Among the many who called upon Mrs. Sankey after the death of her
husband was Mr. Mulready, the owner of a mill near Marsden. He was one
of the leading men in the place, although his mill was by no means a
large one. He took rank in the eyes of the little town with men in a
much larger way of business by means of a pushing manner and a fluent
tongue. He had come to be considered an authority upon most subjects.
He paid much attention to his dress, and drove the fastest horse and the
best got up gig in that part of the country; but it was Mr. Mulready's
manner which above all had raised him to his present position in the
esteem of the good people of Marsden. He had the knack of adapting
himself to the vein of those he addressed.
With the farmers who came into market he was bluff and cordial; with the
people in general he was genial and good tempered. At meetings at which
the county gentry were present he was quiet, businesslike, and a trifle
deferential, showing that he recognized the difference between his
position and theirs.
With ladies he was gay when they were gay, sympathetic when sympathy was
expected. With them he was even more popular than with the men, for
the latter, although they admired and somewhat envied his varied
acquirements, were apt in the intimacy of private conversation to speak
of him as a humbug.
There was one exception, however, to his general popularity. There
was no mill owner in the neighborhood more heartily detested by his
workpeople; but as these did not mingle with the genteel classes of
Marsden their opinion of Mr. Mulready went for nothing. The mill owner
was a man of forty-three or forty-four, although when dressed in his
tightly fitting brown coat with its short waist, its brass buttons, and
high collar, and with a low hat with narrow brim worn well forward and
coming down almost to the bridge of his nose, he looked seven or eight
years younger.
His hair was light, his trimly cut muttonchop whiskers were sandy, he
had a bright, fresh complexion, a large mouth, and good teeth, which he
always showed when he smiled, and in public he was always smiling;
his eyes were light in color, very close together, and had a somewhat
peculiar appearance. Indeed there were men who hinted that he had a
slight cast, but these were, no doubt, envious of his popularity.
Mrs. Sankey had been flattered by his visit and manner; indeed it
could hardly have been otherwise, for he had expressed a sympathy and
deference which were very soothing to her.
“It is indeed kind of you to receive me,” he had said. “I know, of
course, that it is not usual for a man who has the misfortune to be
unmarried to make a call upon a lady, but I could not help myself.
William Mulready is not a man to allow his feelings to be sacrificed
to the cold etiquette of the world. I had not the pleasure of the
acquaintance of that most brave and distinguished officer your late
husband. I had hoped that some day circumstances might throw me in
contact with him, but it was not for me, a humble manufacturer, to force
my acquaintance upon one socially my superior; but, my dear madam, when
I heard of that terrible accident, of that noble self devotion, I said
to myself, 'William Mulready, when a proper and decent time elapses you
must call upon the relict of your late noble and distinguished townsman,
and assure her of your sympathy and admiration, even if she spurns you
from the door.'”
“You could not think I should do that, Mr. Mulready,” Mrs. Sankey said.
“It is most gratifying to me to receive this mark of sympathy in my
present sad position;” and she sighed deeply.
“You are good indeed to say so,” Mr. Mulready said in a tone of deep
gratitude; “but I might have been sure that my motives at least would
not be misunderstood by a high bred and delicate lady like yourself. I
will not now trespass on your time, but hope that I may be permitted to
call again. Should there be anything in which so humble an individual
could be in the slightest degree useful to you pray command my services.
I know the responsibility which you must feel at being left in charge of
those two noble boys and your charming little daughter must be well nigh
overwhelming, and if you would not think it presumption I would say that
any poor advice or opinion which I, who call myself in some degree a man
of the world, can give, will be always at your service.”
“You are very good,” Mrs. Sankey murmured. “It is indeed a
responsibility. My younger boy and girl are all that I could wish, but
the elder is already almost beyond me;” and by the shake of her head she
testified that her troubles on that score approached martyrdom.
“Never fear, my dear madam,” Mr. Mulready said heartily. “Boys will be
boys, and I doubt not that he will grow up everything that you could
desire. I may have heard that he was a little passionate. There was a
trifling affair between him and his schoolmaster, was there not? But
these things mend themselves, and doubtless all will come well in time;
and now I have the honor of wishing you good morning.”
“Charming manners!” Mrs. Sankey said to herself when her visitor had
left. “A little old fashioned, perhaps, but so kind and deferential. He
seemed to understand my feelings exactly.”
That evening when they were at tea Mrs. Sankey mentioned the agreeable
visitor who had called in the afternoon.
“What! William Mulready!” Ned exclaimed; “Foxey, as his hands call him.
I have heard Bill speak of him often. His men hate him. They say he is a
regular tyrant. What impudence his coming here!”
“Ned, I am surprised at you,” his mother said angrily. “I am sure Mr.
Mulready is nothing of the sort. He is a most kind and considerate
gentleman, and I will not allow you to repeat these things you hear from
the low companions whom your father permitted you to associate with.”
“Bill is not a low companion, mother,” Ned exclaimed passionately. “A
better fellow never stood, and Foxey is not kind and considerate. He is
a brutal tyrant, and I am sure my father, if you will quote his opinion,
would not have had such a man inside his doors.”
“Leave the room, Ned, this moment,” his mother exclaimed, more angry
than he had ever seen her before. “I am ashamed of you speaking to me in
that way. You would not have dared to do it had your father been alive.”
Ned dashed down his scarcely begun bread and butter and flung himself
out of the room, and then out of the house, and it was some hours before
he returned. Then he went straight up to his mother's room.
“I beg your pardon, mother,” he said quietly. “I am very sorry I spoke
as I did. I ought not to have done so.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Sankey said coldly; “then don't do it again, Ned.”
Without another word Ned went off to his books. He was grieved and sore
at heart. He had during his walk fought a hard battle with himself, and
had conquered. As his temper cooled down he had felt that he had broken
his promise, that he had not been kind to his mother; felt, too, that
her accusation was a true one--he would not have dared to speak so to
her had his father been alive.
“But it was so different then,” he had said to himself as the tears
chased each other down his cheeks. “Father understood me, and cared
for me, and made allowances. It was worth while fighting against one's
temper just to have him put his hand on my shoulder and say, 'Well done,
my boy.' Now it is so different. I will go on trying for his sake; but I
know it's no good. Do what I will, I can't please her. It's my fault, I
dare say, but I do try my best. I do, indeed, father,” he said, speaking
out loud; “if you can hear me, I do, indeed, try to be kind to mother,
but she won't let me. I do try to make allowances, that is, when I am
not in a passion, and then I go and spoil it all, like a beast, just as
I did tonight.
“Anyhow,” he said to himself as he turned his face homeward again, “I
will go and tell her I am sorry, and beg her pardon. I don't suppose she
will be nice, but I can't help that. It's my duty anyhow, and I will try
and not say anything against Foxey next time she speaks of him.”
The latter part of his resolution Ned found it very hard to maintain,
for Mr. Mulready became a not unfrequent visitor. He had always some
excuse for calling, either to bring in a basket of fresh trout, some
game, or hothouse fruit, for, as he said, he knew her appetite was
delicate and needed tempting, or some book newly issued from the London
press which he was sure she would appreciate.
After a short time Mrs. Sankey ceased to speak of these visits, perhaps
because she saw how Ned objected to the introduction of Mr. Mulready's
name, perhaps for some other reason, and a year passed without Ned's
being seriously ruffled on the subject.
Ned was now nearly sixteen. He had worked hard, and was the head boy at
Porson's. It had always been regarded as a fixed thing that he should
go into the army. As the son of an officer who had lost his leg in the
service it was thought that he would be able to obtain a commission
without difficulty, and Squire Simmonds, who had been a kind friend
since his father's death, had promised to ask the lord lieutenant of
the county to interest himself in the matter, and had no doubt that
the circumstances of Captain Sankey's death would be considered as an
addition to the claim of his services in the army.
Captain Sankey had intended that Ned should have gone to a superior
school to finish his education, but the diminished income of the family
had put this out of the question, and the subject had never been
mooted after his death. Ned, however, felt that he was making such good
progress under Mr. Porson that he was well content to remain where he
was.
His struggle with his temper had gone on steadily, and he hoped he
had won a final victory over it. Mr. Porson had been unwearied in his
kindnesses, and often took Ned for an hour in the evening in order to
push him forward, and although he avoided talking about his home life
the boy felt that he could, in case of need, pour out his heart to him;
but, indeed, things had gone better at home. Mrs. Sankey was just
as indisposed as ever to take any share whatever in the trouble of
housekeeping, but as Abijah was perfectly capable of keeping the house
in order without her instructions things went on smoothly and straightly
in this respect.
In other matters home life was more pleasant than it had been. Mrs.
Sankey was less given to querulous complaining, more inclined to see
things in a cheerful light, and Ned especially noticed with satisfaction
that the references to his father which had so tried him had become much
less frequent of late.
One day in September, when his father had been dead just a year, one
of the town boys, a lad of about Ned's age, said to him as they were
walking home from school together:
“Well, Ned, I suppose I ought to congratulate you, although I don't know
whether you will see it in that light.”
“What do you mean?” Ned said. “I don't know that anything has happened
on which I should be particularly congratulated, except on having made
the top score against the town last week.”
“Oh! I don't mean that,” the boy said.. “I mean about Mulready.”
“What do you mean?” Ned said, stopping short and turning very white.
“Why,” the lad said laughing, “all the town says he is going to marry
your mother.”
Ned stood as if stupefied. Then he sprang upon his companion and seized
him by the throat.
“It's a lie,” he shouted, shaking him furiously. “It's a lie I say,
Smithers, and you know it. I will kill you if you don't say it's a lie.”
With a great effort Smithers extricated himself from Ned's grasp.
“Don't choke a fellow,” he said. “It may be a lie if you say it is,
but it is not my lie anyhow. People have been talking about it for some
time. They say he's been down there nearly every day. Didn't you know
it?”
“Know it?” Ned gasped. “I have not heard of his being in the house for
months, but I will soon find out the truth.”
And without another word he dashed off at full speed up the street.
Panting and breathless he rushed into the house, and tore into the room
where his mother was sitting trifling with a piece of fancy work.
“I do wish, Edward, you would not come into the room like a whirlwind.
You know how any sudden noise jars upon my nerves. Why, what is the
matter?” she broke off suddenly, his pale, set face catching her eye,
little accustomed as she was to pay any attention to Ned's varying
moods.
“Mother,” he panted out, “people are saying an awful thing about you, a
wicked, abominable thing. I know, of course, it is not true, but I want
just to hear you say so, so that I can go out and tell people they lie.
How dare they say such things!”
“Why, what do you mean, Edward?” Mrs. Sankey said, almost frightened at
the boy's vehemence.
“Why, they say that you are going to marry that horrible man Mulready.
It is monstrous, isn't it? I think they ought to be prosecuted and
punished for such a wicked thing, and father only a year in his grave.”
Mrs. Sankey was frightened at Ned's passion. Ever since the matter had
first taken shape in her mind she had felt a certain uneasiness as to
what Ned would say of it, and had, since it was decided, been putting
off from day to day the telling of the news to him. She had, in his
absence, told herself over and over again that it was no business of
his, and that a boy had no right to as much as question the actions of
his mother; but somehow when he was present she had always shrank from
telling him. She now took refuge in her usual defense--tears.
“It is shameful,” she said, sobbing, as she held her handkerchief to
her eyes, “that a boy should speak in this way to his mother; it is
downright wicked.”
“But I am not speaking to you, mother; I am speaking of other
people--the people who have invented this horrible lie--for it is a lie,
mother, isn't it? It is not possible it can be true?”
“It is true,” Mrs. Sankey said, gaining courage from her anger; “it is
quite true. And you are a wicked and abominable boy to talk in that way
to me. Why shouldn't I marry again? Other people marry again, and why
shouldn't I? I am sure your poor father would never have wished me to
waste my life by remaining single, with nothing to do but to look after
you children. And it is shameful of you to speak in that way of Mr.
Mulready.”
Ned stopped to hear no more. At her first words he had given a low,
gasping cry, as one who has received a terrible wound. The blood flew
to his head, the room swam round, and he seemed to feel the veins in
his temples swell almost to bursting. The subsequent words of his mother
fell unheeded on his ears, and turning round he went slowly to the door,
groping his way as one half asleep or stupefied by a blow.
Mechanically he opened the door and went out into the street; his cap
was still on his head, but he neither thought of it one way or the
other.
Almost without knowing it he turned from the town and walked toward the
hills. Had any one met him by the way they would assuredly have thought
that the boy had been drinking, so strangely and unevenly did he walk.
His face was flushed almost purple, his eyes were bloodshot; he swayed
to and fro as he walked, sometimes pausing altogether, sometimes
hurrying along for a few steps. Passing a field where the gate stood
open he turned into it, kept on his way for some twenty yards further,
and then fell at full length on the grass. There he lay unconscious for
some hours, and it was not until the evening dews were falling heavily
that he sat up and looked round.
For some time he neither knew where he was nor what had brought him
there. At last the remembrance of what had passed flashed across him,
and with a cry of “Father! father!” he threw himself at full length
again with his head on his arm; but this time tears came to his relief,
and for a long time he cried with a bitterness of grief even greater
than that which he had suffered at his father's death.
The stars were shining brightly when he rose to his feet, his clothes
were soaked with dew, and he trembled with cold and weakness.
“What am I to do?” he said to himself; “what am I to do?”
He made his way back to the gate and leaned against it for some time;
then, having at last made up his mind, he turned his back on the town
and walked toward Varley, moving more slowly and wearily than if he was
at the end of a long and fatiguing day's walk. Slowly he climbed the
hill and made his way through the village till he reached the Swintons'
cottage. He tapped at the door with his hand, and lifting the latch he
opened the door a few inches.
“Bill, are you in?”
There was an exclamation of surprise.
“Why, surely, it's Maister Ned!” and Bill came to the door.
“Come out, Bill, I want to speak to you.”
Much surprised at the low and subdued tone in which Ned spoke, Bill
snatched down his cap from the peg by the door and joined him outside.
“What be't, Maister Ned? what be t' matter with thee? Has owt gone
wrong?”
Ned walked on without speaking. In his yearning for sympathy, in his
intense desire to impart the miserable news to some one who would feel
for him, he had come to his friend Bill. He had thought first of going
to Mr. Porson. But though his master would sympathize with him he would
not be able to feel as he did; he would no doubt be shocked at hearing
that his mother was so soon going to marry again, but he would not
be able to understand the special dislike to Mr. Mulready, still less
likely to encourage his passionate resentment. Bill would, he knew, do
both, for it was from him he had learned how hated the mill owner was
among his people.
But at present he could not speak. He gave a short wave of his hand to
show that he heard, but could not answer yet, and with his head
bent down made his way out through the end of the village on to
the moor--Bill following him, wondering and sympathetic, unable to
conjecture what had happened.
Presently, when they had left the houses far behind them, Ned stopped.
“What be't, Maister Ned?” Bill again asked, laying his strong hand upon
Ned's shoulder; “tell oi what it be. Hast got in another row with t'
maister? If there be owt as oi can do, thou knowest well as Bill Swinton
be with thee heart and soul.”
“I know, Bill--I know,” Ned said in a broken voice, “but you can do
nothing; I can do nothing; no one can. But it's dreadful to think of.
It's worse than if I had killed twenty masters. Only think--only think,
Bill, my mother's going to marry Mulready!”
“Thou doesn't say so, lad! What! thy mother marry Foxey! Oi never heer'd
o' such a thing. Well, that be bad news, surely! Well, well, only to
think, now! Poor lad! Well, that beats all!”
The calamity appeared so great to Bill that for some time no idea
occurred to him which could, under the circumstances, be considered as
consolatory. But Ned felt the sympathy conveyed in the strong grasp of
his shoulder, and in the muttered “Well, well, now!” to which Bill gave
vent at intervals.
“What bee'st going to do vor to stop it?” he asked at last.
“What can I do, Bill? She won't listen to me--she never does. Anything
I say always makes her go the other way. She wouldn't believe anything I
said against him. It would only make her stick to him all the more.
“Dost think,” Bill suggested after another long pause, “that if we got
up a sort of depitation--Luke Marner and four or five other steady chaps
as knows him; yes, and Polly Powlett, she could do the talking--to go to
her and tell her what a thundering dad un he is--dost think it would do
any good?”
Even in his bitter grief Ned could hardly help smiling at the thought of
such a deputation waiting upon his mother.
“No, it wouldn't do, Bill.”
Bill was silent again for some time.
“Dost want un killed, Maister Ned?” he said in a low voice at last;
“'cause if ye do oi would do it for ye. Oi would lay down my life for
ye willing, as thou knowst; and hanging ain't much, arter all. They say
'tis soon over. Anyhow oi would chance it, and perhaps they wouldn't
find me out.”
Ned grasped his friend's hand.
“I could kill him myself!” he exclaimed passionately. “I have been
thinking of it; but what would be the good? I know what my mother
is--when once she has made up her mind there's no turning her; and if
this fellow were out of the way, likely enough she would take up with
another in no time.”
“But it couldn't been as bad as if wur Foxey,” Bill urged, “he be the
very worsest lot about Marsden.”
“I would do it,” Ned said passionately; “I would do it over and over
again, but for the disgrace it would bring on Charlie and Lucy.”
“But there would be no disgrace if oi was to do it, Maister Ned.”
“Yes, there would, Bill--a worse disgrace than if I did it myself. It
would be a nice thing to let you get hanged for my affairs; but let him
look out--let him try to ill treat Charlie and Lucy, and he will see
if I don't get even with him. I am not so much afraid of that--it's the
shame of the thing. Only to think that all Marsden should know my mother
is going to be married again within a year of my father's death, and
that after being his wife she was going to take such a man as this! It's
awful, downright awful, Bill!”
“Then what art thou going to do, Maister Ned--run away and 'list for a
soldier, or go to sea?”
“I wish I could,” Ned exclaimed. “I would turn my back on Marsden and
never come back again, were it not for the little ones. Besides,” he
added after a pause, “father's last words were, 'Be kind to mother;' and
she will want it more than he ever dreamed of.”
“She will that,” Bill agreed; “leastways unless oi be mistaken. And what
be'st going to do now, lad? Be'st agoing whoam?”
“No, I won't go home tonight,” Ned replied. “I must think it over
quietly, and it would be worse to bear there than anywhere else. No, I
shall just walk about.”
“Thou canst not walk abowt all night, Maister Ned,” Bill said
positively; “it bain't to be thowt of. If thou don't mind thou canst
have moi bed and oi can sleep on t' floor.”
“No, I couldn't do that,” Ned said, “though I do feel awfully tired and
done up; but your brothers would be asking me questions and wondering
why I didn't go home. I could not stand that.”
“No, Maister Ned, oi can see that wouldn't do; but if we walk about for
an hour or two, or--no, I know of a better plan. We can get in at t'
window of the school; it bain't never fastened, and bain't been for
years, seeing as thar bain't been neither school nor schoolers since
auld Mother Brown died. Oi will make a shift to light a fire there.
There be shutters, so no one will see the light. Then oi will bring ee
up some blankets from our house, and if there bain't enough Polly will
lend me some when oi tell her who they are for. She bain't a one to
blab. What dost thou say?”
Ned, who felt utterly worn out, assented gladly to the proposal, and an
entrance was easily effected into the desolate cottage formerly used
as a day school. Bill went off at once and soon returned with a load of
firewood; the shutters were then carefully closed, and a fire quickly
blazed brightly on the hearth. Bill then went away again, and in a
quarter of an hour returned with Mary Powlett. He carried a bundle of
rugs and blankets, while she had a kettle in one hand and a large basket
in the other.
“Good evening! Master Sankey,” she said as she entered. “Bill has told
me all about it, and I am sorry indeed for you and for your mother. It
is worse for her, poor lady, than for you. You will soon be old enough
to go out into the world if you don't like things at home; but she will
have to bear what trouble comes to her. And now I thought you would like
a cup of tea, so I have brought the kettle and things up. I haven't
had tea yet, and they don't have tea at Bill's; but I like it, though
feyther grumbles sometimes, and says it's too expensive for the likes of
us in sich times as these; but he knows I would rather go without
meat than without tea, so he lets me have it. Bill comes in for a cup
sometimes, for he likes it better than beer, and it's a deal better for
him to be sitting taking a cup of tea with me than getting into the way
of going down to the 'Spotted Dog,' and drinking beer there. So we will
all have a cup together. No one will disturb us. Feyther is down at the
'Brown Cow,' and when I told the children I had to go out on special
business they all promised to be good, and Jarge said he would see them
all safely into bed. I told him I should be back in an hour.”
While Polly was speaking she was bustling about the room, putting
things straight; with a wisp of heather she swept up the dust which had
accumulated on the floor, in a semicircle in front of the fire, and
laid down the rugs and blankets to form seats. Three cups and saucers,
a little jag of milk, a teapot, and basin of sugar were placed in the
center, and a pile of slices of bread and butter beside them, while from
a paper bag she produced a cake which she had bought at the village shop
on her way up.
Ned watched her preparations listlessly.
“You are very good, Polly,” he said, “and I shall be very glad of the
cup of tea, but I cannot eat anything.”
“Never mind,” she said cheerfully. “Bill and I can do the eating, and
perhaps after you have had a cup of tea you will be able to, for Bill
tells me you have had nothing to eat since breakfast.”
Ned felt cheered by the warm blaze of the fire and by the cheerful sound
of the kettle, and after taking a cup of tea found that his appetite
was coming, and was soon able to eat his share. Mary Powlett kept up a
cheerful talk while the meal was going on, and no allusion was made to
the circumstances which had brought Ned there. After it was done she sat
and chatted for an hour. Then she said:
“I must be off now, and I think, Bill, you'd best be going soon too, and
let Maister Ned have a good night of it. I will make him up his bed on
the rugs; and I will warrant, after all the trouble he has gone through,
he will sleep like a top.”