People that met Jael Dence and Henry Little driving to Cairnhope were struck with their faces; his so dark, hers so fair, and both so handsome: but the woman's lit up with lively delight, the man's clouded and sorrowful, and his brow knit with care. This very day he must take the lock off Cairnhope old church, in spite of his Uncle Raby. He had got the requisite tools with him hidden in the gig; but, even should he succeed, it was but the first step of a difficult and, perhaps, dangerous enterprise; and he was entering on it all with a heart no longer buoyed by hopeful love. But for his pledge to Mr. Cheetham he could hardly have persisted in the struggle.
As for Jael Dence, she had no great reason to be happy either: the man she loved loved another. Still he was kind to HER, and they belonged to the same class; she had a chance, and gleams of hope. And, after all, the future was uncertain, but the present certain: she had him to herself for the day. She was close to him—so close, that she could feel him—and he was driving her out, and to those who loved her: she basked in the present delight, and looked as if she was being taken to heaven by an angel, instead of driving to Cairnhope by a gloomy young man, whom the passers-by envied, and wondered at his good luck in having such a companion. She talked to him, and got the short answers of an absent man. But she continued to make her little remarks occasionally, and, ere they reached Cairnhope, he found himself somehow soothed by her sex, her beauty, and her mellow, kindly voice.
As they drove up to the farm-house, he told her to hide her face a moment, for they didn't know who it was.
Martha ran out. “Y'are welcome, y'are welcome; and so is your—Eh! Why it's our Jael. 'Tis no avail to hide thy face, thou jade; I know every bit o' thee.” And Patty had her out of the gig in a moment, and there was a cuddling match it did one good to see.
Henry perked up for a moment and offered a suggestion. “Some of that ought to come my way, for bringing her here.”
“Oh, you'll get enough o' that fun before you die,” said Patty. “Now come you in; the carter's boy will take the horse.”
They went in and greeted the old farmer; and soon the bell began to ring for church, and Nathan Dence told Martha to put on her bonnet.
“La, father!” said she, piteously.
“She prefers to stay at home and chat with Jael,” said Henry. The fact is, he wanted to be rid of them both.
Old Dence shook his head. He was one of those simple, grand, old rustic Christians, who have somehow picked out the marrow of religion, and left the devil the bone, yclept theology. “What?” said he, “my lasses! can't ye spare God a slice out of his own day?”
“Nay, it is not that, father.”
The old man continued his remonstrance. “To be sure our Jael is a cordial. But she'll dine and sup with us. Take my word for 't, all lawful pleasures are sweeter on the Lord's day after a bit o' church.”
“And so they are, father; but dear heart! to think of you forgetting. Will nobody tell him? They're sworn to give me a red face, Jael and all.”
This piteous appeal set Jael's wits working. “Eh, father, it will be the first of her bans!”
“Is it me you are asking such a question?” cried Patty, and turned her head away with absurd mock-modesty.
“And so 'tis,” said Dence; “ah, that is a different thing.”
Henry thought that was no reason for Patty's staying at home; she ought rather to go and hear the bans were cried all right.
At this proposal both sisters lifted up their hands, and he was remonstrated with, and lectured, and at last informed that, if a girl was in church when her bans were cried, her children would be all born deaf and dumb.
“Oh, indeed!” said Little, satirically. “That's a fact in natural history I was not aware of. Well, farmer, then let's you and I go by ourselves.”
So Patty stayed at home, in obedience to rural superstition, and Jael stayed to keep her company, and Farmer Dence went to church out of piety; and as for Henry, to tell the truth, he went to church to escape the girls' tongues, and to be in a quiet, somniferous place, where he could think out his plans undisturbed.
The men were no sooner gone than the sisters began to gossip hard.
“Eh, Jael, thou's gotten a prize.”
“Not as I know of.”
“I do adore a dark young man.”
“So do I; but this one is not mine.”
“I'll take his word before thine. Why, he calls thee his lass in his very letter.”
“Not he. Show me his letter.”
“What will ye give me?”
“Nay, Patty, pray show it me.”
“Well, and so I will.”
She brought her the letter. Jael read it and changed color, and was delighted for a moment or two; but soon her good sense and humility prevailed. “'Twas to surprise you, like. I do know he looks higher than me.”
“More fool he. But I don't believe it.”
“You may,” said Jael, and turned the conversation to Patty's approaching marriage; once launched in that direction, it flowed without intermission till the men returned, and dinner smoked upon the board.
After dinner Henry watched an opportunity, and slipped out into the yard, got the tools out, put his great-coat over them, and away to Cairnhope Church. He knew better than go past Raby Hall to it: he went back toward Hillsborough, full three miles, and then turned off the road and got on the heather. He skirted the base of a heathery mound, and at last saw the church on an elevation before him, made for it incautiously over some boggy ground, and sank in up to his waist.
He extricated himself with considerable difficulty, and cast a woful look at his clothes.
Then he turned to, and piled up a heap of stones to mark the dangerous spot; for he foresaw he must often travel that way in all weathers. At last he reached the church, removed the lock, and fastened the door with screws. He then went back to the farm as fast as he could. But all this had taken a long time, and the sun was sinking as he got into the yard. He was in the very act of concealing the lock in the gig, when Martha Dence came out at him, as red as a turkey-cock.
“You thought but little of my sister, young man, to leave her all these hours, and you come out to spend the day with her.”
“Stuff and nonsense! I came out on my own business.”
“So it seems. And it have taken you into worse company. A fine figure she has made you.”
“Who?”
“The hussy you have been after this while.”
“That's so like you girls. You think a man has nothing to do but to run after women.”
“What business can you have on the Sabbath-day, I'd like to know.”
“Would you? Well, I'll tell you—when I tell the bellman.”
“You are quite right, Mr. Little. Trust none but your friends.”
This was a bitter remark. Henry could not reply to it, and that moved his bile. Patty pursued her advantage, and let him know that, when a young man brought a young woman out for the day, he did not leave her for three hours at a stretch, unless he meant to affront her. She raised her voice in saying this, and so did he in replying, “Tell you I came out on my own business, not Jael's; but I am a good-natured fellow, considering all I endure, so I took that opportunity to bring your sister out to see you. Could I guess you two couldn't make yourselves happy for one afternoon without flirting? So much for sisterly affection! Well, next time I'll come alone—if I come at all.”
Jael came out at the raised voices, and received this last sentence full in the face. She turned pale.
“Oh, Patty, Patty, what have you been saying?”
“I've been speaking my mind, that is all.”
“Ay, and you've made him say the only unkind word I ever heard from his lips.”
“I'm very sorry, Jael,” said the young man, penitently.
“Oh, then I'm to blame, because he is so ill-tempered.” And Patty bridled.
“Partly. You should not interfere between friends.” Having delivered this admonition, Jael softened it by kissing her, and whispered, “Father's asking for his tea.”
Patty went in as meek as Moses.
Then Jael turned to Henry, and laid her hand on his arm, while her gray eyes searched his face.
“There's something amiss. You are never cross, except when you are unhappy. What is it?”
“Oh, Jael, my heart is broken. She is going to be married.”
“Who says so?”
“Mr. Cheetham told me she was engaged to a Mr. Coventry.”
“What can Mr. Cheetham know? To be sure the gentleman is a good deal with her, and I hear he has courted her this two years; and she likes his company, that's certain. But she is used to be admired, and she is very hard to please.”
“What, then, you think it is not quite hopeless?”
“While there's life there's hope.”
“What had I better do?”
“Nay, you shouldn't ask me.”
“Oh, yes: you advised me so wisely about the insurance.”
“Ay, but then I saw it clear. He is purse-proud, and I knew he'd think a deal more of you if you insured your life for a vast o' money. But now I don't see clear; and I'm loath to advise. Happen you'd hate me afterward if it went wrong.”
“No, no, I wouldn't be so ungrateful.”
Jael shook her head, doubtfully.
“Well, then,” said Henry, “don't advise me; but put yourself in my place. (I'll tell you a secret I daren't trust to Patty. I have found a way to beat the Trades, and make my fortune in a year or two.) Now what would you do, if you were me?”
This question raised a tumult in Jael's heart. But her strong will, her loyalty, and, above all, her patience, conquered, though not without signs of the struggle, a bosom that heaved somewhat higher, and a low voice that trembled a little. “If I was a young man, I wouldn't shilly-shally, nor wait till I was rich, before I spoke. I'd have it out with her. I'd get her alone, and tell her all. Then, if she showed any sign of liking, I'd beg her to wait a bit, and say I'd soon be a gentleman for her sake. And if she cares naught for you, better know it, and leave her, than fare in heaven one hour and in hell the next, as I have seen thee do this while, my poor lad.”
“It is wise and good advice, and I'll take it. I've kept all my courage for the Trades; I'd better have shown her a little. But there's one thing more I want to ask you.”
This was too much. Jael's courage and patience failed her for once. “Keep it,” she cried almost wildly. “I can't bear no more. There's not one lass in a hundred would do what I have done for you: yet you want more. D'ye think I'm not flesh and blood, as well as her?”
And she began to cry bitterly.
This took Henry quite by surprise, and grieved him. He consoled her, and coaxed her, in vague terms, that did not produce any effect. So then he kissed her cheek, and dried her eyes with his own handkerchief, and that was not quite so ineffectual. She gave a final sob, and said, with some slight remains of passion, “There, there; never heed me. It takes a deal of patience to go through the world.” And so she left him.
He was not sorry to be alone a minute, and think. This short dialogue with Jael gave him some insight into female character. It made him suspect that he had been too timid with Grace Carden, and also that there were two women in the game instead of one.
When the time came to return he asked leave to borrow a horse-cloth.
He aired it by the fire, and remarked that it had turned very cold.
“Why,” said Patty, “you have got your top-coat. Well, you are a soft one.”
“And you are a sharp one,” said Henry, ironically.
When Jael came to the gig, Henry put the cloth over her shoulders. “'Twasn't for me, ye see,” said he: “'twas for my betters.”
“I like you for that,” said Patty.
Then there was much kissing, and shaking of hands, and promising to come again, and away they drove to Hillsborough.
On the road Henry, for the first time, was very respectful, as well as kind, to Jael. She was soft and gentle, but rather silent and reserved. They parted at the door of “Woodbine Villa.”
Next day, Henry called early, and found Miss Carden alone. His heart beat tumultuously. She was very gracious, and hoped he had spent a pleasant day yesterday.
“Pretty well.”
“Is that all? Why I quite envied you your ride, and your companion.”
“She is a very good girl.”
“She is something more than that: but one does not find her out all at once.”
Now it was Henry's turn. But he was flustered, and thinking how he should begin. And, while he hesitated, the lady asked him was he come to finish the bust.
“No. I didn't come for that. I will finish it though.” And thus he was diverted from his purpose, for the moment.
He took a carving tool, and eyed his model, but soon laid down the tool, and said: “I haven't thanked you yet. And I don't know how to thank you.”
“What for?”
“For what you sent to Mr. Cheetham.”
“Oh!” said Grace, and blushed. Then she turned it off, and said she thought if any body ought to thank her for that, it was Mr. Cheetham.
“Ay, for the order. But the sweet words that came with it? Do you think I don't prize them above all the orders in the world?”
She colored high again. “What! did he show you my note?”
“He did: and that has made me his friend. Shall I tell you the effect of those words on me?”
“No; never mind. But I'm glad I put them in, if they did you any good.”
“Any good? They made me a new man. I was defeated by the Trades: I was broken-hearted: and I hated every body. Good Dr. Amboyne had set me work to do; to save the lives of my fellow-creatures. But I couldn't; I hated them so. The world had been too unjust to me, I could not return it good for evil. My heart was full of rage and bitterness.”
“That's a great pity—at your age. But really it is no wonder. Yes; you have been cruelly used.” And the water stood in Grace's eyes.
“Ay, but it is all over; those sweet words of yours made a man of me again. They showed me you cared a little for me. Now I have found a way to outwit the Trades. Now I'm on the road to fortune. I won't be a workman this time next year. I'll be a master, and a thriving one.”
“Ay, do, do. Beat them, defeat them; make them scream with envy. But I am afraid you are too sanguine.”
“No; I can do it, if you will only give me another word of hope to keep me going; and oh, I need it, if you knew all.”
Grace began to look uneasy. “Mr. Little, can you doubt that you have my best wishes?” said she, guardedly, and much less warmly than she had spoken just before.
“No, I don't doubt that; but what I fear is, that, when I have gained the hard battle, and risen in the world, it will be too late. Too late.”
Grace turned more and more uncomfortable.
“Oh, pray wait a few months, and see what I can do, before you—”
Will it be believed that Mr. Carden, who seldom came into this room at all, must walk in just at this moment, and interrupt them. He was too occupied with his own affairs, to pay much attention to their faces, or perhaps he might have asked himself why the young man was so pale, and his daughter so red.
“I heard you were here, Little, and I want to speak to you on a matter of some importance.”
Grace took this opportunity, and made her escape from the room promptly.
Henry, burning inwardly, had to listen politely to a matter he thought pitiably unimportant compared with that which had been broken off. But the “Gosshawk” had got him in its clutches; and was resolved to make him a decoy duck. He was to open a new vein of Insurances. Workmen had hitherto acted with great folly and imprudence in this respect, and he was to cure them, by precept as well as example.
Henry assented, to gratify a person whose good-will he might require, and to get rid of a bore. But that was not so easy; the “Gosshawk” was full of this new project, and had a great deal to say, before he came to the point, and offered Henry a percentage on the yearly premium of every workman that should be insured in the “Gosshawk.”
This little bargain struck, Henry was left alone; and waited for the return of Miss Carden.
He was simple enough to hope she would come back, and have it out with him.
She kept carefully out of his way, and, at last, he went sadly home.
“Ah,” said he, “Jael gave me bad advice. I have been premature, and frightened her.”
He would go to work his own way again.
In forty-eight hours he moved into his new house, furnished it partly: bought a quantity of mediocre wood-carving, and improved it; put specimens in his window, and painted his name over the door. This, at his mother's request and tearful entreaties, he painted out again, and substituted “Rowbotham.”
Nor was Rowbotham a mere nom de plume. It was the real name of Silly Billy. The boy had some turn for carving, but was quite uncultivated: Henry took him into his employ, fed him, and made free with his name. With all this he found time to get a key made to fit the lock of Cairnhope old Church.
At one o'clock on Thursday morning he came to Cheetham's works, and scratched at the gate. A big workman opened it. It turned out to be Cheetham himself, in a moleskin suit, and a long beard.
The forge on wheels was all ready, also a cart containing anvil, bellows, hammers, pincers, leathern buckets, and a quantity of steel laths. They attached the forge to the tail of the cart, and went on their silent expedition. Cheetham drove the cart. Henry followed afar off until they had cleared the suburbs.
They passed “Woodbine Villa.” A single light was burning. Henry eyed it wistfully, and loitered long to look at it. Something told him that light was in her bedroom. He could hardly tear himself away from contemplating it: it was his pole-star.
There was only one great difficulty in their way; a man on a horse might cross the moor, but a cart must go by “Raby Hall” to reach the church: and, before they got within a furlong of the Hall, a watch-dog began to bark.
“Stop, sir,” whispered Henry. “I expected this.” He then produced some pieces of thick felt, and tied them with strings round the wheels.
They then drove by the house as fast as they could. They did not deceive the dogs; but no man heard them, nor saw them.
They got to the church, opened the door, and drew the forge into the deserted building.
As soon as they got inside, Cheetham cast his eyes round and gave a shudder. “You must have a stout heart: no money should tempt me to work here by myself. Lord! What's that?”
For a low musical moan was heard.
Cheetham darted back, and got to the church-door.
Henry's heart beast faster: but he lighted his lantern, and went up the aisle. The place was solemn, grim, gaunt, and moldering, and echoed strangely; but it was empty. He halloed to his companion that it was all right. Then they set the forge up near a pillar at the entrance into the chancel. When they had done this, and brought in the steel laths, the sacks of coals, etc., Cheetham produced a flask, and took a pull of neat brandy. This gave him courage, and he proposed to have a look round before they went. Accordingly they inspected the building.
When they came round to the chancel, suddenly there was a rattle, and a tremendous rush of some huge thing that made a cold wind, and blew out the light.
Henry was appalled, and Cheetham dropped the lantern, and ran, yelling. And soon Henry heard his voice in the churchyard calling on him to come out.
He did go out, and felt very much puzzled and alarmed. However, he got matches from Cheetham, and went back, and lighted the lantern, quaking a little, and then he found that the great moldering picture over the altar had rotted away from some of its supports, and one half of it was now drooping, like a monstrous wing, over the altar.
He returned with the lantern, and told Cheetham what it was. Then he screwed on the lock, locked the church, and they went back to Hillsborough in good spirits.
But, as he lay in bed, Henry thought the matter over, and, for the first time in his life, felt superstitious.
“It is very odd,” he said, “that old picture my forefathers have worshiped under, and prayed to, no doubt, should flap out in my face like that, the moment I offered to set up my forge among their dead bones.”
Daylight dispersed these superstitious feelings, and the battle began.
As usual, the first step toward making money was to part with it. He could do nothing without a horse and a light cart. In Hillsborough they drive magnificent horses in public cabs: Henry knew one in particular, that had often spun up the steepest hills with him; a brute of prodigious bone and spirit. He bought this animal for a moderate price, considering his value: and then the next thing was—and indeed with some of us it precedes the purchase of the animal—to learn to ride.
He had only two days to acquire this accomplishment in: so he took a compendious method. He went to the circus, at noon, and asked to see the clown. A gloomy fellow was fished out of the nearest public, and inquired what he wanted.
“The clown.”
“Well, I am the clown.”
“What! you the merry chap that makes the fun?” said Henry, incredulously.
“I make the fun at night,” replied the man, dolefully. “If you want fun out of me, come and pay your shilling, like a man.”
“But it isn't fun I'm come for. I want to learn to ride.”
“Then you are too old. Why, we begin as soon as we can stand on a horse's back.”
“Oh, I don't mean to ride standing. I want to sit a horse, rearing, or plunging, or blundering over rough ground.”
“What will you stand?”
“A sovereign.”
The clown dived into the public-house, and told a dark seedy man, with his black hair plastered and rolled effeminately, that he had got a bloke who would stand a quid for a mount. The two came out, and the plastered Italian went to the stables: the melancholy punster conducted Henry into the arena, and stood beside him like Patience on a monument. Presently a quiet mare ran in, and stuck.
Henry was mounted, and cantered her round, the two men instinctively following in a smaller circle, with jaws as long as your arm.
“This is delightful,” said Henry; “but I might as well be sitting in a chair. What I want is a Prancer.”
Then they brought him another horse, just as docile as the mare. The obedient creature, at a signal, reared suddenly, and seated Mr. Little on the sawdust behind him. A similar result was attained several times, by various means. But Henry showed himself so tough, courageous, and persistent, that he made great progress, and his good-humor won his preceptors. They invited him to come tomorrow, at an earlier hour, and bring half a quid with him. He did so, and this time there was an American rider rehearsing, who showed Henry what to do, and what not to do; and gave him a most humorous and instructive lesson. Indeed, his imitations of bad riding were so truthful and funny, that even the clown was surprised into one laugh; he who rarely smiled, unless in the way of business.
“Well, sir,” said Henry, “you have given me a good lesson; now take a hint from me; just you go and do all this before the public; for I never saw you do any thing half as droll.”
They all three shook their heads with one accord. Go out of the beaten track, before an audience? Never. Such vagaries were only admissible in private.
After this second day the fee was reduced to a gallon of ale.
But, on the third day, the pupil combined theory with practice. He told his mother he was going to Cairnhope for the night. He then rode off to Cairnhope Church. He had two large saddle-bags, containing provisions, and tools of all sorts. He got safe across the moor just before sunset. He entered the church, led the horse in with him, and put him into the Squire's pew. He then struck a light, went into the chancel, and looked at the picture. It was as he had left it; half on the wall, half drooping over the altar-place. The walls were dank, and streaked here and there with green. His footsteps echoed, and the edifice was all dark, except within the rays of his lantern; it also sang and moaned in a way to be accounted for by the action of the wind on a number of small apertures; but, nevertheless, it was a most weird and ghostly sound. He was glad of the companionship of his very horse.
He took his buckets to the mountain stream, and, in due course, filled his trough, and left one bucket full for other uses. He then prepared and lighted his forge. As he plied the bellows, and the coals gleamed brighter and brighter, monumental figures came out and glared at him; mutilated inscriptions wavered on the walls; portions of the dark walls themselves gleamed in the full light, and showed the streaks and stains of age and weather, and the shadow of a gigantic horse's head; and, as the illuminated part seemed on fire by contrast, so the dark part of the church was horribly black and mysterious, and a place out of which a ghost or phantom might be expected, at any moment, to come forth into that brilliant patch of light.
Young Little, who had entered on this business in all the skepticism of the nineteenth century, felt awed, and began to wish he had selected any other building in the world but this. He seemed to be desecrating a tomb.
However, he mustered up his manly resolution. He looked up at a small aperture in the roof, and saw a star glittering above: it seemed close, and a type of that omniscient eye “from which no secrets are hid.”
He clasped his hands together, and said, “I hope God, who has seen me driven from the haunts of men, will forgive me for taking refuge here; and, if he does, I don't care who else is offended, alive or dead.” And, with this, he drew the white-hot strip of steel from the forge on to the anvil, and down came his hammer with a blow that sent the fiery steel flying all round, and rang and echoed through the desolate building, instantly there was a tremendous plunge and clatter, followed by a shaking sound, and, whiz, the church was fanned by black wings going zigzag.
“Ten thousand devils!” yelled Henry, and heaved the hammer high, in his own defense.
But it was only the horse plunging and quivering with fear, and a score of bats the blow of the hammer had frightened out of the rotten pulpit.
He resumed work with a beating heart, and the building rang and echoed and re-echoed with the rapid blows; and no more interruption came. The nineteenth century conquered.
After four hours of earnest work, he fed his horse, ate a slice of bread and meat, drank water from the bucket, gave his horse some, and went to sleep in a pew beside that useful animal.
Back to Hillsborough, at peep of day, with the blades he had forged.
He now took his mother, in a great measure, into his confidence, under a strict promise to tell nobody, not even Dr. Amboyne. Mrs. Little received the communication in a way that both surprised and encouraged him. She was as willing to outwit the Unions, as she was willing to resist them openly; and Henry found her an admirable coadjutor.
Had she known where Henry had set up his forge, she would have been very unhappy. But he merely told her it was in a secluded place, near Cairnhope, where he could never be detected.
The carving business, being merely a blind, was not pushed. But Henry gave his apprentice, Billy, instruction, and the youth began to show an aptitude which contrasted remarkably with his general incapacity.
Mrs. Little paid one or two visits to factories, to see what women could do in this sort of work; and, one day, she told Henry she was sure she could sharpen and finish the blades.
“No, mother,” said Henry. “You are a lady. I can't have you made a slave of, and your beautiful white hands spoiled.”
“I shall be happier, helping you, dear; and I won't spoil my hands, since you care about them.”
She insisted on a trial, and soon acquired a remarkable knack: she had a fine light hand: and it is an art easily learned by an attentive and careful woman. Indeed they can beat the men at it, if they will only make up their minds.
And so the enterprise was launched, and conducted thus: in the day time, Henry showed himself in the town, and talked big about carving; and, in the afternoon, he rode out, and did the real work of his life, over the dead bodies of his ancestors.
His saddle-bags were always full, and, gradually, he collected some comforts about him in the deserted church.
He called, more than once, at “Woodbine Villa,” but Miss Carden was on a visit.
He was in the full career of fortune again, and sanguine of success, before they met. One day, having ascertained from Jael what day she would be at home, he called and was admitted. The room was empty, but Miss Carden soon came into it, accompanied by Jael carrying the bust.
“Ah, Mr. Little,” said she, before he could possibly utter a word, “this is fortunate. There is a party here on Thursday, and I want to show the bust complete, if you don't mind.”
Henry said he would finish it for her. He accordingly set to work, and waited quietly till Jael should leave the room, to have it out with Grace.
She, for her part, seemed to have forgotten his strange manner to her the other day; perhaps she chose to forget it, or overlook it. But Henry observed that Jael was not allowed to quit the room. Whatever Miss Carden wanted she fetched herself, and came back softly, and rather suddenly, as if she had a mind to surprise Jeel and the other too. Female subtlety was clearly at work.
“What do you advise me?” said Henry to Jael, during one of these intervals.
Jael never lifted her eyes from her work, and spoke under her breath, “I think I'd be patient to-day. She must give you a chance to speak some day. Talk to me, when she comes back—about the Cairnhope folk, or anything.”
Henry followed this advice, and Grace, for the first time, found herself a little ignored in the conversation. She was astonished at this and I don't think she quite liked it.
Henry was still going on with warmth and volubility about the Cairnhope folk, their good hearts, and their superstitions, when a visitor was announced.
“Mr. Coventry.”
Henry stopped in the middle of a sentence.
Grace brightened up, and said she was at home.
Mr. Coventry entered the room; a tall, well-made man, with an aquiline nose, and handsome face, only perhaps there were more lines in it than he was entitled to at his age, for he was barely thirty. He greeted Miss Carden with easy grace, and took no more notice of the other two, than if they were chairs and tables.
Mr. Frederick Coventry had studied the great art of pleasing, and had mastered it wonderfully; but he was not the man to waste it indiscriminately.
He was there to please a young lady, to whom he was attached, not to diffuse his sunshine indiscriminately.
He courted her openly, not indelicately, but with a happy air of respect and self-assurance.
Henry sat, sick with jealousy, and tried to work and watch; but he could only watch: his hand trembled too much to work.
What may be called oblique flattery is very pleasing to those quick-witted girls, who have had a surfeit of direct compliments: and it is oblique flattery, when a man is supercilious and distant to others, as well as tender and a little obsequious to her he would please.
Grace Carden enjoyed this oblique flattery of Mr. Coventry's all the more that it came to her just at a moment when her companions seemed disposed to ignore her. She rewarded Mr. Coventry accordingly, and made Henry Little's heart die within him. His agony became intolerable. What a position was his! Set there, with a chisel in his hand, to copy the woman he loved, while another wooed her before his face, and she smiled at his wooing!
At last his chisel fell out of his hand, and startled everybody: and then he rose up with pale cheek, and glittering eyes, and Heaven only knows what he was going to do or say. But at that moment another visitor was announced, to whom indeed the door was never closed. He entered the next moment, and Grace ran to meet him, crying, “Oh, Mr. Raby! this IS a surprise.”
Mr. Raby kissed her, and shook hands with Mr. Coventry. He then said a kind word to Jael Dence, who got up and courtesied to him. He cast a careless glance on Henry and the bust, but said nothing. He was in a hurry, and soon came to the object of his visit.
“My dear,” said he, “the last time I saw you, you said you were sorry that Christmas was no longer kept in Hillsborough as it used to be.”
“And so I am.”
“Well, it is kept in Cairnhope, thank Heaven, pretty much as it was three centuries ago. Your father will be in London, I hear; will you honor my place and me with a visit during the Christmas holidays?”
Grace opened her eyes with astonishment. “Oh, that I will,” said she, warmly.
“You will take your chance of being snowed up?”
“I am afraid I shall not be so fortunate,” was the charming reply.
The Squire turned to Coventry, and said slyly, “I would ask you to join us, sir; but it is rather a dull place for a gentleman who keeps such good company.”
“I never heard it spoken of as a dull place before,” said the young man; “and, if it was, you have taken a sure means to make it attractive.”
“That is true. Well, then, I have no scruple in asking you to join us;” and he gave Grace a look, as much as to say, “Am I not a considerate person?”
“I am infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Raby,” said Coventry, seriously; “I will come.”
“You will stay to luncheon, godpapa?”
“Never touch it. Good-by. Well, then, Christmas-eve I shall expect you both. Dinner at six. But come an hour or two before it, if you can: and Jael, my girl, you know you must dine at the hall on Christmas-eve, and old Christmas-eve as usual, you and your sister and the old man.”
Jael courtesied, and said with homely cordiality, “We shall be there, sir, please God we are alive.”
“Bring your gun, Coventry. There's a good sprinkling of pheasants left. By-the-bye, what about that pedigree of yours; does it prove the point?”
“Completely. Dorothy Raby, Sir Richard's youngest sister, married Thomas Coventry, who was out in the forty-five. I'm having the pedigree copied for you, at a stationer's near.”
“I should like to see it.”
“I'll go with you, and show it to you, if you like.”
Mr. Raby was evidently pleased at this attention, and they went off together.
Grace accompanied them to the door. On her return she was startled by the condition of young Little.
This sudden appearance of his uncle, whom he hated, had agitated him not a little, and that uncle's interference had blasted his last hope. He recognized this lover, and had sided with him: was going to shut the pair up, in a country house, together. It was too much. He groaned, and sank back in his chair, almost fainting, and his hands began to shake in the air, as if he was in an ague.
Both the women darted simultaneously toward him. “Oh! he's fainting!” cried Grace. “Wine! wine! Fly.” Jael ran out to fetch some, in spite of a despairing gesture, by which the young man tried to convey to her it was no use.
“Wine can do me no good, nor death no harm. Why did I ever enter this house?”
“Oh, Mr. Little, don't look so; don't talk so,” said Grace, turning pale, in her turn. “Are you ill? What is the matter?”
“Oh, nothing. What should ail me? I'm only a workman. What business have I with a heart? I loved you dearly. I was working for you, fighting for you, thinking for you, living for you. And you love that Coventry, and never showed it.”
Jael came in with a glass of wine for him, but he waved her off with all the grandeur of despair.
“You tell me this to my face!” said Grace, haughtily; but her bosom panted.
“Yes; I tell you so to your face. I love you, with all my soul.”
“How dare you? What have I ever done, to justify—Oh, if you weren't so pale, I'd give you a lesson. What could possess you? It's not my fault, thank heaven. You have insulted me, sir. No; why should I? You must be unhappy enough. There, I'll say but one word, and that, of course, is 'good morning.'”
And she marched out of the room, trembling secretly in every limb.
Henry sat down, and hid his face, and all his frame shook.
Then Jael was all pity. She threw herself on her knees, and kissed his trembling hands with canine fidelity, and wept on his shoulder.
He took her hand, and tried hard to thank her, but the words were choked.
Grace Carden opened the door, and put her head cautiously in, for she wanted to say a word to Jael without attracting Henry's attention. But, when she saw Jael and Henry in so loving an attitude, she started, and then turned as red as fire; and presently burst out laughing.
Jael and Henry separated directly.
Grace laughed again, an unpleasant laugh. “I beg pardon, good people. I only wanted Mr. Little's address. I thought you could get it for me, Jael. And now I'm sure you can. Ha! ha! ha!”
And she was heard laughing after the door closed.
Now there was a world of contempt and insolence in this laugh. It conveyed, as plainly as words, “I was going to be so absurd as to believe in your love, and pity it, at all events, though I can't approve it: but now you have just set my mind at ease. Ha! ha! ha!”
“Let me go,” cried Henry, wildly.
“Nay, tell me your address.”
“What for? To tell that cruel—laughing—”
“Nay then, for myself.”
“That's a different thing. I respect you. But her, I mean to hate, as much as I loved her.”
He gave Jael his address, and then got out of the house as fast as he could.
That evening Grace Carden surprised her father, by coming into his study. “Papa,” said she, “I am come to ask a favor. You must not refuse me. But I don't know that you ever did. Dearest, I want L50.”
“Well, my child; just tell me what it is for.”
“It is for Mr. Little; for his lessons.”
“Well, but L50!”
“He has given me a good many. And to tell you the truth, papa, I dismissed him rather unceremoniously; and now I should be glad to soften the blow a little, if I can. Do be very good and obedient, dear papa, and write what I shall dictate. PLEASE.”
“Well, spoiled child: who can resist you?”
Then Grace dictated, and Mr. Carden wrote:
“DEAR SIR,—My daughter informs me that, as yet, you have received no remuneration for the lessons you have given her. I beg your acceptance of the inclosed check, and, at the same time, should be glad if you would put a price on the admirable bust you have executed of her.
“Yours obediently,
“WALTER CARDEN.”
The reply to this letter surprised Mr. Carden, so that he brought it to Grace, and showed it her.
“DEAR SIR,—The lessons are not worth speaking of. I have learned more in your house than I taught. I beg to return the check with thanks. Price of the bust, five hundred guineas.
“Yours obediently,
“HENRY LITTLE.”
Grace colored up, and her eyes sparkled. “That young man wants humbling.”
“I don't see that, really. He is very civil, and I presume this five hundred guineas is just a polite way of saying that he means to keep it. Wants it for an advertisement, eh?”
Grace smiled and bit her lip. “Oh, what a man of business you are!” And a little while after the tears came into her eyes. “Madman!” said she to herself. “He won't let me be his friend. Well, I can't help it.”
After the brief excitement of this correspondence, Little soon relapsed into dull misery. His mother was alarmed, and could restrain herself no longer. She implored his confidence. “Make me the partner of your grief, dear,” she said; “not that you can tell me anything I have not guessed already; but, dearest, it will do you good to open your heart; and, who knows, I may assist you. I know my sex much better than you do.”
Henry kissed her sadly, and said it was too late now. “It is all over. She is going to marry another man.”
“Has she told you so?”
“Not in words; but I have seen it. She has burned it into my heart.”
“I wish I knew her,” said Mrs. Little, very earnestly, and almost in a whisper.
“Some day, mother, some day; but not now. Oh, the tortures one heart can suffer, and yet not break.”
Mrs. Little sighed. “What, not even tell me her name?”
“I can't, I can't. Oh, mother, you mean well, but you will drive me mad.”
Mrs. Little forebore to press him further just then. She sat silent at her work, and he at his, till they were aroused by a fly drawing up at the door.
A fine young woman got out with something heavy, and holding it like a child in one arm, rapped at the door with the hand that was disengaged.
Mrs. Little opened the door to her, and she and Jael Dence surveyed each other with calm but searching eyes.
“If you please, ma'am, does Mr. Little bide here?”
Mrs. Little said yes, with a smile: for Jael's face and modesty pleased her at first sight.
“I have something for him.”
“I'll give it to him.”
“If you please, ma'am, I was to give it him myself.”
Henry recognized the voice, opened the door, and invited her in.
Mrs. Little followed her, full of suppressed curiosity.
This put Jael out, but she was too patient to show it.
“It is the bust,” said she; and put it softly down on the table with her strong arms.
Henry groaned. “She despises even that; she flings it at my head without a word.”
“Nay; I have got a note for you.”
“Then why didn't you give it me at once?” cried Henry impatiently.
She handed him the note without a word.
It ran thus:
“Miss Carden presents her compliments to Mr. Little, and sends him his beautiful bust. She is grieved that he will accept no remuneration for his lessons; and begs permission to offer her best wishes for his happiness and prosperity.”
The gentleness of this disarmed Henry, and at the same time the firmness crushed him. “It is all over!” he cried, despairingly: “and yet I can't hate her.”
He ran from the room, unable to restrain his tears, and too proud and fiery to endure two spectators of his grief.
Mrs. Little felt as mothers feel toward those who wound their young.
“Is it the woman's likeness?” said she bitterly, and then trembled with emotion.
“Ay.”
“May I see it?”
“Surely, ma'am.” And Jael began to undo the paper.
But Mrs. Little stopped her. “No, not yet. I couldn't bear the sight of a face that has brought misery upon him. I would rather look at yours. It is a very honest one. May I inquire your name?”
“Jael Dence—at your service.”
“Dence! ah, then no wonder you have a good face: a Cairnhope face. My child, you remind me of days gone by. Come and see me again, will you? Then I shall be more able to talk to you quietly.”
“Ay, that I will, ma'am.” And Jael colored all over with surprise, and such undisguised pleasure that Mrs. Little kissed her at parting.
She had been gone a considerable time, when Henry came back; he found his mother seated at the table, eying his masterpiece with stern and bitter scrutiny.
It was a picture, those two rare faces in such close opposition. The carved face seemed alive; but the living face seemed inspired, and to explore the other to the bottom with merciless severity. At such work the great female eye is almost terrible in its power.
“It is lovely,” said she. “It seems noble. I can not find what I know must be there. Oh, why does God give such a face as this to a fool?”
“Not a word against her,” said Henry. “She is as wise, and as noble, and as good, as she is beautiful. She has but one fault; she loves another man. Put her sweet face away; hide it from me till I am an old man, and can bring it out to show young folks why I lived and die a bachelor. Good-by, dear mother, I must saddle Black Harry, and away to my night's work.”
The days were very short now, and Henry spent two-thirds of his time in Cairnhope Church. The joyous stimulus of his labor was gone but the habit remained, and carried him on in a sort of leaden way. Sometimes he wondered at himself for the hardships he underwent merely to make money, since money had no longer the same charm for him; but a good workman is a patient, enduring creature, and self-indulgence, our habit, is after all, his exception. Henry worked heavily on, with his sore, sad heart, as many a workman had done before him. Unfortunately his sleep began to be broken a good deal. I am not quite clear whether it was the after-clap of the explosion, or the prolonged agitation of his young heart, but at this time, instead of the profound sleep that generally rewards the sons of toil, he had fitful slumbers, and used to dream strange dreams, in that old church, so full of gaunt sights and strange sounds. And, generally speaking, however these dreams began, the figure of Grace Carden would steal in ere he awoke. His senses, being only half asleep, colored his dreams; he heard her light footstep in the pattering rain, and her sweet voice in the musical moan of the desolate building; desolate as his heart when he awoke, and behold it was a dream.
The day after Christmas-day began brightly, but was dark and lowering toward afternoon. Mrs. Little advised Henry to stay at home. But he shook his head. “How could I get through the night? Work is my salvation. But for my forge, I should perhaps end like—” he was going to say “my poor father.” But he had the sense to stop.
Unable to keep him at home, the tender mother got his saddlebags, and filled his flask with brandy, and packed up a huge piece of Yorkshire pie, and even stuffed in a plaid shawl. And she strained her anxious eyes after him as he rode off.
When he got among the hills, he found it was snowing there very hard; and then, somehow, notwithstanding all the speed he made, it was nearly dark when he got on the moor, and the tracks he used to go by, over the dangerous ground, were effaced.
He went a snail's pace, and at last dismounted, and groped his way. He got more than one fall in the snow, and thought himself very fortunate, when, at last, something black towered before him, and it was the old church.
The scene was truly dismal: the church was already overburdened with snow, and still the huge flakes fell fast and silently, and the little mountain stream, now swollen to a broad and foaming torrent, went roaring by, behind the churchyard wall.
Henry shivered, and made for the shelter.
The horse, to whom this church was merely a well-ventilated stable, went in and clattered up the aisle, saddle-bags and all.
Henry locked the door inside, and soon blew the coals to a white heat. The bellows seemed to pant unnaturally loud, all was so deadly still.
The windows were curtained with snow, that increased the general gloom, though some of the layers shone ghostly white and crystalline, in the light of the forge, and of two little grates he had set in a monument.
Two heaps of snow lay in the center aisle, just under two open places in the roof, and, on these, flakes as big as a pennypiece kept falling through the air, and glittered like diamonds as they passed through the weird light of the white coals.
Oh! it was an appalling place, that night; youth and life seemed intruders. Henry found it more than he could bear. He took a couple of candles, placed them in bottles, and carried them to the western window, and there lighted them. This one window was protected by the remains of iron-work outside, and the whole figure of one female saint in colored glass survived.
This expedient broke the devilish blackness, and the saint shone out glorious.
The horrid spell thus broken in some degree, Henry plied his hammer, and made the church ring, and the flaming metal fly.
But by-and-by, as often happened to him now, a drowsiness overcame him at the wrong time. In vain he battled against it. It conquered him even as he worked; and, at last, he leaned with his arms against the handle of the bellows, and dozed as he stood.
He had a dream of that kind which we call a vision, because the dream seems to come to the dreamer where he is.
He dreamed he was there at his forge, and a soft voice called to him. He turned, and lo! between him and the western window stood six female figures, all dressed in beautiful dresses, but of another age, and of many colors, yet transparent; and their faces fair, but white as snow: and the ladies courtesied to him, with a certain respectful majesty beyond description: and, somehow, by their faces, and their way of courtesying to him, he knew they were women of his own race, and themselves aware of the relationship.
Then several more such figures came rustling softly through the wall from the churchyard, and others rose from the vaults and took their places quietly, till there was an avenue of dead beauties; and they stood in an ascending line up to the west window. Some stood on the ground, some on the air; that made no difference to them.
Another moment, and then a figure more lovely than them all shone in the window, at the end of that vista of fair white faces.
It was Grace Carden. She smiled on him and said, “I am going where I can love you. There the world will not divide us. Follow me: follow; follow!”
Then she melted away; then all melted: and he awoke with a loud cry that echoed through the edifice, now dark and cold as the grave; and a great white owl went whirling, and with his wings made the only air that stirred.
The fire was out, and the place a grave. Yet, cold as it was, the dreamer was bathed in perspiration, so clear had been that unearthly vision, so ghostly was now that flitting owl.
Shuddering all over, he lighted his fire again, and plied his bellows with fury, till the fire glowed brighter than ever; and even then he prayed aloud that he might never see the like again, even in a dream.
He worked like mad, and his hand trembled as he struck. Ere he had thoroughly recovered the shock, a wild cry arose outside.
He started back, awe-struck.
What with the time, the place, and that strange vision, the boundaries of the natural and the supernatural were a little confused in his mind.
“Help, help!” cried a voice; and now the familiar tone of that voice made him utter a loud cry in return.
He searched for the key, and made his way to the door; but, just as he began to insert the key, the voice was at the door outside.
“Oh, save me! A dying girl! Save me!”
The cry was now a moan, and the next moment an inert mass fell like lead against the door in a vain attempt to knock at it.
The voice was Grace Carden's, and it was Grace Carden's body that fell so inert and powerless against the church-door, within a yard of Henry Little's hand.
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