"After standing out as long as this, I"d try and stand out a bit longer," cried Sam. "You _must_, Baxendale; you can"t turn traitor now."
"You say "a bit," longer, Sam Shuck. It has been "a bit longer," and "a bit longer," for some time past; but the bit doesn"t come to any ending.
There"s no more chance of the masters" coming to, than there was at first, but a great deal less. The getting of these men from the country will render them independent of us. What is to become of us then?"
"Rubbish!" said Sam Shuck. "The masters must come to: they can"t stand against the Unions. Because a sprinkling of poor country workmen have thrust in their noses, and the masters are keeping open their works on the show of it, is that a reason why we should knuckle down? They are doing it to frighten us."
"Look here," said Baxendale. "I have two women and two children on my hands, and one of the women is next door to the grave; I am threatened--_you_ know it, Sam Shuck--with a lodging for them in the street next week, because I have not been able to pay the rent; I have parted by selling and pledging, with nearly all there is to part with, of my household goods. There was what they call a Bible reader round last week, and he says, pleasantly, "Why don"t you kneel down and ask G.o.d to consider your condition, Mr. Baxendale?" Very good. But how can I do that? Isn"t it just a mockery for me to pray for help to provide for me and mine? If G.o.d was pleased to answer us in words, would not the answer be, "There is work, and to spare; you have only got to do it?""
"Well, that"s grand," put in one of Sam"s guests, most of whom had been staring with open mouths. "As if folks asked G.o.d about such things as this!"
"Since my late wife died, I have thought about it more than I used to,"
said Baxendale, simply, "and I have got to see that there"s no good to be done in anything without it. But how can I in reason ask for help now, when I don"t help myself? The work is ready to my hand, and I don"t take it. So, Sam, my mind"s made up at last. You"ll tell the Union."
"No, I shan"t. You won"t go to work."
"You"ll see. I shall be glad to go. I haven"t had a proper meal this----"
"You"ll think better of it between now and Monday morning," interrupted Sam, drowning the words. "I"ll have a talk with you to-morrow. Have a bit of supper, Baxendale?"
"No, thank ye. I didn"t come in to eat your victuals," he added, moving to the door.
"We have got plenty," said Mrs. Shuck, turning round from the frying-pan. "Here, eat it up-stairs, if you won"t stop, Baxendale." She took out a slice of liver and of bacon, and handed them to him on a saucer. What a temptation it was to the man, sick with hunger! However, he was about to refuse, when he thought of Mary.
"Thank ye, Mrs. Shuck. I"ll take it, then, if you can spare it. It will be a treat to Mary." Like unto the appearance of water in the arid desert to the parched and exhausted traveller, was the sight of that saucer of meat to Mary. Terribly did she often crave for it. John Baxendale positively refused to touch any; so Mary divided it into two portions, giving one to Mrs. Baxendale. The woman"s good-nature--her sense of Mary"s condition--would have led her to refuse it; but she was not quite made up of self-denial, and she felt faint and sinking. John Baxendale cut a thick slice of bread, rubbed it over the remains of gravy in the saucer, and ate that. "Please G.o.d, this shall have an end,"
he mentally repeated. "I think I _have_ been a fool!"
Mr. Hunter"s yard--as it was familiarly called in the trade--was open just as were other yards, though as yet he had but few men at work in it; in fact, so little was doing that it was almost equivalent to a stand-still. Mr. Henry Hunter was better off. A man of energy, determined to stand no nonsense, as he himself expressed it, he had gone down to country places, and engaged many hands.
On the Monday following the above Sat.u.r.day night, John Baxendale presented himself to Austin Clay and requested to be taken on again.
Austin complied at once, glad to do so, and told the man he was wise to come to his senses. Mr. Hunter was not at business that day; "too unwell to leave home" was the message carried to Austin Clay. In the evening Austin went to the house: as was usual when Mr. Hunter did not make his appearance at the works in the day. Florence was alone when he entered.
Evidently in distress; though she strove to hide it from him, to turn it off with gay looks and light words. But he noted the signs. "What is your grief, Florence?" he asked, speaking in an earnest tone of sympathy.
It caused the tears to come forth again. Austin took her hands and drew her to him, as either a lover or a brother might have done, leaving her to take it as she pleased.
"Let me share it, Florence, whatever it may be."
"It is nothing more than usual," she answered; "but somehow my spirits are low this evening. I try to bear up bravely; and I do bear up: but, indeed, this is an unhappy home. Mamma is sinking fast; I see it daily.
While papa----" But for making the abrupt pause, she would have broken down. Austin turned away: he did not choose that she should enter upon any subject connected with Mr. Hunter. This time Florence would not be checked: as she had been hitherto. "Austin, I cannot bear it any longer.
What is it that is overshadowing papa?" she continued, her voice, her whole manner full of dread. "I am sure that some misfortune hangs over the house."
"I wish I could take you out of it," was the impulsive and not very relevant answer. "I can tell you nothing, Florence," he concluded more soberly. "Mr. Hunter has many cares in business; but the cares are his own."
"Austin, is it kind of you to try to put me off so? I can bear reality, whatever it may be, better than suspense. It is for papa I grieve. See how ill he is! And yet he has no ailment of body, only of mind. Night after night he paces his room, never sleeping."
"How do you know that?" Austin inquired.
"Because I listen to it."--"You should not do so."
"I cannot _help_ listening to him. How is it possible? His room is near mine, and when his footsteps are sounding in it, in the midnight silence, hour after hour, my ears grow sensitively quick. I say that loving him, I cannot help it. Sometimes I think that if I only knew the cause, the nature of his sorrow, I might soothe it--perhaps help to remove it."
"As if young ladies could ever help or remove the cares of business!" he cried, speaking lightly.
"I am not a child, Austin," she resumed: "it is not kind of you to make pretence that I am, and try to put me off as one. Papa"s trouble is _not_ connected with business, and I am sure you know that as well as I do. Will you not tell me what it is?"
"Florence, you can have no grounds for a.s.suming that I am cognisant of it."
"I feel very sure that you are. Can you suppose that I should otherwise speak of it to you?"
"I say that you can have no grounds for the supposition. By what do you so judge?"
"By signs," she answered. "I can read it in your countenance, your actions. I was pretty sure of it before that day when you sent me hastily into your rooms, lest I should hear what the man Gwinn was about to say; but I have been fully sure since. What he would have said related to it; and, in some way, the man is connected with the ill.
Besides, you have been on confidential terms with papa for years."
"On business matters only: not on private ones. My dear Florence, I must request you to let this subject cease, now and always. I know nothing of its nature from your father; and if my own thoughts have in any way strayed towards it, it is not fitting that I should give utterance to them."
"Tell me one thing: could I be of any service, in any way?"
"Hush, Florence," he uttered, as if the words had struck upon some painful cord. "The only service you can render is, by taking no notice of it. Do not think of it if you can help; do not allude to it to your mother."
"I never do," she interrupted.--"That is well."
"You have sometimes said you cared for me."
"Well?" he rejoined, determined to be as contrary as he could.
"If you did, you would not leave me in this suspense. Only tell me the nature of papa"s trouble, I will not ask further."
Austin gathered his wits together, thinking what plea he should invent.
"It is a debt, Florence. Your papa contracted a debt many years ago; he thought it was paid; but by some devilry--pardon the word; I forgot I was talking to you--a lawyer, Gwinn of Ketterford, has proved that it was not paid, and he comes to press for instalments of it. That is all I know. And now you must give me your promise not to speak of this. I"ll never tell you anything more if you do."
Florence had listened attentively, and was satisfied.
"I will never speak of it," she said. "I think I understand it now. Papa fears he shall have no fortune left for me. Oh, if he only knew----"
"Hush, Florence!" came the warning whisper, for Mrs. Hunter was standing at the door.
"Is it you, Austin? I heard voices here, and wondered who had come in."
"How are you, dear Mrs. Hunter?" he said to her as she entered. "Better this evening?"
"Not better," was Mrs. Hunter"s answer, as she retained Austin"s hand, and drew him on the sofa beside her. "There will be no "better" for me in this world. Austin, I wish I could have gone from it under happier circ.u.mstances. Florence, I hear your papa calling."
"If _you_ are not happy in the prospect of the future, who can be?"
murmured Austin, as Florence left the room.
"I spoke not of myself. My concern is for Mr. Hunter. Austin, I would give every minute of my remaining days to know what terrible grief it is that has been so long upon him." Austin was silent. Had Mrs. Hunter and Florence entered into a compact to annoy him? "It has been like a dark shade upon our house for years. Florence and I have kept silence upon it to him, and to each other; to him we dare not speak, to each other we would not. Latterly it has seemed so much worse, that I was forced to whisper of it to her: I could not keep it in; the silence was killing me. We both agree that you are in his confidence; if so, perhaps you will satisfy me?"
Austin Clay felt himself in a dilemma. He could not speak of it in the light manner he had to Florence, or put off so carelessly Mrs. Hunter.
"I am not in his confidence, indeed, Mrs. Hunter," he broke forth, glad to be able to say so much. "That I have observed the signs you speak of in Mr. Hunter, his embarra.s.sment, his grief----"