Probation

Six o’clock was the time at which the work-people ‘knocked off.’ Myles and Mary had not spoken as they went to their work, and of course not during the afternoon; and it was only as they were coming home again that they first named the subject which at that moment lay nearest their hearts. Mary was all for mildness and temperate measures.

‘I think, Myles, that if we was to be kind to her, and talk to her, hoo’d likely give it up,’ said the girl, in her soft, broad, Lancashire dialect.

‘Not she, Molly. She’s no intention of giving it up.’

‘I never could abide yon Hoyle,’ went on Mary. ‘A false, sneakin’ fellow, he always seemed to me. I reckon he’s after mother’s bit o’ brass; but how hoo can gi’ so mich as a thought to him—nay, it fair passes me!’

‘Ay! you may well blush! I don’t wonder!’ said Myles, grimly. ‘It looks as if some people’s minds were fair crooked, or set up on edge, or upside down, or something.’

They went into the house, and found Edmund alone.

‘She’s not coming back,’ said he, by way of salutation. ‘She’s gone to some of his relations. She says she’s lived through a deal o’ trouble, and has found out at last what it was to be turned out of doors by her own children.’

Neither Mary nor Myles made any answer to this announcement. Mary got tea ready, and they sat down. It was a silent painful meal. Myles rose from it with a sense of relief, and taking Edmund’s book to change, said he was going down to the reading-room.

‘Would thou mind calling at th’ saddler’s in Bold Street for yon strap o’ mine?’ said Mary.

‘What strap, Molly?’

‘It’s a girder as I took to have a new un made like it. He’ll give you both th’ old and th’ new un. I could like to have it to take wi’ me to-morn. I’ve been using Sally Rogers’; but hoo’s comin’ back again to-morn, and hoo’ll want it hoo’rsel.’

‘Ay, I’ll get it,’ said Myles, putting on his cap and going out.

He made a little détour from his usual route, in order to go to the saddler’s on his errand for Mary. Bold Street was one of the principal streets of Thanshope, and close to the very shop to which Myles was going was a place known to the vulgar as ‘th’ Club.’ This was a billiard and whist club, frequented by the golden youth of the promising town of Thanshope.

It was a spot not exactly loved of the mammas of the said town, and much discussed by the young ladies of the same. Much iniquity was vaguely supposed to be perpetrated there: some of the piously disposed spoke of it as a ‘den’; others, who knew nothing, and wished to appear as if they knew a great deal, said it was ‘as bad as the worst of London clubs,’ which remark may serve as a specimen of the mighty self-consciousness of little provincial towns—and ‘den’ is a word which has about it a fine abstract flavour of awfulness.

It is probable that, as a matter of fact, much bad whist was played there; billiard balls were knocked up and down, and bets made; too much spirits were probably consumed; as many dull, coarse, or vulgar tales were told, as much aimless scandal was talked, as many praise-worthy efforts were made to ape the manners and tone of metropolitan clubs, as in most provincial institutions of a similar kind.

Myles went to the saddler’s, which was next door to this temple of hilarity, fashion, and fastness; got the straps which Mary had spoken of, and then came out to take his way to the town-hall. As he passed the portico of the club, he saw just within it a back which he remembered, clothed in broadcloth. Beside this figure was another, that of a mere lad, with a babyish face and no chin to speak of, who would have been better in the cricket-field, or even grinding at his Latin grammar. On his small-featured insignificant face was stamped an expression of foolish glee and admiration.

The first individual was speaking; Myles, strolling leisurely past, heard the words, in the loud, strident voice:

‘Such a chase, my boy! but I succeeded. I found out where she lives, and waylaid her; gave her my protection whether she liked it or not. Unless I’m much mistaken, we shall soon be very good friends. She’s a deep one—those little demure things always are. Ha, ha!’

‘I say, Spenceley——’

‘Doosid pretty, though. D—d good eyes she has, and knows how to use them. Look here! do you want your revenge for Saturday night?’

‘Oh yes! Come along!’

They walked forward to the interior of the hall, and were lost to view.

Never before had Myles felt the singular sensation which just then clutched him—a kind of tingling, half of rage, half of shame, from head to foot—a tempest of his whole mental being. He was in a white heat of fury, and only two ideas were distinct in his mind: to find Adrienne, and to punish her insulter.

Almost unknowing how, he hurried to the town-hall, up the stairs, through the library, into the reading-room. Would she be there? Yes, she was there, in her usual place. He strode towards her. She was not even pretending to read or write. She was pale as ashes, and trembling, as he saw in his approach.

‘Miss Blisset!’ he almost whispered, as he went up to her, and bent over her, his face dark with suppressed indignation, his eyes aflame. If she too had not been moved out of all conventional calm, she must have started at the expression which flashed from his face upon hers.

‘Oh, Mr. Heywood, will you be so very good as to go home with me now, at once? I have been so frightened and—insulted.’

Her voice broke, though her eyes flashed. How proud a front soever she might have showed to her insulter, the reaction had set in: the remembrance was not to be borne unmoved.

‘I know you have,’ said he in a low emphatic voice; and a tremor shook him too as he looked at her and saw how beautiful she was. He had admired her as she sat in repose, but now every fibre of his nature bowed to her, and he felt a passionate desire to do something, anything, which should set him apart in her eyes from others. Yet after his first swift glance, he scarcely looked at her, and said very little. Words appeared weak and trivial—he could not express in them his detestation of the conduct of that other man, or how profoundly he reverenced her.

‘How was it?’ he asked, speaking composedly, but clenching his hands, and crushing together what he held in them.

‘It was that man,’ said she, in a low breathless voice, ‘that hideous man. I don’t know where he saw me. I think he must have followed me, but when I got to that little lane, he suddenly overtook me, and spoke to me. I could not turn back. It would have been much farther—and so lonely. I did not answer him; I went on very fast, but he detained me so long in that lane—he would not let me pass. I thought I should—bah! I thought, when we got into the town, that he would have left me, but he did not. He came to the very door of this place, and I dare not go out for fear he should be there yet. Oh, I am so glad to see you! I thought you were never coming.’

She had leaned her head upon her hand, or she must have seen the light that flashed suddenly into his eyes—not the light that had been there at first. He drew a long breath, but succeeded in not betraying for a second his emotion, as she turned, pale and quivering with excitement, and put her two little slender hands upon his, saying earnestly,

‘You have been very kind to me. What should I have done if you had not helped me?’

‘It has been a pleasure to serve you,’ he said constrainedly. ‘Do you feel fit to walk home now?’

‘Oh, quite!’ she answered, picking up her note-book; and they went away together.

Myles walked with her to the gate of her uncle’s house, and said, as they paused there,

‘Of course you will never come again, Miss Blisset?’

‘Never. Of course not.’

‘Then—then—’ he faltered, unable to say what he wished.

‘But I shall see you again, of course,’ said Adrienne, quickly. ‘You will come again. My uncle wishes you to come again. And you will—yes?’

‘You are sure it wouldn’t be an intrusion?’ said Myles, doubtfully.

‘Very far from an intrusion,’ she answered. ‘You will be welcome—and you will be expected until you come.’

With which, and with a warm hand-shake she disappeared.

Myles did not pause to-night to contemplate the street, or to look out for the light in the window. He took the shortest and straightest course into the town again, went direct to Bold Street, and stopped before the club.

There was a light in the vestibule of that building, and a waiter stood at the door surveying the passers by, and feeling no doubt that he looked negatively fascinating.

‘Is Mr. Frederick Spenceley here?’ inquired Myles, quietly and politely.

‘Mr. Frederick Spenceley?’ repeated the waiter, while an expression of ill-humour crossed his face. ‘I rather think he is, and in a deuce of a temper too. If Mr. Frederick Spenceley keeps on coming here, I shan’t stay. Well, do you want to see him?’

‘I should like just to speak to him,’ said Myles, ever calmly and politely; his one object being to penetrate to Mr. Spenceley’s presence, content to pocket his burning fury until he was face to face with him.

Mr. Spenceley evidently enjoyed little favour in the eyes of the waiter, or the latter would hardly have allowed a working-man to penetrate into that sanctum sanctorum, the billiard-room. As it was, he said,

‘Well, if you go straight ahead upstairs, you’ll find him in the billiard-room, I expect. But perhaps you want to see him down here?’

‘Oh no! I can go to him. Upstairs, you say?’

The waiter nodded; and Myles obeying his direction, found himself on the first landing, opposite a door inscribed ‘Billiards.’

He knocked, but no reply was given, which was accounted for by the loud and overpowering voice of Frederick Spenceley, whose accents drowned all other sounds.

Myles opened the door, and walked into the room, which was like most other billiard-rooms: four green-shaded lights above the table; the marker, standing in his place, looking sulky—he too having received his share of the compliments of Mr. Spenceley that evening.

(It was a significant fact, that not one of Frederick Spenceley’s inferiors would have felt anything but pleasure in his degradation or humiliation.)

There was Charlie Saunders, the insignificant-looking boy whose pretty pink-and-white face was now a good deal flushed, and who laughed foolishly now and then in high-pitched voice. Opposite, with his burly back towards the door, was Frederick Spenceley, shouting very loudly, and freely expressing his opinion that the cloth was a confounded bad one, and that the table was not level.

‘It’s your eye that’s not level, Freddy, my boy,’ said his youthful opponent; ‘and your cue too. Look out what you’re doing.’

‘D—n it! it isn’t. Where’s the cha-alk? It’s my beastly luck,’ roared Spenceley, against whom the balls had broken most unfavourably the whole evening.

Had the fellow been in the least intoxicated, Myles would have retired; but he was merely noisy and ill-tempered, and accordingly the workman chose that moment to step forward and touch Mr. Spenceley on the shoulder.

With a violent start, which contrasted somewhat curiously with his previous bluster, he turned; and when he saw Myles, his face assumed a deep hue of anger, and perhaps of some less noble feeling.

‘I want a word with you,’ said Myles, curtly; and young Saunders paused to stare at the new-comer, while the marker turned and looked on too.

Be it observed that neither of these men loved Frederick Spenceley. A billiard-marker, however, is not always in a position to resent affronts, and Charlie Saunders was a person of less importance than Spenceley, whatever might be his private opinion of him. Moreover, the whole proceeding took them by surprise, or—perhaps they might have interfered.

‘If you like to come to another room, where we can be alone,’ pursued Myles, composedly, ‘lead the way. I don’t care where it is.’

‘What the —— do you want, you ——?’ growled Spenceley, recovering his pluck, or what he was pleased to consider his pluck.

‘I think you remember me. I don’t need to introduce myself,’ said Myles. ‘Now look here! You’ve been behaving like a blackguard again—perhaps you can’t help that—but, in any case, you’ll be pleased to take your attentions to some other quarter than that one. You know what I mean.’

‘I’ll be—’ (a volley of the dash dialect)—‘if I do, you fool! Be off, and don’t annoy gentlemen. Clear out, I say, or I’ll call the waiter, and have you kicked out.’

There was that in Myles’s face, so far removed from brutal violence, which was conspicuous in every word and gesture of Spenceley, that the others were quiescent. How he had got there was a mystery to them; but being there, they were Englishmen enough to wish for fair play, and had sufficient sense to perceive that the workman was no blackguard, whatever his interlocutor might be.

‘You were in Markham’s Lane, to-night,’ went on Myles composedly, though his face had become white, and his lips were set.

‘What’s that to you? What business have you to come spying on gentlemen?’

‘If I were you, I wouldn’t say too much about spying. You know what happened there—in Markham’s Lane I mean. If anything like it happens again—just once again——’

He paused.

‘Well?’ said Spenceley, with a sneer and a taunt, ‘what will be the consequences, my fine fellow?’

‘They will be unpleasant to you, for I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.’

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ roared Mr. Spenceley, but somehow there was a false note in the full chord: it failed of rounded complete harmony.

‘Freddy, what have you been up to?’ cried Charlie Saunders, in amaze; but he did not ask what the other man had been ‘up to.’ It appeared to be taken for granted that he had good ground for his complaint.

‘Look here, you beggar,’ observed Spenceley to Myles; ‘just get out of this, before you are turned out, and don’t interfere in things you don’t understand.’

‘I go when I have your promise to behave yourself in future—not before.’

‘Wha-at? Promises? I don’t make promises to cads.’

‘Then I suppose you’ve never promised yourself what you deserve. I’m waiting for a promise to me, not a cad, and I’ll stay till I get it.’

‘D—n you! will you be off?’ shouted Spenceley, in a sudden passion, as he saw the cool, scornful face of Myles, and his eyes contemptuously measuring him from head to foot; and took in with a side-glance the scarcely concealed smile upon the faces of the others. ‘Will neither of you fellows ring the bell, and have this fool turned out?’

The rules of the club not providing for such an emergency, they took no notice of what he blustered at them, while Myles replied coolly as ever,

‘When I’ve got what I want, I’ll be off, as I said.’

‘Perhaps you want to keep the little darling to yourself,’ began Spenceley.

‘Drop that!’ said Myles, sharply, for the first time losing his perfect self-command.

‘Ah, that’s it! We don’t want to be disturbed in our little game. We are so very industrious and literary in our pursuits——’

In clenching his hand, Myles felt something in it which he had forgotten—the parcel containing Mary’s straps. The paper which enwrapped them had got loose. One strap had fallen coiling upon the floor; one remained in his hand. He looked at it, and felt very strong to wield it. He turned once more to Spenceley, saying,

‘Do you promise never to speak to, or molest the lady again?’

‘Make promises to you, about that little jade ...’ began Spenceley, jeeringly, but he did not finish the sentence.

Myles’s hand, like an iron vice, was at his throat, and during the paralysing astonishment and bewilderment of the other two, Frederick Spenceley received such a thrashing as he had many a time deserved, but which circumstances had hitherto denied to him. Myles’s hold, strengthened by a passion which lent him irresistible power, did not for one moment relax. At last Saunders turned and rang the bell; but not before the fine broadcloth coat was in ribbons upon its owner’s back, and the face above it purple and almost suffocating, did Myles fling him away from him, remarking coolly,

‘Perhaps that will answer as well as a promise. If ever it’s necessary, there’s the same thing, and worse, ready for you a second time.’

He turned to find the door open, and the waiter staring in, aghast.

‘Kick him out! Fetch some water!’ cried young Saunders, bending over the prostrate figure of his friend. ‘Kick him out, I say!’ he reiterated. He was remarkably small and slender in figure, and doubtless felt that it would be a mockery to attempt the deed himself.

Myles turned towards the waiter, who still blocked up the doorway.

‘Well,’ said he, tranquilly, ‘I am waiting; which are you going to do? Kick me out—or let me pass?’

The billiard-marker had made no attempt to interfere. The insults received that very evening from Spenceley rankled in his mind; he was well pleased at the humiliation of the bully. The little waiter looked up for a moment at the tall, muscular, sinewy young man who towered above him, with a pale face, and a look of inflexible determination and power about his eyes and mouth, and a frown of anger, terrible in its intensity, on his brow. He stood aside silently. Myles turned and said,

‘If I’m wanted again about this business, my name is Heywood, and I live on the Townfield. I can easily be found.’

No answer was returned: he composedly picked up his second strap, and walked away.