The sorrowful widow was so fond of her little Henry, and the uncertainty of life was so burnt into her now, that she could hardly bear him out of her sight. Yet her love was of the true maternal stamp; not childish and self-indulgent. She kept him from school, for fear he should be brought home dead to her; but she gave her own mind with zeal to educate him. Nor was she unqualified. If she had less learning than school-masters, she knew better how to communicate what she did know to a budding mind. She taught him to read fluently, and to write beautifully; and she coaxed him, as only a woman can, over the dry elements of music and arithmetic. She also taught him dancing and deportment, and to sew on a button. He was a quick boy at nearly everything, but, when he was fourteen, his true genius went ahead of his mere talents; he showed a heaven-born gift for—carving in wood. This pleased Joseph Little hugely, and he fostered it judiciously.
The boy worked, and thought, and in time arrived at such delicacies of execution, he became discontented with the humdrum tools then current. “Then learn to make your own, boy,” cried Joseph Little, joyfully; and so initiated him into the whole mystery of hardening, forging, grinding, handle-making, and cutlery: and Henry, young and enthusiastic, took his turn at them all in right down earnest.
At twenty, he had sold many a piece of delicate carving, and could make graving-tools incomparably superior to any he could buy; and, for his age, was an accomplished mechanic.
Joseph Little went the way of all flesh.
They mourned and missed him; and, at Henry's earnest request, his mother disposed of the plant, and went with him to London.
Then the battle of life began. He was a long time out of employment, and they both lived on his mother's little fortune.
But Henry was never idle. He set up a little forge hard by, and worked at it by day, and at night he would often sit carving, while his mother read to him, and said he, “Mother, I'll never rest till I can carve the bloom upon a plum.”
Not to dwell on the process, the final result was this. He rose at last to eminence as a carver: but as an inventor and forger of carving tools he had no rival in England.
Having with great labor, patience, and skill, completed a masterpiece of carving (there were plums with the bloom on, and other incredibles), and also a set of carving-tools equally exquisite in their way, he got a popular tradesman to exhibit both the work and the tools in his window, on a huge silver salver.
The thing made a good deal of noise in the trade, and drew many spectators to the shop window.
One day Mr. Cheetham, a master-cutler, stood in admiration before the tools, and saw his way to coin the workman.
This Cheetham was an able man, and said to himself, “I'll nail him for Hillsborough, directly. London mustn't have a hand that can beat us at anything in our line.”
He found Henry out, and offered him constant employment, as a forger and cutler of carving-tools, at L4 per week.
Henry's black eyes sparkled, but he restrained himself. “That's to be thought of. I must speak to my old lady. She is not at home just now.”
He did speak to her, and she put her two hands together and said, “Hillsborough! Oh Henry!” and the tears stood in her eyes directly.
“Well, don't fret,” said he: “it is only saying no.”
So when Mr. Cheetham called again for the reply, Henry declined, with thanks. On this, Mr. Cheetham never moved, but smiled, and offered him L6 per week, and his journey free.
Henry went into another room, and argued the matter. “Come, mother, he is up to L6 a week now; and that is every shilling I'm worth; and, when I get an apprentice, it will be L9 clear to us.”
“The sight of the place!” objected Mrs. Little, hiding her face in her hands instinctively.
He kissed her, and talked good manly sense to her, and begged her to have more courage.
She was little able to deny him, and she consented; but cried, out of his sight, a good many times about it.
As for Henry, strong in the consciousness of power and skill, he felt glad he was going to Hillsborough. “Many a workman has risen to the top of the tree in that place,” said he. “Why, this very Cheetham was grinding saws in a water-wheel ten years ago, I've heard uncle Joe say. Come, mother, don't you be a baby! I'll settle you in a cottage outside the smoke; you shall make a palace of it; and we'll rise in the very town where we fell, and friends and foes shall see us.”
Mr. Cheetham purchased both the carving and the tools to exhibit in Hillsborough; and the purchase-money, less a heavy commission, was paid to Henry. He showed Mrs. Little thirty pounds, and helped her pack up; and next day they reached Hillsborough by train.
Henry took a close cab, and carried his mother off to the suburbs in search of a lodging. She wore a thick veil, and laid her head on her son's shoulder, and held his brown though elegant hand with her white fingers, that quivered a little as she passed through the well-known streets.
As for Henry, he felt quite triumphant and grand, and consoled her in an off-hand, hearty way. “Come, cheer up, and face the music. They have all forgotten you by this time, and, when they do see you again, you shall be as good as the best of them. I don't drink, and I've got a trade all to myself here, and I'd rather make my fortune in this town than any other; and, mother, you have been a good friend to me; I won't ever marry till I have done you justice, and made you the queen of this very town.”
And so he rattled on, in such high spirits, that the great soft thing began to smile with motherly love and pride through her tears, ere they found a lodging.
Next day to the works, and there the foreman showed him a small forge on the ground floor, and a vacant room above to make his handles in and put the tools together; the blades were to be ground, whetted, and finished by cheaper hands.
A quick-eared grinder soon came up to them, and said roughly, “Ain't we to wet new forge?”
“They want their drink out of you,” said the foreman; and whispered, in great anxiety, “Don't say no, or you might as well work in a wasp's nest as here.”
“All right,” said Henry, cheerfully. “I'm no drinker myself, but I'll stand what is customary.”
“That is right,” said Foreman Bayne. “'Twill cost you fifteen shillings. But Peace is cheap at as many guineas.”
The word was given, and every man who worked on the same floor with Henry turned out to drink at his expense, and left off work for a good hour. With some exceptions they were a rough lot, and showed little friendliness or good-humor over it. One even threw out a hint that no cockney forges were wanted in Hillsborough. But another took him up, and said, “Maybe not; but you are not much of a man to drink his liquor and grudge him his bread.”
After this waste of time and money, Henry went back to the works, and a workman told him rather sulkily, he was wanted in the foreman's office.
He went in, and there was a lovely girl of eighteen, who looked at him with undisguised curiosity, and addressed him thus: “Sir, is it you that carve wood so beautifully?”
Henry blushed, and hesitated; and that made the young lady blush herself a very little, and she said, “I wished to take lessons in carving.” Then, as he did not reply, she turned to Mr. Bayne. “But perhaps he objects to teach other people?”
“WE should object to his teaching other workmen,” said the foreman; “but,” turning to Henry, “there is no harm in your giving her a lesson or two, after hours. You will want a set of the tools, miss?”
“Of course I shall. Please put them into the carriage; and—when will he come and teach me, I wonder? for I am wild to begin.”
Henry said he could come Saturday afternoon, or Monday morning early.
“Whichever you please,” said the lady, and put down her card on the desk; then tripped away to her carriage, leaving Henry charmed with her beauty and ease.
He went home to his mother, and told her he was to give lessons to the handsomest young lady he had ever seen. “She has bought the specimen tools too; so I must forge some more, and lose no time about it.”
“Who is she, I wonder?”
“Here is her card. 'Miss Carden, Woodbine Villa, Heath Hill.'”
“Carden!” said the widow. Then, after a moment's thought, “Oh, Henry, don't go near them. Ah, I knew how it would be. Hillsborough is not like London. You can't be long hid in it.”
“Why, what is the matter? Do you know the lady?”
“Oh, yes. Her papa is director of an insurance company in London. I remember her being born very well. The very day she was christened—her name is Grace—you were six years old, and I took you to her christening; and oh, Harry, my brother is her godfather. Don't you go near that Grace Carden; don't visit any one that knew us in better days.”
“Why, what have we to be ashamed of?” said Henry. “'Tisn't as if we sat twiddling our thumbs and howling, 'We have seen better days.' And 'tisn't as if we asked favors of anybody. For my part I don't care who knows I am here, and can make three hundred a year with my own hands and wrong no man. I'd rather be a good workman in wood and steel than an arrogant old fool like your b—. No, I won't own him for yours or mine either—call him Raby. Well, I wouldn't change places with him, nor any of his sort: I'm a British workman, and worth a dozen Rabys—useless scum!”
“That you are, dear; so don't demean yourself to give any of them lessons. Her godfather would be sure to hear of it.”
“Well, I won't, to please you. But you have no more pluck than a chicken—begging your pardon, mother.”
“No, dear,” said Mrs. Little, humbly, quite content to gain her point and lose her reputation for pluck; if any.
Henry worked regularly, and fast, and well, and in less than a fortnight a new set of his carving-tools were on view in Hillsborough, and another in London; for it was part of Mr. Cheetham's strategy to get all the London orders, and even make London believe that these superior instruments had originated in Hillsborough.
One day Miss Carden called and saw Bayne in the office. Her vivid features wore an expression of vexation, and she complained to him that the wood-carver had never been near her.
Bayne was surprised at that; but he was a man who always allayed irritation on the spot. “Rely on it, there's some reason,” said he. “Perhaps he has not got settled. I'll go for him directly.”
“Thank you,” said the young lady. Then in the same breath, “No, take me to him, and perhaps we may catch him carving—cross thing!”
Bayne assented cheerfully, and led the way across a yard, and up a dirty stone stair, which, solid as it was, vibrated with the powerful machinery that steam was driving on every side of it. He opened a door suddenly, and Henry looked up from his work, and saw the invaders.
He stared a little at first, and then got up and looked embarrassed and confused.
“You did not keep your word, sir,” said Grace, quietly.
“No,” he muttered, and hung his head.
He seemed so confused and ashamed, that Bayne came to his assistance. “The fact is, no workman likes to do a hand's-turn on Saturday afternoon. I think they would rather break Sunday than Saturday.”
“It is not that,” said Henry, in a low voice.
Grace heard him, but answered Mr. Bayne: “Oh dear, I wish I had known. I fear I have made an unreasonable request: for, of course, after working so hard all the week—but then why did you let me purchase the tools to carve with? Papa says they are very dear, Mr. Bayne. But that is what gentlemen always say if one buys anything that is really good. But of course they WILL be dear, if I am not to be taught how to use them.” She then looked in Mr. Bayne's face with an air of infantine simplicity: “Would Mr. Cheetham take them back, I wonder, under the circumstances?”
At this sly thrust, Bayne began to look anxious; but Henry relieved him the next moment by saying, in a sort of dogged way, “There, there; I'll come.” He added, after a pause, “I will give you six lessons, if you like.”
“I shall be so much obliged. When will you come, sir?”
“Next Saturday, at three o'clock.”
“I shall be sure to be at home, sir.”
She then said something polite about not disturbing him further, and vanished with an arch smile of pleasure and victory, that disclosed a row of exquisite white teeth, and haunted Henry Little for many a day after.
He told his mother what had happened, and showed so much mortified pride that she no longer dissuaded him from keeping his word. “Only pray don't tell her your name,” said she.
“Well, but what am I to do if she asks it?”
“Say Thompson, or Johnson, or anything you like, except Little.”
This request roused Henry's bile. “What, am I a criminal to deny my name? And how shall I look, if I go and give her a false name, and then she comes to Bayne and learns my right one? No, I'll keep my name back, if I can; but I'll never disown it. I'm not ashamed of it, if you are.”
This reduced poor Mrs. Little to silence; followed, in due course, by a few meek, clandestine tears.
Henry put on his new tweed suit and hat, and went up to the villa. He announced himself as the workman from Cheetham's; and the footman, who had probably his orders, ushered him into the drawing-room at once. There he found Grace Carden seated, reading, and a young woman sewing at a respectful distance. This pair were types; Grace, of a young English gentlewoman, and Jael Dence of a villager by unbroken descent. Grace was tall, supple, and serpentine, yet not thin; Jael was robust and ample, without being fat; she was of the same height, though Grace looked the taller. Grace had dark brown eyes and light brown hair; and her blooming cheek and bewitching mouth shone with expression so varied, yet vivid, and always appropriate to the occasion, grave or gay, playful or dignified, that her countenance made artificial faces, and giggling in-the-wrong-place faces, painfully ridiculous. As for such faces as Jael's, it killed them on the spot, but that was all. Jael's hair was reddish, and her full eyes were gray; she was freckled a little under the eyes, but the rest of her cheek full of rich pure color, healthy, but not the least coarse: and her neck an alabaster column. Hers was a meek, monotonous countenance; but with a certain look of concentration. Altogether, a humble beauty of the old rural type; healthy, cleanly, simple, candid, yet demure.
Henry came in, and the young lady received him with a manner very different from that she had worn down at the works. She was polite, but rather stiff and dignified.
He sat down at her request, and, wondering at himself, entered on the office of preceptor. He took up the carving-tools, and explained the use of several; then offered, by way of illustration, to work on something.
“That will be the best way, much,” said Grace quietly, but her eye sparkled.
“I dare say there's some lumber to be found in a great house like this?”
“Lumber? why, there's a large garret devoted to it. Jael, please take him to the lumber-room.”
Jael fixed her needle in her work, and laid it down gently on a table near her, then rose and led the way to the lumber-room.
In that invaluable repository Henry soon found two old knobs lying on the ground (a four-poster had been wrecked hard by) and a piece of deal plank jutting out of a mass of things. He pulled hard at the plank; but it was long, and so jammed in by miscellaneous articles, that he could not get it clear.
Jael looked on demurely at his efforts for some time; then she suddenly seized the plank a little higher up. “Now, pull,” said she, and gave a tug like a young elephant: out came the plank directly, with a great rattle of dislocated lumber.
“Well, you are a strong one,” said Henry.
“Oh, one and one makes two, sir,” replied the vigorous damsel, modestly.
“That is true, but you threw your weight into it like a workman. Now hand me that rusty old saw, and I'll cut off as much as we want.”
While he was sawing off a piece of the plank, Jael stood and eyed him silently a while. But presently her curiosity oozed out. “If you please, sir, be you really a working man?”
“Why, what else should I be?” was the answer, given rather brusquely.
“A great many gentlefolks comes here as is no better dressed nor you be.”
“Dress is no rule. Don't you go and take me for a gentleman, or we sha'n't agree. Wait till I'm as arrogant, and empty, and lazy as they are. I am a workman, and proud of it.”
“It's naught to be ashamed on, that's certain,” said Jael. “I've carried many a sack of grain up into our granary, and made a few hundred-weight of cheese and butter, besides house-work and farm-work. Bless your heart, I bayn't idle when I be at home.”
“And pray where is your home?” asked Henry, looking up a moment, not that he cared one straw.
“If you please, sir, I do come from Cairnhope village. I'm old Nat Dence's daughter. There's two of us, and I'm the youngest. Squire sent me in here, because miss said Hillsborough girls wasn't altogether honest. She is a dear kind young lady; but I do pine for home and the farm at times; and frets about the young calves: they want so much looking after. And sister, she's a-courting, and can't give her mind to 'em as should be. I'll carry the board for you, sir.”
“All right,” said Henry carelessly; but, as they went along, he thought to himself, “So a skilled workman passes for a gentleman with rustics: fancy that!”
On their return to the drawing-room, Henry asked for a high wooden stool, or chair, and said it would be as well to pin some newspapers over the carpet. A high stool was soon got from the kitchen, and Jael went promptly down on her knees, and crawled about, pinning the newspapers in a large square.
Henry stood apart, superior, and thought to himself, “So much for domestic servitude. What a position for a handsome girl—creeping about on all fours!”
When all was ready, he drew some arabesque forms with his pencil on the board. He then took an exquisite little saw he had invented for this work, and fell upon the board with a rapidity that, contrasted with his previous nonchalance, looked like fury. But he was one of your fast workmen. The lithe saw seemed to twist in his hand like a serpent, and in a very short time he had turned four feet of the board into open-work. He finished the edges off with his cutting tools, and there was a transformation as complete as of linen cloth turned lace.
Grace was delighted. “Shall I ever be able to do that?”
“In half a day. That's not carving; that's trickery. The tool does it all. Before I invented this saw, a good workman would have been a day over that; but now YOU can do it in half an hour, when you are master of the instrument. And now I'll show you honest work.” He took one of the knobs and examined it; then sawed off a piece, and worked on the rest so cunningly with his various cutters, that it grew into a human face toward their very eyes. He even indicated Jael Dence's little flat cap by a means at once simple and ingenious. All the time he was working the women's eyes literally absorbed him; only those of Grace flashed vivid curiosity, Jael's open orbs were fixed with admiration and awe upon his supernatural cleverness.
He now drew some more arabesques on the remaining part of the board, and told Miss Carden she must follow those outlines with the saw, and he would examine her work on Monday morning. He then went off with a quick, independent air, as one whose every minute was gold.
“If you please, miss,” said Jael, “is he a real working man, or only a gentleman as makes it his pastime?”
“A gentleman! What an idea! Of course he is a working man. But a very superior person.”
“To be sure,” continued Jael, not quite convinced, “he don't come up to Squire Raby; but, dear heart, he have a grander way with him than most of the Hillsborough gentlefolks as calls here.”
“Nonsense!” said Grace, authoritatively. “Look at his nails.”
Henry came twice a week, and his pupil made remarkable progress. She was deferential, attentive, enthusiastic.
By degrees the work led to a little conversation; and that, in due course, expanded into a variety of subjects; and the young lady, to her surprise, found her carver well-read in History and Sciences, and severely accurate in his information, whereas her own, though abundant, was rather loose.
One day she expressed her surprise that he could have found time to be so clever with his fingers and yet cultivate his mind.
“Well,” said he, “I was lucky enough to have a good mother. She taught me all she knew, and she gave me a taste for reading; and that has been the making of me; kept me out of the public-house, for one thing.”
“Ah! you WERE fortunate. I lost my mother, sir, when I was but eight years old.”
“Oh dear, that was a bad job,” said Henry brusquely but kindly.
“A very bad job,” said Grace, smiling; but the next moment she suddenly turned her fair head away and tears stole down her cheeks.
Henry looked very sorry, and Jael, without moving, looked at Grace, and opened those sluices, her eyes, and two big drops of sympathy rolled down her comely face in a moment.
That day, when young Little shut the street-door of “Woodbine Villa” and stepped into the road, a sort of dull pain seemed to traverse his chest. It made his heart ache a little, this contrast of the sweet society he had left and the smoky town toward which he now turned his face. He seemed to be ejected from Paradise for the next five days. It was Monday yet he wished the next day was Saturday, and the intervening period could be swept away, so that he might be entering that soft Paradise instead of leaving it.
And this sentiment, once rooted, grew rapidly in an aspiring nature, and a heart that had never yet entertained a serious passion. Now the fair head that bowed over the work so near him, the lovely hand he had so often to direct, and almost to guide, and all the other perfections of mind and body this enchanting girl possessed, crept in at his admiring eyes, and began to steal into his very veins, and fill him with soft complacency. His brusque manner dissolved away, and his voice became low and soft, whenever he was in her delicious presence. He spoke softly to Jael even, if Grace was there. The sturdy workman was enthralled.
Often he wondered at himself. Sometimes he felt alarmed at the strength of his passion and the direction it had taken.
“What,” said he, “have I flirted with so many girls in my own way of life, and come away heart-whole, and now to fall in love with a gentlewoman, who would bid her footman show me the door if she knew of my presumption!”
But these misgivings could neither cure him nor cow him. Let him only make money, and become a master instead of a workman, and then he would say to her, “I don't value birth myself, but if you do, why, I am not come of workpeople.”
He traced a plan with workmanlike precision:—Profound discretion and self-restraint at “Woodbine Villa:” restless industry and stern self-denial in Hillsborough.
After his day's work he used to go straight to his mother. She gave him a cup of tea, and then they had their chat; and after that the sexes were inverted, so to speak: the man carved fruit, and flowers, and dead woodcocks, the woman read the news and polities of the day, and the essays on labor and capital, and any other articles not too flimsy to bear reading aloud to a man whose time was coin. (There was a free library in Hillsborough, and a mechanic could take out standard books and reviews.) Thus they passed the evening hours agreeably, and usefully too, for Henry sucked in knowledge like a leech, and at the same time carved things that sold well in London. He had a strong inclination to open his heart about Miss Carden. Accordingly, one evening he said, “She lost her mother when she was a child.”
“Who lost her mother?” asked Mrs. Little.
“Miss Carden,” said Henry, very softly.
The tone was not lost on Mrs. Little's fine and watchful ear; at least her mind seized it a few seconds afterward.
“That is true,” said she. “Poor girl! I remember hearing of it. Henry, what is that to you? Don't you trouble your head about that young lady, or she will trouble your heart. I wish you did not go near her.”
And then came question upon question, and vague maternal misgivings. Henry parried them as adroitly as he could: but never mentioned Miss Carden's name again.
He thought of her all the more, and counted his gains every week, and began to inquire of experienced persons how much money was wanted to set up a wheel with steam power, and be a master instead of a man. He gathered that a stranger could hardly start fair without L500.
“That is a good lump!” thought Henry: “but I'll have it, if I work night as well as day.”
Thus inspired, his life became a sweet delirium. When he walked, he seemed to tread on air: when he forged, his hammer felt a feather in his hand. The mountains in the way looked molehills, and the rainbow tangible, to Youth, and Health, and Hope, and mighty Love.
One afternoon, as he put on his coat and crossed the yard, after a day's work that had passed like a pleasant hour, being gilded with such delightful anticipations, the foreman of the works made him a mysterious signal. Henry saw it, and followed him into his office. Bayne looked carefully out of all the doors, then closed them softly, and his face betrayed anxiety, and even fear.
“Little,” said he, almost in a whisper, “you know me: I'm a man of peace, and so for love of peace I'm going to do something that might get me into a wrangle. But you are the civillest chap ever worked under me and the best workman, take you altogether, and I can't bear to see you kept in the dark, when you are the man whose skin—only—if I act like a man to you, will you act like one to me?”
“I will,” said Henry; “there's my hand on it.”
Then Bayne stepped to his desk, opened it, and took out some letters.
“You must never tell a soul I showed them you, or you will get me into a row with Cheetham; and I want to be at peace in-doors as well as out.”
“I give you my word.”
“Then read that, to begin.”
And he handed him a letter addressed to Mr. Cheetham.
“SIR,—We beg respectfully to draw your attention to a matter, which is of a nature to cause unpleasantness between you and the Trades. We allude to your bringing a workman in from another town to do work that we are informed can be done on the premises by your own hands.
“We assure you it would be more to your interest to work in harmony with the smiths and the handle-makers in your employ, and the trade generally. Yours respectfully,
“THE COMMITTEE OF THE EDGE-TOOL FORGERS' UNION.”
Henry colored up at this, and looked grieved; but he said, “I am sorry to be the cause of any unpleasantness. But what can I do?”
“Oh,” said Bayne, with a sardonic grin, “they are sure to tell you that, soon or late. Read this:”
No. 2 was dated a week later, and ran thus:
“MR. CHEETHAM: SIR,—I think you do very ill to annoy a many craftsmen for one. Remember, you have suffered loss and inconvenience whenever you have gone against Trades. We had to visit you last year, and when we came your bands went and your bellows gaped. We have no wish to come again this year, if you will be reasonable. But, sir, you must part with London hand, or take consequences.
“BALAAM.”
Henry looked grave. “Can I see a copy of Mr. Cheetham's reply?”
Bayne stared at him, and then laughed in his face, but without the gayety that should accompany a laugh. “Cheetham's reply to Balaam! And where would he send it? To Mr. Beor's lodgings, No. 1 Prophet Place, Old Testament Square. My poor chap, nobody writes replies to these letters. When you get one, you go that minute to the secretary of whatever Union you are wrong with, and you don't argue, or he bids you good-morning; you give in to whatever he asks, and then you get civility; and justice too, according to Trade lights. If you don't do that, and haven't learned what a blessing Peace is, why, you make up your mind to fight the Trade; and if you do, you have to fight them all; and you are safe to get the worst of it, soon or late. Cheetham has taken no notice of these letters. All the worse for him and you too. Read that.”
No. 3 ran thus:
“DEAR SIR,—I take the liberty of addressing you on the subject of your keeping on this knobstick, in defiance of them that has the power to make stones of Hillsborough too hot for you and him. Are you deaf, or blind, or a fool, Jack Cheatem? You may cheat the world, but you don't cheat the devil, nor me. Turn cockney up, with no more ado, or you'll both get kicked to hell some dark night by
“BALAAM'S ASS.”
Henry was silent; quite silent. When he did speak, it was to ask why Mr. Cheetham had kept all this from him.
“Because you shouldn't take fright and leave him,” was the unhesitating reply.
“For that matter they threaten him more than they do me.”
“They warn the master first; but the workman's turn is sure to come, and he gets it hottest, because they have so many ways of doing him. Cheetham, he lives miles from here, and rides in across country, and out again, in daylight. But the days are drawing in, and you have got to pass through these dark streets, where the Trades have a thousand friends, and you not one. Don't you make any mistake: you are in their power; so pray don't copy any hot-headed, wrong-headed gentleman like Cheetham, but speak them fair. Come to terms—if you can—and let us be at peace; sweet, balmy peace.”
“Peace is a good thing, no doubt,” said Henry, “but” (rather bitterly) “I don't thank Cheetham for letting me run blindfold into trouble, and me a stranger.”
“Oh,” said Bayne, “he is no worse than the rest, believe me. What does any master care for a man's life? Profit and loss go down in figures; but life—that's a cipher in all their ledgers.”
“Oh, come,” said Harry, “it is unphilosophical and narrow-minded to fasten on a class the faults of a few individuals, that form a very moderate portion of that class.”
Bayne seemed staggered by a blow so polysyllabic; and Henry, to finish him, added, “Where there's a multitude, there's a mixture.” Now the first sentence he had culled from the Edinburgh Review, and the second he had caught from a fellow-workman's lips in a public-house; and probably this was the first time the pair of phrases had ever walked out of any man's mouth arm in arm. He went on to say, “And as for Cheetham, he is not a bad fellow, take him altogether. But you are a better for telling me the truth. Forewarned, forearmed.”
He went home thoughtful, and not so triumphant and airy as yesterday; but still not dejected, for his young and manly mind summoned its energy and spirit to combat this new obstacle, and his wits went to work.
Being unable to sleep for thinking of what he should do he was the first to reach the works in the morning. He lighted his furnace, and then went and unlocked the room where he worked as a handle maker, and also as a cutler. He entered briskly and opened the window. The gray light of the morning came in, and showed him something on the inside of the door that was not there when he locked it overnight. It was a very long knife, broad toward the handle, but keenly pointed, and double-edged. It was fast in the door, and impaled a letter addressed, in a vile hand—
“TO JAK THRE TRADES.”
Henry took hold of the handle to draw the knife out; but the formidable weapon had been driven clean through the door with a single blow.
Then Henry drew back, and, as the confusion of surprise cleared away, the whole thing began to grow on him, and reveal distinct and alarming features.
The knife was not one which the town manufactured in the way of business, it was a long, glittering blade, double-edged, finely pointed, and exquisitely tempered. It was not a tool, but a weapon.
Why was it there, and, above all, how did it come there?
He distinctly remembered locking the door overnight. Indeed, he had found it locked, and the window-shutters bolted; yet there was this deadly weapon, and on its point a letter, the superscription of which looked hostile and sinister.
He drew the note gently across the edge of the keen knife, and the paper parted like a cobweb. He took it to the window and read it. It ran thus:
“This knifs wun of too made ekspres t'other is for thy hart if thou doesnt harken Trade and leve Chetm. Is thy skin thicks dore thinks thou if not turn up and back to Lundon or I cum again and rip thy —— carkiss with feloe blade to this thou —— cokny
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