quicker than his father could be and

managed to anticipate the disaster by moments. Half a minute more might

have made all the difference, for the heap of loose hemp and stricks

once ignited, no power on earth could have saved a considerable

conflagration; but the culprit had his back turned to the window and was

still busily piling the tow when Best and his son looked in upon him,

and the sailor was already half through the window before Abel

perceived him. The youngster dashed for his candle, but he was too late,

a pair of strong hands gripped his neck roughly enough, and he fainted

from the shock.

They took him out as he had gone in, for the door was locked and Levi

Baggs had the key. Then the sailor went back to his home, dressed

himself and started for a policeman, while Mr. Best kept guard over

Abel.

When he came to his senses, the boy found himself in the moonlight with

a dozen turns of stout fisherman's twine round his hands and ankles The

foreman stood over him, and now that the house was roused, his wife had

brought John a pair of trousers and a great coat, for he was in his

night shirt.

"You'll catch your death," she said.

"It's only by God's mercy we didn't all catch our death," he answered.

"Here's Sabina Dinnett's boy plotted to destroy the works, and we've yet

to find whether he's the tool of others, or has done the deed on his

own."

"On my own I did it," declared Abel; "and I'll do it yet."

"You shut your mouth, you imp of Satan!" cried the exasperated man. "Not

a word, you scamp. You've done for yourself now, and everybody knew

you'd come to it, sooner or later."

In half an hour Abel was locked up, and when Mr. Baggs heard next

morning concerning the events of the night, he expressed the utmost

surprise and indignation.

"Young dog! And after the friend I've been to him. Blood will tell.

That's his lawless father coming out in the wretch," he said.

CHAPTER IX

THE FUTURE OF ABEL

Issues beyond human sight or calculation lay involved in the thing that

Abel Dinnett had done. He had cast down a challenge to society, and

everything depended on how society answered that challenge. Not only did

the child's own future turn on what must follow, but vital matters for

those who were called to act hung on their line of action. That,

however, they could not know. The tremendous significance of the

sinner's future training and the result of what must now happen to him

lay far beyond their prescience.

It became an immediate question whether Abel might, or might not, be

saved from the punishment he had deserved. Beyond that rose another

problem, not less important, and his father doubted whether, for the

child's own sake, it would be well to intervene. Waldron strongly agreed

with him; but Estelle did not, and she used her great influence on the

side of intervention. Miss Ironsyde and Ernest Churchouse were also of

her opinion. Indeed, all concerned, save his mother and Arthur Waldron,

begged Raymond to interfere, if possible.

He did not decide immediately.

"The boy will be sent to a reformatory for five years if I do nothing,"

he told Estelle, "and that's probably the very best thing on earth that

can happen to him. It will put the fear of God into him and possibly

obliterate his hate of me. He's bad all through, I'm afraid."

"No he isn't--far from it. That's the point," she argued. "These things

are a legacy--a hateful legacy from his grandmother. Mister Churchouse

knows him far better than anybody else, and he says there is great

sensibility and power of feeling in him. He's tender to animals."

"That's not much good if he's going to be tough to me. Tell me why his

mother doesn't come to me about him."

"Mister Churchouse says she's in a strange state and doesn't seem to

care. She told him the sins of the fathers were being visited on the

children."

"The sins of the fathers are being visited on the fathers, I should

think."

"That's fair at any rate," she said. "I know just how you must feel.

You've been so patient, Ray, and taken such a lot of trouble. But I

believe it's all part of the fate that links you to the child. His

future is made your business now, whether you will or no. It is thrust

upon you. Nobody but you would be listened to by the law; but you can

give an undertaking and do something to save him from the horror of a

reformatory."

Estelle and Raymond were having tea together at 'The Seven Stars' during

this conversation. Her father was returning home to Bridport by an

evening train and she had driven to meet him. Nelly Legg waited upon

them, and knowing the matter occupied many tongues, Raymond spoke to

her.

"You can guess this is a puzzler, Nelly," he said. "What would you do?

Miss Waldron says it's up to me to try and get the boy off; but the

question is shall I be serving him best that way?"

"My husband and me have gone over it," she confessed; "of course,

everybody has done so. You can't pretend the people aren't interested,

and if one has asked Job his opinion, a hundred have. People bring him

their puzzles and troubles as a sort of habit. From a finger ache to the

loss of a fortune they pour their difficulties into his wise head, and

for patience he's a very good second to the first of the name. And I may

tell you a curious thing, Mister Raymond, for I've seen it happen. As

the folks talk and talk to Legg, they get more and more cheerful and he

gets more and more depressed. Then, after they've let off all their woes

on the man, sometimes they'll have the grace to apologise and say it's

too bad to give him such a dose. And they always wind up by assuring him

he's done them a world of good; but they never stop to think what they

have done to him."

"Vampires of sympathy--blood-suckers," declared Raymond. "Such kindly

men as your husband must pay for their virtues, Nelly."

"Sympathetic people have to work hard," added Estelle.

"Not that he wants the lesser people's gratitude, so long as he has my

admiration," explained Mrs. Legg. "And that he always will have, for

he's more than human in some particulars. And only I know the full

extent of his wonders. A master of stratagems too--the iron hand in the

velvet glove--though if you was to tell half the people in Bridport he's

got an iron hand, they never would believe it. And as to this sad

affair, he's given his opinion and won't change it. You may think him

right or wrong, but so it is."

"And what does he say, Nelly?"

"He says the child may be saved as a brand from the burning if the law

takes its course. He thinks that if you, or anybody, was to go bail for

the child and save him from the consequences of his wicked deed, that a

great mistake would be made. In justice to you I should say that they

don't all agree. Some hope you'll interfere--mostly women."

"What do you think?" asked Raymond.

"As Missis Legg, I think the same as him; and I'll tell you another

thing you may not know. The young boy's mother is by no means sure if

she don't feel the same. My married niece is her friend, and last time

she saw her, Sabina spoke about it. From what Sarah says I think she

feels it might be better for the boy to put him away. I can't say as to

her motives. Naturally she's only concerned as to the welfare of the

child and knows he'll never be trained to any good where he is."

That Sabina had expressed so strong an opinion interested Raymond. But

Estelle refused to believe it.

"I'm sure Sarah misunderstood," she said. "Sabina couldn't mean that."

They went to the station presently, met Arthur Waldron and drove him

home. Estelle urged Raymond to see Sabina before he decided what to do;

and since little time was left before he must act, he went to 'The

Magnolias' that evening and begged for an interview.

Sabina had a small sitting-room of her own in which evidence of Abel did

not lack. Drawings that he had made at school were hung on the walls,

and a steam-engine--a present from Mr. Churchouse on his twelfth

birthday--stood upon the mantel-shelf.

"It's just this, Sabina," he said; "I won't keep you; but I feel the

future of the boy is in the balance and I can't do anything without

hearing your opinion. And first I want you to understand I have quite

forgiven him. He's not all to blame. Certain fixed, false ideas he has

got. They were driven into him at his most impressionable age; and until

his reason asserts itself no doubt he'll go on hating me. But that'll

all come right. I don't blame you for it."

"You should blame me all the same," she said. "It's as much me in his

blood as his grandmother at his ear, that turned him to hate you. I

don't hate you now--or anybody, or anything. I've not got strength and

fight in me now to hate, or love either. But I did hate you and I was

full of hate before he was born, and the milk was curdled with hate that

fed him. Now I don't care what happens. I can't prevent the future of my

child from shaping itself. The time for preventing things and doing

things and fixing character and getting self-respect is over and past.

What he's done is the natural result of what was done to him. And

who'll blame him? Who'll blame me for being bad and indifferent--wicked

if you like? Life's made me so--hard--cold to others. But I should have

been different if I'd had love and common justice. So would he. It's

natural in him to hate you; and now the poor little wretch will get what

he deserves--same as his mother did before him, and so all's said. What

we deserved, that's all."

"I don't think so. I'm very willing to fight for him if I can do him

good by fighting. The situation is unusual. You probably do not realise

what this means to me. Is there to be no finality in your resentment?

Honestly I get rather tired of it."

"I got rather tired of it twelve years ago."

"You're not prepared to help me, then, or make any suggestion--for the

child's sake?"

"I'll not help, or hinder. I've been looking on so long now that I'm

only fit to look on. My child has everything against him, and he knows

it; and you can't save him from his fate any more than I can. So what's

the good of wasting time talking as though you could? Fate's

fate--beyond us."

"We make our own fate. I may tell you that I should have been largely

influenced by you, Sabina. The question admits of different answers and

I recognise my responsibility. Some say that I must intervene now and

some say that I should not."

"And the only one not asked to give an opinion is Abel himself. A child

is never asked about his own hopes and fears."

"We know what his hopes were--to burn down the Mill. So we may take it

for the present he's not the best judge of what's good for him."

"I've done my duty to him," she said, "and that's all I could do. I'm

very sorry for him, and what love I've got for him is the sort that's

akin to pity. It's contrary to reason that I should take any deep joy in

him, or worship the ground he walks on, like other mothers do towards

their children. For he stands there before me for ever as the sign and

mark of my own failure in life. But I don't think any less of him for

trying to destroy the works. I'd decided about him long ago."

Raymond found nothing to the purpose in this illusive talk. It argued

curious impassivity in Sabina he thought, and he felt jarred to find the

conventional attitude of mother to son was not acknowledged by her.

Estelle had showed far more feeling, had taken a much more active part

in the troubles of Abel. Estelle had spared no pains in arguing for the

child and imploring Ironsyde to exhaust his credit on Abel's behalf.

He told Sabina this and she explained it.

"I dare say she has. A woman can see why, though doubtless you cannot.

It isn't because he's himself that she's active for him; and it isn't

because he's my child, either. It's because he's your child. Your

blood's sacred in her eyes you may be sure. She was a child herself when

you ruined me; she forgets all that. Why? Because ever since she's grown

to womanhood and intelligence to note what happens, you have been a

saint of virtue and the friend of the weak and the champion of the poor.

So, of course, she feels that such a great and good man's son only wants

his father's care to make him great and good too."

"To think you can talk so after all these years, Sabina," he said.

"How should I talk? What are the years to me? You never knew, or

understood, or respected the stuff I was made of; and you'll never

understand your child, either, or the stuff he's made of; and you can

tell the young woman that loves you so much, that she's wrong--as wrong

as can be. Nothing's gained by your having any hand in Abel's future.

You won't win him with sugarplums now, any more than you will with money

later on. He's made of different stuff from you--and better stuff and

rarer stuff. There's very little of you in him and very little of me,

either. He's himself, and the fineness that might have made him a useful

man under fair conditions, is turned to foulness now. Your child was

ruined in the making--not by me, but by you yourself. And such is his

mind that he knows it already. So be warned and let him alone."

"If anything could make me agree with Miss Waldron, Sabina, it would be

what you tell me," he answered. "And if I can live to show you that you

are terribly wrong I shall be glad."

"That you never will."

"At least you'll do nothing to come between us?"

"I never have. I was very careful not to do that. If he can look at you

as a friend presently, I shan't prevent it. I shan't warn him against

you--though I've warned you against him. The weak use poisonous weapons,

because they haven't got the strength to use weapons of might. That's

why he tried to burn down the Mill. He'll be stronger some day."

"He's clever, I'm told, and if we can only interest him in some

intelligent business and find what his bent is, we may fill his mind to

good purpose. At any rate, I thank you for leaving me free to act. Now I

can decide what course to take. It was impossible until I heard what you

felt."

She said no more and he left her to make up his mind. Doubt persisted

there, for he still suspected, that five years in a reformatory might be

better for Abel than anything else. Such an experience he felt would

develop his character, crush his malignant instincts and leave him only

too ready to accept his father as his friend; but against such a fate

for Abel, was his own relationship to the culprit, and the question

whether Raymond would not suffer very far-reaching censure if he made no

effort to come to the boy's rescue. Truest wisdom might hold a severe

course of correction very desirable; but sentiment and public opinion

would be likely to condemn him if he did nothing. People would say that

he had taken a harsh revenge on his own, erring child.

He fumed at a situation intolerable and was finally moved to accept

Estelle's advice. From no considerations for Bridport, or Bridetown, did

she urge his active intervention. For Abel's sake she begged it and was

more insistent than before, when she heard of Sabina's indifference.

"He's yours," she said. "You've been so splendidly patient. So do go on

being patient, and the result will be a fine character and a reward for

you. It isn't what people would say; but if he goes to a reformatory,

far from wanting you and your help when he comes out again, he'll know

in the future that you might have saved him from it and given him a

first-rate education among good, upright boys. But if he went to a

reformatory, he must meet all sorts of difficult boys, like himself, and

they wouldn't help him, and he'd come out harder than he went in."

His heart yielded to her at last, even though his head still doubted,

for Raymond's attitude to Estelle had begun insensibly to change since

his accident in the cricket field. From that time he won a glimpse of

things that apparently others already knew. Sabina, in their recorded

conversation, had bluntly told him that Estelle loved him; and while the

man dismissed the idea as an absurdity, it was certain that from this

period he began to grow somewhat more sentimentally interested in her.

The interest developed very slowly, but this business of Abel brought

them closer together, for she haunted him during the days before the

child came to his trial, and when, perhaps for her sake as much as any

other reason, Raymond decided to undertake his son's defence, her

gratitude was great.

He made it clear to her that she was responsible for his determination.

"I've let you over-rule me, Estelle," he told her. "Don't forget it,

Chicky. And now that the boy will, I hope, be in my hands, you must

strengthen my hands all you can and help me to make him my friend."

She promised thankfully.

"Be sure I shall never, never forget," she said, "and I shall never be

happy till he knows what you really are, and what you wish him. You must

win him now. It's surely contrary to all natural instinct if you can't.

The mere fact that you can forgive him for what he tried to do, ought to

soften his heart."

"I trust more to you than myself," he answered.

CHAPTER X

THE ADVERTISEMENT

Raymond Ironsyde had his way, and local justices, familiar with the

situation, were content not to commit Abel, but leave the boy in his

father's hands. He took all responsibility and, when the time came, sent

his son to a good boarding-school at Yeovil. Sabina so far met him that

the operation was conducted in her name, and since the case of Abel had

been kept out of local papers, his fellow scholars knew nothing of his

errors. But his difficulties of character were explained to those now

set over him, and they were warned that his moral education, while

attempted, had not so far been successful.

Perhaps only one of those concerned much sympathised with Ironsyde in

his painful ordeal. Those who did not openly assert that he was reaping

what he had sown, were indifferent. Some, like Mr. Motyer, held the

incident a joke; one only possessed imagination sufficient to guess what

these public events must mean to the father of Abel. Indeed, Estelle

certainly suffered more for Raymond than he suffered for himself. She

pictured poignantly his secret thoughts and sorrows at this challenge,

and she could guess what it must be to have a child who hated you. In

her maiden mind, however, the man's emotions were exaggerated, and she

made the mistake of supposing that this grievous thing must be

dominating Raymond's existence, instead of merely vexing it. In truth he

suffered, but he was juster than Estelle, and, looking back, measured

his liabilities pretty accurately. He had none but himself to thank for

these inconveniences, and when he weighed them against the alternative

of marriage with Sabina, he counted them as bearable. Abel tried him

sorely, but he did not try him as permanent union with Abel's mother

must have tried him. Since he had renewed speech with her, his

conviction was increased that supreme disaster must have followed

marriage. Moreover, there began to rise a first glimmer of the new

situation already indicated. It had grown gradually and developed more

intensely during his days of enforced idleness in his aunt's house. From

that time, at any rate, he marked the change and saw his old regard and

respect for Estelle wakening into something greater. Her sympathy

quickened the new sentiments. He thought she was saner over Abel than

anybody, for she never became sentimental, or pretended that nothing had

happened which might not have been predicted. Her support was both human

and practical. It satisfied him and showed him her good sense.

Miss Ironsyde had often reminded her nephew that he was the last of his

line, and urged him to take a wife and found a family. That Raymond

should marry seemed desirable to her; but she had not considered Estelle

as a wife for him. Had she done so, Jenny must have feared the girl too

young and too doubtful in opinions to promise complete success and

safety for the master of the Mill. He would marry a mature woman and a

steadfast Christian--so hoped Miss Ironsyde then.

There came a day when Raymond called on Mr. Churchouse. Business brought

him and first he discussed the matter of an advertisement.

"In these days," he said, "the competition grows keener than ever. And I

rather revel in it--as I do in the east wind. It's not pleasant at the

time, but, if you're healthy, it's a tonic."

"And if you're not, it finds the weak places," added Mr. Churchouse. "No

man over sixty has much good to say of the east wind."

"Well, the works are healthy enough and competition is merely a tonic to

us. We hold our own from year to year, and I've reached a conviction

that my policy of ruthlessly scrapping machinery the moment it's even on

the down grade, is the only sound principle and pays in the long run.

And now I want something new in the advertisement line--something not

mechanical at all, but human and interesting--calculated to attract, not

middlemen and retailers, but the person who buys our string and rope to

use it. In fact I want a little book about the romance of spinning, so

that people may look at a ball of string, or shoe-thread, or

fishing-line, intelligently, and realise about one hundredth part of all

that goes to its creation. Now you could do a thing like that to

perfection, Uncle Ernest, because you know the business inside out."

Mr. Churchouse was much pleased.

"An excellent idea--a brilliant idea, Raymond! We must insist on the

romance of spinning--the poetry."

"I don't want it to be too flowery, but just interesting and direct. A

glimpse of the raw material growing, then the history of its

manufacture."

Ernest's eyes sparkled.

"From the beginning--from the very beginning," he said. "Pliny tells us

how the Romans used hemp for their sails at the end of the first

century. Is not the English word 'canvas' only 'cannabis' over again?

Herodotus speaks of the hempen robes of the Thracians as equal to linen

in fineness. And as for cordage, the ships of Syracuse in 200 B.C.--"

He was interrupted.

"That's all right, but what I rather fancy is the development of the

modern industry--here in Dorset."

"Good--that would follow with all manner of modern instances."

Mr. Churchouse drew a book from one of his shelves.

"In Tudor times it was ordered by Act of Parliament that ropes should be

twisted and made nowhere else than here. Leland, that industrious

chronicler, came to grief in this matter, for he calls Bridport 'a fair,

large town,' where 'be made good daggers.' He shows the danger of taking

words too literally, since a 'Bridport dagger' is only another name for

the hangman's rope."

"That's the sort of thing," said Raymond. "An article we can illustrate,

showing the hemp and flax growing in Russia and Italy, then all the

business of pulling, steeping and retting, drying and scutching. That

would be one chapter."

"It shall be done. I see it--I see the whole thing--an elegant brochure

and well within my power. I am fired with the thought. There is only one

objection, however."

"None in the world. I see you know just what I'm after--a little

pamphlet well illustrated."

"The objection is that Estelle Waldron would do it a thousand times

better than I can. She has a more modern outlook and a more modern

touch. I feel confident that with me to supply the matter, she would

produce a much more attractive and readable work."

Raymond considered.

"I suppose she would. I hadn't thought of her."

"Believe me, she would succeed to admiration. For your sake as well as

mine, she would produce a little masterpiece."

"She'd do anything to please you, we all know; but I've no right to

bother her with details of business. Of course, if you do it, it is a

commission and you would name your honorarium, Uncle Ernest."

The old man laughed.

"We'll see--we'll see. Perhaps I should ask too high a price. But

Estelle will not be so grasping. And as to your right to bother her with

the details of business, anything she can do for you is a very great

privilege to her."

"I believe I owe her more than a man can ever pay a woman, already."

"Most men are insolvent to the other sex. Woman's noble tradition is to

give more than she gets, and let us off the reckoning, quite well

knowing it beyond our feeble powers to cry quits with her."

Raymond was moved at this challenge, for in the light that Estelle threw

upon them, women interested him more to-day than they had for ten years.

"One takes old Arthur's daughter for granted rather too much," he said;

"we always take good women for granted too much, I suppose. It's the

other sort who look out we shan't take them for granted, but at their

own valuation. Estelle--she's so many-sided--difficult, too, in some

things."

"She is," admitted Ernest. "And just for this reason. She always argues

on her own basis of perfect ingenuous honesty. She assumes certain

rational foundations for all human relations; and if such bases really

existed, then it would be the best possible world, no doubt, and we

should all do to our neighbour as we would have him do to us. But the

Golden Rule doesn't actuate the bulk of mankind, unfortunately. Men and

women are not as good as Estelle thinks them."

Raymond agreed eagerly.

"You've hit it," he said. "It is just that. She's right in theory every

time; and if people were all as straight and altruistic and

high-principled as she is, there'd really be no more bother about morals

in the world. Native good sense would decide. Even as it is, the native

good sense of mankind is deciding certain questions and will presently

push the lawyers into codifying their mouldy laws, and then give reason

a chance to cleanse the whole archaic lump of them; but as it is,

Estelle--Take Marriage, for example. I agree with her all the way--in

theory. But when you come to view the situation in practice--you're up

against things as they are, and you never want people you love to be

martyrs, however noble the cause. Estelle says the law of sex

relationships is barbaric, and that marriage is being submitted to

increasing rational criticism, which the law and the Church both

conspire to ignore. She thinks that these barriers to progress ought to

be swept away, because they have a vicious effect on the institution and

degrade men and women. She's always got her eye on the future, and the

result is sometimes that she doesn't focus the present too exactly. It's

noble, but not practical."

"The institution of marriage will last Estelle's time, I think,"

declared Mr. Churchouse.

"One hopes so heartily--for her own sake. One knows very well it's an

obsolescent sort of state, and can't bear the light of reason, and must

be reformed, so that intelligent people can enter it in a

self-respecting spirit; but if there is one institution that defies the

pioneers, it is marriage. The law's far too strong for us there. And I

don't want to see her misunderstood."

They parted soon after this speech, and the older man, who had long

suspected the fact, now perceived that Raymond was beginning to think of

Estelle in new terms and elevating her to another place in his thoughts.

It was the personal standpoint that challenged Ironsyde's mind. His old

sentiments and opinions respecting the marriage bond took a very

different colour before the vision of an Estelle united to himself. Thus

circumstances alter opinions, and the theories he had preached to Sabina

went down the wind when he thought of Estelle. The touchstone of love

vitiates as well as purifies thinking.

CHAPTER XI

THE HEMP BREAKER

Ironsyde attached increasing importance to the fullest possible

treatment of the raw material before actual spinning, and was not only

always on the lookout for the best hemps and flaxes grown, but spared no

pains to bring them to the Card and Spread Board as perfect as possible.

To this end he established a Hemp Break, a Hemp Breaker and a Hemp

Softener. The first was a wooden press used to crush the stalks of

retted hemp straw, so that the harl came away and left the fibre clean.

The second shortened long hemp, that it might be more conveniently

hackled and drawn. The third served greatly to improve the spinning

quality of soft hemps by passing them through a system of callender

rollers. There were no hands available for the breakers and softeners,

so Raymond increased his staff. He also took over ten acres of the North

Hill House estate, ploughed up permanent grass, cleaned the ground with

a root crop, and then started to renew the vanishing industry of flax

growing. He visited Belgium for the purpose of mastering the modern

methods, found the soil of North Hill well suited to the crop, and was

soon deeply interested in the enterprise. He first hoped to ret his flax

in the Bride river, as he had seen it retted on the Lys, but was

dissuaded from making this trial and, instead, built a hot water

rettery. His experiments did not go unchallenged, and while the women

always applauded any change that took strain off their muscles and

improved the possibility of rest, the men were indifferent to this

advantage. Mr. Baggs even condemned it.

He came to see the working of the Hemp Breaker, and perceived without

difficulty that its operations must directly tend to diminish his own

labour.

"You'll pull tons less of solid weight in a day, Levi," said Best, "when

this gets going."

"And why should I be asked to pull tons less of solid weight? What's the

matter with this?"

He thrust out his right arm with hypertrophied muscles hard as steel.

"It seems to me that a time's coming when the people won't want muscles

any more," he said. "Steam has lowered our strength standards as it is,

and presently labour will be called to do no more than press buttons in

the midst of a roaring hell of machines. The people won't want no more

strength than a daddy-long-legs; they that do the work will shrink away

till they're gristle and bones, like grasshoppers. And the next thing

will be that they'll not be wanted either, but all will be done by just

a handful of skilled creatures, that can work the machines from their

desks, as easy as the organist plays the organ in church. God help the

human frame then!"

"We shall never arrive at that, be sure," answered Best; "for that's to

exalt the dumb material above the worker, and if things were reduced to

such a pitch of perfection all round, there would be no need of large

populations. But we're told to increase and multiply at the command of

God, so you needn't fear machines will ever lower our power to do so. If

that happened, it would be as much as to say God allowed us to produce

something to our own undoing."

"He allows us to produce a fat lot of things to our own undoing,"

answered the hackler. "Ain't Nature under God's direction?"

"Without doubt, Levi."

"And don't Nature tickle us to our own undoing morning, noon, and night?

Ain't she always at it--always tempting us to go too far along the road

of our particular weakness? And ain't laziness the particular weakness

of all women and most men? 'Tis pandering to laziness, these machines,

and for my part I wish Ironsyde would get a machine to hackle once and

for all. Then I'd leave him and go where they still put muscles above

machinery."

"Funny you should say that," answered the foreman. "He's had the thought

of your retirement in his mind for a good bit now. Only consideration

for your feelings has prevented him dropping a hint. He always likes it

to come from us, rather than him, when anybody falls out."

Mr. Baggs took this with tolerable calm.

"I'll think of it next year," he said. "If I could get at him by a side

wind as to the size of the pension--"

"That's hid with him. He'll follow his father's rule, you may be sure,

and reward you according to your deserts."

"I don't expect that," said Mr. Baggs. "He don't know my deserts."

"Well, I shouldn't be in any great hurry for your own sake," advised

Best. "You're well and hard, and can do your work as it should be done;

but you must remember you've got no resources outside your hackling

shop. Take you away from it and you're a blank. You never read a book,

or go out for a walk, or even till your allotment ground. All you do is

to sit at home and criticise other people. In fact, you're a very

ignorant old man, Baggs, and if you retired, you'd find life hang that

heavy on your hands you'd hardly know how to kill time between meals.

Then you'd get fat and eat too much and shorten your days. I've known it

to happen, where a man who uses his muscles gives up work before his

flesh fails him."

Raymond Ironsyde joined them at this juncture and presently, when Levi

went back to his shop and the Hemp Breaker had been duly applauded, the

master took John Best aside and discussed a private matter.

"The boy has come back for his holidays," he said; and Best, who knew

that when Raymond spoke of 'the boy' he meant Sabina's son, nodded.

"I hope all goes well with him and that you hear good accounts," he

answered.

"The reports are all much the same, term after term. He's said to have

plenty of ability, but no perseverance."

"Think nothing of that," advised the foreman. "Schoolmasters expect boys

to persevere all round, which is more than you can ask of human nature.

The thing is to find out what gets hold of a boy and what he does

persevere at--then a sensible schoolmaster wouldn't make him waste half

his working hours at other things, for which the boy's mind has got no

place. Mechanics will be that boy's strong point, if I know anything

about boys. And I believe all the fearful wickedness that prompted him

to burn the place down is pretty well gone out of him by now."

"I've left him severely alone," said Raymond. "I've said to myself that

not for three whole years will I approach him again. Meantime I don't

feel any too satisfied with the school. I fancy they are a bit soft

there. Private schools are like that. They daren't be too strict for

fear the children will complain and be taken away. But there are others.

I can move him if need be. And I'll ask you, Best, to keep your eye on

him these holidays, as far as you reasonably can, when he comes here. It

is understood he may. Try and get him to talk and see if he's got any

ideas."

"He puts me a good bit in mind of what poor Mister Daniel was at that

age. He's keen about spinning, and if I was to let him mind a can now

and again he'd be very proud of himself."

"Rum that he should like the works and hate me. Yes, he hates me all

right still, for Mister Churchouse has sounded him and finds that it is

so. It's in the young beggar's blood and there seems to be no operation

that will get it out."

Best considered.

"He'll come round. No doubt his schooling is making his mind larger,

and, presently, he'll feel the force of Christianity also; and that

should conquer the old Adam in him. By the same token the less he sees

of Levi, the better. Baggs is no teacher for youth, but puts his own

wrong and rebellious ideas into their heads, and they think it's fine to

be up against law and order. I'll always say 'twas half the fault of

Baggs the boy thought to burn us down; yet, of course, nobody was more

shocked and scandalised than Levi when he heard about it. And until the

boy's come over to your side, he'll do well not to listen to the

seditious old dog."

"Keep him out of the hackling shop, then. Tell him he's not to go

there."

Best shook his head.

"The very thing to send him. He's like that. He'd smell a rat very quick

if he was ordered not to see Baggs. And then he'd haunt Baggs. I shan't

trust the boy a yard, you understand. You mustn't ask me to do that

after the past. But I'm hopeful that his feeling for the craft will lift

him up and make him straight. To a craftsman, his work is often more

powerful for salvation than his faith. In fact, his work is his faith;

and from the way things run in the blood, I reckon that Sabina's son

might rise into a spinner."

"I don't want anything of that sort to happen, and I'm sure she

doesn't."

"There's a hang-dog look in his eyes I'd like to see away," confessed

John. "He's been mismanaged, I reckon, and hasn't any sense of

righteousness yet. All for justice he is, so I hear he tells Mister

Churchouse. Many are who don't know the meaning of the word. I'll do

what I can when he comes here."

"He's old for his age in some ways and young in others," explained

Raymond. "I feel nothing much can be done till he gets friendly with

me."

"You're doing all any man could do."

"At some cost too, John. You, at any rate, can understand what a

ghastly situation this is. There seems no end to it."

"Consequences often bulk much bigger than causes," said Best. "In fact,

to our eyes, consequences do generally look a most unfair result of

causes; as a very small seed will often grow up into a very big tree.

You'll never find any man, or woman, satisfied with the price they're

called to pay for the privilege of being alive. And in this lad's case,

him being built contrary and not turned true--warped no doubt by the

accident of his career--you've got to pay a far heavier price than you

would have been called to pay if you'd been his lawful begetter. But

seeing the difficulty lies in the boy's nature alone, we'll hope that

time will cure it, when he's old enough to look ahead and see which side

his bread's buttered, if for no higher reason."

Ironsyde left the Mill depressed; indeed, Abel's recurring holidays

always did depress him. As yet no hoped-for sign of reconciliation could

be chronicled.

To-day, however, a gleam appeared to dawn, for on calling at 'The

Magnolias' to see Ernest Churchouse, Raymond was cheered by a promised

event which might contain possibilities. Estelle had scored a point and

got Abel to promise to come for a picnic.

"He made a hard bargain though," she said. "He's to light a fire and

boil the kettle. And we are to stop at the old store in West Haven for

one good hour on the road home. I've agreed to the terms and shall give

him the happiest time I know how."

"Is his mother going?"

"Yes--he insists on that. And Sabina will come."

"But don't hope too much of it," said Ernest. "I regard this as the thin

end of the wedge--no more than that. If Estelle can win his confidence,

then she may do great things; but she won't win it at one picnic. I know

him too well. He's a mass of contradictions. Some days most

communicative, other days not a syllable. Some days he seems to trust

you with his secrets, other days he is suspicious if you ask him the

simplest question. He's still a wild animal, who occasionally, for his

own convenience, pretends to be tame."

"I shan't try to tame him," said Estelle. "I respect wild things a great

deal too much to show them the charms of being tame. But it's something

that he's coming, and if once he will let me be his chum in holidays, I

might bring him round to Ray."

She planned the details of the picnic and invited Raymond to imagine

himself a boy again. This he did and suggested various additions to the

entertainment.

"Did Sabina agree easily?" he asked, still returning to the event as

something very great and gratifying.

"Not willingly, but gradually and cautiously."

"She's softer and gentler than she was, however. I can assure you of

that," said Mr. Churchouse.

"She thought it might be a trap at first," confessed Estelle.

"A trap, Chicky! You to set a trap?"

"No, you, Ray. She fancied you might mean to surprise the boy and bully

him."

"How could she think so?"

"I assured her that you'd never dream of any such thing. Of course I

promised, as she wished me to do so, that you wouldn't turn up at the

picnic. I reminded her how very particular you were, and how entirely

you leave it to Abel to come round and take the first step."

"Be jolly careful what you say to him. He's a mass of prejudice, where

I'm concerned, and doesn't even know I'm educating him."

"I'll keep off you," she promised. "In fact, I only intend to give him

as good a day as I can. I'm not going to bother about you, Ray; I'm

going to think of myself and do everything I can to get his friendship

on my own account. If I can do that for a start, I shall be satisfied."

"And so shall I," declared Ernest. "Because it wouldn't stop at that.

If you succeed, then much may come of it. In my case, I can't lift his

guarded friendship for me into enthusiasm. He associates me with

learning to read and other painful preliminaries to life. Moreover, I

have tried to awaken his moral qualities and am regarded with the

gravest suspicion in consequence. But you come to him freshly and won't

try to teach him anything. Join him in his pleasure and add to it all

you can. There is nothing that wins young creatures quicker than sharing

their pleasures, if you can do so reasonably and are not removed so far

from them by age that any attempt would be ridiculous. Fifteen and

twenty-seven may quite well have a good deal in common still, if

twenty-seven is not too proud to confess it."

CHAPTER XII

THE PICNIC

For a long day Estelle devoted herself whole-heartedly to winning the

friendship of Abel Dinnett. Her chances of success were increased by an

accident, though it appeared at first that the misadventure would ruin

all. For when Estelle arrived at 'The Magnolias' in her pony carriage,

Sabina proved to be sick and quite unequal to the proposed day in the

air.

Abel declined to go without his mother, but, after considerable

persuasion, allowed the prospect of pleasure to outweigh his distrust.

Estelle promised to let him drive, and that privilege in itself proved a

temptation too great to resist. His mother's word finally convinced him,

and he drove an elderly pony so considerately that his hostess praised

him.

"I see you are kind to dumb things," she said. "I am glad of that, for

they are very understanding and soon know who are their friends and who

are not."

"If beasts treat me well," he answered, "then I treat them well. And if

they treated me badly, then I'd treat them badly."

She did not argue about this; indeed, all that day her care was to amuse

him and hear his opinions without boring him if she could avoid doing

so.

He remained shy at first and quiet. From time to time she was in a fair

way to break down his reserve; but he seemed to catch himself becoming

more friendly and, once or twice, after laughing at something, he

relapsed into long silence and looked at her from under his eyelids

suspiciously when he thought she was not looking at him. Thus she won,

only to lose what she had won, and when they reached the breezy cliffs

of Eype, Estelle reckoned that she stood towards him pretty much as she

stood at starting. But slowly, surely, inevitably, before such good

temper and tact he thawed a little. They tethered the pony, gave it a

nosebag and then spread their meal. Abel was quick and neat. She noticed

that his hands were like his mother's--finely tapered, suggestive of

art. But on that subject he seemed to have no ideas, and she found,

after trying various themes, that he cared not in the least for music,

or pictures, but certainly shared his father's interest in mechanics.

Abel talked of the Mill--self-consciously at first; yet when he found

that Estelle ignored the past, and understood spinning, he forgot

himself entirely for a time under the spell of the subject.

They compared notes, and she saw he was more familiar than she with

detail. Then, while still forgetting his listener, Abel remembered

himself and his talk of the Mill turned into a personal channel. There

is no more confidential thing, by fits and starts, than a shy child; and

just as Estelle felt the boy would never come any closer, or give her a

chance to help him, suddenly he startled her with the most unexpected

utterance.

"You mightn't know it," he said, "but by justice and right I should have

the whole works for my very own when Mister Ironsyde died. Because he's

my father, though I daresay he pretends to everybody he isn't."

"I'm very sure Mister Ironsyde doesn't feel anything but jolly kind and

friendly to you, Abel. He doesn't pretend he isn't your father. Why

should he? You know he's often offered to be friends, and he even

forgave you for trying to burn down the Mill. Surely that was a pretty

good sign he means to be friendly?"

"I don't want his friendship, because he's not good to mother. He served

her very badly. I understand things a lot better than you might think."

"Well, don't spoil your lunch," she said. "We'll talk afterwards. Are

you ready for another bottle of gingerbeer? I don't like this gingerbeer

out of glass bottles. I like it out of stone bottles."

"So do I," he answered, instantly dropping his own wrongs. "But the

glass bottles have glass marbles in them, which you can use; and so it's

better to have them, because it doesn't matter so much about the taste

after it's drunk."

She asked him concerning his work and he told her that he best liked

history. She asked why, and he gave a curious reason.

"Because it tells you the truth, and you don't find good men always

scoring and bad men always coming to grief. In history, good men come to

grief sometimes and bad men score."

"But you can't always be sure what is good and what is bad," she argued.

"The people who write the histories don't worry you about that," he

answered, "but just tell you what happened. And sometimes you are jolly

glad when a beast gets murdered, or his throne is taken away from him;

and sometimes you are sorry when a brave chap comes to grief, even

though he may be bad."

"Some historians are not fair, though," she said. "Some happen to feel

like you. They hate some people and some ideas, and always show them in

an unfriendly light. If you write history, you must be tremendously fair

and keep your own little whims out of it."

After their meal Estelle smoked a cigarette, much to Abel's interest.

"I never knew a girl could smoke," he said.

"Why not? Would you like one? I don't suppose a cigarette once in a way

can hurt you."

"I've smoked thousands," he told her. "And a pipe, too, for that matter.

I smoked a cigar once. I found it and smoked it right through."

"Didn't it make you ill?"

"Yes--fearfully; but I hid till I was all right again."

He smoked a cigarette, and Estelle told him that his father was a great

smoker and very fond of a pipe.

"But he wouldn't let you smoke, except now and again in holiday

times--not yet. Nobody ought to smoke till he's done growing."

"What about you, then?" asked Abel.

"I've done growing ages ago. I'm nearly twenty-eight."

He looked at her and his eyes clouded. He entered a phase of reserve.

Then she, guessing how to enchant him, suggested the next step.

"If you help me pack up now, we'll harness the pony and go down to West

Haven for a bit. I want to see the old stores I've heard such a lot

about. You must show them to me."

"Yes--part. I know every inch of them, but I can't show you my own

secret den, though."

"Do. I should love to see it."

He shook his head.

"No good asking," he said. "That's my greatest secret. You can't expect

me to tell you. Even mother doesn't know."

"I won't ask, then. I've got a den, too, for that matter--in fact, two.

One on North Hill and one in our garden."

"D'you know the lime-kiln on North Hill?"

"Rather. The bee orchis grows thereabout."

He thought for a moment. "If I showed you my den in the store, would you

swear to God never to tell?"

"Yes, I'd swear faithfully not to."

"Perhaps I will, then."

But when presently they reached his haunt, he had changed his mood. She

did not remind him, left him to his devices and sat patiently outside

while he was hidden within. Occasionally his head popped out of

unexpected places aloft, then disappeared again. Once she heard a great

noise, followed by silence. She called to him and, after a pause, he

shouted down that he was all right.

When an hour had passed she called out again to tell him to come back to

her.

"We're going to Bridport to tea," she said.

He came immediately and revealed a badly torn trouser leg.

"I fell," he explained. "I fell through a rotten ceiling, and I've cut

my leg. When I was young the sight of blood made me go fainty, but I

laugh at it now."

He pulled up his trousers and showed a badly barked shin.

"We'll go to a chemist and get him to wash it, and I'll get a needle and

thread and sew it up," said Estelle.

She condoled with him as they drove to Bridport, but he was impatient of

sympathy.

"I don't mind pain," he said. "I've tried the Red Indian tests on myself

before to-day. Once I had to see a doctor after; but I didn't flinch

when I was doing it."

A chemist dressed the wounded leg and presently they arrived at 'The

Seven Stars,' where the pony was stabled and tea taken in the garden.

Mrs. Legg provided a needle and thread and produced a very excellent

tea.

Abel enjoyed the swing for some time, but would not let Estelle help

him.

"I can swing myself," he said, "but I'll swing you afterwards."

He did so until they were tired. Then he walked round the flower borders

and presently picked Estelle a rose.

She thanked him very heartily and told him the names of the blossoms

which he did not know.

Job came and talked to them for a time, and Estelle praised the garden,

while Abel listened. Then Mr. Legg turned to the boy.

"Holidays round again, young man? I dare say we shall see you

sometimes, and, if you like flowers, you can always come in and have a

look."

"I don't like flowers," said the boy. "I like fruit."

He went back to the swing and Job asked after Mr. Waldron.

Estelle reminded him that he had promised to come and see her garden

some day.

"Be sure I shall, miss," he answered, "but, for the minute, work fastens

on me from my rising up to my going down."

"However do you get through it all?"

"Thanks to method. It's summed up in that. Without method, I should be a

lost man."

"You ought to slack off," she said. "I'm sure that Nelly doesn't like to

see you work so hard."

"She'd work hard too, but Nature and not her will shortens her great

powers. She grows into a mountain of flesh and her substance prevents

activity; but the mind is there unclouded. In my case the flesh doesn't

gain on me and work agrees with my system."

"You're a very wonderful man," declared Estelle; "but no doubt plenty of

people tell you that."

"Only by comparison," he explained. "The wonder is all summed up in the

one word 'method,' coupled with a good digestion and no strong drink.

I'd like to talk more on the subject, but I must be going."

"And tell them to put in the pony. We must be going, too."

On the way home Estelle tried to interest Abel in sport. She had been

very careful all day to keep Raymond off her lips, but now intentionally

she spoke of him. It was done with care and she only named him casually

in the course of general remarks. Thus she hoped that, in time, he would

allow her to mention his father without opposition.

"I think you ought to play some games with your old friends at

Bridetown these holidays," she said.

"I haven't any old friends there. I don't want friends. I never made

that fire you promised."

"You shall make it next time we come out; and everybody wants friends.

You can't get on without friends. And the good of games is that you make

friends. I'm very keen on golf now, though I never thought I should like

sport. Did you play any cricket at school?"

"Yes, but I don't care about it."

"How did you play? You ought to be rather a dab at it."

"I played very well and was in the second eleven. But I don't care about

it. It's all right at school, but there are better things to do in the

holidays."

"If you're a good cricketer, you might get some matches. Your father is

a very good cricketer, and would have played for the county if he'd been

able to practise enough. And Mister Roberts at the mill is a splendid

player."

His nervous face twitched and his instant passion ran into his whip

hand. He gave the astonished pony a lash and made it start across the

road, so that Estelle was nearly thrown from her seat.

"Don't! Don't!" she said. "What's the matter?"

But she knew.

He showed his teeth.

"I won't hear his name--I won't hear it. I hate him, I hate him. Take

the reins--I'll walk. You've spoilt everything now. I always wish he was

dead when I hear his name, and I wish he was dead this minute."

"My dear Abel, I'm sorry. I didn't think you felt so bad as that about

him. He doesn't feel at all like that about you."

"I hate him, I tell you, and I'm not the only one that hates him. And I

don't care what he feels about me. He's my greatest enemy on earth, and

people who understand have told me so, and I won't be beholden to him

for anything--and--and you can stick up for him till you're black in the

face for all I care. I know he's bad and I'll be his enemy always."

"You're a little fool," she said calmly. "Let me drive and you can

listen to me now. If you listen to stupid, wicked people talking of your

father, then listen to me for a change. You don't know anything whatever

about him, because you won't give him a chance to talk to you himself.

If you once let him, you'd very soon stop all this nonsense."

"You're bluffing," he said. "You think you'll get round me like that,

but you won't. You're only a girl. You don't know anything. It's men

tell me about my father. You think he's good, because you love him; but

he's bad, really--as bad as hell--as bad as hell."

"What's he done then? I'm not bluffing, Abel. There's nothing to bluff

about. What's your father done to you? You must have some reason for

hating him?"

"Yes, I have."

"What is it, then?"

"It's because the Mill ought to be mine when he dies--there!"

She did not answer immediately. She had often thought the same thing.

Instinct told her that frankness must be the only course. Through

frankness he might still be won.

He did not speak again after his last assertion, and presently she

answered in a manner to surprise him. Directness was natural to Estelle

and both her father and her friend, Mr. Churchouse, had fostered it.

People either deprecated or admired this quality of her talk, for

directness of speech is so rare that it never fails to appear

surprising.

"I think you're right there, Abel. Perhaps the Mill ought to be yours

some day. Perhaps it will be. The things that ought to happen really do

sometimes."

Then he surprised her in his turn.

"I wouldn't take the Mill--not now. I'll never take anything from him.

It's too late now."

She realised the futility of argument.

"You're tired," she said, "and so am I. We'll talk about important

things again some day. Only don't--don't imagine people aren't your

friends. If you'd only think, you'd see how jolly kind people have been

to you over and over again. Didn't you ever wonder how you got off so

well after trying to burn down the works? You must have. Anyway, it

showed you'd got plenty of good friends, surely?"

"It didn't matter to me. I'd have gone to prison. I don't care what they

do to me. They can't make me feel different."

"Well, leave it. We've had a good day and you needn't quarrel with me,

at any rate."

"I don't know that. You're his friend."

"You surely don't want to quarrel with all his friends as well as him?

We are going to be friends, anyway, and have some more good times

together. I like you."

"I thought I liked you," he said, "but you called me a little fool."

"That's nothing. You were a little fool just now. We're all fools

sometimes. I've been a fool to-day, myself. You're a little fool to hate

anybody. What good does it do you to hate?"

"It does do me good; and if I didn't hate him, I should hate myself,"

the boy declared.

"Well, it's better to hate yourself than somebody else. It's a good sign

I should think if we hate ourselves. We ought to hate ourselves more

than we do, because we know better than anybody else how hateful we can

be. Instead of that, we waste tons of energy hating other people, and

think there's nobody so fine and nice and interesting as we are

ourselves."

"Mister Churchouse says the less we think about ourselves the better.

But you've got to if you've been ill-used."

In the dusk twinkled out a glow-worm beside the hedge, and they stopped

while Abel picked it up. Gradually he grew calmer, and when they parted

he thanked her for her goodness to him.

"It's been a proper day, all but the end," he said, "and I will like you

and be your friend. But I won't like my father and be his friend,

because he's bad and served mother and me badly. You may think I don't

understand such things, but I do. And I never will be beholden to him as

long as I live--never."

He left her at the outer gate of his home and she drove on and

considered him rather hopelessly. He had some feeling for beauty on

which she had trusted to work, but it was slight. He was vain, very

sensitive, and disposed to be malignant. As yet reason had not come to

his rescue and his emotions, ill-directed, ran awry. He was evidently

unaware that his father had so far saved the situation for him. What

would he do when he knew it?

Estelle felt the picnic not altogether a failure, yet saw little signs

of a situation more hopeful at present.

"I can win him," she decided; "but it looks as though his father never

would."

CHAPTER XIII

THE RUNAWAY

Estelle was as good as her word and devoted not a few of his holidays to

the pleasure of Sabina's son. Unconsciously she hastened the progress of

other matters, for her resolute attempt to win Abel, at any cost of

patience and trouble, brought her still deeper into the hidden life and

ambitions of the boy's father.

She was frank with Raymond, and when Abel had gone back to school and

made no sign, Estelle related her experiences.

"He's sworn eternal friendship with me," she said, "but it's not a

friendship that extends to you, or anybody else. He's very narrow. He

concentrates in a terrifying way and wants everything. He told me that

he hated me to have any other friends but him. It took him a long time

to decide about me; but now he has decided. He extracts terrific oaths

of secrecy and then imparts his secrets. Before giving the oaths, I

always tell him I shan't keep them if he's going to confide anything

wicked; but his secrets are harmless enough. The last was a wonderful

hiding-place. He spends many hours in it. I nearly broke my neck getting

there. That's how far we've reached these holidays; and after next term

I shall try again."

"He's got a heart, if one could only reach it, I suppose."

"A very hot heart. I shall try to extend his sympathies when he comes

back."

Her intention added further fuel to the fire burning in Raymond's own

thoughts. He saw both danger and hope in the situation, as it might

develop from this point. The time was drawing nearer when he meant to

ask Estelle to marry him, and since he looked now at life and all its

relations from this standpoint, he began to consider his son therefrom.

On the whole he was cheered by Estelle's achievements and argued well of

them. The danger he set aside, and chose rather to reflect on the hope.

With Abel back at school again and his mother in a more placid temper,

there came a moment of peace. Ironsyde was able to forget them and did

so thankfully, while he concentrated on the task before him. He felt

very doubtful, both of Estelle's response and her father's view. The

girl herself, however, was all that mattered, for Waldron would most

surely approve her choice whatever it might be. Arthur had of late,

however, been giving it as his opinion that his daughter would not

marry. He had decided that she was not the marrying sort, and told

Raymond as much.

"The married state's too limited for her: her energies are too

tremendous to leave any time for being a wife. To bottle Estelle down to

a husband and children is impossible. They wouldn't be enough for her

intellect."

This had been said some time before, when unconscious of Ironsyde's

growing emotions; but of late he had suspected them and was, therefore,

more guarded in his prophecies.

Then came a shock, which delayed progress, for Abel thrust himself to

the front of his mind again. Estelle corresponded with her new friend,

and the boy had heard from her that in future he must thank his father

for his education. She felt that it was time he knew this, and hoped

that he would now be sane enough to let the fact influence him. It did,

but not as she had expected. Instead there came the news that Abel had

been expelled. He deliberately refused to proceed with his work, and,

when challenged, explained that he would learn no more at his father's

expense.

Nothing moved him, and Estelle's well-meant but ill-judged action

merely served to terminate Abel's education for good and all.

The boy was rapidly becoming a curse to his father. Puritans, who knew

the story, welcomed its development and greeted each phase with

religious enthusiasm; but others felt the situation to be growing

absurd. Raymond himself so regarded it, and when Abel returned home

again he insisted on seeing him.

"You can be present if you wish to be," he told Sabina, but she

expressed no such desire. Her attitude was modified of late, and,

largely under the influence of Estelle, she began to see the futility of

this life-enmity declared against Raymond by her son. Of old she had

thought it natural, and while not supporting it had made no effort to

crush it out of him. Now she perceived that it could come to nothing and

only breed bitterness. She had, therefore, begun to tone her

indifference and withhold the little bitter speeches that only fortified

Abel's hate. She had even argued with him--lamely enough--and advised

him not to persist in a dislike of his father that could not serve him

in after life.

But he had continued to rejoice in his hatred. While Estelle hoped with

Sabina to break down his obstinacy, he actually looked forward to the

time when Estelle would hate his enemy also. He had been sorry to see

his mother weakening and even blaming him for his opinions.

But now he was faced with his father under conditions from which there

was no escape. The meeting took place in Mr. Churchouse's study and Abel

was called to listen, whether he would or no. Raymond knew that the

child understood the situation and he did not mince words. He kept his

temper and exhausted his arguments.

"Abel," he said, "you've got to heed me now, and whatever you may feel,

you must use your self-control and your brains. I'm speaking entirely

for your sake and I'm only concerned for your future. If you would use

your reason, it would show you that the things you have done and are

doing can't hurt me; they can only hurt yourself; and what is the good

of hurting yourself, because you don't like me? If you had burned down

the works, the insurance offices would have paid me back all the money

they were worth, and the only people to suffer would have been the men

and women you threw out of work. So, when you tried to hurt me, you were

only hurting other people and yourself. Boys who do that sort of thing

are called embryo criminals, and that's what they are. But for me and

the great kindness and humanity of other men--my friends on the

magistrates' bench--you would have been sent to a reformatory after that

affair; but your fellow creatures forgave you and were very good to me

also, and let you go free on consideration that I would be responsible

for you. Then I sent you to a good school, where nothing was known

against you. Now you have been expelled from that school, because you

won't work, or go on with your education. And your reason is that I am

paying for your education and you won't accept anything at my hands.

"But think what precisely this means. It doesn't hurt me in the least.

As far as I am concerned, it makes not a shadow of difference. I have no

secrets about things. Everybody knows the situation, and everybody knows

I recognise my obligations where you are concerned and wish to be a good

father to you. Therefore, if you refuse to let me be, nobody is hurt but

yourself, because none can take my place. You don't injure my credit;

you only lose your own. The past was past, and people had begun to

forget what you did two years ago. Now you've reminded them by this

folly, and I tell you that you are too old to be so foolish. There is no

reason why you should not lead a dignified, honourable and useful life.

You have far better opportunities than thousands and thousands of boys,

and far better and more powerful friends than ninety-nine boys out of a

hundred.

"Then why fling away your chances and be impossible and useless and an

enemy to society, when society only wants to be your friend? What is the

good? What do you gain? And what do I lose? You're not hurting me; but

you're hurting and distressing your mother. You're old enough to

understand all this, and if your mother can feel as I know she feels and

ask you to consider your own future and look forward in a sensible

spirit, instead of looking back in a senseless one, then surely, for her

sake alone, you ought to be prepared to meet me and turn over a new

leaf.

"For you won't tire out my patience, or break my heart. I never know

when I'm beat, and since my wish is only your good, neither you, nor

anybody, will choke me off it. I ask you now to promise that, if I send

you to another school, you'll work hard and complete your education and

qualify yourself for a useful place in the world afterwards. That's what

you've got to do, and I hope you see it. Then your future will be my

affair, for, as my son, I shall be glad and willing to help you on in

whatever course of life you may choose.

"So that's the position. You see I've given you the credit of being a

sane and reasonable being, and I want you to decide as a sane and

reasonable being. You can go on hating me as much as you please; but

don't go on queering your own pitch and distressing your mother and

making your future dark and difficult, when it should be bright and

easy. Promise me that you'll go back to a new school and work your

hardest to atone for this nonsense and I'll take your word for it. And I

don't ask for my own sake--always remember that. I ask you for your own

sake and your mother's."

With bent head the boy scowled up under his eyebrows during this

harangue. He answered immediately Raymond had finished and revealed

passion.

"And what, if I say 'no'?"

"I hope you won't be so foolish."

"I do say 'no' then--a thousand times I say it. Because if you bring me

up, you get all the credit. You shan't get credit from me. And I'll

bring myself up without any help from you. I know I'm different from

other boys, because you didn't marry my mother. And that's a fearful

wrong to her, and you're not going to get out of that by anything I can

do. You're wicked and cowardly to my mother, and she's Mister

Churchouse's servant, instead of being your wife and having servants of

her own, and I'm a poor woman's son instead of being a rich man's son,

as I ought to be. All that's been told me by them who know it. And

you're a bad man, and I hate you, and I shall always hate you as long as

you live. And I'll never be beholden to you for anything, because my

life is no good now, and my mother's life is no good neither. And if I

thought she was taking a penny of your money, I'd--"

His temper upset him and he burst into tears. The emotion only served to

increase his anger.

"I'm crying for hate," he said. "Hate, hate, hate!"

Raymond looked at the boy curiously.

"Poor little chap, I wish to God I could make you see sense. You've got

the substance and are shouting for the shadow, which you can never have.

You talk like a man, so I'll answer you like a man and advise you not to

listen to the evil tongue of those who bear no kindly thought to me, or

you either. What is the sense of all this hate? Granted wrong things

happened, how are you helping to right the wrong? Where is the sense of

this blind enmity against me? I can't call back the past, any more than

you can call back the tears you have just shed. Then why waste nervous

energy and strength on all this silly hate?"

"Because it makes me better and stronger to hate you. It makes me a man

quicker to hate you. You say I talk like a man--that's because I hate

like a man."

"You talk like a very silly man, and if you grow up into a man hating

me, you'll grow up a bitter, twisted sort of man--no good to anybody. A

man with a grievance is only a nuisance to his neighbours; and seeing

what your grievance is, and that I am ready and willing to do everything

in a father's power to lessen that grievance and retrieve the mistakes

of the past--remembering, too, that everybody knows my good

intentions--you'll really get none to care for your troubles. Instead,

all sensible people will tell you that they are largely of your own

making."

"The more you talk, the more I hate you," said the boy. "If I never

heard your voice again and never saw your face again, still I'd always

hate you. I don't hate anything else in the world but you. I wouldn't

spare a bit of hate for anything but you. I won't be your son

now--never."

"Well, run away then. You'll live to be sorry for feeling and speaking

so, Abel. I won't trouble you again. Next time we meet, I hope you will

come to me."

The boy departed and the man considered. It seemed that harm irreparable

was wrought, and a reconciliation, that might have been easy in

Abel's childhood, when he was too young to appreciate their connection,

had now become impossible, since he had grown old enough to understand

it. He would not be Raymond's son. He declined the filial

relationship--doubtless prompted thereto from his earliest days, first

on one admonition, then at another. The leaven had been mixed with his

blood by his mother, in his infant mind by his grandmother, in his soul

by fellow men as he grew towards adolescence.

Yet from Sabina herself the poison had almost passed away. In the light

of these new difficulties she grew anxious, and began to realise how

fatally Abel's possession was standing in his own light. She loved him,

but not passionately. He would soon be sixteen and her point of view

changed. She had listened long to Estelle and began to understand that,

whatever dark memories and errors belonged to Raymond Ironsyde's past,

he designed nothing but generous goodness for their son in the future.

After the meeting with Abel, Raymond saw Sabina and described what had

occurred; but she could only express her regrets. She declared herself

more hopeful than he and promised to reason with the boy to the best of

her power.

"I've never stood against you with him, and I've never stood for you

with him. I've kept out of it and not influenced for or against," she

said. "But now I'll do more than that; I'll try and influence him for

you."

Raymond was obliged.

"I shall be very grateful to you if you can. If there's any human being

who carries weight with him, you do. Such blistering frankness--such

crooked, lightning looks of hate--fairly frighten me. I had no idea any

young creature could feel so much."

"He's going through what I went through, I suppose," she said. "I don't

want to hurt you, or vex you any more. I'm changed now and tired of

quarrelling with things that can't be altered. When we find the world's

sympathy for us is dead, then it's wiser to accept the situation and

cease to run about trying to wake it up again. So I'll try to show him

what the world will be for the likes of him if he hasn't got you behind

him."

"Do--and don't do it bitterly. You can't talk for two minutes about the

past without getting bitter--unconsciously, quite unconsciously, Sabina.

And your unconscious bitterness hurts me far more than it hurts you. But

don't be bitter with him, or show there's another side of your feelings

about it. Keep that for me, if you must. My shoulders are broad enough

to bear it. He is brimming with acid as it is. Sweeten his mind if it is

in your power. That's the only way of salvation, and the only chance of

bringing him and me together."

She promised to attempt it.

"And if I'm bitter still," she said, "it is largely unconscious, as you

say. You can't get the taste of trouble out of your mouth very easily

after you've been deluged with it and nigh drowned in it, as I have.

It's only an echo and won't reach his ear, though it may reach yours."

"Thank you, Sabina. Do what you can," he said, and left her, glad to get

away from the subject and back to his own greater interests.

He heard nothing more for a few days, then came the news that Abel had

disappeared. By night he had vanished and search failed to find him.

Sabina could only state what had gone before his departure. She had

spoken with him on Raymond's behalf and urged him to reconsider his

attitude and behave sensibly and worthily. And he, answering nothing,

had gone to bed as usual; but when she called him next morning, no reply

came and she found that he had ridden away on his bicycle in the night.

The country was hunted, but without result, and not for three days did

his mother learn what had become of Abel. Then, in reply to police

notices of his disappearance, there came a letter from a Devonshire

dairy farm, twenty miles to the west of Bridport. The boy had appeared

there early in the morning and begged for some breakfast. Then he asked

for something to do. He was now working on trial for a week, but whether

giving satisfaction or no they did not learn.

His mother went to see him and found him well pleased with himself and

proud of what he had accomplished. He explained to her that he had now

taken his life into his own hands and was not going to look to anybody

in future but himself.

The farmer reported him civil spoken, willing to learn, and quick to

please. Indeed, Abel had never before won such a good character.

She left him there happy and content, and took no immediate steps to

bring the boy home.

It was decided that a conference should presently be held of those

interested in Abel.

"Since he is safe and cheerful and doing honest work, you need not be in

distress about him at present, Sabina," said Ernest Churchouse; "but

Raymond Ironsyde has no intention that the boy should miss an adequate

education, and wishes him to be at school for a couple of years yet, if

possible. It is decided that we knock our heads together on the subject

presently. We'll meet and try to hit upon a sensible course. Meantime

this glimpse of reality and hard work at Knapp Farm will do him good. He

may show talent in an agricultural direction. In any case, you can feel

sure that whatever tastes he develops, short of buccaneering, or highway

robbery, will be gratified."

CHAPTER XIV

THE MOTOR CAR

Raymond Ironsyde felt somewhat impatient of the conference to consider

the situation of his son. But since he had no authority and Sabina was

anxious to do something, he agreed to consult Mr. Churchouse.

They met at 'The Magnolias,' where Miss Ironsyde joined them; but her

old energy and forcible opinions had faded. She did little more than

listen.

Ironsyde came first and spoke to Ernest in a mood somewhat despondent.

They were alone at the time, for Sabina did not join them until Estelle

came.

"Is there nothing in paternity?" asked Raymond. "Isn't nature all

powerful and blood thicker than water? What is it that over-rides the

natural relationship and poisons him against me? Isn't a good father a

good father?"

"So much is implied in this case," answered the elder. "He's old enough

now to understand what it means to be a natural child. Doubtless the

disabilities they labour under have been explained to him. That fact is

what poisons his mind, as you say, and makes him hate the blood in his

veins. We've got to get over that and find antidotes for the poison, if

we can."

"I'm beginning to doubt if we ever shall, Uncle Ernest."

Sabina and Estelle entered at this moment and heard Mr. Churchouse make

answer.

"Be sure it can be done. Every year makes it more certain, because with

increase of reasoning power he'll see the absurdity of this attitude. It

is no good to him to continue your enemy."

"Increase of reason cuts both ways. It shows him his grievances, as

well as what will pay him best in the future. He's faced with a clash of

reason."

"Reason I grant springs from different inspirations," admitted Ernest.

"There's the reason of the heart and the reason of the head--yes, the

heart has its reasons, too. And though the head may not appreciate them,

they exercise their weight and often conquer."

Soon there came a carriage from Bridport and Miss Ironsyde joined them.

"Oh! I'm glad to see a fire," she said, and sat close beside it in an

easy chair.

Then Raymond spoke.

"It is good of you all to come and lend a hand over this difficult

matter. I appreciate it, and specially I thank Sabina for letting us

consider her son's welfare. She knows that we all want to befriend him

and that we all are his friends. It's rather difficult for me to say

much; but if you can show me how to do anything practical and establish

Abel's position and win his goodwill, at any cost to myself, I shall

thank you. I've done what I could, but I confess this finds me beaten

for the moment. You'd better say what you all think, and see if you

agree."

The talk that followed was inconsequent and rambling. For a considerable

time it led nowhere. Miss Ironsyde was taciturn. It occupied all her

energies to conceal the fact that she was suffering a good deal of

physical pain. She made no original suggestions. Churchouse, according

to his wont, generalised; but it was through a generalisation that they

approached something definite.

"He has yet to learn that we cannot live to ourselves, or design life's

pattern single-handed," declared Ernest. "Life, in fact, is rather like

a blind man weaving a basket: we never see our work, and we have to

trust others for the material. And if we better realised how blind we

were, we should welcome and invite criticism more freely than we do."

"No man makes his own life--I've come to see that," admitted Raymond.

"The design seems to depend much on your fellow creatures; your triumph

or failure is largely the work of others. But it depends on your own

judgment to the extent that you can choose what fellow creatures shall

help you."

Estelle approved this.

"And if we could only show Abel that, and make him feel this

determination to be independent of everybody is a mistake. But he told

me once, most reasonably, that he didn't mind depending on those who

were good to him. He said he would trust them."

"Trust's everything. It centres on that. Can I get his trust, or can't

I?"

"Not for the present, Ray. I expect his mind is in a turmoil over this

running away. It's all my fault and I take the blame. Until he can think

calmly you'll never get any power over him. The thing is to fill his

mind full with something else."

"Find out if you can what's in his thoughts," advised Sabina. "We say

this and that and the other, and plan what must be done, but I judge the

first person to ask for an opinion is Abel himself. When people are

talking about the young, the last thought in their minds is what the

young are thinking themselves. They never get asked what's in their

minds, yet, if we knew, it might make all the difference."

"Very sound, Sabina," admitted Mr. Churchouse; "and you should know

what's in his mind if anybody does."

"I should no doubt, but I don't. I've never been in the boy's secrets,

or I might have been more to him. But that's not to say nobody could win

them. Any clever boy getting on for sixteen years should have plenty of

ideas, and if you could find them, it might save a lot of trouble."

She turned to Estelle as she spoke.

"He's often told me things," said Estelle, "and he's often been going to

tell me others and stopped--not because he thought I'd laugh at him;

but because he was doubtful of me. But he knows I can keep secrets now."

"He must be treated as an adult," decided Ernest. "Sabina is perfectly

right. We must give him credit for more sense than he has yet

discovered, and appeal directly to his pride. I think there are great

possibilities about him if he can only be brought to face them. His

ruling passion must be discovered. One has marked a love of mystery in

him and a wonderful power of make-believe. These are precious promises,

rightly guided. They point to imagination and originality. He may have

the makings of an artist. Without exaggeration, I should say he had an

artist's temperament without being an artist; but art is an elastic

term. It must mean creative instinct, however, and he has shown that. It

has so far taken the shape of a will to create disaster; but why should

we not lead his will into another channel and help it to create

something worthy?"

"He's fond of machinery," said Sabina, "and very clever with his hands."

"Could your child be anything but clever with his hands, Sabina?" said

Estelle.

"Or mine be anything but fond of machinery?" asked Raymond.

He meant no harm, but this blunt and rather brutal claim to fatherhood

made Sabina flinch. It was natural that she never could school herself

to accept the situation in open conversation without reserve, and all

but Ironsyde himself appreciated the silence which fell upon her. His

speech, indeed, showed lack of sensibility, yet it could hardly be

blamed, since only through acceptation of realities might any hopeful

action be taken. But the harm was done and the delicate poise of the

situation between Abel's parents upset. Sabina said no more, and in the

momentary silence that followed she rose and left them.

"What clumsy fools even nice men can be," sighed Miss Ironsyde, and

Churchouse spoke.

"Leave Sabina to me," he said. "I'll comfort her when you've gone.

There is a certain ingrained stupidity from which no man escapes in the

presence of women. They may, or may not, conceal their feelings; but we

all unconsciously bruise and wound them. Sabina did not conceal hers.

She is quick in mind as well as body. What matters is that she knows

exceedingly well we are all on her side and all valuable friends for the

lad. Now let us return to the point. I think with Estelle that Abel may

have something of the artist in him. He drew exceedingly well as a

child. You can see his pictures in Sabina's room. Such a gift if

developed might waken a sense of power."

"If he knew great things were within his reach, he would not disdain the

means to reach them," said Miss Ironsyde. "I do think if the boy felt

his own possibilities more--if we could waken ambition--he would grow

larger-minded. Hate always runs counter to our interests in the long

run, because it wastes our energy and, if people only knew it, revenge

is really not sweet, but exceedingly bitter."

"I suggest this," said Ironsyde: "that Uncle Ernest and Estelle visit

the boy--not in any spirit of weakness, or with any concessions, or

attempts to change his mind; but simply to learn his mind. Sabina was

right there. We'll approach him as we should any other intelligent

being, and invite his opinion, and see if it be reasonable, or

unreasonable. And if it is reasonable, then I ought to be able to serve

him, if he'll let me do so."

"I shall certainly do what you wish," agreed Ernest. "Estelle and I will

form a deputation to this difficult customer and endeavour to find out

what his lordship really proposes and desires. Then, if we can prove to

him that he must look to his fellow creatures to advance his welfare; if

we can succeed in showing him that not even the youngest of us can stand

alone, perhaps we shall achieve something."

"And if he won't let me help, perhaps he'll let you, or Estelle, or Aunt

Jenny. Agree if he makes any possible stipulation. It doesn't matter a

button where he supposes help is coming from: the thing is that he

should not know it is really coming from me."

"I hope we may succeed without craft of that sort, Raymond," declared

Mr. Churchouse; "but I shall not hesitate to employ the wisdom of the

serpent--if the olive branch of the dove fails to meet the situation. I

trust, however, more to Estelle than myself. She is nearer Abel in point

of time, and it is very difficult to bridge a great gulf of years. We

old men talk in another language than the young use, and the scenery

that fills their eyes--why, it has already vanished beneath our

horizons. Narrowing vision too often begets narrowing sympathies and we

depress youth as much as youth puzzles us."

"True, Ernest," said Miss Ironsyde. "Have you noticed how a natural

instinct makes the young long to escape from the presence of age? The

young breathe more freely out of sight of grey heads."

"And the grey heads survive their absence without difficulty," confessed

Mr. Churchouse. "But we are a tonic to each other. They help us to see,

Jenny, and we must help them to feel."

"Abel shall help us to see his point of view, and we'll help him to feel

who his best friends are," promised Estelle.

Raymond had astonished Bridport and staggered Bridetown with a wondrous

invention. The automobile was born, and since it appealed very directly

to him, he had acquired one of the first of the new vehicles at some

cost, and not only did he engage a skilled mechanic to drive it, but

himself devoted time and pains to mastering the machine. He believed in

it very stoutly, and held that in time to come it must bulk as a most

important industrial factor. Already he predicted motor traction on a

large scale, while yet the invention was little more than a new toy for

the wealthy.

And now this car served a useful purpose and Mr. Churchouse, in some

fear and trembling, ventured a first ride. Estelle accompanied him and

together they drove through the pleasant lands where Dorset meets Devon,

to Knapp Farm under Knapp Copse, midway between Colyton and Ottery St.

Mary, on a streamlet tributary of the Sid.

Mr. Churchouse was amazed and bewildered at this new experience;

Estelle, who had already enjoyed some long rides, supported him, lulled

his anxieties and saw that he kept warm.

Soon they sighted the ridge which gave Knapp its name, and presently met

Abel, who knew that they were coming. He stood on the tumuli at the top

of the knoll and awaited them with interest. His master, from first

enthusiasms, now spoke indifferently of him, declared him an average

boy, and cared not whether they took him, or left him. As for Abel

himself, he slighted both Estelle and Mr. Churchouse at first, and

appeared for a time quite oblivious to their approaches. He was only

interested in the car, which stood drawn up in an open shed at the side

of the farmyard. He concentrated here, desired the company of the driver

alone, and could with difficulty be drawn away to listen to the

travellers and declare his own ambitions.

He was, however, not sorry to see Estelle, and when, presently, they

lured him away from the motor, he talked to them. He bragged about his

achievement in running away and finding work; but he was not satisfied

with the work itself.

"It was only to see if I could live in the world on my own," he said,

"and now I know I can. Nobody's got any hold on me now, because if you

can earn your food and clothes, you're free of everybody. I don't tell

them here, but I could work twice as hard and do twice as much if it was

worth while; only it isn't."

"If you get wages, you ought to earn them," said Estelle.

"I do," he explained. "I get a shilling a day and my grub, and I earn

all that. But, of course, I'm not going to be a farmer. I'm just

learning about the land--then I'm going. Nobody's clever here. But I

like taking it easy and being my own master."

"You oughtn't to take it easy at your time of life, Abel," declared

Estelle. "You oughtn't to leave school yet, and I very much hope you'll

go back."

"Never," he said. "I couldn't stop there after I knew he was paying for

it. Or anywhere else. I'm not going to thank him for anything."

"But you stand in the light of your own usefulness," she explained. "The

thing is for a boy to do all in his power to make himself a useful man,

and by coming here and doing ploughboy's work, when you might be

learning and increasing your own value in the world, you are being an

idiot, Abel. If you let your father educate you, then, in the future,

you can pay him back splendidly and with interest for all he has done

for you. There's no obligation then--simply a fair bargain."

His face hardened and he frowned.

"I may pay him for all he's done for me, whether or no," he answered.

"Anyway, I don't want any more book learning. I'm a man very nearly, and

a lot cleverer, as it is, than the other men here. I shall stop here for

a bit. I want to be let alone and I will be let alone."

"Not at all," declared Mr. Churchouse. "You're going back on yourself,

Abel, and if you stop here, hoeing turnips and what not, you'll soon

find a great disaster happening to you. You will indeed--just the very

thing you don't want to happen. You pride yourself on being clever.

Well, cleverness can't stand still, you know. You go back, or forward.

Here, you'll go back and get as slow-witted as other ploughboys. You

think you won't, but you will. The mud on your boots will work up into

your mind, and instead of being full of great ideas for the future,

you'll gradually forget all about them. And that would be a disgrace to

you."

Abel showed himself rather impressed with this peril.

"I shall read books," he said.

"Where will you get them?" asked Estelle. "Besides, after long days

working out of doors, you'll be much too tired to read books, or go on

with your studies. I know, because I've tried it."

"Quies was the god of rest in ancient Rome," proceeded Mr. Churchouse,

"but he was no god for youth. The elderly turned their weary bodies to

his shrine and decorated his altars--not the young. But for you, Abel,

there are radiant goddesses, and their names are Stimula and Strenua. To

them you must pay suit and service, and your motto should be 'Able and

Willing.'"

"Of course," cried Estelle; "but instead of that, you ask to be let

alone, to turn slowly and surely into a ploughboy! Why, the harm is

already beginning! And you may be quite sure that nobody who cares for

you is going to see you turn into a ploughboy."

They produced some lunch presently and Abel enjoyed the good fare. For a

time they pressed him no more, but when the meal was taken, let him show

them places of interest. While Estelle visited the farm with him and

heard all about his work, Mr. Churchouse discussed the boy with his

master. Nothing could then be settled, and it was understood that Abel

should stop at Knapp until the farmer heard more concerning him.

Estelle advanced the good cause very substantially, however, and felt

sanguine of the future; for alone with her, Abel confessed that farming

gave him no pleasure and that his ambition was set on higher things.

"I shall be an engineer some day," he said. "Presently I shall go where

there is machinery, and begin at the bottom and work up to the top. I

know a lot more about it than you might think, as it is."

"I know you do," she said. "And there's nothing your mother would like

better than engineering for you. Besides, a boy begins that when he's

young, and I believe you ought to be in the shops soon."

"I shall be soon. Very likely the next thing you hear about me will be

that I have disappeared again. Then I shall turn up in a works

somewhere. Because you needn't think I'm going to be a ploughboy. I

shouldn't get level with my father by being a ploughboy."

"Your father would be delighted for you to get level with him and know

as much as he does," she answered, pretending to mistake his meaning.

"If you said you wanted to know as much about machinery and machines in

general as he does, then he would very soon set to work to help you on."

Abel considered.

"I won't take any help from him; but I'll do this--to suit myself, not

him. I'd do it so as I could be near mother and could look after her.

Because, when Mister Churchouse dies, I'll have to look after her."

"You needn't be anxious about your mother, Abel. She's got plenty of

friends."

"Her friends don't count if they're his friends, because you can't be my

mother's friend and his friend, too. But I'll go into the spinning Mill,

and be like anybody else, and work for wages--just the same wages as any

other boy going in. That won't be thanking him for anything."

Estelle could hardly hide her satisfaction at this unexpected

concession. She dared not show her pleasure for fear that Abel would see

it and draw back.

"Then you could live with mother and Mister Churchouse," she said. "It

would be tremendously interesting for you. I wonder if you would begin

with Roberts at the lathes, or Cogle at the engines?"

"I don't know. Before I ran away, Nicholas Roberts wanted somebody to

help him turning. I've turned sometimes. I'd begin like that and rise to

better things."

She was careful not to mention his father again.

"I believe Mister Roberts would like to have you in his shop very much.

Sarah, his wife, hopes that her son will be a lathe-worker some day, but

he's too young to go yet."

"He'll never be any good at machinery," declared Abel. "I know him. He's

all for the sea."

They took their leave presently, after Ernest had heard the boy's offer.

He, too, was careful, but applauded the suggestion and assured Abel he

would be very welcome at his old home.

"I like you, you know; in fact, as a rule, we have got on very well

together. I believe you'll make an engineer some day if you remember the

Roman goddesses. To be ambitious is the most hopeful thing we can wish

for youth. Always be ambitious--that's the first essential for success."

But the old man surprised Estelle by failing to share her delight at

Abel's decision. She for her part felt that the grand difficulty was

passed, and that once in his father's Mill, the boy must sooner or later

come to reason, if only by the round of self-interest; but Mr.

Churchouse reminded her that another had to be reckoned with.

"A most delicate situation would be created in that case," he said. "Of

course I can't pretend to say how Raymond will regard it. He may see it

with your eyes. He sees so many things with your eyes--more and more, in

fact--that I hope he will; but you mustn't be very disappointed if he

does not. This cannot look to him as it does to you, or even to me. His

point of view may reject Abel's suggestion altogether for various

reasons; and Sabina, too, will very likely feel it couldn't happen

without awakening a great many painful memories."

"She advised us to consult Abel and hear what he thought."

"We have. We return with the great man's ultimatum. But I'm afraid it

doesn't follow that his ultimatum will be accepted. Even if Sabina felt

she could endure such an arrangement, it is doubtful in the extreme

whether Raymond will. Indeed I'll go so far as to prophesy that he

won't."

Estelle saw that she had been over-sanguine.

"There's one bright side, however," he continued. "We have got something

definite out of the boy and should now be able to help him largely in

spite of himself. Every day he lives, he'll become more impressed with

the necessity for knowledge, and if, for the moment, he declines any

alternative, he'll soon come round to one. He knows already that he

can't stop at Knapp, so this great and perilous adventure of the

automobile has been successful--though how successful we cannot tell

yet."

He knew, however, before the day was done, for Sabina felt very

definitely on the subject. Yet her attitude was curious: she held it not

necessary to express an opinion.

Mr. Churchouse came home very cold, and while she attended to his needs,

brought him hot drink and lighted a fire, Sabina listened.

"The boy is exceedingly well," he said. "I never saw his eye so bright,

or his skin so clear and brown. But a farmer he won't be for anybody. Of

course, one never thought he would."

When she had heard Abel's idea, she answered without delay.

"It's a thousand pities he's set his heart on that, because it won't

happen. What I think doesn't matter, of course, but for once you'll find

his father is of a mind with me. He'll not suffer such an arrangement

for a moment. It's bringing the trouble too near. He doesn't want his

skeleton walking out of the cupboard into the Mill, and whatever

happens, that won't."

She was right enough, for when Raymond heard all that Estelle could tell

him, he decided instantly against any such arrangement.

"Impossible," he said. "One needn't trouble even to argue about it. But

that he would like to be an engineer is quite healthy. He shall be; and

he shall begin at the beginning and have every advantage possible--not

his way, but mine. I argue ultimate success from this. It eases my

mind."

"All the same, if you don't do anything, he'll only run away again,"

said Estelle, who was disappointed.

"He won't run far. Let him stop where he is for a few months, till he's

heartily sick of it and ready to listen to sense. Then perhaps I'll go

over and see him myself. You've done great things, Estelle. I feel more

sanguine than I have ever felt about him. I wish I could do what he

wants; but that's impossible his way. However, I'll do it in my own.

Sense is beginning in him, and that is the great and hopeful discovery

you've made."

"I'm ever so glad you're pleased about it," she said. "He loved the

motor car much better than the sight of us. Yet he was glad to see us

too. He's really a very human boy, you know, Ray."

CHAPTER XV

CRITICISM

Upon a Sunday afternoon, Sarah Roberts and her husband were drinking tea

at 'The Seven Stars.' They sat in Nelly Legg's private room, and by some

accident all took rather a gloomy view of life.

As for Nelly, she had been recently weighed, and despite drastic new

treatment, was found to have put on two pounds in a month.

"Lord knows where it'll end," she said. "You can't go on getting heavier

and heavier for ever more. Even a vegetable marrow, and such like

things, reach their limit; and if they can it's hard that a creature

with an immortal soul have got to go growing larger and larger, to her

own misery and her husband's grief. To be smothered with your own fat is

a proper cruel end I call it; and I haven't deserved it; and it shakes

my faith in an all-wise God, to feel myself turning into a useless

mountain of flesh. Worse than useless in fact, because them that can't

work themselves are certain sure to make work for others. Which I do."

"I never knew anything so aggravating, I'm sure," assented Nicholas;

"but so far as I can see, if life don't fret you from within, it frets

you from without. It can't leave you alone to go on your way in a

dignified manner. It's always intruding, so to speak. In fact, life

comes between us and our living, if you understand me, and sometimes for

my part I can look on to the end of it with a lot of resignation."

Sentiments so unusual from her husband startled Mrs. Roberts as well as

her aunt.

"Lor, Nicholas! What's the matter with you?" asked Sarah.

"It ain't often I grumble," he answered, "and if anybody's better at

taking the rough with the smooth than me, I'd like to see him; but there

are times when nature craves for a bit of pudding, and gets sick to

death of its daily meal of bread and cheese. I speak in a parable,

however, because I don't mean the body but the mind. Your body bothers

you, Missis Legg, as well it may; but your mind, thanks to your husband,

is pretty peaceful year in year out. In my case, my body calls for no

attention. Thin as a rake I am and so shall continue. But the tissue is

good, and no man is made of better quality stuff. It's my mind that

turns in upon itself and gives me a pang now and again. And the higher

the nature of the mind, the worse its troubles. In fact the more you can

feel, the more you are made to feel; and what the mind is built to

endure, that, seemingly, it will be called to endure."

But Nelly had no patience with the philosophy of Mr. Roberts.

"You're so windy when you've got anything on your chest," she said. "You

keep talking and don't get any forwarder. What's the fuss about now?"

"You've been listening to Baggs, I expect," suggested the wife of

Nicholas. "Baggs has got the boot at last and leaves at Christmas, and

his pension don't please him, so he's fairly bubbling over with

verjuice. I should hope you'd got too much sense to listen to him,

Nick."

"So should I. He's no more than the winter wind in a hedge at any time,"

answered Mr. Roberts. "Baggs gets attended to same as a wasp gets

attended to--because of his sting. All bad-tempered people win a lot

more attention and have their way far quicker than us easy and amiable

ones. Why, we know, of course. Human nature's awful cowardly at bottom

and will always choose the easiest way to escape the threatened wrath of

a bad temper. In fact, fear makes the world go round, not love, as

silly people pretend. In my case I feel much like Sabina Dinnett, who

was talking about life not a week ago in the triangle under the sycamore

tree. And she said, 'Those who do understand don't care, and those who

don't understand, don't matter'--so there you are--one's left all

alone."

"I'm sure you ain't--more's Sabina. She's got lots of friends, and

you've got your dear wife and children," said Nelly.

"I have; but the mind sometimes takes a flight above one's family. It's

summed up in a word: there's nothing so damned unpleasant as being took

for granted, and that's what's the matter with me."

"Not in your home, you ain't," declared Sarah. "No good, sensible wife

takes her husband for granted. He's always made a bit of a fuss over

under his own roof."

"That's true; but in my business I am. To see people--I'll name no

names--to see other people purred over, and then to find your own craft

treated as just a commonplace of Nature, no more wonderful than the

leaves on a bush--beastly, I call it."

Mr. Legg had joined them and he admitted the force of the argument.

"We're very inclined to put our own job higher in the order of the

universe than will other people," he said; "and better men than you have

hungered for a bit of notice and a pat on the back and never won it. But

time covers that trouble. I grant, all the same, that it's a bit galling

when we find the world turns a cold shoulder to our best."

"It's a human weakness, Nicholas, to want to be patted," said Nelly, and

her husband agreed.

"It is. We share it with dogs," he declared. "But the world in general

is too busy to pat us. I remember in my green youth being very proud of

myself once and pointing to a lot of pewter in a tub, that I'd worked up

till it looked like silver; and I took some credit, and an old man in

the bar said that scouring pots was nothing more than scouring pots, and

that any other honest fool could have done them just as well as me."

"That's all right and I don't pretend my work on the lathe is a national

asset, and I don't pretend I ought to have a statue for doing it,"

answered Nicholas; "but what I do say is that I am greater than my lathe

and ought to get more attention according. I am a man and not a

cog-wheel, and when Ironsyde puts cog-wheels above men and gives a dumb

machine greater praise than the mechanic who works it--then it's wrong

and I don't like it."

"He can't make any such mistake as that," argued Job. "It's rumoured

he's going to stand for Parliament at the next General Election, so his

business is with men, not machines, and he'll very soon find all about

the human side of politics."

"He'll be human enough till he gets in. They always are. They'll stoop

to anything till they're elected," said Mrs. Legg, "but once there, the

case is often altered with 'em."

"I want to be recognised as a man," continued Roberts, "and Ironsyde

don't do it. He isn't the only human being with a soul and a future. And

now, if he's for Parliament, I dare say he'll become more indifferent

than ever. He may be a machine himself, with no feelings beyond work;

but other people are built different."

"A man like him ought to try and do the things himself," suggested

Sarah. "If employers had to put in a day laying the stricks on the

spreadboard, or turning the rollers on the lathe, or hackling, or

spinning, they'd very soon get a respect for what the workers do. In

fact, if labour had its way, it ought to make capital taste what labour

means, and get out of bed when labour gets out, and do what labour does,

and eat what labour eats. Then capital would begin to know it's born."

"It never will happen," persisted Nicholas. "Nothing opens the eyes of

the blind, or makes the man who can buy oysters, eat winkles. The gulf

is fixed between us and it won't be crossed. If he goes into Parliament,

or stops out, he'll be himself still, and look on us doubtfully and wish

in his soul that we were made of copper and filled with steam."

"A master must follow his people out of the works into their homes if

he's worth a rap," declared Job. "Your aunt always did so with her

maidens, and I do so with the men. And it's our place to remember that

men and women are far different from metal and steam. You can't turn the

power off the workers and think they're going to be all right till you

turn it on again. They go on all the time--same as the masters and

mistresses do. They sleep and eat and rest; they want their bit of human

interest, and bit of fun, and pinch of hope to salt the working day. And

as for Raymond Ironsyde, I've seen his career unfolding since he was a

boy and marked him in bad moments and seen his weakness; which secrets

were safe enough with me, for I'd always a great feeling for the young.

And I say that he's good as gold at heart and his faults only come from

a lack of power to put himself in another man's place. He could never

look very much farther than his own place in the world and the road that

led to it. He did wrong, like all of us, and his faults found him out;

which they don't always do. But he's the sort that takes years and years

to ripen. He's not yet at his best you'll find; but he's a learner, and

he may learn a great many useful things if he goes into Parliament--if

it's only what to avoid."

"There's one thing that will do him a darned sight more good than going

into Parliament, and that's getting married," said Sarah. "In fact, a

few of us, that can see further through a milestone than some people,

believe it's in sight."

"Miss Waldron, of course?" asked Nelly.

"Yes--her. And when that happens, she'll make of Mister Ironsyde a much

more understanding man than going into Parliament will. He's fair and

just--not one of us, bar Levi Baggs, ever said he wasn't that--but she's

more--she's just our lady, and our good is her good, and what she's done

for us would fill a book; and if she could work on him to look at us

through her eyes, then none of us, that deserved it, as we all do, would

lose our good word."

"What do you say to that, Job?" asked Mrs. Legg.

"I say nothing better could happen," he answered. "But don't feel too

hopeful. The things that promise best to the human eye ain't the things

that Providence very often performs. To speak in a religious spirit and

without feeling, there's no doubt that Providence does take a delight in

turning down the obvious things and bringing us up against the doubtful

and difficult and unexpected ones. That's why there's such a gulf

between story books and real life. The story books that I used to read

in my youth, always turned out just as a man of good will and good heart

and kindly spirit would wish them to do; but you'd be straining civility

to Providence and telling a lie if you pretended real life does.

Therefore I say, hope it may happen; but don't bet on it."

Job finished his tea and bustled away.

"The wisdom of the man!" said Nicholas. "He's the most comforting person

I know, because he don't pretend. There's some think that everything

that happens to us is our own fault, and they drive you silly with their

bleating. Job knows it ain't so."

"A far-seeing man," admitted Nelly, "and a great reader of the signs of

the times. People used to think he was a simple sort--God forgive me, I

did myself; but I know better now. All through that business with poor

Richard Gurd, Job understood our characters and bided his time and knew

that the crash must come between us. He's told me since that he never

really feared Gurd, because he looked ahead and felt that two such

natures as mine and Richard's were never meant to join in matrimony.

Looking back, I see Job's every move and the brain behind it. Talk about

Parliament! If Bridport was to send Legg there, they'd be sending one

that's ten times wiser than Raymond Ironsyde--and ten times deeper. In

fact, the nation's very ill served by most that go there. They are the

showy, rich, noisy sort, who want to bulk in the public eye without

working for it--ciphers who do what they're told, and don't understand

the inner nature of what they're doing more than a hoss in a plough. But

men like Job, though not so noisy, would get to the root, and use their

own judgment, and rise superior to party politics and the pitiful need

to shout with your side, right or wrong."

"Miss Waldron is very wishful for him to get in, and she says he's got

good ideas," replied Nicholas.

"If so, he has to thank her for them," added Sarah.