Probation

Mr. Spenceley, the millionaire, the richest man in Thanshope, the man of boundless wealth and boundless callousness, was amongst those cotton lords who, to their lasting shame and disgrace, were determined at this crisis not to come forward and give of their abundance, but who preferred to hang back until the popular voice left them no option, and the universal indignation absolutely thrust them to the front.

For a long time Mr. Spenceley had contented himself with abusing the sorely tried work-people, demanding to know why they did not all emigrate, and vowing that he would not waste his money upon them. He amused himself by everywhere calling Sebastian Mallory, behind his back, a fool and a madman, a spendthrift, a pernicious leveller, and so on: and by behaving to him before his face with the utmost courtesy and politeness, excusing conduct which might savour of double dealing by saying that such fools could never be made to see that they were fools, and that it was best to take them as you found them, and let them go their own way.

When the Public Relief Committee was established, and one and all, rich and poor, young and old, contributed something either in money, or kind, or assistance, or all, the chief inhabitant of Thanshope could no longer hold back. He allowed his name to appear as a member of the committee, sent a subscription of a hundred pounds, and deputed his son to act as his proxy at councils, committee meetings, and so on. Despite the bad times, he himself was so much engaged with business, that he had no time to attend to such things.

Accordingly, Fred Spenceley periodically shed the light of his countenance upon the council board and those surrounding it. He continued to come, despite a terrible rebuff he received on the occasion of his first appearance upon the scene.

It was that rebuff, and one or two incidents connected with it, which filled him with rage and bitterness; so that if he had been an Irish reaper, or an Oldham weaver, he would have proceeded to drink himself blind, and then gone home and maltreated his wife, or any other feminine creature within the range of his arm. Being in a different station from that occupied by reapers and weavers, and thinly veneered over into a poor, tinselly, outward semblance of a gentleman, he only raged frantically within himself, and cast about to find an instrument to execute a moral revenge, which, he had sense enough in his dull brutal brain to know, would far more torture the objects of it than all the corporal punishment in the world.

He arrived one afternoon, thinking the whole business a great piece of ‘tomfoolery.’ The Relief Committee’s offices consisted of three rooms, opening one out of the other. The first was the Ladies’ Committee-room, a large, spacious place, where the ladies could meet, decide upon their proceedings, and hear the accounts of their wants and troubles brought to them by mothers, wives, and daughters from all parts of the town. Passing through this room, a second and smaller one was reached, in which sat the two clerks, Myles Heywood, and a lad who was under him. Through this second apartment, ingress was obtained to the Gentlemen’s Committee-room, where the council assembled, three times a week as a rule, and oftener if necessary.

Coming to attend his first committee meeting, Fred Spenceley entered the first of these rooms, and, glancing round, beheld different groups scattered in different parts of the room. No one took any notice of him; they were all much too busy; but as he looked round, he perceived, in one of the windows apart from the rest, three persons: Sebastian Mallory, whom he had hated since first he saw his face, as only a true ‘cad’ can hate a true gentleman; and two ladies—one in black, whose back was turned towards him, the other his sister Helena, erect, animated, with her dark eyes flashing and her silks in some agitation.

He walked up to the group, and touched Helena on the shoulder, inquiring graciously,

‘Well, little one, what’s the matter now?’

‘Fred! How you startled me! Have you come to the meeting?’

‘Yes, I have. Much good it will do me or any one else, my being here. But the governor was——’

‘Oh yes! I know. But stop! You know Mr. Mallory. Miss Blisset, let me——’

Adrienne interrupted her. She was standing, pale, haughty, and erect, with eyes full of cold contempt; and she interposed, in a cool, decided voice,

‘Pardon me, Miss Spenceley, I do not wish for any introduction. I must decline to make that—gentleman’s acquaintance.’

With which she turned away, in perfect outward composure, and, seating herself at a desk, calmly looked out of the window, leaving Sebastian surprised, and yet not surprised, Fred furious, and Helena overwhelmed with confusion; for she knew her brother, and felt sure that he must have distinguished himself in some far from desirable manner towards Miss Blisset, to cause that gentle lady openly to manifest discourtesy. Helena’s humiliation was increased as she realised, with lightning-like rapidity, that Adrienne must have some excellent reason for repeatedly refusing to visit her at Castle Hill. Crimson, she stood where she had received the rebuff, and knew not what to do. It was Sebastian who, after the unavoidable momentary pause, and when Mr. Spenceley had turned upon his heel, said just as if nothing had happened,

‘I shall lay the matter before the Board to-day, Miss Spenceley, and I am sure it will be attended to immediately.’

Helena met his eyes as she looked up at him, and the burning blush of mortification glowed more deeply than before.

‘You are very kind,’ said she, in a low, choked voice; ‘but you cannot do away with the fact that I have to blush for my nearest relations.’

With that, she too turned away, as if not knowing where to go to; and Sebastian decided that the best thing he could do would be to follow Mr. Spenceley to the council-room.

For Mr. Spenceley, muttering an anathema, had directed his steps away from such dangerous ground, and with raging hatred in his heart, entered the second of the three rooms. In that moment he would gladly have strangled some one, or kicked his dog, or flogged his horse, or sworn at his mother; and if he had had a wife, he would have caused her to spend a joyful evening on his return home.

As it was, he found himself in a small room, in the window of which stood a long desk, at which desk sat two men busily writing. One of them rose, as he entered, to fetch a ledger from a shelf at the other side of the room. Spenceley’s rage gave way to a momentary start of surprise; then the blood came surging to his face and ears, as he found that he was confronting that insolent, unknown operative who had disgraced and branded him, and degraded and punished him, ten months ago in the club billiard-room.

Like a lurid dream it all started up again in his brain. There the man stood—he tingled from head to foot as he beheld him—with face pinched and worn, but with that same broad, unstained brow, the same scornful grey eyes, the same muscular fingers—he seemed to feel them at his collar again—and he could not grind him to powder, as he would like to do, nor put him to any kind of horrible torture, such as he would have deemed desirable for him. Myles’s eyes fell upon him, and a sudden gleam of scornful contemptuous amusement shot into them; his head flung itself backwards—his lips curved into a kind of smile, but otherwise he did not deign to notice Mr. Spenceley.

Into the heart of the latter the old devils of revengeful desire and frantic hatred came leaping back. Why had he been so quiet? Why had he suffered himself to be laughed at and diverted from his original purpose of punishment? Why had he sat down patiently all this time with that—a black cloud of fury overshadowed his mind. His thoughts were scarcely coherent. But it was incredible. The fellow should and must be made to pay dearly for his insolence. He had sworn it once, and he would carry it out now. With wrath and rage contending madly in his stupid, brutal soul, he went on into the committee-room, where he was immediately followed by Sebastian Mallory, and business commenced.

Fred Spenceley was too much occupied with his own private fury, with thinking, with a sort of hatred and love combined, of the sweet, contemptuous face of Adrienne Blisset, which he could not banish from his mind—of these and of other things, to take any particular notice of the man called James Hoyle, who was summoned to read a report to the Board that afternoon.

He had been intrusted with the task of visiting certain courts in a low part of the town, whither, it was said, a number of the factory hands had been obliged to retire, in consequence of being unable any longer to pay the rent of more respectable houses. Mr. Hoyle had offered himself to the Board as peculiarly suited for the work, being himself a minister of the gospel, and used to strange scenes and low neighbourhoods.

‘He speaks the truth there, at all events,’ Sebastian Mallory had remarked sotto voce to Canon Ponsonby, ‘but the Father of Lies has had some share in his parentage, all the same, sir—don’t you think so?’

‘Or else he has selected him as his peculiar adversary, and left the traces of his attempts to corrupt him,’ replied Canon Ponsonby, fixing his piercing eyes upon Mr. Hoyle.

But as Mr. Hoyle really did seem well fitted and anxious for the work, he was allowed to undertake it.

His report was considered clear and succinct. He was told that he had done well; a further commission of the same kind was given him, and he was told to present himself again as soon as possible with the required information.

Expressing himself humbly gratified at having been of any service in such a cause, Mr. Hoyle bowed to the assembled Board, carefully avoiding two pairs of eyes—a pair of lazy brown ones and a pair of piercing grey ones, and, with a long sidelong look at the sullen, averted countenance of Frederick Spenceley, took his departure.

A fortnight passed. The middle of May had come and gone. Every day the distress grew more tremendous—the efforts needed to meet it more strenuous and unceasing. The whole time and the whole energies of those who had begun the work were gradually absorbed into it. Still the cruel war raged on across the Atlantic, and Mid-summer and Famine advanced hand in hand, with long, devouring strides.