A SEED SOWN.
There had been, as it seemed, a lull in the storm. The idlers did not
come over from Molton and Dillup as often as at first. The strikes had
extended until they were in full blast throughout the country, but
"Haworth's," so far, had held its own. Haworth himself was regarded as a
kind of demi-god. He might have done almost anything he pleased. It was
a source of some surprise to his admirers that he chose to do so little
and showed no elation. One or two observing outsiders saw that his
struggle had left its mark upon him. There were deep lines in his face;
he had lost flesh and something of his air of bravado; at times he was
almost haggard. As things became quieter he began to take sudden
mysterious journeys to London and Manchester and various other towns.
Ffrench did not know why he went; in fact Ffrench knew very little of
him but that his humors were frequently trying and always more morose
after such absences. He himself had alternately blown hot and cold. Of
late the fruit of his efforts had rather the flavor of ashes. He was of
even less importance than before in the Works, and he continually heard
unpleasant comments and reports outside. As surely as his spirits rose
to a jubilant height some untoward circumstance occurred to dash them.
"I should have thought," he said fretfully to his daughter, "that as a
Broxton man and--and a gentleman, the people would have been with me,
but they are not."
"No," said Miss Ffrench, "they are not."
She knew far more than he did himself. She was in the habit of not
allowing any sign to escape her. When she took her frequent drives she
kept her eyes open to all that happened.
"If they dared, there are a good many of them who would be insolent to
me."
"Why should they not dare?" asked her father with increased irritation.
"Because they know I am not afraid of them--because I set them at
defiance; and for another reason."
The other reason which she did not state had nothing to do with their
daring. It was the strong one that in the splendor of her beauty she had
her greatest power. Ordinary womanhood would scarcely in itself have
appealed to the chivalric sentiment of Broxton, Molton and Dillup, but
Rachel Ffrench driving slowly through the streets and past the
"beer-house" doors, and turning her perfect, unmoved face for criticism
to the crowd collected thereat, created a natural diversion. Those who
had previously been in a sarcastic mood, lapsed into silence, the most
inveterate 'bacco consumers took their pipes out of their mouths,
feeling it necessary to suspend all action that they might look after
her with a clearer appreciation. They were neither touched nor softened,
but they were certainly roused to an active admiration which, after a
manner, held them in check.
"Theer is na another loike her i' England," was once remarked rather
sullenly by one. "Not i' England, let aloan Lancashire--an' be dom'd to
her,"--this last added with a shade of delicate significance.
But there was one man who saw her with eyes different from the rest. If
he had not so seen her, existence would have been another matter. He
seemed to live a simple, monotonous life. He held his place in the
Works, and did well what he had to do. He was not very thoroughly
understood by his fellows, but there existed a vague feeling of respect
for him among them. They had become used to his silence and
absent-mindedness and the tasks which seemed to them eccentricities. His
responsibilities had increased, but he shouldered them without making
any fuss and worked among the rest just as he had been wont to do when
he had been Floxham's right hand in the engine-room. In more select
circles he was regarded, somewhat to his distaste, with no
inconsiderable interest. He was talked of privately as a young man with
a future before him, though the idea of what that future was to be,
being gathered from Ffrench, was somewhat indefinite. His own reserve
upon the subject was rather resented, but still was forgiven on the
score of eccentricity. For the rest, he lived, as it were, in a dream.
The days came and went, but at the close of each there were at least a
few hours of happiness.
And yet it was not happiness of a very tangible form. Sometimes, when he
left the house and stepped into the cool darkness of the night outside,
he found himself stopped for a moment with a sense of bewilderment.
Haworth, who sat talking to his partner and following Rachel Ffrench's
figure with devouring eyes, had gained as much as he himself. She had
not spoken often, perhaps, and had turned from one to the other with the
same glance and tone, but one man left her with anger and misery in his
breast, and the other wondered at his own rapture.
"I have done nothing and gained nothing," he would often say to himself
as he sat at the work-table afterward, "but--I am madly happy."
And then he would lie forward with his head upon his folded arms, going
over the incidents of the night again and again--living the seconds
over, one by one.
Haworth watched him closely in these days. As he passed him on his way
to his work-room, he would look up and follow him with a glance until he
turned in at its door. He found ways of hearing of his life outside and
of his doings in the Works.
One morning, as he was driving down the road toward the town, he saw in
the distance the graceful figure of Mr. Briarley, who was slouching
along in the somewhat muddled condition consequent upon the excitement
of an agreeably convivial evening at the "Who'd ha' Thowt it."
He gave him a critical glance and the next moment whipped up his horse,
uttering an exclamation.
"There's th' chap," he said, "by th' Lord Harry!"
In a few seconds more he pulled up alongside of him.
"Stop a bit, lad," he said.
Mr. Briarley hesitated and then obeyed with some suddenness. A
delicately suggestive recollection of "th' barrels" induced him to do
so. He ducked his head with a feeble smile, whose effect was somewhat
obscured by a temporary cloud of natural embarrassment. He had not been
brought into immediate contact with Haworth since the strikes began.
"Th' same," he faltered, with illusive cheerfulness,--"th' same to yo'
an'--an' mony on 'em."
Then he paused and stood holding his hat in his hand, endeavoring
painfully to preserve the smile in all its pristine beauty of
expression.
Haworth leaned forward in his gig.
"You're a nice chap," he said. "You're a nice chap."
A general vague condition of mind betrayed Mr. Briarley into the
momentary weakness of receiving this compliment literally. He brightened
perceptibly, and his countenance became suffused with the roseate blush
of manly modesty.
"My best days is ower," he replied. "I've been misforchnit, Mester--but
theer wur a toime as th' opposite sect ha' said th' same--though that
theer's a thing," reflecting deeply and shaking his head, "as I nivver
remoind Sararann on."
The next moment he fell back in some trepidation. Haworth looked down at
him coolly.
"You're a pretty chap," he said, "goin' on th' strike an' leaving your
wife and children to starve at home while you lay in your beer and make
an ass of yourself."
"Eh!" exclaimed Mr. Briarley.
"And make an ass of yourself," repeated Haworth, unmovedly. "You'd
better be drawin' your wages, my lad."
Mr. Briarley's expression changed. From bewilderment he passed into
comparative gloom.
"It is na drawin' 'em I've getten owt agen," he remarked. "It is na
drawin' 'em. It's earnin' 'em,--an' ha'in' 'em took away an'--an' spent
i' luxuries--berryin'-clubs an' th' loike. Brass as ud buy th'
nessycerries."
"If we'd left you alone," said Haworth, "where would your wife and
children be now, you scoundrel? Who's fed 'em and clothed 'em while
you've been on th' spree? Jem Haworth, blast you!--Jem Haworth."
He put his hand in his pocket, and, drawing forth a few jingling silver
coins, tossed them to him.
"Take these," he said, "an' go an' spend 'em on th' 'nessycerries,' as
you call 'em. You'll do it, I know well enow. You'll be in a worse box
than you are now, before long. We'll have done with you chaps when
Murdoch's finished the job he's got on hand."
"What's that?" faltered Briarley. "I ha' na heerd on it."
Haworth laughed and picked up his whip and reins.
"Ask him," he answered. "He can tell you better than I can. He's at work
on a thing that'll set the masters a good bit freer than they are now.
That's all I know. There won't be any need o' so many o' you lads.
You'll have to make your brass out of a new trade."
He bent a little to settle a strap.
"Go and tell the rest on 'em," he said. "You'll do it when you're drunk
enow, I dare say."
Briarley fumbled with his coins. His air became speculative.
"What are you thinkin' on?" demanded Haworth. "It's a bad lookout, isn't
it?"
Mr. Briarley drew a step nearer the gig's side. He appeared somewhat
pale, and spoke in a whisper. Muddled as he was, he had an idea or so
left.
"It'll be a bad lookout for him," he said. "Bless yo'! They'd tear him
to pieces. They're in th' humor for it. They've been carryin' a grudge
so long they're ready fur owt. They've nivver thowt mich o' him, though,
but start 'em on that an' they wouldn't leave a shred o' it
together--nor a shred o' him, eyther, if they got the chance."
Haworth laughed again.
"Wouldn't they?" he said. "Let 'em try. He'd have plenty to stand by
him. Th' masters are on his side, my lad."
He touched his horse, and it began to move. Suddenly he checked it and
looked back, speaking again.
"Keep it to yourself, then," he said, "if there's danger, and keep my
name out of it, by George, if you want to be safe!"
Just as he drove up to the gates of the yard Murdoch passed him and
entered them. Until then--since he had left Briarley--he had not spoken.
He had driven rapidly on his way with a grim, steady face. As Murdoch
went by he got down from his gig, and went to the horse's head. He stood
close to it, knotting the reins.
"Nor of him either," he said. "Nor of him either, by----"