Thus the attempt to do Little was more successful than it looks. Its object was to keep Little and Simmons apart, and sure enough those two men never met again in life.
But, on the other hand, this new crime imbittered two able men against the Union, and put Grotait in immediate peril. Mr. Ransome conferred with Mr. Holdfast and they both visited Simmons, and urged him to make a clean breast before he left the world.
Simmons hesitated. He said repeatedly, “Gi' me time! gi' me time!”
Grotait heard of these visits, and was greatly alarmed. He set Dan Tucker and another to watch by turns and report.
Messrs. Holdfast and Ransome had an ally inside the house. Eliza Watney had come in from another town, and had no Hillsborough prejudices. She was furious at this new outrage on Little, who had won her regard, and she hoped her brother-in-law would reveal all he knew. Such a confession, she thought, might remove the stigma from himself to those better-educated persons, who had made a tool of her poor ignorant relative.
Accordingly no sooner did the nurse Little had provided inform her, in a low voice, that there was A CHANGE, than she put on her bonnet, and went in all haste to Mr. Holdfast, and also to the chief constable, as she had promised them to do.
But of course she could not go without talking. She met an acquaintance not far from the door, and told her Ned was near his end, and she was going to tell the gentlemen.
Dan Tucker stepped up to this woman, and she was as open-mouthed to him as Eliza had been to her. Dan went directly with the news to Grotait.
Grotait came all in a hurry, but Holdfast was there before him, and was actually exhorting Simmons to do a good action in his last moments, and reveal those greater culprits who had employed him, when Grotait, ill at ease, walked in, sat down at the foot of the bed, and fixed his eye on Simmons.
Simmons caught sight of him and stared, but said nothing to him. Yet, when Holdfast had done, Simmons was observed to look at Grotait, though he replied to the other. “If you was a Hillsbro' man, you'd know we tell on dead folk, but not on quick. I told on Ned Simmons, because he was as good as dead; but to tell on Trade, that's different.”
“And I think, my poor fellow,” suggested Grotait, smoothly, “you might spend your last moments better in telling US what you would wish the Trade to do for your wife, and the child if it lives.”
“Well, I think ye might make the old gal an allowance till she marries again.”
“Oh, Ned! Ned!” cried the poor woman. “I'll have no man after thee.” And a violent burst of grief followed.
“Thou'll do like the rest,” said the dying man. “Hold thy bellering, and let me speak, that's got no time to lose. How much will ye allow her, old lad?”
“Six shillings a week, Ned.”
“And what is to come of young 'un?”
“We'll apprentice him.”
“To my trade?”
“You know better than that, Ned. You are a freeman; but he won't be a freeman's son by our law, thou knowst. But there's plenty of outside trades in Hillsbro'. We'll bind him to one of those, and keep an eye on him, for thy sake.”
“Well, I must take what I can get.”
“And little enough too,” said Eliza Watney. “Now do you know that they have set upon Mr. Little and beaten him within an inch of his life? Oh, Ned, you can't approve that, and him our best friend.”
“Who says I approve it, thou fool?”
“Then tell the gentleman who the villain was; for I believe you know.”
“I'll tell 'em summut about it.”
Grotait turned pale; but still kept his glittering eye fixed on the sick man.
“The job was offered to me; but I wouldn't be in it. I know that much. Says I, 'He has had his squeak.'”
“Who offered you the job?” asked Mr. Holdfast. And at this moment Ransome came in.
“What, another black coat!” said Simmons. “——, if you are not like so many crows over a dead horse.” He then began to wander, and Holdfast's question remained unanswered.
This aberration continued so long, and accompanied with such interruptions of the breathing, that both Holdfast and Ransome despaired of ever hearing another rational word from the man's lips.
They lingered on, however, and still Grotait sat at the foot of the bed, with his glittering eye fixed on the dying man.
Presently Simmons became silent, and reflected.
“Who offered me the job to do Little?” said he, in a clear rational voice.
“Yes,” said Mr. Holdfast. “And who paid you to blow up the forge?” Simmons made no reply. His fast fleeting powers appeared unable now to hold an idea for above a second or two.
Yet, after another short interval, he seemed to go back a second time to the subject as intelligibly as ever.
“Master Editor!” said he, with a sort of start.
“Yes.” And Holdfast stepped close to his bedside.
“Can you keep a secret?”
Grotait started up.
“Yes!” said Holdfast, eagerly.
“THEN SO CAN I.”
These were the last words of Ned Simmons. He died, false to himself, but true to his fellows, and faithful to a terrible confederacy, which, in England and the nineteenth century, was Venice and the middle ages over again.
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