CHAPTER XXIII. "TEN SHILLINGS' WORTH."
The same evening Mr. Briarley, having partaken of an early tea and some vigorous advice from his wife, had suddenly, during a lull in the storm, vanished from the domestic circle, possibly called therefrom by the recollection of a previous engagement. Mrs. Briarley had gone out to do her "Sunday shoppin'," the younger children had been put to bed, the older ones were disporting themselves in the streets and by-ways, and consequently Janey was left alone, uncheered save by the presence of Granny Dixon, who had fallen asleep in her chair with her cap unbecomingly disarranged.
Janey sat down upon her stool at a discreet distance from the hearth. She had taken down from its place her last book of "memoirs,"—a volume of a more than usually orthodox and peppery flavor. She held it within range of the light of the fire and began to read in a subdued tone with much unction.
But she had only mastered the interesting circumstance that "James Joseph William was born November 8th," when her attention was called to the fact that wheels had stopped before the gate and she paused to listen.
"Bless us!" she said. "Some un's comin' in."
The person in question was Haworth, who so far dispensed with ceremony as to walk up to the firelight without even knocking at the door, which stood open.
"Where's your father?" he demanded.
"He's takken hissen off to th' beer-house," said Janey, "as he allus does o' Saturday neet,—an' ivvery other neet too, as he gets th' chance."
A chair stood near and Haworth took it.
"I'll sit down and wait for him," he replied.
"Tha'lt ha' to wait a good bit then," said Miss Briarley. "He'll noan be whoam till midneet."
She stood in no awe of her visitor. She had heard him discussed too freely and too often. Of late years she had not unfrequently assisted in the discussions herself. She was familiar with his sins and short-comings and regarded him with due severity.
"He'll noan be whoam till midneet," she repeated as she seated herself on her stool.
But Haworth did not move. He was in a mysterious humor, it was plain. In a minute more his young companion began to stare at him with open eyes. She saw something in his face which bewildered her.
"He's getten more than's good fur him," she was about to decide shrewdly, when he leaned forward and touched her with the handle of the whip he held.
"You're a sharp little lass, I warrant," he said.
Janey regarded him with some impatience. He was flushed and somewhat disheveled and spoke awkwardly.
"You're a sharp little lass, I'll warrant," he said again.
"I ha' to be," she responded, tartly. "Tha'd be sharp thysen if tha had as mich to look after as I ha'."
"I dare say," he answered. "I dare say." Then added even more awkwardly still, "I've heard Murdoch say you were—Murdoch."
The disfavor with which she had examined him began to be mingled with distrust. She hitched her stool a few inches backward.
"Mester Murdoch!" she echoed. "Aye, I know him well enow."
"He comes here every day or so?"
"Aye, him an' me's good friends."
"He's got a good many friends," he said.
"Aye," she answered. "He's a noice chap. Most o' folk tak' to him. Theer's Mr. Ffrench now and her."
"He goes there pretty often?"
"Aye, oftener than he goes any wheer else. They mak' as mich o' him as if he wur a gentleman."
"Did he tell you that?"
"Nay," she answered. "He does na talk mich about it. I've fun it out fro' them as knows."
Then a new idea presented itself to her.
"What does tha want to know fur?" she demanded with unceremonious candor.
He did not tell her why. He gave no notice to her question save by turning away from the fire suddenly and asking her another.
"What does he say about her?"
He spoke in such a manner that she pushed her stool still farther back, and sat staring at him blankly and with some indignation.
"He does na say nowt about her," she exclaimed "What's up wi' thee?"
The next moment she uttered an ejaculation and the book of memoirs fell upon the floor. A flame shot up from the fire and showed her his face. He drew forth his purse and, opening it, took out a coin. The light fell upon that too and showed her what it was.
"Do you see that?" he asked.
"Aye," she answered, "it's a half-sov'rin."
"I'll give it to you," he said, "if you'll tell me what he says and what he does. You're sharp enow to have seen summat, and I'll give it you if you'll tell me."
He did not care what impression he made on her or how he entangled himself. He only thought of one thing.
"Tell me what he says and what he does," he repeated, "and I'll give it to you."
Janey rose from her stool in such a hurry that it lost its balance and fell over.
"I—I dunnot want it!" she cried. "I dunnot want it. I can na mak' thee out!"
"You're not as sharp as I took you for, if you don't want it," he answered. "You'll not earn another as easy, my lass."
Only stern common sense rescued her from the weakness of backing out of the room into the next apartment.
"I dunnot know what tha'rt drivin' at," she said. "I tell thee—I dunnot know nowt."
"Does he never say," he put it to her, "that he's been there—and that he's seen her—and that she's sat and talked—and that he's looked at her—and listened—and thought over it afterward?"
This was the last straw. Bewilderment turned to contempt.
"That would na be worth ten shillin'," she said. "Tha knows he's been theer, an' tha knows he's seen her, an' tha knows he could na see her wi'out lookin' at her. I dunnot see as theer's owt i' lookin' at her, or i' listenin' neyther. Wheer's th' use o' givin ten shillin' to hear summat yo' know yo'rsen? There's nowt i' that!"
"Has he ever said it?" he persisted.
"No," she answered, "he has na. He nivver wur much give ter talk, an' he says less than ivver i' these days."
"Has he never said that she treated him well, and—was easier to please than he'd thought; has he never said nowt like that?"
"Nay, that he has na!" with vigor. "Nowt o' th' soart."
He got up as unceremoniously and abruptly as he had sat down.
"I was an accursed fool for coming," she heard him mutter.
He threw the half-sovereign toward her, and it fell on the floor.
"Art tha goin' to gi' it me?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered, and he strode through the door-way into the darkness, leaving her staring at it.
She went to the fire and, bending down, examined it closely and rubbed it with a corner of her apron. Then she tried its ring upon the flagged floor.
"Aye," she said, "it's a good un, sure enow! It's a good un!"
She had quite lost her breath. She sat down upon her stool again, forgetting the memoirs altogether.
"I nivver heard so mich doment made over nowt i' aw my days," she said. "I conna see now what he wur up to, axin' questions as if he wur i' drink. He mun ha' been i' drink or he'd nivver ha' gi'en it to me."
And on the mother's return she explained the affair to her upon this sound and common-sense basis.
"Mester Haworth's been here," she said, "an' he wur i' drink an' give me ten shillin'. I could na mak' out what he wur drivin' at. He wur askin' questions as put me out o' patience. Eh! what foo's men is when they've getten too much."
When he left the house, Haworth sprang into his gig with an oath. Since the morning he had had time to think over things slowly. He had worked himself up into a desperate, headlong mood. His blood burned in his veins, his pulses throbbed. He went home to his dinner, but ate nothing. He drank heavily, and sat at the table wearing such a look that his mother was stricken with wonder.
"I'm out o' humor, old lady," he said to her. "Stick to your dinner, and don't mind me. A chap with a place like mine on his mind can't always be up to the mark."
"If you ain't ill, Jem," she said, "it don't matter your not talkin'. You mustn't think o' me, my dear! I'm used to havin' lived alone so long."
After dinner he went out again, but before he left the room he went to her and kissed her.
"There's nowt wrong wi' me," he said. "You've no need to trouble yourself about that. I'm right enow, never fear."
"There's nothin' else could trouble me," she said, "nothin', so long as you're well an' happy."
"There's nowt to go agen me bein' happy," he said, a little grimly. "Not yet, as I know on. I don't let things go agen me easy."
About half an hour later, he stood in the road before his partner's house. The night was warm, and the windows of the drawing-room were thrown open. He stood and looked up at them for a minute and then spoke aloud.
"Aye," he said, "he's there, by George!"
He could see inside plainly, and the things he saw best were Rachel Ffrench and Murdoch. Ffrench himself sat in a large chair, reading. Miss Ffrench stood upon the hearth. She rested an arm upon the low mantel, and talked to Murdoch, who stood opposite to her. The man who watched uttered an oath at the sight of her.
"Him!" he said. "Him—damn him!" and grew hot and cold by turns.
He kept his stand for full ten minutes, and then crossed the road.
The servant who answered his summons at the door regarded him with amazement.
"I know they're in," he said, making his way past him. "I saw 'em through the window."
Those in the drawing-room heard his heavy feet as he mounted the staircase. It is possible that each recognized the sound. Ffrench rose hurriedly, and, it must be owned, with some slight trepidation. Rachel merely turned her face toward the door. She did not change her position otherwise at all. Murdoch did not move.
"My dear fellow," said Ffrench, with misplaced enthusiasm. "I am glad to see you."
But Haworth passed him over with a nod. His eyes were fixed on Murdoch. He gave him a nod also and spoke to him.
"What, you're here, are you?" he said. "That's a good thing."
"We think so," said Mr. Ffrench, with fresh fervor. "My dear fellow, sit down."
He took the chair offered him, but still looked at Murdoch and spoke to him.
"I've been to Briarley's," he said. "I've had a talk with that little lass of his. She gave me the notion you'd be here. She's a sharp little un, by George!"
"They're all sharp," said Mr. Ffrench. "The precocity one finds in these manufacturing towns is something astonishing—astonishing."
He launched at once into a dissertation upon the causes of precocity in a manufacturing town, and became so absorbed in his theme that it mattered very little that Haworth paid no attention to him. He was leaning back in his chair with his hands in his pockets, not moving his eyes from Murdoch.
Mr. Ffrench was in the middle of his dissertation when, half an hour afterward, Haworth got up without ceremony. Murdoch was going.
"I'll go with you," he said to him.
They went out of the room and down the staircase together without speaking. They did not even look at each other.
When they were fairly out of the room Mr. Ffrench glanced somewhat uneasily at his daughter.
"Really," he said, "he is not always a pleasant fellow to deal with. One is never sure of reaching him." And then, as he received no answer, he returned in some embarrassment to his book.
CHAPTER XXIV. AT AN END.
When they stood in the road, Haworth laid his hand upon his companion's shoulder heavily.
"Come up to the Works, lad," he said, "and let's have a bit of a talk."
His voice and his touch had something in common. Murdoch understood them both. There was no need for clearer speech.
"Why there?" he asked.
"It's quiet there. I've a fancy for it."
"I have no fancy against it. As well there as anywhere else."
"Aye," said Haworth. "Not only as well, but better."
He led the way into his own room and struck a light. He flung his keys upon the table; they struck it with a heavy clang. Then he spoke his first words since they had turned from the gate-way.
"Aye," he said, "not only as well, but better. I'm at home here, if I'm out everywhere else. The place knows me and I know it. I'm best man here, by——! if I'm out everywhere else."
He sat down at the table and rested his chin upon his hand. His hand shook, and his forehead was clammy.
Murdoch threw himself into the chair opposite to him.
"Go on," he said. "Say what you have to say."
Haworth bent forward a little.
"You've got on better than I'd have thought, lad," he said,—"better than I'd have thought."
"What!" hoarsely. "Does she treat me as she treats other men?"
"Nay," said Haworth, "not as she treats me—by the Lord Harry!"
The deadly bitterness which possessed him was terrible; he was livid with it.
"I've thought of a good many," he said. "I've looked on at 'em as they stood round her—chaps of her own sort, with money and the rest of it; but I never thought of you—not once."
"No," said Murdoch, "I dare say not."
"No—not once," the man repeated. "Get up, and let's take a look at you," he said. "Happen I've not had the right notion on you."
"Don't say anything you'll repent," said Murdoch. "It's bad enough as it is."
But his words were like chaff before the wind.
"You!" cried the man. "You were the chap that knew naught of women's ways. You'd scarce look one on 'em in the face. You're not the build I thought they took to."
"You told me that once before," said Murdoch, with a bitter laugh. "I've not forgotten it."
Haworth's clenched fist fell upon the table with a force which made the keys ring.
"Blast you!" he said. "You're nigher to her now than me—now!"
"Then," Murdoch answered, "you may give up."
"Give up!" was the reply. "Nay, not that, my lad. I've not come to that yet."
Then his rage broke forth again.
"You to be going there on the quiet!" he cried. "You to be making way with her, and finding her easy to please, and priding yourself on it!"
"I please her!" said Murdoch. "I pride myself!"
He got up and began to pace the floor.
"You're mad!" he said. "Mad!"
Haworth checked himself to stare at him.
"What did you go for," he asked, "if it wasn't for that?"
Murdoch stopped in his walk. He turned himself about.
"I don't know," he said, "I don't know."
"Do you think," he said, in a hushed voice, after the pause which followed,—"do you think I expect anything? Do you think I look forward or backward? Can you understand that it is enough as it stands—enough?"
Haworth still stared at him dully.
"Nay," he returned, "that I cannot."
"I to stand before her as a man with a best side which might win her favor! What is there in me, that she should give me a thought when I am not near her? What have I done? What has my life been worth? It may be nothing in the end! Good God! nothing!"
He said it almost as if stunned. For the moment he was overwhelmed, and had forgotten.
"You're nigher to her than I am," said Haworth. "You think because you're one o' the gentleman sort——"
"Gentleman!" said Murdoch, speculatively. "I a gentleman?"
"Aye, damn you," said Haworth, bitterly, "and you know it."
The very words seemed to rouse him. He shook his clenched hand.
"That's it!" he cried. "There's where it is. You've got it in you, and you know it—and she knows it too!"
"I have never asked myself whether I was or not," said Murdoch. "I have not cared. What did it matter? What you said just now was true, after all. I know nothing of women. I know little enough of men. I have been a dull fellow, I think, and slow to learn. I can only take what comes."
He came back to the table, and threw himself into his chair.
"Does either of us know what we came here for?" he asked.
"We came to talk it over," was Haworth's answer, "and we've done it."
"Then, if we have done it, let us go our ways."
"Nay, not yet. I've summat more to say."
"Say it," Murdoch replied, "and let us have it over."
"It's this," he returned. "You're a different chap from what I took you for—a different chap. I never thought of you—not once."
"You've said that before."
"Aye," grimly, "I've said it before. Like enough I shall say it again. It sticks to me. We've been good friends, after a manner, and that makes it stick to me. I don't say you're to blame. I haven't quite made the thing out yet. We're of a different build, and—there's been times before when I haven't quite been up to you. But we've been friends, after a manner, and now th' time's come when we're done with that."
"Done with it!" repeated Murdoch, mechanically.
"Aye," meeting his glance fully, "done with it! We'll begin fair and square, lad. It's done with. Do you think," with deadly coolness, "I'd stop at aught if th' time come?"
He rose a little from his seat, bending forward.
"Naught's never come in my way, yet, that's stopped me," he said. "Things has gone agen me and I've got th' best on 'em in one way or another. I've not minded how. I've gone on till I've reached this. Naught's stopped me—naught never shall!"
He fell back in his chair and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief.
"I wish," he said, "it had been another chap. I never thought of you—not once."
CHAPTER XXV. "I SHALL NOT TURN BACK."
Murdoch went out into the night alone. When he found himself outside the iron gate he stood still for a moment.
"I will not go home yet," he said; "not yet."
He knew this time where he was going when he turned his steps upon the road again. He had only left the place a few hours before.
The moonlight gave it almost a desolate look, he thought, as he passed through the entrance. The wind still swayed the grass upon the mounds fitfully, and the headstones cast darker shadows upon them. There was no shadow upon the one under which Stephen Murdoch rested. It lay in the broad moonlight. Murdoch noticed this as he stopped beside it. He sat down upon the grass, just as he had done in the afternoon.
"Better not go home, just yet," he said again. "There is time enough."
Suddenly an almost unnatural calmness had fallen upon him. His passions and uncertainties of the past few months seemed small things. He had reached a climax and for a moment there seemed time enough. He thought of the past almost coldly—going over the ground mentally, step by step. It was as if he thought of the doings of another man—one who was younger and simpler and whose life was now over.
"There are a good many things that are done with," he said mechanically, recalling Haworth's words.
He thought of the model standing in its old place in the empty room. It was a living thing awaiting his coming. The end might be anything—calamity, failure, death!—but to-night he had taken his first step toward that end.
"To-night I shall begin as he began," he thought; "to-night."
He threw himself full length upon the grass, clasping his hands beneath his head, his face turned upward to the vast clearness and depth above him. He had known it would come some day, but he never thought of its coming in this way. The man who slept under the earth at his side had begun with hope; he began as one who neither hoped nor feared, yielding only to a force stronger than himself.
He lay in this manner looking up for nearly an hour. Then he arose and stood with bared head in the white light and stillness.
"I shall not turn back," he said aloud at last, as if to some presence near him. "I shall not turn back, at least. Do not fear it."
And he turned away.
It was his mother who opened the door for him when he reached home.
"Come in," he said to her, with a gesture toward the inner room. "I have something to say to you."
She followed him in silence. Her expression was cold and fixed. It struck him that she, too, had lived past hope and dread.
She did not sit down when she had closed the door, but stood upright, facing him.
He spoke hoarsely.
"I am going upstairs," he said. "I told you once that some day it would see the light again in spite of us both. You can guess what work I shall do to-night."
"Yes," she answered, "I can guess. I gave up long ago."
She looked at him steadily; her eyes dilated a little as if with slow-growing fear of him.
"I knew it would end so," she went on. "I fought against my belief that it would, but it grew stronger every day—every hour. There was no other way."
"No," he replied, "there was no other way."
"I have seen it in your face," she said. "I have heard it in your voice. It has never been absent from your thoughts a moment—nor mine."
He did not speak.
"At first, when he died——"
Her voice faltered and broke, and then rose in a cry almost shrill.
"He did not die!" she cried. "He is not dead. He lives now—here! There is no death for him—not even death until it is done."
She panted for breath; her thin chest rose and fell—and yet suddenly she checked herself and stood before him with her first strained calm.
"Go," she said. "I cannot hold you. If there is an end to be reached, reach it for God's sake and let him rest."
"Wish me God-speed," he said. "I—have more to bear than you think of."
For answer she repeated steadily words which she had uttered before.
"I do not believe in it; I have never believed for one hour."
CHAPTER XXVI. A REVOLUTION.
In a month's time the Broxton Bank was an established fact. It had sprung into existence in a manner which astonished even its originator. Haworth had come to him in cold blood and talked the matter over. He had listened to the expounding of his views, and without being apparently much moved by his eloquence, had still shown a disposition to weigh the plan, and having given a few days to deliberation, he had returned a favorable decision.
"The thing sounds well," he said, "and it may be a sharp stroke that way. When the rest on 'em hear on it, it'll set 'em thinkin'. Blast 'em! I like to astonish 'em, an' give 'em summat to chew."
Mr. Ffrench could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. He had been secretly conscious of playing a minor part in all business transactions. His pet theories had been thrust aside as worthy of small notice. His continental experience had been openly set at naught. When he had gone to the trouble of explaining his ideas to the heads of the various departments, he had been conscious of illuminating smiles on the grimy countenances around him. His rather frail physique, his good breeding, his well-modulated voice, had each been the subject of derisive comment.
"Gi' him a puddlin' rake an' let him puddle a bit," he had heard a brawny fellow say, after one of his most practical dissertations.
After his final interview with Haworth, he went home jubilant. At dinner he could speak of nothing else. Miss Ffrench heard the details from beginning to end, and enjoyed them in a manner peculiarly her own.
At the "Who'd ha Thowt it" no little excitement prevailed when the movement was discussed.
"A bank!" said Foxy Gibbs. "An' wheer did he get th' money to set up a bank wi'? Why, he getten it out o' th' workin' mon, an' th' sweat o' th' workin' mon's brow. If theer wur na no banks, theer'd be more money to put in 'em. I dunnot believe i' banks mysen. Let the brass cerkylate—let it cerkylate."
"Aye," said Mr. Briarley, who had reached his second quart, "let it cerkylate, an' he'll ha' more comfort, will th' workin' mon. Theer's too many on 'em," with natural emotion. "They're th' ruin o' th' country. Theer's summat wrong wi' 'em. If they'd gi' a chap summat to put i' 'em theer'd be some chance for him; but that's allus th' way. He has na no chance, hasn't th' workin' mon—he has na no——"
"Shut up!" said Foxy Gibbs.
"Eh?" inquired the orator, weakly and uncertainly.
"Shut up, till tha's getten less beer i' thee!"
"Shut—" repeated Mr. Briarley, winking his eyes slowly,—"up?"
He seized his beer mug and gazed into its depths in some confusion. A deep sigh escaped him.
"That's allus th' road," he faltered. "It's th' road wi' Sararann, an' it's th' road wi' aw on 'em. He has no chance, has na a mon as is misforchnit." And he happily disposed of the beer before Janey opened the door and appeared to marshal him homeward.
But the Broxton Bank was an established fact, and created no small sensation.
"He is a bold fellow, this Haworth," it was said among his rivals, "but he will overstep himself one of these days."
"He's set up a bank, has he?" shouted Granny Dixon, on Murdoch's first visit after she had heard the story.
"Yes," Murdoch answered.
She sat glowering at the fire a few moments almost bent double, and then, having deluded her audience into believing she had subsided, suddenly started and came to life again with increased vigor.
"I've getten my brass i' th' Manchester Savin's," she cried, "an' I'll keep it theer."
It seemed unnecessary to reply, and nobody made any remark upon this statement of facts. But the venerable matron had not concluded.
"I'll keep it theer!" she repeated—"keep it theer! I conna bide him, no more than I can bide her." And then she returned to her fire, fixing her great eyes upon it and mumbling with no small elation.
"Th' thing'll break now, for sure," commented her much-tried hostess, sardonically. "It conna stand up agen that, i' reason. Haworth ud better sell th' Works at th' start afore it's too late."
There had been some vague wonder in Murdoch's mind as to what the result of Haworth's outburst against himself would be.
The first time he found himself confronting him as he went to his work-room he spoke to him:
"You said once," he remarked, "that you had kept this room empty because you did not care to be at close quarters with every man. Now——"
"Get thee in, my lad," he interrupted, dryly. "It suits me well enow to ha' you nigh me. Never fear that."
The only outward change made was in his manner. He went about his labor with a deadly persistence. He came early and went home late. The simplest "hand" saw that some powerful force was at work. He was silent and harder in his rule of those under him. He made closer bargains and more daring plans. Men who had been his rivals began to have a kind of fear of him. All he took in hand throve.
"He is a wonderful fellow," said Ffrench to his friends. "Wonderful—wonderful!"
Even the friends in question who were, some of them, county magnates of great dignity, began to find their opinion of the man shaken. In these days there was actually nothing to complain of. The simple little country woman reigned in his household. She attended the Broxton Chapel and dispensed her innocent charities on all sides. Finally a dowager of high degree (the patroness of a charitable society), made the bold move of calling upon her for a subscription.
"It weren't as hard to talk to her, Jem, as I'd have thought," said Mrs. Haworth afterward. "She began to tell me about the poor women as suffers so, an' somehow I forgot about her bein' so grand. I couldn't think of nothin' but the poor creturs an' their pain, an' when I come to sign my name my 'and trembled so an' my eyes was that full I couldn't hardly tell what I'd put down. To think of them poor things——"
"How much did you give her?" asked Haworth.
"I give her ten pound, my dear, an'——"
He pulled out a bank-note and handed it to her.
"Go to her to-morrow and give her that," he said. "Happen it'll be summat new fur her to get fifty at a stroke."
So it began to be understood that the master of "Haworth's" was a bugbear with redeeming points after all. The Broxton Bank had its weight too, and the new cottages which it was necessary to build.
"It is to Haworth after all that you owe the fact that the place is growing," said Ffrench.
There came an evening, when on entering the drawing-room of a county potentate with whom she and her father were to dine, Rachel Ffrench found herself looking directly at Haworth, who stood in the center of a group of guests. They were talking to him with an air of great interest and listening to his off-hand replies with actual respect. Suddenly the tide had turned. Before the evening had passed the man was a lion, and all the more a lion because he had been so long tabooed. He went in to dinner with the lady patroness, and she afterward announced her intention of calling upon his mother in state.
"There is a rough candor about the man, my dear," she said, "which one must respect, and it appears that he has really reformed."
There was no difficulty after this. Mrs. Haworth had visitors every day, who came and examined her and wondered, and, somehow, were never displeased by her tender credulity. She admired them all and believed in them, and was always ready with tears and relief for their pensioners and charities.
"Don't thank me, ma'am," she would say. "Don't never thank me, for it's not me that deserves it, but him that's so ready and generous to every one that suffers. There never was such a kind heart before, it seems to me, ma'am, nor such a lovin' one."
Haworth's wealth, his success, his open-handedness, his past sins, were the chief topics of conversation. To speak of Broxton was to speak of the man who had made it what it was by his daring and his power, and who was an absolute ruler over it and its inhabitants.
Ffrench was a triumphant man. He was a potentate also; he could ride his hobby to the sound of applause. When he expatiated upon "processes," he could gain an audience which was attentive and appreciative. He had not failed this time, at least, and was put down as a shrewd fellow after all.
In the festivities which seemed, somehow, the result of this sudden revulsion of feeling, Rachel Ffrench was naturally a marked figure. Among the women, with whom she was not exactly a favorite, it was still conceded that she was not a young woman whom it was easy to ignore. Her beauty—of which it was impossible to say that she was conscious—was of a type not to be rivaled. When she entered a room, glancing neither to right nor left, those who had seen her before unavoidably looked again, and those who had not were silent as she passed. There was a delicate suggestion of indifference in her manner, which might be real or might not. Her demeanor toward Haworth never altered, even to the extent of the finest shadow of change.
When they were in a room together his eye followed her with stealthy vigilance, and her knowledge of the fact was not a disturbing one. The intensity of her consciousness was her great strength. She was never unprepared. When he approached her she met him with her little untranslatable smile. He might be bold, or awkward, or desperate, but he never found her outwardly conscious or disturbed, or a shade colder or warmer.
It was only natural that it should not be long before others saw what she, seeing, showed no knowledge of. It was easily seen that he made no effort at concealment. His passion revealed itself in every look and gesture. He could not have controlled it if he would, and would not if he could.
"Let 'em see," he said to himself. "It's naught to them. It's betwixt her and me." He even bore himself with a sullen air of defiance at times, knowing that he had gained one thing at least. He was nearer to her in one way than any other man; he might come and go as he chose, he saw her day after day, he knew her in-goings and out-comings. The success which had restored her father's fortunes was his success.
"I can make her like a queen among 'em," he said,—"like a queen, by George,—and I'll do it."
Every triumph which fell to him he regarded only as it would have weight in her eyes. When society opened its doors to him, he said to himself, "Now she'll see that I can stand up with the best of 'em, gentlemen or no gentlemen!"
When he suddenly found himself a prominent figure—a man deferred to and talked of, he waited with secret feverishness to see what the effect upon her would be.
"It's what women like," he said. "It's what she likes more than most on 'em. It'll be bound to tell in the end."
He labored as he had never labored before; his ambitions were boundless; he strove and planned and ventured, lying awake through long hours of the night, pondering and building, his daring growing with his success.
There occurred one thing, however, which he had not bargained for. In his laudable enthusiasm Mr. Ffrench could not resist the temptation to sound the praises of his protégé. His belief in him had increased instead of diminished with time, as he had been forced regretfully to acknowledge had been the case during the eras of the young man from Manchester and his fellows. He had reason to suspect that a climax had been reached and that his hopes might be realized. It is not every man who keeps on hand a genius. Naturally his friends heard of Murdoch often. Those who came to the Works were taken to his work-room as to a point of interest. He became in time a feature, and was spoken of with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment. To each visitor Ffrench told, in strict confidence, the story of his father with due effect.
"And it's my impression," he always added, "that we shall hear more of this invention one of these days. He is a singular fellow—reserved and not easy to read—just the man to carry a purpose in his mind and say nothing of it, and in the end startle the world by accomplishing what he has held in view."
Finally, upon one occasion, when his daughter was making her list of invitations for a dinner party they were to give, he turned to her suddenly, with some hesitation in his manner.
"Oh—by the way," he said, "there's Murdoch, we've never had Murdoch."
She wrote the name without comment.
"Who next?" she asked after having done it.
"You see," he went on, waveringly, "there is really nothing which could be an obstacle in the way of our inviting him—really nothing. He is—he is all that we could wish."
The reply he received staggered him.
"It is nonsense," she said, looking up calmly, "to talk of obstacles. I should have invited him long ago."
"You!" he exclaimed. "Would you—really?"
"Yes," she answered. "Why not?"
"Why—not?" he repeated, feebly. "I don't know why not. I thought that perhaps——" and then he broke off. "I wish I had known as much before," he added.
When he received the invitation, Murdoch declined it.
"I should only be out of place," he said, candidly to Miss Ffrench. "I should know nobody and nobody would know me. Why should I come?"
"There is a very good reason why you should come," answered the young woman with perfect composure. "I am the reason."
There was no further discussion of the point. He was present and Haworth sat opposite to him at the table.
"It's the first time for him?" said Haworth to Miss Ffrench afterward.
"It is the first time he has dined here with other people," she answered. "Have you a reason for asking?"
He held his coffee-cup in his hand and glanced over it across the room.
"He is not like the rest on 'em," he said, "but he stands it pretty well, by George!"
CHAPTER XXVII. THE BEGINNING.
For some time there had hung over the conduct of Mr. Briarley an air of deep mystery. The boon of his society had been granted to his family even less frequently than ever. His habit of sudden and apparently unaccountable disappearance from the home circle after or even in the midst of an argument had become more than usually pronounced. He went out every night and invariably returned under the influence of malt liquor.
"Wheer he gets th' brass bangs me," said Mrs. Briarley. "He does na tak' it out o' his wage, that's certain, fur he has na been a ha'penny short fur three week, an' he does na get it o' tick, that I know. Bannett at th' 'Public' is na a foo'. Wheer does he get th' brass fro'?"
But this was not easily explained. On being catechised Mr. Briarley either shed tears of penitence or shook his head with deep solemnity of meaning. At times when he began to shake it—if the hour was late and his condition specially foggy—he was with difficulty induced to stop shaking it, but frequently continued to do so with protracted fervor and significance gradually decreasing until he fell asleep. When he was sober he was timorous and abstracted. He started at the sound of the opening door, and apparently existed in a state of secret expectation and alarm.
"I conna tell thee, Sararann," he would say. "At least," with some tremor, "I wunnot tell thee just yet. Thou'lt know i' toime."
He did not patronize the "Who'd ha' Thowt it" as much as formerly, in these days, Janey discovered. He evidently got the beer elsewhere, and at somebody's expense. His explanation of this was a brilliant and happy one, but it was only offered once, in consequence of the mode of its reception by his hearers. He presented it suddenly one night after some moments of silence and mental research.
"Theer's a gentlemon as is a friend o' moine," he said, "as has had uncommon luck. His heirs has deed an' left him a forchin, an' he's come into it, an' he's very mich tuk wi' me. I dunnot know as I ivver seed ony one as mich tuk wi' me, Sararann—an' his heirs deein' an' leavin' him a forchin—that theer's how it is, Sararann,—that theer's how it is."
"Tha brazant leer!" cried Mrs. Briarley, aghast. "Tha brazant leer! Get out wi' thee!" in an outburst of indignation. "Thee an' thy forchins an' heirs deein'—as if it wur na bad enow at th' start. A noice chap tha art to set thysen up to know gentlefolks wi' heirs to dee an' leave 'em brass. Eh! Bless us! what art tha comin' to?"
The result was not satisfactory, as Mr. Briarley felt keenly.
"Tha hast getten no confydence i' me, Sararann," he said in weak protest. "Tha has na no faith—nor yet," following the train of thought with manifest uncertainty,—"nor yet no works."
The situation was so painful, however, that he made no further effort of the imagination to elucidate the matter, and it remained temporarily obscured in mystery.
Only temporarily, however. A few weeks afterward Ffrench came down to the Works in great excitement. He went to Haworth's room, and finding him there, shut the door and almost dropped into a chair.
"What's up?" demanded Haworth, with some impatience. "What's up, man?"
"You haven't heard the report?" Ffrench answered, tremulously. "It hasn't reached you yet?"
"I've heard nowt to upset me. Out with it! What's up?"
He was plainly startled, and lost a shade of color, but he held himself boldly. Ffrench explained himself with trepidation.
"The hands in Marfort and Molton and Howton are on the strike, and those in Dillup and Burton are plainly about to follow suit. I've just got a Manchester paper, which says the lookout is bad all over the country. Meetings have been going on in secret for some time."
He stopped and sat staring at his partner. Haworth was deathly pale. He seemed, for a moment, to lack breath, and then suddenly the dark color rushed to his face again.
"By——" he began, and stopped with the oath upon his lips.
"Don't swear, for pity's sake," broke forth Ffrench, finding courage for protest in his very desperation. "It's not the time for it. Let's look the thing in the face."
"Look it in the face," Haworth repeated. "Aye, let's."
He said the words with a fierce sneer.
"Aye, look it in the face, man," he said again. "That's th' thing to do."
He bent forward, extending his hand across the table.
"Let's see th' paper," he demanded.
Ffrench gave it to him, and he read the paragraphs referred to in silence. When he had finished them, he folded the paper again mechanically.
"They might have done it last year and welcome, blast 'em!" he said.
Ffrench began to tremble.
"You've ventured a good deal of late, Haworth," he said, weakly. "You've done some pretty daring things, you know—and——"
Haworth turned on him.
"If I lose all I've made," he said, hoarsely, "shall I lose aught of yours, lad?"
Ffrench did not reply. He sat playing with his watch-chain nervously. He had cause for anxiousness on his own score, and his soul quaked within him.
"What is to be done?" he ventured at last.
"There's only one thing to be done," Haworth answered, pushing his chair back. "Stop it here—at th' start."
"Stop it?" Ffrench echoed, in amazement.
"Aye, stop it."
He got up and took his hat down and put it on.
"I'm going round th' place and about th' yards and into th' town," he said. "There's naught for you to do but keep quiet. Th' quieter you keep th' better for us. Go on as if you'd heard naught. Stay here a bit, and then walk over to th' bank. Look alive, man!"
He went out and left Ffrench alone. In the passage he came upon a couple of men who were talking together in low voices. They started at sight of him and walked away slowly.
He went first to the engine-room. There he found Floxham and Murdoch talking also. The old engineer wore an irritable air, and was plainly in a testy mood. Murdoch looked fagged and pale. Of late he was often so. As Haworth entered he turned toward him, uttering an exclamation.
"He is here now," he said. "That is well enough."
Floxham gave him a glance from under his bent, bushy brows.
"Aye," he answered. "We may as well out wi' it."
He touched his cap clumsily.
"Tell him," he said to Murdoch, "an' ha' it over."
Murdoch spoke in a cool, low voice.
"I have found out," he said, "that there is trouble on foot. I began to suspect it a week ago. Some rough fellows from Manchester and Molton have been holding secret meetings at a low place here. Some of the hands have been attending them. Last night a worse and larger gang came and remained in the town. They are here now. They mean mischief at least, and there are reports afloat that strikes are breaking out on all sides."
Haworth turned abruptly to Floxham.
"Where do you stand?" he asked roughly.
The old fellow laid his grimy hand upon his engine.
"I stand here, my lad," he answered. "That's wheer-an' I'll stick to it, unions or no unions."