When Ned was left alone he rolled himself up in the blankets, placed a
pillow which Polly had brought him under his head, and lay and looked
at the fire; but it was not until the flames had died down, and the last
red glow had faded into blackness that he fell off to sleep.
His thoughts were bitter in the extreme. He pictured to himself the
change which would take place in his home life with Mulready the
manufacturer, the tyrant of the workmen, ruling over it. For himself he
doubted not that he would be able to hold his own.
“He had better not try on his games with me,” he muttered savagely.
“Though I am only sixteen he won't find it easy to bully me; but of
course Charlie and Lucy can't defend themselves. However, I will take
care of them. Just let him be unkind to them, and see what comes of it!
As to mother, she must take what she gets, at least she deserves to.
Only to think of it! only to think of it! Oh, how bitterly she will come
to repent! How could she do it!
“And with father only dead a year! But I must stand by her, too. I
promised father to be kind to her, though he could never have guessed
how she would need it. He meant that I would only put up, without losing
my temper, with her way of always pretending to be ill, and never doing
anything but lie on the sofa and read poetry. Still, of course, it meant
I was to be kind anyhow, whatever happened, and I will try to be so,
though it is hard when she has brought such trouble upon us all.
“As for Mulready I should like to burn his mill down, or to break his
neck. I hate him: it's bad enough to be a tyrant; but to be a tyrant and
a hypocrite, too, is horrible. Well, at any rate he shan't lord it over
me;” and so at last Ned dropped off to sleep.
He was still soundly asleep when Bill Swinton came in to wake him. It
was half past six, a dull October morning, with a dreary drizzling rain.
Bill brought with him a mug of hot tea and some thick slices of bread
and butter. Ned got up and shook himself.
“What o'clock is it, Bill?”
“Half past six--the chaps went off to t' mill an hour gone; oi've kept
some tea hot for ee.”
“Thank you, Bill, my head aches, and so do all my bones, and I feel as
if I hadn't been asleep all night, although, indeed, I must have slept
quite as long as usual. Can't I have a wash?”
“Yes,” Bill said, “thou canst come to our place; but thou had best take
thy breakfast whilst it be hot. It will waken thee up like.”
Ned drank the tea and ate a slice of bread and butter, and felt
refreshed thereat. Then he ran with Bill to his cottage and had a wash,
and then started for the town. It was eight o'clock when he reached
home. Abijah was at the door, looking down the road as he came up.
“Oh! Master Ned, how can you go on so? Not a bit of sleep have I
had this blessed night, and the mistress in strong hystrikes all the
evening. Where have you been?”
Ned gave a grunt at the news of his mother's hysterics--a grunt which
clearly expressed “served her right,” but he only answered the last part
of the question.
“I have been up at Varley, and slept at the schoolhouse. Bill Swinn and
Polly Powlett made me up a bed and got me tea and breakfast. I am right
enough.”
“But you shouldn't have gone away, Master Ned, in that style, leaving us
to wait and worry ourselves out of our senses.”
“Do you know what she told me, Abijah? Wasn't it enough to make any
fellow mad?”
“Ay, ay,” the nurse said. “I know. I have seen it coming months ago; but
it wasn't no good for me to speak. Ay, lad, it's a sore trouble for you,
surely a sore trouble for you, and for us all; but it ain't no manner
of use for you to set yourself agin it. Least said sooner mended, Master
Ned; in a case like this it ain't no good your setting yourself up agin
the missis. She ain't strong in some things, but she's strong enough in
her will, and you ought to know by this time that what she sets her mind
on she gets. It were so allus in the captain's time, and if he couldn't
change her, poor patient lamb--for if ever there were a saint on arth
he was that--you may be sure that you can't. So try and take it quietly,
dearie. It be main hard for ye, and it ain't for me to say as it isn't;
but for the sake of peace and quiet, and for the sake of the little
ones, Master Ned, it's better for you to take it quiet. If I thought as
it would do any good for you to make a fuss I wouldn't be agin it: but
it ain't, you know, and it will be worse for you all if you sets him
agin you to begin with. Now go up and see your mother, dearie, afore you
goes off to school. I have just taken her up her tea.”
“I have got nothing to say to her,” Ned growled.
“Yes, you have, Master Ned; you have got to tell her you hopes she will
be happy. You can do that, you know, with a clear heart, for you do hope
so. Fortunately she didn't see him yesterday; for when he called I told
him she was too ill to see him, and a nice taking she was in when I told
her he had been and gone; but I didn't mind that, you know, and it was
better she shouldn't see him when she was so sore about the words you
had said to her. It ain't no use making trouble aforehand, or setting
him agin you. He knows, I reckon, as he won't be welcomed here by you.
The way he has always come when you would be out showed that clear
enough. But it ain't no use making matters worse. It's a pretty kettle
of fish as it stands. Now, go up, dearie, like a good boy, and make
things roight.”
Ned lingered irresolute for a little time in the hall, and then his
father's words, “Be kind to her,” came strongly in his mind, and he
slowly went upstairs and knocked at his mother's door.
“Oh! here you are again!” she said in querulous tones as he entered,
“after being nearly the death of me with your wicked goings on! I don't
know what you will come to, speaking to me as you did yesterday, and
then running away and stopping out all night.”
“It was wrong, mother,” Ned said quietly, “and I have come to tell you
I am sorry; but you see the news was very sudden, and I wasn't prepared
for it. I did not know that he had been coming here, and the news took
me quite by surprise. I suppose fellows never do like their mothers
marrying again. It stands to reason they wouldn't; but, now I have
thought it over, I am sorry I spoke as I did, and I do hope, mother, you
will be happy with him.”
Mrs. Sankey felt mollified. She had indeed all along dreaded Ned's
hearing the news, and had felt certain it would produce a desperate
outbreak on his part. Now that it was over she was relieved. The storm
had been no worse than she expected, and now that Ned had so speedily
come round, and was submissive, she felt a load off her mind.
“Very well, Ned,” she said more graciously than usual, “I am glad that
you have seen the wickedness of your conduct. I am sure that I am acting
for the best, and that it will be a great advantage to you and your
brother and sister having a man like Mr. Mulready to help you push your
way in life. I am sure I am thinking of your interest as much as my
own; and I have spoken to him over and over again about you, and he has
promised dozens of times to do his best to be like a father to you all.”
Ned winced perceptibly.
“All right, mother! I do hope you will be happy; but, please, don't let
us talk about it again till--till it comes off; and, please, don't let
him come here in the evening. I will try and get accustomed to it in
time; but you see it's rather hard at first, and you know I didn't
expect it.”
So saying Ned left the room, and collecting his books made his way off
to school, leaving his mother highly satisfied with the interview.
His absence from afternoon school had, of course, been noticed, and
Smithers had told his friends how Ned had flown at him on his speaking
to him about the talk of his mother and Mulready. Of course before
afternoon school broke up every boy knew that Ned Sankey had cut up
rough about the report; and although the great majority of the boys did
not know Mr. Mulready by name there was a general feeling of sympathy
with Ned, The circumstances of his father's death had, of course,
exalted him greatly in the eyes of his schoolfellows, and it was the
unanimous opinion, that after having had a hero for his father, a fellow
would naturally object to having a stepfather put over him.
Ned's absence was naturally associated with the news, and caused much
comment and even excitement. His attack upon Mr. Hathorn had become a
sort of historical incident in the school, and the younger boys
looked up with a sort of respectful awe upon the boy who had defied a
headmaster. There were all sorts of speculations rife among them as to
what Ned had done, there being a general opinion that he had probably
killed Mr. Mulready, and the debate turning principally upon the manner
in which this act of righteous vengeance had been performed.
There was, then, a feeling almost of disappointment when Ned walked into
the playground looking much as usual, except that his face was pale
and his eyes looked heavy and dull. No one asked him any questions; for
although Ned was a general favorite, it was generally understood that he
was not the sort of fellow to be asked questions that might put him out.
When they went in school, and the first class was called up, Ned, who
was always at its head, took his place at the bottom of the class,
saying quietly to the master:
“I have not prepared my lesson today, sir, and I have not done the
exercises.”
Mr. Porson made no remark; he saw at once by Ned's face that something
was wrong with him. When several questions went round, which Ned could
easily have answered without preparation, the master said:
“You had better go to your desk, Sankey; I see you are not well. I will
speak to you after school is over.”
Ned sat down and opened a book, but he did not turn a page until school
was over; then he followed his master to the study.
“Well, my boy,” he asked kindly, “what is it?”
“My mother is going to marry Mr. Mulready,” Ned said shortly. The words
seemed to come with difficulty from his lips.
“Ah! it is true, then. I heard the report some weeks ago, but hoped that
it was not true. I am sorry for you, Ned. I know it must be a sore trial
for you; it is always so when any one steps into the place of one we
have loved and lost.”
“I shouldn't care so much if it wasn't him,” Ned said in a dull voice.
“But there's nothing against the man, is there?” Mr. Porson asked. “I
own I do not like him myself; but I believe he stands well in the town.”
“Only with those who don't know him,” Ned replied; “his workpeople say
he is the worst master and the biggest tyrant in the district.”
“We must hope it's not so bad as that, Ned; still, I am sorry--very
sorry, at what you tell me; but, my boy, you must not take it to heart.
You see you will be going out into the world before long. Your brother
will be following you in a few years. It is surely better that your
mother should marry again and have some one to take care of her.”
“Nice care of her he is likely to take!” Ned laughed bitterly. “You
might as well put a fox to take care of a goose.”
“You are severe on both parties,” Mr. Porson said with a slight smile;
“but I can hardly blame you, my boy, for feeling somewhat bitter at
first; but I hope that, for your own sake and your mother's, you
will try and conquer this feeling and will make the best of the
circumstances. It is worse than useless to kick against the pricks.
Any show of hostility on your part will only cause unhappiness, perhaps
between your mother' and him--almost certainly between you and her. In
this world, my boy, we have all our trials. Some are very heavy ones.
This is yours. Happily, so far as you are concerned, you need only look
forward to its lasting eighteen months or so. In that time you may hope
to get your commission; and as the marriage can hardly take place for
some little time to come, you will have but a year or so to bear it.”
“I don't know, sir,” Ned said gloomily; “everything seems upset now. I
don't seem to know what I had best do.”
“I am sure at present, Ned,” Mr. Porson said kindly--for he saw that the
boy was just now in no mood for argument--“the best is to try and think
as little of it as possible. Make every allowance for your mother; as
you know, my boy, I would not speak disrespectfully to you of her on any
account; but she is not strong minded. She has always been accustomed
to lean upon some one, and the need of some one to lean on is imperative
with her. Had you been a few years older, and had you been staying at
home, it is probable that you might have taken your place as her support
and strength. As it is, it was almost inevitable that something of this
sort would happen.
“But you know, Ned, where to look for strength and support. You have
fought one hard battle, my boy, and have well nigh conquered; now you
have another before you. Seek for strength, my boy, where you will
assuredly find it, and remember that this discipline is doubtless sent
you for your good, and that it will be a preparation for you for the
struggle in after life. I don't want you to be a thoughtless, careless
young officer, but a man earnest in doing his duty, and you cannot
but see that these two trials must have a great effect in forming your
character. Remember, Ned, that if the effect be not for good, it will
certainly be for evil.”
“I will try, sir,” Ned said; “but I know it is easy to make good
resolutions, and how it will be when he is in the house as master I
can't trust myself even to think.”
“Well, let us hope the best, Ned,” Mr. Porson said kindly; “things may
turn out better than you fear.”
Then seeing that further talking would be useless now, he shook Ned's
hand and let him go.
The next three or four months passed slowly and heavily. Ned went about
his work again quietly and doggedly; but his high spirits seemed gone.
His mother's engagement with Mr. Mulready had been openly announced,
directly after he had first heard of it. Charlie had, to Ned's secret
indignation, taken it quietly. He knew little of Mr. Mulready, who had,
whenever he saw him, spoken kindly to him, and who now made him frequent
presents of books and other things dear to schoolboys. Little Lucy's
liking he had, however, failed to gain, although in his frequent visits
he had spared no pains to do so, seldom coming without bringing with him
cakes or papers of sweets. Lucy accepted the presents, but did not love
the donor, and confided to Abijah that his teeth were exactly like those
of the wolf who ate Little Red Riding Hood.
Ned found much more comfort in her society during those dull days than
in Charlie's. He had the good sense, however, never to encourage her
in her expressions of dislike to Mr. Mulready, and even did his best to
combat her impression, knowing how essential it was for her to get on
well with him. Ned himself did not often see Mr. Mulready during that
time. The first time that they met, Ned had, on his return from school,
gone straight up into the drawing room, not knowing that Mr. Mulready
was there. On opening the door and seeing him he paused suddenly for a
moment and then advanced. For a moment neither of them spoke, then Mr.
Mulready said in his frankest manner:
“Ned, you have heard I am going to marry your mother. I don't suppose
you quite like it; it wouldn't be natural if you did; I know I shouldn't
if I were in your place. Still you know your disliking it won't alter
it, and I hope we shall get on well together. Give me your hand, my lad,
you won't find me a bad sort of fellow.”
“I hope not,” Ned said quietly, taking Mr. Mulready's hand and
continuing to hold it while he went on: “I don't pretend I like it, and
I know it makes no difference whether I do or not; the principal point
is, that my mother should be happy, and if you make her happy I have
no doubt we shall, as you say, get on well together; if you don't, we
shan't.”
There was no mistaking the threat conveyed in Ned's steady tones, and
Mr. Mulready, as Ned dropped his hand, felt that he should have more
trouble with the boy than he had expected. He gave a forced laugh.
“One would think, Ned, that you thought it likely I was going to be
unkind to your mother.”
“No,” Ned said quietly, “I don't want to think about it one way or the
other, only I promised my father I would be kind to my mother; that
means that I would look after her, and I mean to.
“Well, mother,” he said in his usual tone, turning to Mrs. Sankey, “and
how are you this morning?”
“I was feeling better, Ned,” she said sharply; “but your unpleasant way
of talking, and your nonsense about taking care of me, have made me feel
quite ill again. Somehow you always seem to shake my nerves. You never
seem to me like other boys. One would think I was a child instead of
being your mother. I thought after what you said to me that you were
going to behave nicely.”
“I am trying to behave nicely,” Ned said. “I am sure I meant quite
nicely, just as Mr. Mulready does; I think he understands me.”
“I don't understand that boy,” Mrs. Sankey said plaintively when Ned
had left the room, “and I never have understood him. He was dreadfully
spoiled when he was in India, as I have often told you; for in my weak
state of health I was not equal to looking after him, and his poor
father was sadly overindulgent. But he has certainly been much better
as to his temper lately, and I do hope, William, that he is not going to
cause trouble.”
“Oh, no!” Mr. Mulready said lightly, “he will not cause trouble; I have
no doubt we shall get on well together. Boys will be boys, you know;
I have been one myself, and of course they look upon stepfathers as
natural enemies; but in this case, you see, we shall not have to put up
with each other long, as he will be getting his commission in a year or
so. Don't trouble yourself about it, love; in your state of health you
ought really not to worry yourself, and worry, you know, spoils the eyes
and the complexion, and I cannot allow that, for you will soon be my
property now.”
The wedding was fixed for March. It was to be perfectly quiet, as Mrs.
Sankey would, up to the day, be still in mourning. A month before the
time Ned noticed that his mother was more uncertain in her temper than
usual, and Abijah confided to him in secret that she thought things were
not going on smoothly between the engaged couple.
Nor were they. Mr. Mulready had discovered, to his surprise, that,
indolent and silly as Mrs. Sankey was in many respects, she was not
altogether a fool, and was keen enough where her own interests were
concerned. He had suggested something about settlements, hoping that
she would at once say that these were wholly unnecessary; but to his
surprise she replied in a manner which showed that she had already
thought the matter over, and had very fixed ideas on the subject.
“Of course,” she said, “that will be necessary. I know nothing about
business, but it was done before, and my poor husband insisted that
my little fortune should be settled so as to be entirely at my own
disposal.”
But this by no means suited Mr. Mulready's views. Hitherto want of
capital had prevented his introducing the new machinery into his mills,
and the competition with the firms which had already adopted it was
injuring him seriously, and he had reckoned confidently upon the use
of Mrs. Sankey's four thousand pounds. Although he kept his temper
admirably under the circumstances, he gave her distinctly to understand,
in the pleasantest way, that an arrangement which was most admirably
suitable in every respect in the case of a lady marrying an officer in
the army, to whom her capital could be of no possible advantage, was
altogether unsuitable in the case of a manufacturer.
“You see, my love,” he argued, “that it is for your benefit as well as
mine that the business should grow and flourish by the addition of the
new machinery which this little fortune of yours could purchase. The
profits could be doubled and trebled, and we could look forward ere long
to holding our heads as high as the richest manufacturers at Leeds and
Bradford--while the mere interest in this money invested in consols as
at present would be absolutely useless to us.”
Mrs. Sankey acknowledged the force of his argument, but was firm in her
determination to retain her hold of her money, and so they parted, not
in anger, for Mr. Mulready altogether disclaimed the possibility of his
being vexed, but with the sense that something like a barrier had sprung
up between them.
This went on for a few days, and although the subject was not mooted,
Mrs. Sankey felt that unless some concession on her part was made it was
likely that the match would fall through. This she had not the slightest
idea of permitting, and rather than it should happen she would have
married without any settlement at all, for she really loved, in her weak
way, the man who had been so attentive and deferential to her.
So one day the subject was renewed, and at last an understanding was
arrived at. Mrs. Sankey's money was to be put into the business in her
own name. Should she not survive her husband, he was to have the option
of paying the money to her children or of allowing them the sum of
eighty pounds a year each from the business. Should he not survive her
the mill was to be settled upon any children she might have after her
marriage; should there be no children it was to be hers absolutely.
All this was only arrived at after several long discussions, in all of
which Mrs. Sankey protested that she knew nothing of business, that it
was most painful to her to be thus discussing money matters, and that it
would be far better to leave it in the hands of a solicitor to arrange
in a friendly manner with him. She nevertheless stuck to her views, and
drove a bargain as keenly and shrewdly as any solicitor could have done
for her, to the surprise and exasperation of Mr. Mulready. Had he known
that she really loved him, and would, if she had been driven to it, have
sacrificed everything rather than lose him, he could have obtained
very different terms; but having no heart to speak of, himself, he was
ignorant of the power he possessed over her.
Bankruptcy stared him in the face unless he could obtain this increase
of capital, and he dared not, by pressing the point, risk its loss. The
terms, he told himself, were not altogether unsatisfactory; it was not
likely that she would survive him. They were of about the same age; he
had never known what it was to be ill, and she, although not such an
invalid as she fancied herself, was still not strong. If she did not
survive him he would have the whole business, subject only to the paltry
annuity of two hundred and forty pounds a year to the three children.
If, the most unlikely thing in the world, she did survive him--well, it
mattered not a jot in that case who the mill went to.
So the terms were settled, the necessary deeds were drawn up by a
solicitor, and signed by both parties. Mrs. Sankey recovered her
spirits, and the preparations for the wedding went on.
Ned had intended to absent himself from the ceremony, but Mr. Porson,
guessing that such might be his intention, had talked the matter gravely
over with him. He had pointed out to Ned that his absence would in the
first place be an act of great disrespect to his mother; that in the
second place it would cause general comment, and would add to the
unfavorable impression which his mother's early remarriage had
undoubtedly created; and that, lastly, it would justify Mr. Mulready
in regarding him as hostile to the marriage, and, should trouble
subsequently arise, he would be able to point to it in self
justification, and as a proof that Ned had from the first determined to
treat him as an enemy.
So Ned was present at his mother's marriage. Quiet as the wedding
was, for only two or three acquaintances were asked to be present, the
greater part of Marsden were assembled in the church.
The marriage had created considerable comment. The death of Captain
Sankey in saving a child's life had rendered his widow an object of
general sympathy, and people felt that not only was this marriage within
eighteen months of Captain Sankey's death almost indecent, but that it
was somehow a personal wrong to them, and that they had been defrauded
in their sympathy.
Therefore the numerous spectators of the marriage were critical rather
than approving. They could find nothing to find fault with, however, in
the bride's appearance. She was dressed in a dove colored silk, and with
her fair hair and pale complexion looked quite young, and, as every one
admitted, pretty. Mr. Mulready, as usual, was smiling, and seemed to
convey by the looks which he cast round that he regarded the assemblage
as a personal compliment to himself.
Lucy and Charlie betrayed no emotion either way; they were not pleased,
but the excitement of the affair amused and interested them, and they
might be said to be passive spectators. Ned, however, although he had
brought himself to be present, could not bring himself to look as if the
ceremony had his approval or sanction. He just glared, as Abijah, who
was present, afterward confided to some of her friends, as if he could
have killed the man as he stood. His look of undisguised hostility was
indeed noticed by all who were in church, and counted heavily against
him in the days which were to come.