Henry had now to choose between his mother's advice, and Miss Carden's commands; and this made him rather sullen and irritable. He was glad to get out of his mother's house, and went direct to the works. Bayne welcomed him warmly, and, after some friendly congratulations and inquiries, pulled out two files of journals, and told him he had promised to introduce him to the editor of the Liberal. He then begged Henry to wait in the office, and read the files—he would not be gone many minutes.
The Constitutional gave a dry narrative of the outrage, and mourned the frequency of such incidents.
The Liberal gave a dramatic narrative, and said the miscreant must have lowered himself by a rope from the parapet, and passed the powder inside without entering. “He periled his life to perpetrate this crime; and he also risked penal servitude for ten years. That he was not deterred by the double risk, proves the influence of some powerful motive; and that motive must have been either a personal feud of a very virulent kind, or else trade fanaticism. From this alternative there is no escape.”
Next day, both journals recorded a trade-meeting at “The Rising Sun.” Delegates from the Edge-Tool Forgers' Union, and the Edge-Tool Handlers' Union, and some other representatives of Hillsborough Unions, were present, and passed a resolution repudiating, with disgust, the outrage that had been recently committed, and directed their secretaries to offer a reward of twenty pounds, the same to be paid to any person who would give such information as should lead to the discovery of the culprit.
On this the Constitutional commented as follows:—“Although we never for a moment suspected these respectable Unions of conniving at this enormity, yet it is satisfactory to find them not merely passive spectators, but exerting their energy, and spending their money, in a praiseworthy endeavor to discover and punish the offenders.”
Henry laid down the paper, and his heart felt very warm to Jobson and Parkin. “Come,” said he, “I am glad of that. They are not half a bad sort, those two, after all.”
Then he took up the Liberal, and being young and generous, felt disgusted at its comment:
“This appears to be creditable to the two Unions in question. But, unfortunately, long experience proves that these small rewards never lead to any discovery. They fail so invariably, that the Unions do not risk a shilling by proffering them. In dramatic entertainments the tragedy is followed by a farce: and so it is with these sanguinary crimes in Hillsborough; they are always followed by a repudiation, and offers of a trumpery reward quite disproportionate to the offense, and the only result of the farce is to divert attention from the true line of inquiry as to who enacted the tragedy. The mind craves novelty, and perhaps these delegates will indulge that desire by informing us for once, what was the personal and Corsican feud which led—as they would have us believe—to this outrage; and will, at the same time, explain to us why these outrages with gunpowder have never, either in this or in any preceding case, attacked any but non-union men.”
When Henry had read thus far, the writer of the leader entered the room with Mr. Bayne.
A gentleman not above the middle height, but with a remarkable chest, both broad and deep; yet he was not unwieldy, like Dr. Amboyne, but clean-built, and symmetrical. An agreeable face, with one remarkable feature, a mouth full of iron resolution, and a slight humorous dimple at the corners.
He shook hands with Henry, and said, “I wish to ask you a question or two, in the way of business: but first let me express my sympathy, as a man, and my detestation of the ruffians that have so nearly victimized you.”
This was very hearty, and Henry thanked him with some emotion. “But, sir,” said he, “if I am to reply to your questions, you must promise me you will never publish my name.”
“It is on account of his mother,” whispered Bayne.
“Yes, sir. It was her misfortune to lose my father by a violent death, and of course you may imagine—”
“Say no more,” said Mr. Holdfast: “your name shall not appear. And—let me see—does your mother know you work here?”
“Yes, she does.”
“Then we had better keep Cheetham's name out as well.”
“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you. Now I'll answer any questions you like.”
“Well, then, I hear this outrage was preceded by several letters. Could I see them?”
“Certainly. I carry mine always in my pocket, for fear my poor mother should see them: and, Mr. Bayne, you have got Cheetham's.”
In another minute the whole correspondence was on the table, and Mr. Holdfast laid it out in order, like a map, and went through it, taking notes. “What a comedy,” said he. “All but the denouement. Now, Mr. Bayne, can any other manufacturers show me a correspondence of this kind?”
“Is there one that can't? There isn't a power-wheel, or a water-wheel, within eight miles of Hillsborough, that can't show you just such a correspondence as this; and rattening, or worse, at the tail of it.”
Mr. Holdfast's eye sparkled like a diamond. “I'll make the round,” said he. “And, Mr. Little, perhaps you will be kind enough to go with me, and let me question you, on the road. I have no sub-editor; no staff; I carry the whole journal on my head. Every day is a hard race between Time and me, and not a minute to spare.”
Mr. Cheetham was expected at the works this afternoon: so Henry, on leaving Mr. Holdfast, returned to them, and found him there with Bayne, looking, disconsolately, over a dozen orders for carving-tools.
“Glad to see you again, my lad,” said Cheetham. “Why, you look all the better.”
“I'm none the worse, sir.”
“Come to take your balance and leave me?” This was said half plaintively, half crossly.
“If you wish it, sir.”
“Not I. How is it to be?”
“Well, sir, I say to you what you said to me the other day, Stick to me, and I'll stick to you.”
“I'll stick to you.”
Bayne held up his hands piteously to them both.
“What sir?” faltered he, turning to Cheetham, “after all your experience!” then to Henry, “What, fight the Trades, after the lesson they have given you?”
“I'll fight them all the more for that,” said Henry, grinding his teeth; “fight them till all is blue.”
“So will I. That for the Trades!”
“Heaven help you both!” groaned Bayne, and looked the picture of despair.
“You promised me shutters, with a detonator, sir.”
“Ay, but you objected.”
“That was before they blew me up.”
“Just so. Shutters shall be hung to-morrow; and the detonators I'll fix myself.”
“Thank you, sir. Would you mind engaging a watchman?”
“Hum? Not—if you will share the expense.”
“I'll pay one-third.”
“Why should I pay two thirds? It is not like shutters and Bramah locks: they are property. However, he'll be good against rattening; and you have lost a fortnight, and there are a good many orders. Give me a good day's work, and we won't quarrel over the watchman.” He then inquired, rather nervously, whether there was anything more.
“No, sir: we are agreed. And I'll give you good work, and full time.”
The die was cast, and now he must go home and face his mother. For the first time this many years he was half afraid to go near her. He dreaded remonstrances and tears: tears that he could not dry; remonstrances that would worry him, but could not shake him.
This young man, who had just screwed his physical courage up to defy the redoubtable Unions had a fit of moral cowardice, and was so reluctant to encounter the gentlest woman in England, that he dined at a chop-house, and then sauntered into a music hall, and did not get home till past ten, meaning to say a few kind, hurried words, then yawn, and slip to bed.
But, meantime, Mrs. Little's mind had not been idle. She had long divined a young rival in her son's heart, and many a little pang of jealousy had traversed her own. This morning, with a quickness which may seem remarkable to those who have not observed the watchful keenness of maternal love, she had seen that her rival had worked upon Henry to resign his declared intention of leaving Hillsborough. Then she felt her way, and, in a moment, she had found the younger woman was the stronger.
She assumed as a matter of course, that this girl was in love with Henry (who would not be in love with him?), and had hung, weeping, round his neck, when he called from Cairnhope to bid her farewell, and had made him promise to stay. This was the mother's theory; wrong, but rational.
Then came the question, What should she do? Fight against youth and nature? Fight, unlikely to succeed, sure to irritate and disturb. Risk any of that rare affection and confidence her son had always given her?
While her thoughts ran this way, seven o'clock came, and no Henry. Eight o'clock, and no Henry. “Ah!” thought the mother, “that one word of mine has had this effect already.”
She prepared an exquisite little supper. She made her own toilet with particular care; and, when all was ready, she sat down and comforted herself by reading his letters, and comparing his love with the cavalier behavior of so many sons in this island, the most unfilial country in Europe.
At half past ten Henry came up the stairs, not with the usual light elastic tread, but with slow, hesitating foot. Her quick ear caught that too, and her gentle bosom yearned. What, had she frightened him? He opened the door, and she rose to receive him all smiles. “You are rather late, dear,” she said; “but all the better. It has given me an excuse for reading your dear letters all over again; and I have a thousand questions to ask you about Cairnhope. But sit down first, and have your supper.”
Henry brightened up, and ate a good supper, and his mother plied him with questions, all about Cairnhope.
Here was an unexpected relief. Henry took a superficial view of all this. Sharp young men of twenty-four understand a great many things; but they can't quite measure their mothers yet.
Henry was selfishly pleased, but not ungrateful, and they passed a pleasant and affectionate time: and, as for leaving Hillsborough, the topic was avoided by tacit consent.
Next morning, after this easy victory, Henry took a cab and got to “Woodbine Villa” by a circuitous route. His heart beat high as he entered the room where Grace was seated. After the extraordinary warmth and familiarity she had shown him at the last interview, he took for granted he had made a lasting progress in her regard.
But she received him with a cold and distant manner, that quite benumbed him. Grace Carden's face and manner were so much more expressive than other people's, that you would never mistake or doubt the mood she was in; and this morning she was freezing.
The fact is, Miss Carden had been tormenting herself: and when beauty suffers, it is very apt to make others suffer as well.
“I am glad you are come, Mr. Little,” said she, “for I have been taking myself to task ever since, and I blame myself very much for some things I said. In the first place, it was not for me” (here the fair speaker colored up to the temples) “to interfere in your affairs at all: and then, if I must take such a liberty, I ought to have advised you sensibly, and for your good. I have been asking people, and they all tell me it is madness for one person to fight against these Unions. Everybody gets crushed. So now let me hope you will carry out your wise intention, and leave Hillsborough; and then my conscience will be at ease.”
Every word fell like an icicle on her hearer's heart. To please this cold, changeful creature, he had settled to defy the unchangeable Unions, and had been ready to resist his mother, and slight her immortal and unchanging love.
“You don't answer me, sir!” said Miss Carden, with an air of lofty surprise.
“I answered you yesterday,” said he sullenly. “A man can't chop and change like a weathercock.”
“But it is not changing, it's only going back to your own intention. You know you were going to leave Hillsborough, before I talked all that nonsense. Your story had set me on fire, and that's my only excuse. Well, now, the same person takes the liberty to give you wise and considerate advice, instead of hot, and hasty, romantic nonsense. Which ought you to respect most—folly or reason—from the same lips?”
Henry seemed to reflect. “That sounds reasonable,” said he: “but, when you advised me not to show the white feather, you spoke your heart; now, you are only talking from your head. Then, your beautiful eyes flashed fire, and your soul was in your words: who could resist them? And you spoke to me like a friend; now you speak to me like an enemy.”
“Oh, Mr. Little, that is ridiculous.”
“You do, though. And I'm sure I don't know why.”
“Nor I. Perhaps because I am cross with myself; certainly not with you.”
“I am glad of that. Well, then, the long and the short is, you showed me you thought it cowardly to fly from the Trades. You wouldn't, said you, if you were a man. Well, I'm a man; and I'll do as you would do in my place. I'll not throw my life away, I'll meet craft with craft, and force with force; but fly I never will. I'll fight while I've a leg to stand on.”
With these words he began to work on the bust, in a quiet dogged way that was, nevertheless, sufficiently expressive.
Grace looked at him silently for half a minute, and then rose from her chair.
“Then,” said she, “I must go for somebody of more authority than I am.” She sailed out of the room.
Henry asked Jael who she was gone for.
“It will be her papa,” said Jael.
“As if I care for what he says.”
“I wouldn't show HER that, if I was you,” said Jael, quietly, but with a good deal of weight.
“You are right,” said Henry. “You are a good girl. I don't know which is the best, you or Martha. I say, I promised to go to Cairnhope some Sunday, and see them all. Shall I drive you over?”
“And bring me back at night?”
“If you like. I must come back.”
“I'll ask Miss Carden.”
The words were quiet and composed, but the blushing face beamed with unreasonable happiness; and Grace, who entered at that moment with her father, was quite struck with its eloquence; she half started, but took no further notice just then. “There, papa,” said she, “this is Mr. Little.”
Mr. Carden was a tall gentleman, with somewhat iron features, but a fine head of gray hair; rather an imposing personage; not the least pompous though; quite a man of the world, and took a business view of everything, matrimony, of course, included.
“Oh, this is Mr. Little, is it, whose work we all admire so much?”
“Yes, papa.”
“And whose adventure has made so much noise?”
“Yes, papa.”
“By-the-bye, there is an article to-day on you: have you seen it? No? But you should see it; it is very smart. My dear” (to Jael), “will you go to my study, and bring the Liberal here?”
“Yes, but meantime, I want you to advise him not to subject himself to more gunpowder and things, but to leave the town; that is all the wretches demand.”
“And that,” said Henry, with a sly, deferential tone, “is a good deal to demand in a free country, is it not, sir?”
“Indeed it is. Ah, here comes the Liberal. Somebody read the article to us, while he works. I want to see how he does it.”
Curiosity overpowered Grace's impatience, for a moment, and she read the notice out with undisguised interest.
“'THE LAST OUTRAGE.
“'In our first remarks upon this matter, we merely laid down an alternative which admits of no dispute; and, abstaining from idle conjectures, undertook to collect evidence. We have now had an interview with the victim of that abominable outrage. Mr.—— is one of those superior workmen who embellish that class for a few years, but invariably rise above it, and leave it' (there—Mr. Little!)—'He has informed us that he is a stranger in Hillsborough, lives retired, never sits down in a public-house, and has not a single enemy in Hillsborough, great or small. He says that his life was saved by his fellow-workmen, and that as he lay scorched—'(Oh, dear!')
“Well, go on, Grace.”
“It is all very well to say go on, papa—'scorched and bleeding on the ground and unable to distinguish faces' (poor, poor Mr. Little!) 'he heard, on all sides of him, expressions of rugged sympathy and sobs, and tears, from rough, but—manly fellows, who—'(oh! oh! oh!”)
Grace could not go on for whimpering, and Jael cried, for company. Henry left off carving, and turned away his head, touched to the heart by this sweet and sudden sympathy.
“How badly you read,” said Mr. Carden, and took the journal from her. He read in a loud business-like monotone, that, like some blessed balm, dried every tear. “'Manly fellows who never shed a tear before: this disposed of one alternative, and narrowed the inquiry. It was not a personal feud; therefore it was a Trade outrage, or it was nothing. We now took evidence bearing on the inquiry thus narrowed; and we found the assault had been preceded by a great many letters, all of them breathing the spirit of Unionism, and none of them intimating a private wrong. These letters, taken in connection, are a literary curiosity; and we find there is scarcely a manufacturer in the place who has not endured a similar correspondence, and violence at the end of it. This curious chapter of the human mind really deserves a separate heading, and we introduce it to our readers as
“THE LITERATURE OF OUTRAGE.”
“'First of all comes a letter to the master intimating that he is doing something objectionable to some one of the many Unions that go to make a single implement of hardware. This letter has three features. It is signed with a real name. It is polite. It is grammatical.
“'If disregarded, it is speedily followed by another. No. 2 is grammatical, or thereabouts; but, under a feigned politeness, the insolence of a vulgar mind shows itself pretty plainly, and the master is reminded what he suffered on some former occasion when he rebelled against the trades. This letter is sometimes anonymous, generally pseudonymous.
“'If this reminder of the past and intimation of the future is disregarded, the refractory master gets a missive, which begins with an affectation of coarse familiarity, and then rises, with a ludicrous bound, into brutal and contemptuous insolence. In this letter, grammar is flung to the winds, along with good manners; but spelling survives, by a miracle. Next comes a short letter, full of sanguinary threats, and written in, what we beg leave to christen, the Dash dialect, because, though used by at least three million people in England, and three thousand in Hillsborough, it can only be printed with blanks, the reason being simply this, that every sentence is measled with oaths and indecencies. These letters are also written phonetically, and, as the pronunciation, which directs the spelling, is all wrong, the double result is prodigious. Nevertheless, many of these pronunciations are ancient, and were once universal. An antiquarian friend assures us the orthography of these blackguards, the scum of the nineteenth century, is wonderfully like that of a mediaeval monk or baron.
“'When the correspondence has once descended to the Dash dialect, written phonetically, it never remounts toward grammar, spelling or civilization; and the next in the business is rattening, or else beating, or shooting, or blowing-up the obnoxious individual by himself, or along with a houseful of people quite strange to the quarrel. Now, it is manifest to common sense, that all this is one piece of mosaic, and that the criminal act it all ends in is no more to be disconnected from the last letter, than the last letter from its predecessor, or letter three from letter two. Here is a crime first gently foreshadowed, then grimly intimated, then directly threatened, then threatened in words that smell of blood and gunpowder, and then—done. The correspondence and the act reveal—
“The various talents, but the single mind.”
“'In face of this evidence, furnished by themselves, the trades Unions, some member of which has committed this crime, will do well to drop the worn-out farce of offering a trumpery reward and to take a direct and manly course. They ought to accept Mr.——'s preposterously liberal offer, and admit him to the two Unions, and thereby disown the criminal act in the form most consolatory to the sufferer: or else they should face the situation, and say, “This act was done under our banner, though not by our order, and we stand by it.” The Liberal will continue to watch the case.'”
“This will be a pill,” said Mr. Carden, laying down the paper. “Why, they call the Liberal the workman's advocate.”
“Yes, papa,” said Grace; “but how plainly he shows—But Mr. Little is a stranger, and even this terrible lesson has not—So do pray advise him.”
“I shall be very happy; but, when you are my age, you will know it is of little use intruding advice upon people.”
“Oh, Mr. Little will treat it with proper respect, coming from one so much older than himself, and better acquainted with this wretched town. Will you not, Mr. Little?” said she, with so cunning a sweetness that the young fellow was entrapped, and assented, before he knew what he was about; then colored high at finding himself committed.
Mr. Carden reflected a moment. He then said, “I can't take upon myself to tell any man to give up his livelihood. But one piece of advice I can conscientiously give Mr. Little.”
“Yes, papa.”
“And that is—TO INSURE HIS LIFE.”
“Oh, papa!” cried Grace.
As for Henry he was rather amused, and his lip curled satirically. But the next moment he happened to catch sight of Jael Dence's face; her gray eyes were expanded with a look of uneasiness; and, directly she caught his eye she fixed it, and made him a quick movement of the head, directing him to assent.
There was something so clear and decided in the girl's manner that it overpowered Henry who had no very clear idea to oppose to it, and he actually obeyed the nod of this girl, whom he had hitherto looked on as an amiable simpleton.
“I have no objection to that,” said he, turning to Mr. Carden. Then, after another look at Jael, he said, demurely, “Is there any insurance office you could recommend?”
Mr. Carden smiled. “There is only one I have a right to recommend, and that is the 'Gosshawk.' I am a director. But,” said he, with sudden stiffness, “I could furnish you with the names of many others.”
Henry saw his way clear by this time. “No, sir, if I profit by your advice, the least I can do is to choose the one you are a director of.”
Grace, who had latterly betrayed uneasiness and irritation, now rose, red as fire. “The conversation is taking a turn I did not at all intend,” said she, and swept out of the room with royal disdain.
Her father apologized carelessly for her tragical exit. “That is a young lady who detests business; but she does not object to its fruits—dresses, lace, footmen, diamonds, and a carriage to drive about in. On the contrary, she would be miserable without them.”
“I should hope she never will be without them, sir.”
“I'll take care of that.”
Mr. Carden said this rather dryly, and then retired for a minute; and Grace who was not far off, with an ear like a hare, came back soon after.
But in the meantime Henry left his seat and went to Jael, and, leaning over her as she worked, said, “There is more in that head of yours than I thought.”
“Oh, they all talk before me,” said Jael, blushing faintly, and avoiding his eye.
“Jael Dence,” said the young man, warmly, “I'm truly obliged to you.”
“What for?”
“For your good advice. I didn't see how good it was till after I had taken it.”
“I'm afeard Miss Grace gave you better.”
“She advised me against my heart. What is the use of that?”
“Ay, young men are willful.”
“Come, come, don't you go back. You are my friend and counselor.”
“That is something,” said Jael, in a low voice; and her hands trembled at her side.
“Why, my dear girl, what's the matter?”
“Hush! hush?”
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