Probation

For the space of some six weeks—that is, from early March to the middle of April, Adrienne, Helena, Mr. Sutcliffe, Hugo, Sebastian, and others who worked with them or under them, had toiled hard at the schools of both kinds which Mr. Mallory had opened in connection with his relief system. At first considerable difficulties were naturally experienced; some of the work-people grumbled bitterly at being obliged to ‘go to school again,’ as the condition of receiving a sum, which appeared to them small indeed, after the abundant wages they had for years been earning; but the tact and kindness of the three principals, Sebastian, Adrienne, and good little Mr. Sutcliffe, and the hearty manner in which they were backed up by their subordinates, soon worked wonders. Ere long the work-people themselves discovered how much better off they were than those of their friends whose masters had not seen fit to provide for them; and who were just then groaning under the obnoxious ‘labour test,’ as it was called, which roused so much gall and bitterness before the sewing and educational schools were fairly started. Learning to make clothes, or reading, writing, and arithmetic, were felt to be decidedly more distinguished and elevating employments than stone-breaking, or road-making, and were, moreover, much better adapted to the lissom fingers, and to the physique, accustomed to sedentary labour in a high temperature, of the operatives. By degrees they fell into their places. They felt that they were known, and expected, and missed if they did not come at the appointed time. The great warehouse was warmed and lighted, and threw open its doors hospitably wide to receive them. ‘Mallory’s schools’ were known all over the town, and those who attended them were envied by those who did not.

For the principals the task was, as Sebastian had told Adrienne, no joke. It was continuous, dry drudgery. The routine was monotonous, and the discipline strict; but the master and head of it all was the first to adhere unswervingly to every rule laid down, and his coadjutors followed with unhesitating obedience. Mr. Blisset received more kisses and thanks from his niece just now than she had ever bestowed before—kisses and thanks for what she called his goodness in sparing her to help the poor people in their great distress. She was with him much less than usual, and perhaps did not therefore notice so much his pallor and weakness, and the strength which was failing in every way. He, for some reason, withheld the truth from her, and did not tell her that he felt almost at the end of his weary, dismal pilgrimage. It was only to Sebastian that he spoke about that—Sebastian, who had become the trusted friend of the poor, lonely man.

Adrienne and Helena worked heartily, hand in hand. That was no time for petty bickerings and jealousies. Even sectarians forgot their differences in the imperative necessity for administering to the great need and woe of the people. In working-hours Adrienne forgot entirely who Helena was; and knew her only as a hearty helper, a quick, bright, kind-hearted girl, to whom no trouble was too great, and no task too hard. It was not quite the same with Helena. She had divined, by some subtle means—herself scarce knew how—that Adrienne was no other than ‘the nicest girl I ever knew,’ and Miss Spenceley’s eyes grew intensely critical. Every word, every gesture and action of her coadjutor, was weighed in a nice balance, and, so far, had not been found wanting. Helena herself was, without knowing it, changing rapidly. Despite a certain vague disquietude of heart, she was happier than she had ever been in her life before. She threw herself into her new work with her characteristic passionate energy and vehemence, and her contact with life, and some of its sternest lessons, was rubbing down her preconceived extravagances of opinion, though she still, in word and theory, cherished them as fondly as ever. But it was impossible that one of her intensely sensitive and receptive mind could behold what she daily did, of sorrow and pain, of ignorance and helplessness, and remain the same. She saw into depths in this our life of which she had never dreamed, and which Laura Mereweather’s philosophy passed over entirely.

It has been acknowledged on all sides that the benefits, at that time were not only on one side. It was not only the rough factory-girls who came to learn, but also the delicate ladies who gave up time and comfort and their best energies to teach, who profited by the intercourse. In the sad and degrading spectacle of the spring of 1878, the sweet lessons learned and taught in that bitter season of 1862 seem almost to have been forgotten and obliterated. Many a benighted girl—many an uneducated, ignorant matron, roused to her toil at half-past five in the morning, and prevented by its long monotony from acquiring any domestic grace, learnt almost her first notions of making home happy and comfortable in the schools that were set up in the ‘panic.’

Then, in the woe of the poor, and the sympathy of the rich, it almost seemed as if the great black frowning barriers of caste had been overthrown; but the division of classes, the opposition between master and man, is a plant of sturdy growth, and strikes its roots deep and far under the earth. Now, sixteen years later, comes a strike almost without parallel for bitterness and unyielding stubbornness on either side—a strike accompanied by rioting and mob-rule, broken windows, houses sacked, men assaulted, women and children threatened; and the necessity for a strong military force to preserve even the outward semblance of order; and this, on the identical ground where, during the cotton famine, the sore distress was most nobly borne and most generously relieved. These things make a riddle hard to read.

Adrienne and Helena found both their mental and physical energies taxed to the utmost by the work they had undertaken, but neither had any thought of giving up. With Adrienne it was a labour of calm, affectionate duty; she went to it with an enlightened sense of her own responsibilities, and a full comprehension of the gravity of the crisis. With Helena it was something quite different; she worked eagerly, till she was wearied, and scarcely knew why she did it. Of course she was sorry for the poor people, and pitied them in their present condition, and was anxious to help them, strained every nerve to do her work; but she thought more about Adrienne Blisset and Sebastian Mallory than about all the poor people in Thanshope.

She was changing rapidly, without knowing it. In the presence of this great urgent need, and of her own deeper emotions, all the flimsy theories of the past were being utterly undermined, though outwardly towering as high and as fair as ever. She was no happier in her home-relations than before. Sebastian’s conduct was condemned there by her father and brother. She knew that it was only because of Sebastian’s wealth and Mrs. Mallory’s high position in the town, that she was allowed to participate in what was called the ‘madness’ of Mr. Mallory. Fool and madman were the mildest words in the vocabulary of the Spenceley men, by which to describe Sebastian’s course. It was wrong and iniquitous in him, they said, to set such an example, as if every mill-owner in Thanshope could be expected to support his hands while this confounded war lasted.

‘Every mill-owner—no!’ said Helena, with flashing eyes. ‘So many of them are too poor. They have not the means; but if all those who could afford it did so, it would only be their duty—their bare duty, and there would not be so many begging letters in the papers, asking for help for the richest county in the richest country in the world.’

She was informed that she knew nothing about it, and that it was only to keep her out of some other mischief that she was allowed to have anything to do with such folly.

(‘And,’ she thought to herself, with a hard smile, ‘because Sebastian Mallory is rich and influential, and I see him every day, there.’)

The conversation turned to Helena’s coming birthday, when she would attain her majority, and great festivities would be the order of the day. With tears in her eyes, she took the opportunity to implore her father to give up the ball which would cost so much money, and to give her half, nay, a quarter of the sum he intended to spend upon it, that she might give it to Miss Blisset or Mr. Mallory, and have it used for relief purposes; but the request was peremptorily refused, and she was told, in oracular language, that she did not know what was good either for herself or the work-people. Moreover, she was informed, it was all very well for a pretty girl to play at women’s rights; but that a daughter was expected to obey her father; and the regal Fred remarked that a fool and her money were soon parted, and he would back Helena for making ducks and drakes of any property she might ever have, if it were not pretty tightly tied up.

‘I suppose it is only finished gentlemen like yourself who know how to make proper use of their money and their time,’ said Helena, turning upon him bitterly. ‘I can tell you the whole town will cry shame on both of you—the richest men in it, and you have scarcely subscribed five pounds to keep your own work-people from starving.’

‘I didn’t become the richest man in Thanshope by pouring my money into my work-people’s pockets,’ said Mr. Spenceley, grimly.

And Helena, with a passionate ‘Psha!’ rushed from the room, drawing on her gloves as she went, to go forth to her afternoon labours at the school.

This was in the middle of March, and as she came up the cindery path leading to the little anteroom, which Sebastian and his staff were in the habit of using as an office, he and Miss Blisset sat at the window watching her approach.

‘What a lovely, graceful creature she is!’ said Adrienne, admiringly, as the tall supple figure of the girl came swiftly up the walk. ‘I often wonder how she can be the child of such parents.’

‘There is some southern impetuousness in her nature,’ he replied, ‘and a capacity for southern rages, too,’ he added, watching her and smiling. ‘Look at her now, Miss Blisset; do you see that frown, and how her eyes are flashing, and her lips set?’

‘Yes, I do; but that is a very unusual expression with her. I wonder what is the matter with her?’

Here Helena came in, somewhat in the whirlwind style, her tall figure erect—her silken skirts angrily sweeping about her.

‘You look annoyed, Miss Spenceley,’ said Adrienne, looking up from where she sat, composed and cool.

‘Annoyed!’ repeated Helena, whose anger and mortification had been augmenting all the time since she had left home, and whose voice vibrated; ‘they tell me on all sides that my father is the richest man in Thanshope, and that I shall have more money than I know what to do with—some time. Some time, indeed! And I cannot get five pounds now to help people with. I’ve given away all my money. I have just half a crown in the world, and I can’t get any more for a month. Do you call that the proper way to treat a woman who will be responsible for five thousand a year—some time? My father said I should. Do you call that the right means to accustom her to the duties of her position?’

She had turned suddenly, and almost fiercely, to Sebastian.

‘Not at all,’ said he at once; perceiving that her lips quivered, and that she was divided between tears of mortification and flames of anger. ‘Not at all; but, my dear Miss Spenceley, so long as we have your services, the money which you do or do not contribute is not of the very least consequence.’

‘Don’t say that to me!’ she exclaimed, excitedly. ‘What is the use? My services are nothing; I can do nothing.’

‘Indeed, I don’t know what I should do without you,’ said Adrienne. ‘You can influence those girls and women sometimes, when I can make nothing of them. You can make them laugh heartily, when all my efforts can only extort a solemn stare from them.’

‘You must not talk of going,’ chimed in Sebastian. ‘It is your countenance alone which reconciles my mother to the undertaking. And if you did not come,’ he added, smiling, ‘I don’t believe Hugo would have anything to say to it; and he is invaluable to me amongst the boys. For heaven’s sake, don’t desert us!’

Helena, with downcast eyes, was taking off her gloves. Her cheek was flushed, and she smiled a little triumphantly.

‘Girls can do something then, after all?’ said she.

‘Have I not two living and bright proofs of the fact before me now?’ he replied, looking from the one to the other.

‘Ah, yes!’ said Helena, coolly, while the flush died from her cheek, and the smile faded from her lips. ‘Would you mind helping me off with my mantle? Thanks. There comes Hugo von Birkenau, and there is our first batch of girls, Miss Blisset. What is the programme for this afternoon?’

She was all business now; had tied on a great holland apron, studded with baggy-looking pockets, and slung a huge pair of scissors by a string round her slim waist. Adrienne was accoutred in a similar manner. Helena stopped some of the girls who were coming in, to make them carry a pile of calico to the workroom. Raising his hat, Sebastian left them to their labours, and joined Hugo outside.

Half of the great warehouse had been temporarily cleared, and accommodated with benches and half a dozen huge deal tables. This afternoon was to be a ‘cutting-out’ lesson—a lesson which, sooth to say, Helena had had to learn herself for the occasion, from her mother. The two young ladies, with some half-dozen others, who rapidly followed on Helena’s steps, each took a class, and began their instructions; the women and girls standing round, and many a dozen of them receiving their first impressions as to the practical construction of the clothes they wore. The directions were clear and simple enough; care was taken, by questionings and cross-questionings, that the pupils should thoroughly understand what was being explained to them.

When the ‘cutting out’ was over, they were shown how to fix the things, and as they all sat doing this, each one bringing up her performance when it was complete, for approval or correction, there was much talking, and some singing, chiefly of hymns, in very high, and generally in minor keys. It was very fatiguing work: the long standing, the continuous talking, explaining, expounding, arranging and rearranging for the stiff, unaccustomed fingers, formed no light task. After more than two hours and a half of such labour, it was time to go. The work was folded up, piled in heaps, laid on one side, and the pupils prepared to leave.

Adrienne and Helena, both very tired, stood at the door, counting them as they filed out.

‘Three hundred and five,’ they exclaimed together, as the last one departed, and they smiled, and turned inside the room again, to divest themselves of their aprons and shears.

‘Miss Blisset, will you not come home with me, and have some tea?’ asked Helena, who had given the invitation several times before, and always received the same answer as on this occasion.

‘Thank you very much. I am sorry to say I cannot come.’

‘You always say that,’ said Helena, looking earnestly at her. ‘I have tried in vain to get a little conversation with you, and to know you better. I never see you, except at this dingy schoolroom, where I am sure the incentives to cheerful intercourse are not strong.’

Adrienne smiled rather faintly as she replied,

‘I am sorry; it looks rude, I know, but I must go home to my uncle. He is not very well at present; and I am obliged to leave him so much. You must excuse me!’

‘If I must, I must, I suppose, but I don’t all the same,’ said Helena, turning away in some dissatisfaction, and at that moment Sebastian and Hugo entered, arm in arm.

‘Miss Spenceley!’ said Hugo, eagerly going up to her; ‘it is getting dark. May I accompany you home?’

‘Oh yes, if you like,’ said Helena, absently, while she attentively listened to what was passing between their fellow-workers.

‘Miss Blisset,’ she heard Sebastian say, ‘your uncle particularly asked me to call this afternoon. I will walk with you to Stonegate, if you will allow me.’

‘I shall be very glad,’ said she. ‘I am sure he will be pleased to see you. Do you know, sometimes I am afraid he will not live long.’

‘His is hardly likely to be a long life,’ said Sebastian, evasively.

‘Oh, but it may be. Invalids—when they are taken such care of as I take of him—sometimes live a long time. And he is not old, and it is not as if he had a complaint in which there was danger of his dying suddenly.’

‘Do you dread his death so much?’ asked Sebastian, folding her shawl around her.

‘I do; and I fear for selfish reasons. Without him I should be perfectly alone in the world.’

‘You alone? not unless you wished it,’ said he, almost reproachfully, whilst Helena, assisted by the proud and happy Hugo, was wrapping herself in her fur-lined mantle with the sable border; the mantle which set off her dark, piquant beauty to the utmost advantage; for she was one of those truly English beauties who look almost lovelier in their outdoor dress, and with the flush of exercise upon their cheeks, than in the airy fabrics of the ball-room. But there was no flush upon Helena’s cheeks now. She turned to the boy who had been, or wished to be since he first saw her, her particular page in attendance (he aspired to nothing more in his own mind, and, despite all unfavourable circumstances, he had always seen Helena the wife of his worshipped friend), and said, in a voice that had sunk and grown tired,

‘Come, Hugo, I have no time to spare. We will leave the others to lock up. I must go.’

‘I am ready, and waiting your pleasure, mein gnädiges Fräulein.’

‘Don’t speak foreign tongues to me. Do you forget what Gretchen said to Faust when he called her Fräulein?’

‘“Thank you, sir, I can walk home by myself.” That would be shocking, and I will not do it again.’

‘Good afternoon!’ suddenly said Helena, in a loud, clear voice, as she looked carelessly over her shoulder at the other two, who started, as if suddenly recalled to a sense of what was going on around them.

Hugo and his companion left the mill-yard, and paced down the street in the bitter cold of the March twilight, now rapidly becoming darkness. The lamps were being lighted; some shops were open; the passengers along the streets were not many; the great factories were silent, there was no cloud of smoke to obscure the frostily twinkling stars.

Helena suddenly began to speak, in a voice bitter, though it strove to be careless, and with a short laugh that was not a merry one.

‘How affecting—truly affecting it is, to see two such congenial spirits together as Mr. Sebastian Mallory and Miss Adrienne Blisset. He likes a rose-watery kind of woman, who looks up to him and thinks he is better than she is herself, and wiser; and she likes a dreamy, unpractical kind of man, full of sweet compliments and vague generalities—like a sugar-plum that breaks in your mouth, and then you find it has been full of a weak, diluted kind of essence—like Sebastian Mallory.’

‘What a comparison!’ exclaimed Hugo, in a tone, almost of offence. ‘You are very harsh, sometimes, Miss Spenceley. Sebastian dreamy and unpractical! Jawohl! I used to think so once; but I have found out that there is an iron hand under the silken glove. Once I fancied he was all art, all——’

‘All art!’ said Helena, perversely twisting his imperfect English to suit her own purposes; ‘perhaps you were not so far wrong there, Hugo.’

‘What has occurred to vex you, mein Fräulein?’ asked her companion innocently.

‘To vex me? I am not vexed. I am tired, and it is so cold. Well, go on! I don’t think very highly of Mr. Mallory, as you may be aware; and I should like to hear what you can find to say in his favour. What other good points has he?’

‘Herrgott! He is all good.’

‘Ha! ha!’

‘Miss Spenceley——’

‘A good, bigoted Tory and Conservative, despite his professed radicalism. Mrs. Mallory need not have been distressed. He may call himself what he likes, but he hates progress.’

‘I don’t understand about Radicals and Conservatives,’ said Hugo, good-humouredly. ‘I am densely ignorant about politics. In Prussia there are Liberals and Conservatives, and Communists, but I don’t know what any of them want. I don’t think the Reichstag is the sphere for me—do you?’

‘Good gracious! how should I know? I was not talking about Communists or the Reichstag. If you don’t know anything about them, you know something else, Hugo,’ she said, softening her voice confidentially.

‘I know that you are charming—so kind to me,’ said he, with a vibration in his voice—and indeed Helena had been very kind to the boy; ‘and I know that you sing “Since first I saw your face” like an angel.’

‘You know perfectly well that Mr. Mallory and Miss Blisset are desperately in love with one another—deny it if you can.’

Hugo was silent.

‘You cannot,’ said Helena, triumphantly.

‘I am not in their confidence,’ he said slowly.

‘All the world is in the confidence of people who are so far gone as they are. If you mean to say that they did not each take you separately aside, and tell you in so many words—well, I can say the same. He that hath eyes to see, let him observe.’

Hugo was not yet master enough of the English language to be able to turn off her remark. Helena began to hum a little song to herself, and then suddenly sank into silence and gravity, until it began to snow, and grew quite dark, when she shivered, putting up her umbrella, and saying pettishly,

‘My mantle will be ruined. Why didn’t I bring a cloak? I declare, another day, when the weather is so bad, I won’t take this horrid long walk.’

‘You will rather drive?’ suggested Hugo, with apparently the most childlike innocence of her meaning.

‘How ridiculous you are! How far is it, Hugo, from the mill to Stonegate?’

‘About as far as from the mill to Castle Hill, only in exactly the opposite direction.’

‘Oh! I don’t know that end of the town at all. We, at any rate, have had time for a delightful conversation, haven’t we? Come in, and have some tea, and play me something.’

Nothing loth, Hugo followed her, and they vanished within the portals of Castle Hill.