THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES m spcwiS r^% : K$yT HAWOKTH'S. HE WAS SO NEAR THAT HER DRESS ALMOST TOUCHED HIM. (Page 70.) HAWORTH'S BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, ATTTHOB OF "THAT LASS O' LOWBIE'B." NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 743 AND 745 BROADWAY. 1879. COPYBTOHT BY FKANCES HODGSON BURNETT, 1879. (All rights reserved.) TROW'S PBINTINO AND BOOKBINDIKO Co., 205 213 East \ZOi St., NEW YOBS. 7>S CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Twenty Years 1 CHAPTER II. Thirty Years..- 11 CHAPTER III. " Not Finished " 16 CHAPTER IV. Janey Briarley 21 CHAPTER V. The Beginning of a Friendship 25 CHAPTER VI. Miss Ffrench 30 CHAPTER VII. The " Who'd Ha' Thowt It?" 39 CHAPTER VIII. Mr. Ffrench 45 CHAPTER IX. " Not for One Hour " 49 CHAPTER X. Christian Murdoch 59 CHAPTER XI. Miss Ffrench Returns. . 66 Vl CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER XII. Granny Dixon 74 CHAPTER XIIL Mr. Ffrench visits the Works. 82 CHAPTER XIV. Nearly an Accident 90 CHAPTER XV. " It would be a Good Thing " 97 CHAPTER XVL " A Poor Chap as is allus i' Trouble " 101 CHAPTER XVII. A Flower 107 CHAPTER XVIIL " Haworth & Co. " 115 CHAPTER XIX. An Unexpected Guest 123 CHAPTER XX. Miss Ffrench makes a Call 130 CHAPTER XXI. In which Mrs. Briarley's Position is Delicate 137 CHAPTER XXII. Again 142 CHAPTER XXIII. ? Ten Shillings' Worth " 152 CHAPTER XXIV. At an End 160 CHAPTER XXV. " I Shall not turn Back " .165 CONTENTS. vi i PAGE CHAPTER XXVI. A Revolution 169 CHAPTER XXVII. The Beginning 178 CHAPTER XXVIII. A Speech, 186 CHAPTER XXIX. ' ' Sararann " 192 CHAPTER XXX. Mrs. Haworth and Granny Dixon 198 CHAPTER XXXI. Haworth's Defender 205 CHAPTER XXXII. Christian Murdoch 211 CHAPTER XXXIII. A Seed Sown 220 CHAPTER XXXIV. A Climax 227 CHAPTER XXXV. " I am not ready for it yet " 241 CHAPTER XXXVI. Settling an Account. 245 CHAPTER XXXVII. A Summer Afternoon 254 CHAPTER XXXVIII. " God Bless Yon ! " 261 CHAPTER XXXIX. " It is done with ".. .. 267 via CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER XL. 'LookOut!" 274 CHAPTER XL1. " It has all been a Lie " 284 CHAPTER XLIT. ' ' Another Man ! " 29.) CHAPTER XLIII. " Even " 294 CHAPTER XLIV. " Why do yon cry for Me ?" 299 CHAPTER XLV. " It is Worse than I Thought " 305 CHAPTER XLVL Once Again 311 CHAPTER XLVII. A Footstep 316 CHAPTER XLVIII. Finished 322 CHAPTER XLIX. " If Aught's for Me, Remember It " 327 CHAPTER L. An After-Dinner Speech 336 CHAPTER LL " Th' On'y One as is na a Foo 1 ! " 343 CHAPTER LIT. " Haworth's is done with " 350 CHAPTER LIII. " A Bit o' Good Black " 3G3 CHAPTER LIV. "It will be to You"... . 369 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. HE WAS SO NKAB THAT HER DRESS ALMOST TOUCHED HlM. Frontixpiece. HAWOKTII'S FIRST APPEARANCE 1 " YO'KE TH' VEUY MORAL ON HIM " 80 " SIT DOWN," SHE SAID, "AND TALK TO ME" 116 "I STAND HERE, MY LAD," HE ANSWERED 183 SlIE TURNED HER FACE TOWARD HlM. " GOOD-NlGHT," SHE ANSWERED 278 " YOU'VE BEEN HERE ALL NIGHT " 323 IT WAS KEDDY WHO AIMED THE BLOW 330 HA WORTH S FIRST Al'PKARANCE. "HAWORTH'S." CHAPTER I. TWENTY TEARS. TWENTY years ago! Yes, twenty years ago this very day, and there were men among them who remembered it. Only two, however, and these were old men whose day was passed and who would soon be compelled to give up work. Naturally upon this occasion these two were the center figures in the group of talkers who were dis cussing the topic of the hour. " Aye," said old Tipton, " I 'member it as well as if it wur yesterday, fur aw it's twenty year' sin'. Eh ! but it wur cowd ! Th' cowdest neet i' th' winter, an' th' winter wur a bad un. Th' snow wur two foot deep. Theer wur a big rush o' work, an' we'd had to keep th' foires goin' arter midneet. Theer wur a chap workin' then by th' name o' Bob Latham, he's dead long sin', an' he went to th' foun dry-door to look out. Yo' know how some chaps is about seein' how cowd it is, or how hot, or how heavy th' rain's comin' down. Well, he wur one o' themsoart, an' he mim go an' tak' a look out at th' snow. 2 "HAWORTU'S." " * Coom in, tha foo',' sez 1 to him. ' Whatten tlia stickin' tha thick yed out theer fur, as if it \vur midsum- mer, i'stead o' being cowd enow to freeze th' tail off a brass jackass. Coom in wi' tha.' " ' Aye,' he sez, a-chatteriu' his teeth, ' it is cowd sure-ly. It's enow to stiffen a inon.' " * I wish it ud stiffen thee,' 1 sez, ( so as we mought set thee up as a inonyment at th' front o' th' 'Sylum.' "An' then aw at onct I heard him gie a jump an' a bit o' a yell, like, under his breath. ' God-a-moighty ! ' he sez. " Summat i' th' way he said it soart o' wakkened me. " ' What's up ? ' I sez. " ' Coom here,' sez he. ' Theer's a dead lad here.' " An' when I getten to him, sure enow 1 thowt he wur reet. D rawed up i' a heap nigh th' door theer wur a lad lyin' on th' snow, an' th' stiff look on him mowt ha' gi'en ony mon a turn. " Latham wur bendin' ower him, wi' his teeth chatterin'. " ' Blast thee ! ' I sez, ' why dost na tha lift him ? ' " Betwixt ns we did lift him, an' carry him into th' Works an' laid him down nigh one o' the furnaces, an' th' fellyscoom crowdin' round to look at him. He wur a lad about nine year' owd, an' strong built ; but he looked more than half clemmed, an' arter we'st rubbed him a good bit an' getten him warmed enow to coom round 'i a manner, th' way he set up an' stared round were summat queer. "'Mesters,' he sez, hoarse an' shaky, 'ha' ony on yo j getten a bit o' bread ? ' " Bob Latham's missus had put him up summat to eat, an' he browt it an' gie it to him. Well, th' little chap a'most snatched it, an' crammed it into his mouth i' great TWENTY YEARS. 3 inouthfuls. His lionds trembled so he cotild scarce howd th' meat an' bread, an' in a bit us as wur standin' lookin' on seed him soart o' choke, as if he wur goin' to cry ; but he swallyed it down, and did na. " ' I havn't had nowt to eat i' a long time,' sez he. " ' How long ? ' sez I. " Seemt like he thowt it ower a bit afore he answered, and then he sez : " ' I think it mini ha' been four days.' " * Wlieer are yo' fro' ? ' one chap axed. "'I coom a long way,' he sez. 'I've bin on th' road three week'.' An' then he looks up sharp. ' I run away fro' th' Union,' he sez. " That wur th' long an' short on it he had th' pluck to run away fro' th' Union, an' he'd had th' pluck to stond out a^en clemmin' an' freezin' until flesh an' blood ud o howd out no longer, an' he'd fell down at the foundry- door. "'I seed th' loight o' th' furnaces,' he sez, 'an' I tried to run ; but I went blind an' fell down. I thowt,' he sez, as cool as a cucumber, ' as 1 wur deein'.' " Well, we kep' him aw neet an' took him to th' mester i' th' mornin', an' th' mester gie him a place, an' he stayed. An' he's bin i' th' foundry fro' that day to this, an' how he's worked an' getten on yo' see for yoresens fro' beein' at ivvery one's beck an' call to buyin' out Flixton an' set' tin' up for hissen. It's the ' Haworth Iron Works ' fro' to-day on, an' he will na mak' a bad mester, eyther." " Nay, he will na," commented another of the old ones. " He's a pretty rough chap, but he'll do will Jem Haworth." There was a slight confused movement in the group. " Here he cooms," exclaimed an outsider. 4 "HAWORTH'S." The man who entered the door-way a strongly built fellow, whose handsome clothes sat rather ill on his some what uncouth body made his way through the crowd with small ceremony. He met the glances of the work men with a rough nod, and went straight to the manage rial desk. But he did not sit down ; he stood up, facing those who waited as if he meant to dispose of the business in hand as directly as possible. " Well, chaps," he said, " here we are." A slight murmur, as of assent, ran through the room. " Aye, mester," they said ; " here we are." " Well," said he, " you know why, I suppose. We're taking a fresh start, and I've something to say to you. I've had my say here for some time ; but I've not had my way, and now the time's come when I can have it. Hang me, but I'm going to have the biggest place in England, and the best place, too. ' Haworth's ' sha'n't be second to none. I've set my mind on that. I said I'd stand here some day," with a blow on the desk, " and here 1 am. I said I'd make my way, and I've done it. From to-day on, this here's ' Haworth's/ and to show you I mean to start fair and square, if there's a chap here that's got a grievance, let that chap step out and speak his mind to Jem Ilaworth himself. Now's his time." And he sat down. There was another stir and murmur, this time rather of consultation ; then one of them stepped forward. " Mester," lie said, " I'm to speak fur 'ein." Ha worth nodded. " What I've getten to say," said the man, " is said easy. Them as thowt they'd getten grievances is willin' to leave the settlin' on 'em to Jem Ilaworth." "That's straight enough," said Haworth. "Let 'em TWENTY YEARS.' 5 stick to it and there's not a chap among 'em sha'n't have his chance. Go into Greyson's room, lads, and drink luck to ' Haworth's.' Tipton and Harrison, you wait a bit." Tipton and Harrison lingered with some degree of timidity. By the time the room had emptied itself, Haworth seemed to have fallen into a reverie. He leaned back in his chair, his hands in his pockets, and stared gloomily before him. The room had been silent five minutes before he aroused himself with a start. Then he leaned forward and beckoned to the two, who came and stood before him. " You two were in the place when I came," he said. " You " to Tipton " were the fellow as lifted me from the snow." " Aye, mester," was the answer, " twenty year' ago, to- neet." " The other fellow " " Dead ! Eh ! Long sin'. Ivvery chap as wur theer, dead an' gone, but me an' him," with a jerk toward his comrade. Haworth put his hand in his vest-pocket and drew forth a crisp piece of paper, evidently placed there for a pur pose. "Here," he said with some awkwardness, "divide that between you." " Betwixt us two ! " stammered the old man. " It's a ten-pun-note, mester ! " " Yes," with something like shamefacedness. " I used to say to myself when I was a youngster that every chap who was in the Works that night should have a five- pound note to-day. Get out, old lads, and get as drunk as you please. I've kept my word. But " his laugh " HA WORTH'S." breaking off in the middle " I wish there'd been more of you to keep it up together." Then they were gone, chuckling in senile delight over their good luck, and he was left alone. He glanced round the room a big, handsome one, well filled with massive office furniture, and yet wearing the usual empty, barren look. " It's taken twenty years," he said, " but I've done it. It's done and yet there isn't as much of it as I used to think there would be." He rose from his chair and went to the window to look out, rather impelled by restlessness than any motive. The prospect, at least, could not have attracted him. The place was closed in by tall and dingy houses, whose slate roofs shone with the rain which drizzled down through the smoky air. The ugly yard was wet and had a deserted look ; the only living object which caught his eye was the solitary figure of a man who stood waiting at the iron gates. At the sight of this man, he started backward with an exclamation. " The devil take the chap ! " he said. " There he is again ! " He took a turn across the room, but he came back again and looked out once more, as if he found some irresisti ble fascination in the sight of the frail, shabbily clad figure. " Yes," he said, " it's him, sure enough. I never saw another fellow with the same, done-for look. I wonder what he wants." He went to the door and opening it spoke to a man who chanced to be passing. " Floxham, come in here," he said. Floxham was a TWENTY TEARS. 1 well-oiled and burly fellow, plainly fresh from the engine- room. He entered without ceremony, and followed his master to the window. Haworth pointed to the man at the gate. " There's a chap," he said, " that I've been running up against, here and there, for the last two months. The fellow seems to spend his time wandering up and down the streets. I'm hanged if he don't make me think of a ghost. He goes against the grain with me, somehow. Do you know who he is, and what's up with him ? " Floxham glanced toward the gate-way, and then nod ded his head dryly. " Aye," he answered. " He's th' inventin' chap as has bin thirty year' at work at some contrapshun, an' hasn't browt it to a yed yet. He lives i' our street, an' me an' my missis hes been noticin' him fur a good bit. He'll noan finish th' thing he's at. He's on his last legs now. He took th' contrapshun to 'Merica thirty year 5 ago, when he first getten th' idea into his yed, an' he browt it back a bit sin' a'most i' the same fix he took it. Me an' my missis think he's a bit soft i' the yed." Haworth pushed by him to get nearer the window. A slight moisture started out upon his forehead. "Thirty year'!" he exclaimed. "By the Lord Harry ! " There might have been something in his excitement which had its effect upon the man who stood outside. He seemed, as it were, to awaken slowly from a fit of lethargy. He glanced up at the window, and moved slowly forward. " He's made up his mind to come in," said Floxham. " What does he want ? " said Haworth, with a sense of physical uneasiness. " Confound the fellow ! " trying to 8 "HAWORTH'S." shake off the feeling with a laugh. " What does he want with me to-day.? " " I can go out an' turn him back," said Floxham. " No," answered Havvorth. " You can go back to your work. I'll hear what he has to say. I've naught else to do j nst now." Floxham left him, and he went back to the big arm chair behind the table. He sat down, and turned over some papers, not rid of his uneasiness even when the door opened, and his visitor came in. He was a tall, slender man who stooped and was narrow-chested. He was gray, hollow-eyed and haggard. He removed his shabby hat and stood before the table a second, in silence. " Mr. Haworth ? " he said, in a gentle, absent-minded voice. " They told me this was Mr. Haworth's room." " Yes," he answered, " I'm Haworth." " I want " a little hoarsely, and faltering " to get some work to do. My name is Murdoch. I've spent the last thirty years in America, but I'm a Lancashire man. I went to America on business which has not been suc cessful yet. 1 I have worked here before," with a glance around him, "and I should like to work here again. I did not think it would be necessary, but that doesn't matter. Perhaps it will only be temporary. I must get work." In the last sentence his voice faltered more than ever. He seemed suddenly to awaken and bring himself back to his first idea, as if he had not intended to wander from it. " I I must get work," he repeated. The effect he produced upon the man he appealed to was peculiar. Jem Haworth almost resented his frail ap pearance. He felt it an uncomfortable thing to confront TWENTY TEARS. 9 just at this hour of his triumph. He had experienced the same sensation, in a less degree, when he rose in the morning and looked out of his window upon murky sky and falling rain. He would almost have given a thousand pounds for clear, triumphant sunshine. And yet, in spite of this, he was not quite as brusque as usual when he made his answer. " I've heard of you," he said. " You've had ill- luck." Stephen Murdoch shifted his hat from hand to hand. " I don't know," he replied, slowly. " I've not called it that yet. The end has been slow, but I think it's sure. It will come some " Haworth made a rough gesture. " By George ! " he exclaimed. " Haven't you given the thing up yet ? " Murdoch fell back a pace, and stared at him in a stunned way. " Given it up ! " he repeated. " Yet ? " " Look here ! " said Haworth. " You'd better do it, if you haven't. Take my advice, and have done with it. You're not a young chap, and if a thing's a failure after thirty years'- work He stopped, because he saw the man trembling nervously. " Oh, 1 didn't mean to take the pluck out of you," he said bluntly, a moment later. "You must have had plenty of it to begin with, egad, or you'd never have stood ife this long." " I don't know that it was pluck," still quivering. " I've lived on it so long that it would not give me up. I think that's it." Haworth dashed off a couple of lines on a slip of paper, and tossed it to him. " Take that to Greyson," he said, " and you'll get your 10 "BAWORT&S." work, and if yon have anything to complain of, come to me." Murdoch took the paper, and held it hesitatingly. " I perhaps 1 ought not to have asked for it to-day," he said, nervously. "I'm not a business man, and 1 didn't think of it. I came in because I saw you. I'm going to London to-morrow, and shall not be back for a week." " That's all right," said Haworth. " Come then." He was not sorry to see his visitor turn away, after uttering a few simple words of thanks. It would be a relief to see the door close after him. But when it had closed, to his discomfiture it opened again. The thin, poorly clad figure reappeared. " I heard in the town," said the man, his cheek flushing faintly, " of what has happened here to-day. Twenty years have brought you better luck than thirty have brought me." " Yes," answered Haworth, " my luck's been good enough, as luck goes." " It seems almost a folly " falling into the meditative tone " for me to wish you good luck in the future." And then, pulling himself together again as before : "it is a folly ; but I wish it, nevertheless. Good luck to you ! " The door closed, and he was gone. CHAPTER II. THIRTY YEARS. A LITTLE later there stood at a window, in one of the cheapest of the respectable streets, a woman whom the neighbors had become used to seeing there. She was a small person, with a repressed and watchful look in her eyes, and she was noticeable, also, to the Lancashire mind, for a certain slightly foreign air, not easily de scribed. It was in consequence of inquiries made con cerning this foreign air, that the rumor had arisen that she was a " 'Merican," and it was possibly a result of this rumor that she was regarded by the inhabitants of the street with a curiosity not unmingled with awe. " Aye," said one honest matron. " Hoo's a 'Merican, fur my mester lieerd it fro' th' landlord. Eh ! I would like to ax her summat about th' Blacks an' th' Indians." But it was not easy to attain the degree of familiarity warranting the broaching of subjects so delicate and truly " 'Merican." The stranger and her husband lived a simple and secluded life. It was said the woman had never been known to go out ; it seemed her place to stand or sit at the window and watch for the man when he left the house on one of his mysterious errands in company with the wooden case he carried by its iron handle. This morning she waited as usual, though the case had not gone out, rather to the disappointment of those in- 12 "HAWORTWS." terested, whose conjectures concerning its contents were varied and ingenious. When, at last, the tall, stooping figure turned the corner, she went to the door and stood in readiness to greet its crossing the threshold. Stephen Murdoch looked down at her with a kindly, absent smile. " Thank you, Kitty," he said. " You are always here, my dear." There was a narrow, hard, horse-hair sofa in the small room into which they passed, and he went to it and lay down upon it, panting a little in an exhausted way, a hectic red showing itself on his hollow cheeks. " Everything is ready, Kitty ? " he said at last. " Yes, all ready." He lay and looked at the fire, still breathing shortly. " I never was as certain of it before," he said. " I have thought I was certain, but I never felt as I do now. And yet I don't know what made me do it I went into Haworth's this morning and asked for for work." His wife dropped the needle she was holding. " For work ! " she said. "Yes yes," a little hastily. "I was there and saw Haworth at a window, and there have been delays so often that it struck me I might as well not exactly de pend on it " He broke off and buried his face in his hands. " What am I saying ? " he cried. " It sounds as if I did not believe in it." His wife drew her chair nearer to him. She was used to the task of consoling him: it had become a habit. D * She spoke in an even, unemotional voice. " When Hilary comes " she began. " It will be all over then," he said, " one way or the other. He will be here when I come back." THIRTY TEARS. 13 "Yes." " I may have good news for him/' he said. " I don't see " faltering afresh " how it can be otherwise. Only I am so used to discouragement that that I can't see the thing fairly. It has been a long time, Kitty." " This man in London," she said, " can tell you the actual truth about it ? " " He is the first mechanic and inventor in England," he answered, his eye sparkling feverishly. " He is a genius. If he says it is a success, it is one." The woman rose, and going to the fire bent down to stir it. She lingered over it for a moment or so before she came back. " When the lad comes," he was saying, as if to himself, " we shall have news for him." Thirty years before, he had reached America, a gentle, unpractical Lancashire man, with a frail physique and empty pockets. He had belonged in his own land to the better class of mechanics ; he had a knack of invention which somehow had never as yet brought forth any de cided results. Pie had done one or two things which had gained him the reputation among his employers of being " a clever fellow," but they had always been things which had finally slipped into stronger or shrewder hands, and left his own empty. But at last there had come to him what seemed a new and wonderful thought. He had labored with it in secret, he had lain awake through long nights brooding over it in the darkness. And then some one had said to him : " Why don't you try America? America's the place for a thinking, inventing chap like you. It's fellows like you who are appreciated in a new country. Capitalists 14 "HAWORTH'S." are not so slow in America. Why don't you carry your traps out there ? " It was more a suggestion of boisterous good-fellowship than anything else, but it awakened new fancies in Stephen Murdoch's mind. He had always cherished vaguely grand visions of the New World, and they were easily excited. " I only wonder I never thought of it," he said to him self. He landed on the strange shore with high hopes in his breast, and a little unperfected model in his shabby trunk. This was thirty years ago, and to-day he was in Lan cashire again, in his native town, with the same little model among his belongings. During the thirty years' interval he had lived an un settled, unsuccessful life. He had labored faithfully at his task, but he had not reached the end which had been his aim. Sometimes he had seemed very near it, but it had always evaded him. He had drifted here and there bearing his work with him, earning a scant livelihood by doing anything chance threw in his way. It had always been a scant livelihood, though after the lapse of eight years, in one of his intervals of hopefulness, he had mar ried. On the first night they spent in their new home he had taken his wife into a little bare room, set apart from the rest, and had shown her his model. " I think a few weeks will finish it," he said. The earliest recollections of their one child centered themselves round the small room and its contents. It was the one touch of romance and mystery in their nar row, simple life. The few spare hours the struggle for daily bread left the man were spent there ; sometimes he THIRTY TEARS. 15 even stole hours from the night, and yet the end was al ways one step farther. His frail body grew frailer, his gentle temperament more excitable, he was feverishly confident and utterly despairing by turns. It was in one of his hours of elation that his mind turned again to his old home. He was sure at last that a few days' work would complete all, and then only friends were needed. " England is the place, after all," he said. " They are more steady there, even if they are not so sanguine, and there are men in Lancashire I can rely upon. We'll try Old England once again." The little money hard labor and scant living had laid away for an hour of need, they brought with them. Their son had remained to dispose of their few possessions. Between this son and the father there existed a strong affection, and Stephen Murdoch had done his best by him. " I should like the lad," he used to say, " to have a fairer chance than I had. I want him to have what I have lacked." As he lay upon the horse-hair sofa he spoke of him to his wife. " There are not many like him," he said. " He'll make his way. I've sometimes thought that may-be " But he did not finish the sentence ; the words died away on his lips, and he lay perhaps thinking over them as he looked at the fire. CHAPTER III. "NOT FINISHED." THE next morning he went upon his journey, and a few days later the son came. He was a tall young fellow, with a dark, strongly cut face, deep-set black eyes and an unconventional air. Those who had been wont to watch his father, watched him in his turn with quite as much interest. He seemed to apply himself to the task of ex ploring the place at once. He went out a great deal and in all sorts of w r eather. He even presented himself at " Haworth's," and making friends with Floxham got per mission to go through the place and look at the machinery. His simple directness of speech at once baffled and soft ened Floxham. "My name's Murdoch," he said. "I'm an American and I'm interested in mechanics. If it isn't against your rules I should like to see your machinery." Floxham pushed his cap off his forehead and looked him over. " Well, I'm dom'd," he remarked. It had struck him at first that this might be " cheek." And then he recognized that is was not. Murdoch looked slightly bewildered. " If there is any objection " he began. " Well, there is na," said Floxham. " Coom on in." And he cut the matter short by turning into the door. "NOT FINISHED." 17 "Did any 'o 3-0' chaps see that felly as coora to look at tli' machinery?" he said afterward to his comrades. " lie's fro' 'Merica, an' danged if he has na more head- fillin' than yo'd think fur. He goes round wi' his hands i' his pockits lookin' loike a foo', an' axin' questions as ud stump an owd nn. He's tli' inveutin' chap's lad. I duimot go much wi' inventions mysen, but th' } T oung chap's noan sich a foo' as he looks." Between mother and son but little had been said on the subject which reigned supreme in the mind of each. It had never been their habit to speak freely on the matter. On the night of Hilary's arrival, as they sat together, the woman said : " He went away three days ago. He will be back at the end of the week. He hoped to have good news for you." They said little beyond this, but both sat silent for some time afterward, and the conversation became desul tory and lagged somewhat until they separated for the night. The week ended with fresh gusts of wind and heavy rains. Stephen Murdoch came home in a storm. On the day fixed for his return, his wife scarcely left her seat at the window for an hour. She sat looking out at the driv- o ing rain with a pale and rigid face ; when the night fell and she rose to close the shutters, Hilary saw that her hands shook. She made the small room as bright as possible, and set the evening meal upon the table, and then sat down and waited again by the fire, cowering a little over it, but not speaking. " His being detained is not a bad sign," said Hilary. Half an hour later they both started from their seats at 18 "HA WORTH'S." once. There was a loud summons at the door. It was Hilary who opened it, his mother following closely. A great gust of wind blew the rain in upon them, and Stephen Murdoch, wet and storm-beaten, stepped in from the outer darkness, carrying the wooden case in his hands. He seemed scarcely to see them. He made his way past them and into the lighted room with an uncertain step. The light appeared to dazzle him. He went to the sofa weakly and threw himself upon it ; he was trembling like a leaf ; he had aged ten years. "I I " And then he looked up at them as they stood before him waiting. " There is naught to say," he cried out, and burst into wild, hysterical weeping, like that of a woman. In obedience to a sign from his mother, Hilary left the room. When, after the lapse of half an hour, he returned, all was quiet. His father lay upon the sofa with closed eyes, his mother sat near him. He did not rise nor touch food, and only spoke once during the evening. Then he opened his eyes and turned them upon the case which still stood where he had placed it. " Take it away," he said in a whisper. " Take it away." The next morning Hilary went to Floxham. " I want work," he said. " Do you think I can get it here ? " " What soart does tha want ? " asked the engineer, not too encouragingly. " Th' gentlemanly soart as tha con do wi' kid-gloves an' a eye-glass on ? " " No," answered Murdoch, " not that sort." Floxhara eyed him keenly. " Would tha tak' owt as was offert thee ? " he demanded. " NOT FINISHED." 10 I think I would." " Aw reet, tlien ! I'll gie thee a chance. Coom tha wi' me to th' engine-room, an' see how long tha'lt stick to it." It was very ordinary work he was given to do, but he seemed to take quite kindly to it ; in fact, the manner in which he applied himself to the rough tasks which fell to his lot gave rise to no slight dissatisfaction among his fellow-workmen, and caused him to be regarded with small respect. lie was usually a little ahead of the stipu lated time, he had an equable temper, and yet despite this and his civility, he seemed often more than half oblivious of the existence of those around him. A highly flavored joke did not awaken him to enthusiasm, and perhaps chiefest among his failings was noted the fact that he had no predilection for " sixpenny," and at his midday meat, which he frequently brought with him and ate in any convenient corner, he sat drinking cold water and eating his simple fare over a book. " Th' chap is na more than haaf theer," was the opinion generally expressed. Since the night of his return from his journey, Stephen Murdoch had been out no more. The neighbors watched for him in vain. The wooden case stood unopened in his room, he had never spoken of it. Through the long hours of the day he lay upon the sofa, either dozing or in silent wakefulness, and at length instead of upon the sofa he lay upon the bed, not having strength to rise. About three months after he had taken his place at Ilaworth's, Hilary came home one evening to find his mother waiting for him at the door. She shed no tears, there was in her face only a hopeless terror. " He has sent me out of the room," she said. " lie has been restless all day. He said he must be alone." 20 HA WORTH'S." Hilary went upstairs. Opening the door he fell back a step. The model was in its old place on the work-table and near it stood a tall, gaunt, white figure. His father turned toward him. He touched himself upon the breast. " I always told myself," he said, inco herently and hoarsely, " that there was a flaw in it that something was lacking. I have said that for thirty years, and believed the day would come when I should remedy the wrong. To-night I know. The truth has come to me at last. There was no remedy. The flaw was in me," touching his hollow chest, " in me. As I lay there 1 thought once that perhaps it was not real that 1 had dreamed it all and might awake. J got up to see to touch it. It is there ! Good God ! " as if a sudden terror grasped him. " Not finished ! and I " He fell into a chair and sank forward, his hand falling * O upon the model helplessly and unmeaningly. Hilary raised him and laid his head upon his shoulder. He heard his mother at the door and cried out loudly to her. " Go back ! " he said. " Go back ! You must not come in." CHAPTER IV. JANEY BRIARLEY. A WEEK later Hilary Murdoch returned from the Brox- ton grave-yard in a drizzling rain, and made his way to the bare, cleanly swept chamber upstairs. Since the night on which he had cried out to his mother that she must not enter, the table at which the dead man had been wont to sit at work had been pushed aside. Some one had thrown a white cloth over it. Murdoch -went to it and drew this cloth away. He stood and looked down at the little skeleton of wood and steel. It had been nothing but a curse from first to last, and yet it fascinated him. He found it hard to do the thing he had come to do. " It is not finished," he said to the echoes of the empty room. '' It never will be." He slowly replaced it in its case, and buried it out of sight at the bottom of the trunk which, from that day for ward, would stand unused and locked. When he arose, after doing this, he unconsciously struck his hands together as he had seen grave-diggers do when they brushed the damp soil away. The first time Haworth saw his new hand he regarded him with small favor. In crossing the yard one day at noon, he came upon him disposing of his midday 22 " HA WORTH'S." meal and reading at the same time. lie stopped to look at him. " Who's that ? " he asked one of the men. The fellow grinned in amiable appreciation of the rough tone of the query. " That's th' 'Merican," he answered. " An ' a soft un he is." " What's that he's reading ? " "Summat about engineeriu', loike as not. That's his crank." In the rush of his new plans and the hurry of the last few months, Haworth had had time to forget the man who had wished him "good luck," and whose pathetic fig ure had been a shadow upon the first glow of his triumph. He did not connect him at all with the young fellow be fore him. He turned away with a shrug of his burly shoulders. " He doesn't look like an Englishman," he said. " He hasn't got backbone enough." Afterward when the two accidentally came in contact, Haworth wasted few civil words. At times his domineer ing brusqueness excited Murdoch to wonder. " He's a queer fellow, that Haworth," he said reflect- ingly to Floxham. " Sometimes 1 think he's out of humor with me." With the twelve-year-old daughter of one of the work men, who used to bring her father's dinner, the young fellow had struck up something of a friendship. She was the eldest of twelve, a mature young person, whose busi ness-like air had attracted him. She had assisted her mother in the rearing of her fam ily from her third year, and had apparently done with the JANET BRIARLEY. 23 follies of youth. She was stunted with much nursing and her small face had a shrewd and careworn look. Mur doch's first advances she received with some distrust, but after a lapse of time they progressed fairly and, without any weak sentiment, were upon excellent terms. One rainy day she came into the yard enveloped in a large shawl, evidently her mother's, and also evidently very much in her way. Her dinner-can, her beer-jug, and her shawl were more than she could manage. " Eh ! I am in a mess," she said to Hilary, stopping at the door-way with a long-drawn breath. " I duunot know which way to turn what wi' th' beer and what wi' th' dinner. I've getten on mother's Sunday shawl as she had afore she wur wed, an' th' eends keep a-draggin' an' a- draggin', an' th' mud'll be th' rain on em. Th' pin mother put in is na big enow, an' it's getten loose." There was perhaps not much sense of hnmor in the young man. He did not seem to see the grotesqueness of the little figure with its mud-bedraggled maternal wrap pings. He turned up the lapel of his coat and examined it quite seriously. " I've got a pin here that will hold it," he said. " I picked it up because it was such a large one." Janey Briarley's eyes brightened. "Eh!" she ejaculated, "that theer's a graidely big un. Some woman mun ha' dropped it out o' her shawl. Wheer did tha foiud it \ " " In the street." " I thowt so. Some woman's lost it. Dost tha think tha con pin it reet, or mun I put th' beer down an' do it mysen '( " He thought he could do it and bent down to reach her level. 24 "ffAWORT&S" It was at this moment that Ha worth approached the door with the intention of passing out. Things had gone wrong with him, and he was in one of his worst moods. He strode down the passage in a savage hurry, and, find ing his way barred, made no effort to keep his temper. " Get out of the road," he said, and pushed Murdoch aside slightly with his foot. It was as if he had dropped a spark of fire into gun powder. Murdoch sprang to his feet, white with wrath and quivering. " D n you ! " he shrieked. " D n you ! I'll kill you ! " and he rushed upon him. As he sprang upon him, Haworth staggered between the shock and his amazement. A sense of the true nature of the thing he had done broke in upon him. When it was all over he fell back a pace, and a grim surprise, not without its hint of satisfaction, was in his face. " The devil take you," he said. " You /iave got some blood in you, after all." CHAPTER V. THE BEGINNING OF A FRIENDSHIP. THE next morning, when he appeared at the Works, Murdoch found he had to make his way through a group of the " hands " which some sufficiently powerful motive had gathered together, which group greeted his appear ance with signs of interest. " Theer he is," he heard them say. And then a gentleman of leisure, who was an outsider leaning against the wall, enjoying the solace of a short pipe, exerted himself to look round and add his comment. " Well," he remarked, " he may ha' done it, an' I wun- not stick out as he did na ; but if it wur na fur the cir- cumstantshal evidence I would na ha' believed it." Floxham met him at the entrance with a message. " Haworth's sent fur thee," he said. " Where is he ? " coolly enough under the circum stances. The engineer chuckled in sly exultation. " lie's in the office. lie didna say nowt about givin' thee th' bag ; but tha may as well mak' up thy moind to it. Tha wert pretty cheeky, tha knows, considerin' he wur th' mester." " Look here," with some heat ; " do 3 T ou mean to say you think I was in the wrong ? Am I to let the fellow insult me and not resent it touch me with his foot, as if I were a do ? " o 2 26 " HA WORTH'S." " Tha'rt particular, my lad," dryly. " An' tha does na know as much o' th' mester koind as most folk." But the next instant he flung down the tool he held in his hand. " Doni thee ! " he cried. " 1 loike thy pluck. Stick to it, lad, mesters or no mesters." As Murdoch crossed the threshold of his room, Jem Ilaworth turned in his seat and greeted him with a short nod not altogether combative. Then he leaned forward, with his arms upon the table before him. " Sit down," he said. " I'd like to take a look at the chap who thought he could thrash Jem Ilaworth." But Murdoch did not obey him. " I suppose you have something to say to me," he said, " as you sent for me." lie did not receive the answer he was prepared for. Jem Haworth burst into a loud laugh. " By George! you're a plucky chap," he said, " if you are an American." Murdoch's blood rose again. " Say what you have to say," he demanded. " I can guess what it is ; but, let me tell you, I should do the same thing again. It was no fault of mine that I was in your path " " If I'd been such a fool as not to see that," put in Ilaworth, with a smile grimmer than before, "do you think I couldn't have smashed every bone in your body ? " Then Murdoch comprehended how matters were to stand between them. " Gotten th' bag ? " asked Floxham when he went back to his work. "No." " Tha hannot ? " with animation. " Well, dang me ! " At the close of the day, as they were preparing to leave THE BEGINNING OP A FRIENDSHIP. 27 their work, Haworth presented himself in the engine- room, looking perhaps a trifle awkward. " See here," he said to Murdoch, " I've heard something to-day as I've missed hearing before, somehow. The in venting chap was your father ? " " Yes." He stood in an uneasy attitude, looking out of the win dow as if he half expected to ,see the frail, tall figure again. " I saw him once, poor chap," he said, " and he stuck to me, somehow. I'd meant to stand by him if he'd come here. I'd have liked to do him a good turn." lie turned to Murdoch suddenly and with a hint of em barrassment in his off-hand air. " Come up and have dinner with me," he said. " It's devilish dull spending a chap's nights in a big place like mine. Come up with me now." The visit was scarcely to Murdoch's taste, but it was easier to accept than to refuse. He had seen the house often, and had felt some slight curiosity as to its inside appearance. There was only one other house in Broxton which ap proached it in size and splendor, and this stood empty at present, its owner being abroad. Broxton itself was a sharp and dingy little town, whose inhabitants were mostly foundry hands. It had grown up around the "Works and increased with them. It had a small railway station, two or three public houses much patronized, and wore, somehow, an air of being utterly unconnected with the outside world which much belied it. Motives of util ity, a desire to be on the spot, and a general disregard for un-business-like attractions had led Haworth to build his house on the outskirts of the town. 28 " HA WORTH'S." "When I want a spree," he had said, "I can go to Manchester or London, and I'm not particular about the rest on it. I want to be nigh the place." It was a big house and a handsome one. It was one of the expressions of the man's success, and his pride was in volved in it. He spent money on it lavishly, and, having completed it, went to live a desolate life among its gran deurs. . The inhabitants of the surrounding villages, which were simple and agricultural, regarded Broxton with frank dis taste, and " ilaworth's " with horror. Ha worth's smoke polluted their atmosphere. Ilaworth's hands made weekly raids upon their towns and rendered themselves obnoxious in their streets. The owner of the Works, his mode of life, his defiance of opinion, and his coarse sins, were sup posed to be tabooed subjects. The man was ignored, and left to his visitors from the larger towns, visitors who occasionally presented themselves to be entertained at his house in a fashion of his own, and who were a greater scandal than all the rest. " They hate me," said Haworth to his visitor, as they sat down to dinner; "they hate me, the devil take 'em. I'm not moral enough for 'em not moral enough ! " with a shout of laughter. There was something unreal to his companion in the splendor with which the great fellow was surrounded. The table was covered with a kind of banquet ; servants moved about noiselessly as he talked and laughed ; the appointments of the room were rich and in good taste. " Oh ! it's none of my work." he said, seeing Murdoch glance about him. " I wasn't fool enough to try to do it myslef. I gave it into the hands of them as knew how." He was loucl-tongued and boastful ; but he showed good- THE BEGINNING OF A FRIENDSHIP. 29 nature enough and a rough wit, and it was also plain that lie knew his own strength and weaknesses. o " Thirty year' your father was at work on that notion of his ? " he said once during the evening. Murdoch made an uneasy gesture of assent. " And it never came to aught ? " " No." "He died." " Yes." He thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and gave the young fellow a keen look. " Why don't you take the thing up yourself ? " he said. " There may be something in it, after all, and you're a long-headed chap." Murdoch started from his chair. He took an excited turn across the room before he knew what he was doing. " 1 never will," he said, " so help me God ! The thing's done with and shut out of the world." When he went away, Ilaworth accompanied him to the door. At the threshold he turned about. " How do you like the look of things ? " he demanded. " I should be hard to please if I did not like the look of them," was the answer. " Well, then, come again. You're welcome. I have it all to myself. I'm not favorite enow with the gentry to bring any on 'em here. You're free to come when th' h't takes you." CHAPTER VI. MISS FFRENCH. IT was considered, after this, a circumstance illustrative of Ha worth's peculiarities that he had taken to himself a protege from among the " hands ; " that said protege was an eccentric young fellow who was sometimes spoken of as being scarcely as bright as he should be ; that he occa sionally dined or supped with Ilaworth ; that he spent numberless evenings with him, and that he read his books, which would not have been much used otherwise. Murdoch lived his regular, unemotional life, in happy ignorance of these rumors. It was true that he gradually fell into the habit of going to Uaworth's house, and also of reading his books. Indeed, if the truth were told, these had been his attraction. "I've no use for 'em," said Ilaworth, candidly, on showing him his library. " Get into 'em, if you've a fancy for 'em." His fancy for them was strong enough to bring him to the place again and again. He found books he had wanted, but never hoped to possess. The library, it may be admitted, was not of Jem Uaworth's selection, and, in deed, this gentleman's fancy for his new acquaintance was not a little increased by a shrewd admiration for an intellectual aptness which might be turned to practical account. MISS FFRENCH. 31 " You tackle 'em as if you were used to 'em," he used to say. " I'd give something solid myself if I could do the same. There's what's against me many a time knowing naught of books, and having to tight my way rough and ready." From the outset of this acquaintance, Murdoch's posi tion at the Works had been an easier one. It became understood that Haworth would stand by him, and that he must be treated with a certain degree of respect. Greater latitude was given him, and better pay, and though lie remained in the engine-room, other and. more responsible work frequently fell into his hands. He went on in the even tenor of his way, uncommuni cative and odd as ever. He still presented himself ahead of time, and labored with the unnecessary, absorbed ardor of an enthusiast, greatly to the distaste of those less zealous. " Tha gets into it as if tha wur doin' fur thysen," said one of these. " Happen " feeling the sarcasm a strong one " happen tha'rt fond on it ? " " Oh yes," unconsciously " that's it, I suppose. I'm fond of it" The scoffer bestowed upon him one thunderstruck glance, opened his mouth, shut it, and retired in disgust. " Tiieer's a chap," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, on returning to his companions, " theer's a chap as says he's fond o' work fond on it ! " with dramatic scorn. " Blast his eyes ! Fond on it ! " With Floxham he had always stood well, though even Floxham's regard was tempered with a slight private con tempt for peculiarities not easily tolerated by the practi cal mind. " Th' chap's getten gumption enow, i' his way," he said 32 "UAWORTSPS." to Ilaworth. " If owt breaks down or gets out o' gear, he's aw theer ; but theer is na a lad on th' place as could na cheat him out o' his eye-teeth." His reputation for being a " queer chap " was greatly increased by the simplicity and seclusion of his life. The house in which he lived with his mother had the atmos phere of a monastic cell. As she had devoted herself to her husband, the woman devoted herself to her son, watching him with a hungry eye. He was given to tak ing long stretches of walks, and appearing in distant vil lages, book in hand, and with apparently no ulterior object in view. His holidays were nearly all spent out- of-doors in such rambles as these. The country people began to know his tall figure and long stride, and to regard him with the friendly toleration of strength for weakness. " They say i' Broxton," it was said among them, " as his feyther deed daft, and it's no wonder th' young chap's getten queer ways. He's good-natured enow, though i' a simple road." His good-nature manifested itself in more than one way which called forth comment. To his early friendship for Janey he remained faithful. The child interested him, and the sentiment developed as it grew older. It was quite natural that, after a few months' acquain tance, he should drop in at the household of her parents on Saturday afternoon, as he was passing. It was the week's half-holiday and a fine day, and he had nothing else to do. These facts, in connection with that of the Briarley's cottage presenting itself, were reasons enough for going in. It occurred to him, as he entered the narrow strip of garden before the door, that the children of the neighbor- MISS FFRENCIL 33 hood must have congregated to hold hio-h carnival. DO O Groups made dirt-pies ; clusters played " bobber and kibbs;" select parties settled differences of opinions with warmth of feeling and elevation of voice ; a youth of tender years, in corduroys which shone with friction, stood upon his head in one corner, calmly but not haugh tily presenting to the blue vault of heaven a pair of pon derous, brass-finished clogs. " What dost want ? " he demanded, without altering his position. " Th' missus isn't in." " I'm going in to see Janey," explained Murdoch. He found the little kitchen shining with the Saturday " cleaning up." The flagged floor as glaringly spotless as pipe-clay and sandstone could make it, the brass oven- handles and tin pans 'in a condition to put an intruder out of countenance, the lire replenished, and Janey sitting on a stool on the hearth enveloped in an apron of her mother's, and reading laboriously aloud. " Eh ! dear me ! " she exclaimed. " It's yo' an' I am na fit to be seen. I wur settin' down to rest a bit. I've been doiii' th' cleanin' aw day, an' I wur real done fur." " Never mind that," said Murdoch. " That's all right enough." lie cast about him for a safe position to take one in which he could stretch his legs and avoid damaging the embarrassing purity of the HOOF. Finally he settled upon a small print-covered sofa and balanced himself carefully upon its extreme edge and the backs of his heels, notwith standing Janey's civil protestations. " Dunnot yo' moind th' floor," she said. " Yo' needn't. Set yo' down comfortable." " Oh, I'm all right," answered Murdoch, with calm good 2* 34 "HA WORTH'S." cheer. " This is comfortable enough. What's that you were reading ? " Janey settled down upon her stool with a sigh at once significant of relief and a readiness to indulge in friendly confidence. " It's a book I getten fro' th' Broxton Chapel Sunday Skoo'. Its th' Mem in-e-rn-o-i-r-s " " Memoirs," responded Murdoch. " Memoyers of Mary Ann Gibbs." Unfortunately her visitor was not thoroughly posted on the subject of the Broxton Chapel literature. lie cast about him mentally, but with small success. " I don't seem to have heard of it before," was the con clusion he arrived at. " Hannot yo' ? Well, it's a noice book, an' theer's lots more like it in th' skoo' libery aw about Sunday skoo' scholars as has consumption an' th' loike an' reads th' boible to foalk an' dees. They aw on 'em dee." " Oh," doubtfully, but still with respect. " It's not very cheerful, is it ? " Janey shook her head with an expression of mature resignation. "Eh no! they're none on 'em cheerful but they're noice to read. This here un now she had th' asthma an' summat wrong wi' her legs, an' she knowed aw' th' boible through aside o' th' hymn-book, an' she'd sing aw th' toime when she could breathe fur th' asthma, an' tell foak as if they did na go an' do likewise they'd go to burnin' hell wheer th' fire is na quenched an' th' worms dyeth not." " It can't have been very pleasant for the friends," was her companion's comment. But there was nothing jocose about his manner. He was balancing himself seriously MISS FFRENVH. 35 on the edge of the hard little sofa and regarding her with speculative interest. " Where's your mother ? " he asked next. " IIoo's gone to th' chapel," was the answer. " Theer's a mothers' meetin' in th' vestry, an' hoo's gone theer an' takken th' babby wi' her. Th' rest o' th' childer is play in' out at th' front." lie glanced out of the door. " Those-r-those are not all yours ? " he said, thunder struck. u Aye, they are that. Eh ! " drawing a long breath, "but is na there a lot on 'em? Theer's eleven an' I've nussed 'em nigh ivvery one." lie turned toward the door again. " There seems to be a great many of them," he remarked. " You must have had a great deal to do." " That I ha'. I've wished mony a time I'd been a rich lady. Theer's that daughter o' Ff rench's now. Eh ! I'd like to ha' bin her." " I never heard of her before," he answered. " Who is she, and why do you choose her ? " " Cos she's so hansum. She's that theer grand she looks loike she thowt ivvery body else wur dirt. I've seen women as wur bigger, an' wore more cloas at onct, but I nivver seed none as grand as she is. I nivver seed her but onct. She coom here wi' her feyther fer two or three week' afore he went to f urrin parts, an' she wur caught i' th' rain one day an' stopped in here a bit. She dropped her hankcher an' mother's getten it yet. It's nigh aw lace. Would yo' loike to see it ? " hospitably. " Yes," feeling his lack of enthusiasm something of a fault. " I dare say I should." From the depths of a drawer which she opened with a 36 "HAWORTff'S." vigorous effort and some skill in retaining her balance, she produced something pinned up in a fragment of old linen. This she bore to her guest and unpinning it, displayed the handkerchief. " Tha can tak' it in thy hond an' smell it," she said gra ciously. " It's getten scent on it." Murdoch took it in his hand, scarcely knowing what else to do. He knew nothing of women and their finerv. o / He regarded the fragrant bit of lace and cambric seri ously, and read in one corner the name " Rachel Ffrench," written in delicate letters. Then he returned it to Janey. " Thank you," he said, " it is very nice." Janey bore it back perhaps with some slight inward misgivings as to the warmth of its reception, but also with a tempering recollection of the ways of " men-foak." When she came back to her stool, she changed the sub ject. " We've bin havin' trouble lately," she said. " Eh ! but I've seed a lot o' trouble i' my day." " What is the trouble now ? " Murdoch asked. " Feyther. It's all us him. He's getteu in wi' a bad lot an' he's drinkin' agen. Seems loike neyther mother nor me con keep him straight fur aw we told him Ilaworth'll turn him off. Haworth's not goin' to stand his drink an' th' lot he goes wi'. I would na stand it mysen." " What lot does he go with ? " " Eh ! " impatiently, " a lot o' foo's as stands round th' publics an' grumbles at th' mesters an' th' wages they get. An' feyther's one o' these soft uns as believes aw they hears an' has na' getten gumption to think fur his sen. I've looked after him ivver sin' I war three." She became even garrulous in her lack of patience, and MISS FFRENCH. 37 was in full flow when her mother entered returning from the chapel, with a fagged face, and a large baby on her hip. " Here, tak' him, Jane Ann," she said ; " but tak' off thy apron furst, or tha'lt tumble ower it an' dirty his clean bishop wi' th' muck tha's getten on it. Eh! I am tired. Who's this here ? " signifying Murdoch. " It's Mester Murdoch," said Janey, dropping the apron and taking the child, who made her look top-heavy. " Sit thee down, mother. Yo' needn't moind him. He's a workin' mon hissen." "When Murdoch took his departure, both accompanied him to the door. " Coom in sometime when th' mester's here," said Mrs. Briarley. " Happen yo' could keep him in a neet an' that ud be summat. " Half way up the lane he met Ilaworth in his gig, which he stopped. " Wheer hast tha been ? " he asked, dropping into dia lect, as he was prone to do. " To Briarley's cottage, talking to the little girl." Ilaworth stared at him a moment, and then burst into a laugh. " Tha'rt a queer chap," he said. " I can no more than half make thee out. If thy head was not so level, 1 should think tha wert a bit soft." " I don't see why," answered Murdoch, undisturbed. "The child interests me. I am not a Lancashire man, remember, and she is a new species." " Get in," said Ilaworth, making room for him on the seat. Murdoch got in, and as they drove on it occurred to him to ask a question. 38 "JTAWORTITS." " Who's Ffrench?" "Ffrench?" said Ilaworth. "Oh, Ffrench is one o' th' nobs here. lie's a chap with a fancy for being a gen tleman-manufacturer, lie's spent his brass on his notions, until he has been obliged to draw in his horns a bit. lie's never lived much in Broxton, though he's got a pretty big place here. The Continent's the style for him, but he'll turn up here again some day when he's hard up enow. There's his place now." And as he spoke they drove sharply by a house stand ing closed among the trees and having an air of desolate- ness, in spite of the sun-light. CHAPTER VII. THE "WHO'D HA' THOWT IT?" " IT'S th' queerest thing i' th' world," said Mrs. Briar- ley to her neighbors, in speaking of her visitor, " it's th' queerest thing i' th' world as he should be a workin' mon. I should ha' thowt he'd ha' wanted to get behind th' counter i' a draper's shop or summat genteel. He'd be a well-lookin' young chap i' a shiny cloth coat an' wi' a blue neck-tie on. Seems loike he does na think enow o' hissen. He'll coom to our house an' set down an' listen to our Janey talkin', an' tell her tilings out o' books, as simple as if he thowt it wur nowt but what ony chap could do. Theer's wheer he's a bit soft. He knows nowt o' settin' hissen up." From Mrs. Briarley Murdoch heard numberless stories of Haworth, presenting him in a somewhat startling light. " Eh ! but he's a rare un, is Haworth," said the good woman. " He does na care fur mon nor devil. The car ry in's on as he has up at th' big house ud mak' a decent body's hair stond o' eend. Afore he built th' house, he used to go to Lunnon an' Manchester fur his sprees, but he has 'em here now, an' theer's drink an' riotin' an' n'nery and foak as owt to be shamt o' theirsens. I won der he is na feart to stay on th' place alone after they're gone." 40 "HAWORTU'S." But for one reason or another the house was qniet enough for the first six months of Murdoch's acquain tance with its master. Haworth gave himself up to the management of the "Works. He perfected plans he had laid at a time when the power had not been in his own hands. He kept his eye on his own interests sharply. The most confirmed shirkers on the place found them- selves obliged to fall to work, however reluctantly. His bold strokes of business enterprise began to give him wide reputation. In the lapse of its first half year, " Haworth's " gained for itself a name. At the end of this time, Murdoch arrived at the Works one morning to find a general tone of conviviality reign ing. A devil-may-care air showed itself among all the graceless. There was a hint of demoralization in the very atmosphere. <; Where's Haworth?" he asked Floxham, who did not seem to share the general hilarity. " I've not seen him." " No," was the engineer's answer, " nor tha will na see him yet a bit. A lot o' foo's coom fro' Lunnon last neet. He's on one o' his sprees, an' a nice douient they'll ha' on it afore they're done." The next morning Ilaworth dashed down to the Works early in his gig, and spent a short time in his room. Be fore he left he went to the engine-room, and spoke to Murdoch. " Is there aught you want from the house aught in the way o' books, I mean ? " he said, with a touch of rough bravado in his manner. " No," Murdoch answered. " All right," he returned. " Then keep away, lad, for a day or two." During the " day or two," Broxton existed in a state of THE " WHO'D HA THOWT IT?" 41 ferment. Gradually an air of disreputable festivity began to manifest itself among all those whose virtue was as- . sailable. There were open " sprees " among these, and their wives, with the inevitable baby in their arms, stood upon their door-steps bewailing their fate, and retailing gossip with no slight zest. " Silks an' satins, bless yo'," they said. " An' paint an' feathers ; th' brazent things, I wonder they are na shamt to show their faces ! A noice mester Haworth is to ha' men under him ! " Having occasion to go out late one evening, Murdoch encountered Janey, clad in the big bonnet and shawl, and hurrying along the street. " Wheer am I goin' ? " she echoed sharply in reply to his query. " Why, I'm goin' round to th' publics to look fur feyther theer's wheer I'm goin'. I hannot seed him sin' dayleet this mornin', an' he's getten th' rent an' th' buryin'-club money wi' him." " I'll go with you," said Murdoch. He went with her, making the round of half the public- houses in the village, finally ending at a jovial establish ment bearing upon its whitened window the ambiguous title " WHO'D HA' THOWT IT ? " There was a sound of argument accompanied by a fid dle, and an odor of beer supplemented by tobacco. Janey pushed open the door atid made her way in, followed by her companion. An uncleanly, and loud-voiced fellow stood unsteadily at a table, flourishing a clay pipe and making a speech. " Th' workin' mou," he said. " Theer's too much talk o' th' workin' mon. Is na it bad enow to be a workin 1 mon, wi'out bavin' th' gentry remindin' yo' on it fro' year eend to year eend \ Le's ha' less jaw-work an' more paw- 42 "HAWORTIPS." work fro' th' gentry. Le's ha' fewer libervs an' athyne- uins, an' more wage an' holidays an' an' beer. Le's pro-gress tha's wlia' I say an' I'm a world n' mon." " Ee-er ! Ee-er ! " cried the chorus. " Ee-er ! " In the midst of the pause following these acclamations, a voice broke in suddenly with startling loudness. " Ee-er ! Ee-er ! " it said. It was Mr. Briarley, who had unexpectedly awakened from a beery nap, and, though much surprised to find out where he was, felt called upon to express his approba tion. Janey hitched her shawl into a manageable length and approached him. " Tha'rt here ? " she said. " I knowed tha would be. Tha'lt worrit th' loife out on us afore tha'rt done. Coom on home wi' me afore tha'st spent ivvery ha'penny we've getten." Mr. Briarley roused himself so far as to smile at her blandly. u It's Zhaney," he said, " it's Zhaney. Don' intrup th' rneetin', Zhaney. I'll be home dreckly. Mus' na intrup th' workin' mon. He's th' backbone 'n' sinoo o' th' coun try. Le's ha' a sup more beer.' ' Murdoch bent over and touched his shoulder. " You had better come home," he said. The man looked round at him blankly, but the next moment an exaggerated expression of enlightenment showed itself on his face. " Iss th' 'Merican," he said. " Iss Murdoch." And then, with sudden bibulous delight : " Gi' us a speech 'bout 'Merica." In a moment there was a clamor all over the room. The last words had been spoken loudly enough to be THE "WHO'D ffA' THO WT IT?" 43 heard, and the idea presented itself to the members of the assembly as a happy one. " Aye," they cried. " Le's ha' a speech fro' th' 'Meri- can. Le's hear snmmat fro' 'Merica. Theer's wheer th' laborin' mon has his dues." Murdoch turned about and faced the company. " You all know enough of me to know whether I am a speech-making man or not," he said. " I have nothing to say about America, and if I had I should not say it here. You are not doing yourselves any good. The least fellow among you has brains enough to tell him that." There was at once a new clamor, this time one of dissa tisfaction. The speech-maker with the long clay, who was plainly the leader, expressed himself with heat and scorn. " lie's a noice chap he is," he cried. " He'll ha' nowt to do wi' us. He's th' soart o' workin' mon to ha' abowt, to play th' pianny an' do paintin' i' velvet. 'Merica be danged ! He's more o' th' gentry koind to-day than Ilaworth. Haworth does tak' a decent spree now an' then ; but this heer un Ax him to tak' a glass o' beer an' see what he'il say/' Disgust was written upon every countenance, but no one proffered the hospitality mentioned. Mr. Briarley had fallen asleep again, murmuring suggestively, " Aye, le's hear summat fro' 'Merica. Le's go to 'Merica. Pu-r on thy bonnet, lass, pur it on." With her companion's assistance, Janey got him out of the place and led him home. " Ilaaf th' rent's gone," she said, when she turned out his pockets, as he sat by the fire. " An' wheer's th' bury- in' money to coom fro' ? " Mr. Briarley shook his head mournfully. 44 HAWORTITS." " Th' buryin' money," he said. " Aye, i'deed. A noice thing it is fur a poor chap to ha' to cut off his beer to pay fur his coffin by th' week, wastin' good brass on suminat he may uivver need as long as he lives. 1 dunnot loike th' thowt on it, eyther. It's bad enow to ha' to get into th' thing at th' eend, wi'out ha'in' it lugged up to th' door ivvery Saturday, ail' payin' fur th' ornynientiii' on it by inches." CHAPTER VIII. MB. FFRENCH. IT was a week before affairs assumed their accustomed aspect. Not that the Works had been neglected, however. Each morning Ha worth had driven down early and spent an hour in his office and about the place, reading letters, issuing orders and keeping a keen look-out generally. " I'll have no spreeing here among you chaps," he an nounced. " Spree as much as you like when th' work's done, but you don't spree in my time. Look sharp after 'em, Kendal." The day after his guests left him he appeared at his usual time, and sent at once for Murdoch. On his arriving he greeted him, leaning back in his chair, his hands thrust into his pockets. " Well, lad," he said, " it's over." Almost unconsciously, Murdoch thrust his hands into his pockets also, but the action had rather a reflective than a defiant expression. " It's lasted a pretty long time, hasn't it ? " he re marked. Haworth answered him with a laugh. " Egad ! You take it cool enough," he said. Suddenly he got up and began to walk about, his air a mixture of excitement and braggadocio. After a turn or two he wheeled about. 46 "HAWORTH'S." " Why don't you say summat?" he demanded, sardoni cally. " Summat moral. You don't mean to tell me you've not got pluck enow ? " " I don't see," said Murdoch, deliberately, " I don't see that there's anything to say. Do you ? " The man stared at him, reddening. Then he turned about and flung himself into his chair again. " No," he answered. " By George ! I don't." They discussed the matter no further. It seemed to dispose of itself. Their acquaintance went on in the old way, but there were moments afterward when Murdoch felt that the man regarded him with something that might have been restrained or secret fear a something which held him back and made him silent and unready of speech. Once, in the midst of a conversation taking a more confidential tone than usual, to his companion's as tonishment he stopped and spoke bluntly : " If I say aught as goes against the grain with yon," he said, '' speak up, lad. Blast it ! " striking his fist hard against his palm, " I'd like to show my clean side to you." It was at this time that he spoke first of his mother. "When I run away from the poor-house," he said, "I left her there. She's a soft-hearted body a good one too. As soon as I earned my first fifteen shillin' a week, I gave her a house of her own and I lived hard to do it. She lives like a lady now, though she's as simple as ever. She knows naught of the world, and she knows naught of me beyond what she sees of me when 1 go down to the little country-place in Kent with a new silk gown and a lace cap for her. She scarce ever wears 'em, but she's as fond on 'em as if she got 'em from Buckingham Palace. She thinks I'm a lad yet, and say my prayers every night and MR. FFEENCH. 4-7 the catechism on Sundays. She'll never know aught else, if I can help it. That's why I keep her where she is." When he said that he intended to make " Ilaworth's " second to no place in England, he had not spoken idly. Ilis pride in the place was a passion. He spent money lavishly but shrewdly ; he paid his men well, but ruled them with an iron hand. Those of his fellow-manufac turers who were less bold and also less keen-sighted, re garded him. with no small disfavor. " He'll have trouble yet, that Haworth fellow," they said. But " Ilaworth's " flourished and grew. The original works were added to, and new hands, being called for, flocked into Broxton with their families. It was Jem Haworth who built the rows of cottages to hold them, and he built them well and substantially, but as a sharp busi ness investment and a matter of pride rather than from any weakness of regarding them from a moral stand-point. " I'll have no poor jobs done on my place," he announced. "I'll leave that to the gentlemen manufacturers." It was while in the midst of this work that he received a letter from Gerard Ffrench, who was still abroad. Going into his room one day Murdoch found him read ing it and looking excited. 41 Here's a chap as would be the chap for me," he said, " if brass were iron that chap Ffrench." " What does he want?" Murdoch asked. " Naught much," grimlv. " He's got a notion of com- o OK o ing back here, and he'd like to go into partnership with me. That's what he's drivin' at. He'd like to be a part ner with Jem Haworth." " What has he to offer ? " " Cheek, and plenty on it. He says his name's well 48 "HA WORTH'S." known, and he's got influence as well as practical knowl edge. I'd like to have a bit of a talk with him." Suddenly he struck his fist on the table before him. " I've got a name that's enow for me," he said. " The day's to come yet when I ask any chap for name or money or aught else. Partner be damned ! This here's ' Haworth's ! ' " CHAPTER IX. "NOT FOR ONE HOUR." THE meetings of the malcontents continued to beheld at the " Who'd ha' thowt it," and were loud voiced and fre quent, but notwithstanding their frequency and noisiness resulted principally in a disproportionate consumption of beer and tobacco and in some differences of opinion, de cided in a gentlemanly manner with the assistance of " backers " and a ring. Having been rescued from these surroundings by Mur doch on several convivial occasions, Briarley began to an ticipate his appearance with resignation if not cheerfulness, and to make preparations accordingly. " I mun lay a sup in reet at th' start," he would say. " Theer's no knowin' how soon he'll turn up if he drops in to see th' women. Gi' me a glass afore these chaps, Mary. They con wait a bit." "Why does tha stand it, tha foo'?" some independent spirit would comment. " Con th' chap carry thee whoam if tha does na want to go? " But Briarley never rebelled. Resistance was not his forte. If it were possible to become comfortably drunk before he was sought out and led away he felt it a matter for mild self-gratulation, but he bore defeat amiably. " Th' missis wants me," he would say unsteadily but with beaming countenance, on catching sight of Murdoch 3 50 "HAWORTITS." or Janey. " Th' missis has sent to ax me to go an' an' set wi' her a bit. I innn go, chaps. A man munna negleck his fam'ly." In response to Mrs. Briarley's ratings and Janey's querulous appeals, it was his habit to shed tears copiously and with a touch of ostentation. " I'm a poor chap, missus," he would say. " I'm a poor chap. Yo' mimnot be hard on me. I nivver wur good enow fur a woman loike yoursen. I should na wonder if I had to join th' teetotals after aw. Tha knows it allus rains o' Whit-Saturday, when they ha' their walk, an' that theer looks as if th' Almoighty wur on th' teetotal soide. It's noan loike he'd go to so mich trouble if he were na." At such crises as these " th' women foak," as he called his wife and Janey, derived their greatest consolation from much going to chapel. " If it wur na fur th' bit o' comfort I get theer," said the poor woman, "I should na know whether I wur standin' on my head or my heels betwixt him, an' th' work, an' th' childer." " Happen ye'd loike to go wi' us," said Janey to Mur doch, one day. Yo'll be sure to hear a good sermont." Murdoch went with them, and sat in a corner of their free seat a hard one, with a straight and unrelenting back. But he was not prevented by the seat from being interested and even absorbed by the doctrine. He had an absent-minded way of absorbing impressions, and the unemotional tenor of his life had left him singularly im partial. He did not finally decide that the sermon was good, bad, or indifferent, but he pondered on it and its probable effects deeply, and with no little curiosity. It was a long sermon, and one which " hit straight from "NOT FOR ONE HOUR:' 51 the shoulder." It displayed a florid heaven and a burn ing hell. It was literal, and well garnished with telling and scriptural quotations. Once or twice during its de livery Murdoch glanced at Janey and Mrs. Briarley. The woman, during intervals of eager pacifying of the big baby, lifted her pale face and listened devoutly. Janey sat respectable and rigorous, her eyes fixed upon the pulpit, her huge shawl folded about her, her bonnet slipping backward at intervals, and requiring to be re peatedly rearranged by a smart hustling somewhere in the region of the crown. The night was very quiet when they came out into the open air. The smoke-clouds of the day had been driven away by a light breeze, and the sky was bright with stars. Mrs. Briarley and the ubiquitous baby joined a neighbor and hastened home, but Murdoch and Janey lingered a little. "My father is buried here," Murdoch had said, and Janey had answered with sharp curiousness, "' Wheer's th' place ? I'd loike to see it. Has tha gotten a big head-stone up ? " She was somewhat disappointed to find there was none, and that nothing but the sod covered the long mound, but she appeared to comprehend the state of affairs at once. " I s'pose tha'lt ha' one after a bit," she said, " when tha'rt not so short as tha art now. Ivverybody's short i' these toimes." She seated herself upon the stone coping of the next grave, her elbow on her knee, a small, weird figure in the uncertain light. " I allus did loike a big head-stone," she remarked, re flectively. " Theer's summat noice about a big white un 52 "HAWORTWS." wi' black letters on it. 1 loike a white un th' best, an' ha' th' letters cut deep, an' th' name big, an' a bit o' poitry at th' eend : ' Stranger, a moment linger near. An' hark to th' one as moulders here ; Thy bones, loike mine, shall rot i' th' ground, Until th' last awful trumpet's sound ; Thy flesh, loike mine, fa' to decay, For mon is made to pass away. ' Snmraat loike that. But yo' see it ud be loike to cost so much. What wi' th' stone an' paint an' cuttiu', I should na wonder if it would na coom to th' matter o' two pound an' then theer's th' funeral." She ended with a sigh, and sank for a moment into a depressed reverie, but in the course of a few moments she roused herself again. " Tell me summat about thy feyther," she demanded. Murdoch bent down and plucked a blade of grass with a rather uncertain grasp. " There isn't much to tell," he answered. " He was unfortunate, and had a hard life and died." Janey looked at his lowered face with a sharp, unchild- ish twinkle in her eye. " Would tha moind me axin thee summat ? " she said. No." But she hesitated a little before she put the question. " Is it wur it true as he wur na aw theer as lie wur a bit a bit soft i' th' yed ? " "No, that is not true." " I'm glad it is na," she responded. " Art tha loike him?" " I don't know." "1VOT FOR ONE HOUR: 1 53 "I hope tha art na, if he did na ha' luck. Theer's a great deal i' luck." Then, with a quick change of sub ject, " How did tha loike tli' sermont ? " " I am not sure," he answered, " that 1 know that either. How did you like it yourself? " " Ay," with an air of elderly approval, " it wur a good un. Mester Hixon allus gi'es us a good un. He owts wi' what he's getten to say. I loike a preacher as owts wi' it." A few moments later, when they rose to go home, her mind seemed suddenly to revert to a former train of thought. " Wur theer money i' that thing thy feyther wur tryin' at? " she asked. " Not for him, it seemed." "Ay; but theer mought be fur thee. Tha mayst ha' more in thee than he had, an' mought mak' summat on it. I'd nivver let owt go as had money i' it. Tha'dst mak' a better rich mon than llaworth." After leaving her Murdoch did not go home. He turned his back upon the village again, and walked rapidly away from it, out on the country road and across field paths, and did not turn until he was miles from .Broxton. Of late he had been more than usually abstracted. He had been restless, and at times nervously unstrung. He had slept ill, and spent his days in a half-conscious mood. More than once, as they walked together, Floxham had spoken to him amazed. " What's up wi' thee, lad ?" he had said. " Art dazed, or hast tha takken a turn an' been on a spree ? " One night, when they were together, Haworth had picked up from the floor a rough but intricate-looking 54 "UAWORTW8." drawing, and, on handing it to him, had been bewildered by his sudden change of expression. " Is it aught of yours ? " he had asked. " Yes," the young fellow had answered ; " it's mine." But, instead of replacing it in his pocket, lie had torn it slowly into strips, and thrown it, piece by piece, into the fire, watching it as it burned. It was not Janey's eminently practical observations which had stirred him to-night. He had been drifting toward this feverish crisis of feeling for months, and had contested its approach inch by inch. There were hours when he was overpowered by the force of what he battled against, and this was one of them. It was nearly midnight when he returned, and his mother met him at the door with an anxious look. It was a look he had seen upon her face all his life ; but its effect upon himself had never lessened from the day he had first recognized it, as a child. " 1 did not think you would wait for me," he said. " It is later than I thought." O " I am not tired," she answered. She had aged a little since her husband's death, but otherwise she had not changed. She looked up at her son just as she had looked at his father, watchfully, but say ing little. " Are you going to bed ? " " I am going upstairs," he replied. But he did not say that he was going to bed. He bade her good-night shortly afterward, and went to his room. It was the one his father had used before his death, and the trunk containing his belongings stood in one corner of it. For a short time after entering the room he paced the "NOT FOR ONE HOUR." 55 floor restlessly and irregularly. Sometimes he walked quickly, sometimes slowly; once or twice he stopped short, checking himself as he veered toward the corner in which stood the unused trunk. " I'm in a queer humor," he said aloud. " I'm thinking of it as if as if it were a temptation to sin. Why should I?" He made a sudden resolute movement forward. He knelt down, and, turning the key in the lock, flung the trunk-lid backward. There was only one thing he wanted, and he knew where to find it. It lay buried at the bottom, under the unused garments, which gave forth a faint, damp odor as he moved them. When he rose from his knees he held the wooden case in his hand. After he had carried it to the table and opened it, and the model stood again before him, he sat down and stared at it with a numb sense of fascination. " I thought I had seen the last of it," he said ; " and here it is." Even as he spoke he felt his blood warm within him, and flush his cheek. His hand trembled as he put it forth to touch and move the frame-work before him. He felt as if it were a living creature. His eye kindled, and he bent forward. " There's something to be done with it yet," he said. " It's not a blunder, I'll swear ! " He was hot with eagerness and excitement. The thing had haunted him day and night for weeks. He had struggled to shake off its influence, but in vain. He had told himself that the temptation to go back to it and pon der over it was the working of a morbid taint in his blood. He had remembered the curse it had been, and 56 "HA WORTH'S." had tried to think of that only ; but it had come back to him again and again, and here it was. lie spent an hour over it, and in the end his passionate eagerness had f^rown rather than diminished. He put his hand up to his forehead and brushed away drops of mois ture, his throat was dry, and his eyes strained. " There's something to be brought out of it yet," he said, as lie had said before. " It can be done, I swear ! " The words had scarcely left his lips before he heard behind him a low, but sharp cry a miserable ejaculation, half uttered. He had not heard the door open, nor the entering foot steps ; but he knew what the cry meant the moment he heard it. He turned about and saw his mother standing on the threshold. If he had been detected in the com mission of a crime, he could not have felt a sharper pang than he did. He almost staggered against the wall and did not utter a word. For a moment they looked at each other in a dead silence. Each wore in the eyes of the other a new aspect. She pointed to the model. " It has come back," she said. " I knew it would." The young fellow turned and looked at it a little stu pidly. " I didn't mean to hurt yon with the sight of it," he Baid. " I took it out because because She stopped him with a movement of her head. " Yes, 1 know," she said. " You took it out because it has haunted you and tempted you. You could not with stand it. It is in your blood." He had known her through all his life as a patient creature, whose very pains had bent themselves and held themselves in check, lest they should seem for an hour to stand in the way of the end to be accomplished. That "NOT FOR ONE HOUR" 57 she had, even in the deepest secrecy, rebelled against fate, he had never dreamed. She came to the table and struck the model aside with one angry blow. " Shall I tell you the truth ? " she cried, panting. " 1 have never believed in it for an hour not for one hour ! " lie could only stammer out a few halting words. " This is all new to me," he said. " 1 did not know " No, you did not know," she answered. " How should you, when I lived my whole life to hide it ? I have been stronger than you thought. I bore with him, as I should have borne with him if he had been maimed or blind or worse than that. 1 did not hurt him he had hurt enough. I knew what the end would be. He would have been a happy man and I a happy woman, if it had not been for that, and there it is again. I tell you," passionately, " there is a curse on it ! " " And you think," he said, " that it has fallen upon me ? " She burst into wild tears. " I have told myself it would," she said. " I have tried to prepare myself for its coming some day ; but I did not think it would show itself so soon as this." " I don't know why," he said slowly. " I don't know what there is in me that I should think I might do what he left undone. There seems a kind of vanity in it." " It is not vanity," she said ; " it is worse. It is what has grown out of my misery and his. I tell you it is in your blood." A flush rose to his face, and a stubborn look settled upon him. 58 "HAWORTWS." " Perhaps it is," he answered. " I have told myself that, too." She held her closed hand upon her heart, as if to crush down its passionate hearings. " Begin as he began," she cried, " and the end will come to you as it came to him. Give it up now now ! " " Give it up ! " he repeated after her. " Give it up," she answered, " or give up your whole life, your youth, your hope, all that belongs to it." She held out her hands to him in a wild, unconsciously theatrical gesture. The whole scene had been theatrical through its very incongruousness, and Murdoch had seen this vaguely, and been more shaken by it than anything else. Before she knew what he meant to do, he approached the table, and replaced the model in its box, the touch of stubborn desperateness on him yet. He carried the case back to the trunk, and shut it in once more. " I'll let it rest a while," he said ; " I'll promise yon that. If it is ever to be finished by me, the time will come when it will see the light again, in spite of us both." CHAPTER X. CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. As he was turning into the gate of the Works the next morning, a little lad touched him upon the elbow. " Mester," he said, " sithee, Mester, stop a bit." He was out of breath, as if he had been running, and he held in his hand a slip of paper. " I thowt I should na ketch thee," he said, " tha'rt so long-legged. A woman sent thee that," and he gave him the slip of paper. Murdoch opened and read the words written upon it. " If you are Stephen Murdoch's son, I must see you. Come with the child." There was no signature only these words, written ir regularly and weakly. He had never met with an ad venture in his life, and this was like an episode in a romance. " If you are Stephen Murdoch's son, I must see you." He could scarcely realize that he was standing in the narrow, up-hill street, jostled by the hands shouting and laughing as they streamed past him through the gates to their work. And yet, somehow he found himself taking it more coolly than seemed exactly natural. This morning, emo tion and event appeared less startling than they would GO " HA WORTH'S." have done even the day before. The strange scene of the past night had, in a manner, prepared him for any thing which might happen. "Who sent it ? " he asked of the boy. " TV woman as lodges i' our house. She's been theer three days, an' she's getten to th' last, mother says. Con tha coom ? She's promist me a shillin' if I browt thee." "Wait here a minute," said Murdoch. He passed into the works and went to Floxham. " I've had a message that calls me away," he said. " If you can spare me for an hour " " I'll mak' out," said the engineer. The lad at the gate looked up with an encouraging grin when lie saw his charge returning. " I'd loike to mak' th' shillin'," he said. Murdoch followed him in silence. He was thinking of what was going to happen to himself scarcely as much as of the dead man in whose name he was culled upon. He was brought near to him again as if it were by a fate. "If you are Stephen Murdoch's son," had moved him strongly. Their destination was soon reached. It was a house in a narrow but respectable street occupied chiefly by a decent class of workmen and their families. A week before he had seen in the window of this same house a card bearing the legend " Lodgings to Let," and now it was gone. A clean, motherly woman opened the door for them. "Tha'stearnt thy shillin', has tha, tha young nowt?" she said to the lad, with friendly severity. " Coom in, Mester. I wur feart he'd get off on some of his mar- locks an' forget aw about th' paper. She's i' a bad way, poor lady, an' th' lass is na o' mich use. Coom up-stairs.' 3 CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. 61 She led the way to the second floor, and her knock being answered by a voice inside, she opened the door. The room was comfortable and of good size, a fire burned on the grate, and before it sat a girl with her hands clasped upon her knee. She was a girl of nineteen, dark of face and slight of figure to thinness. When she turned her head slowly to look at him, Murdoch was struck at once with the pecu liar steadiness of her large black eyes. " She is asleep," she said in a low, cold voice. There was a sound as of movement in the bed. " I am awake," some one said. " If it is Stephen Mur doch's son, let him come here." Murdoch went to the bedside and stood looking down at the woman who returned his gaze. She was a woman whose last hours upon earth were passing rapidly. Her beauty was now only something terrible to see ; her breath came fast and short; her eyes met his with a look of anguish. " Send the girl away," she said to him. Low as her voice was, the girl heard it. She rose with out turning to right or left and went out of the room. Until the door closed the woman still lay looking up into her visitor's face, but as soon as it was shut she spoke laboriously. " What is your name ? " she asked. He told her. " You are like your father," she said, a7id then closed her eyes and lay so for a moment. " It is a mad thing I am doing," she said, knitting her brows with weak fret- fulness, and still lying with closed eyes. "I I do not know why I should have done it only that it is the last thing. It is not that I am fond of the girl or that she 62 " HA WORTH'S." is fond of me," she opened her eyes with a start. " Is the door shut ?" she said. " Keep her out of the room." " She is not here," he answered, " and the door is closed." The sight of his face seemed to help her to recover hei-self. " What am I saying 2 " she said. " I have not told you who I am." " No," he replied, " not yet." " My name was Janet Murdoch," she said. " I was your father's cousin. Once he was very fond of me." She drew from under her pillow a few old letters. " Look at them," she said ; " he wrote them." But he only glanced at the superscription and laid them down again. " I did not know," she panted, " that he was dead. I hoped he would be here. I knew that he must have lived a quiet life. I always thought of him as living here in the old way." "He was away from here for thirty years," said Mur doch. " He only came back to die." "He!" she said, "I never thought of that. It seems very strange. I could not imagine his going from place to place or living a busy life or suffering much. He was so simple and so quiet." "I thought of him," she went on, " because he was a good man a good man and there was no one else in the world. As the end came I grew restless 1 wanted to to try " But there her eyes closed and she forgot herself again. "What was it you wanted to try to do?" he asked gently. She roused herself, as before, with a start. CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. 63 " To try," she said, " to try to do something for the girl." He did not understand what she meant until she had dragged herself up upon the pillow and leaned forward touching him with her hand; she had gathered all her strength for the effort. " I am an outcast," she said, " an outcast ! " The simple and bare words were so terrible that he could scarcely bear them, but he controlled himself by a strong effort. A faint color crept up on her cheek. " You don't understand," she said. " Yes," he answered slowly, " I think I do." She fell back upon her pillows. " I wont tell you the whole story," she said. " It is an ugly one, and she will be ready enough with it when her turn comes. She has understood all her life. She has never been a child. She seemed to fasten her eyes upon me from the hour of her birth, and I have felt them ever since. Keep her away," with a shudder. " Don't let her come in." A sudden passion of excitement seized upon her. " I don't know why I should care," she cried. " There is no reason why she should not live as I have lived but she will not she will not. I have reached the end and she knows it. She sits and looks on and says nothing, but her eyes force me to speak. They forced me to come here to try to make a last effort. If Stephen Murdoch had lived " She stopped a moment. " You are a poor man," she said. " Yes," he answered. " I am a mechanic." " Then you cannot do it." 64 " HA WORTH'S." She spoke helplessly, wildly. " There is nothing to be done. There is no one else. She will be all alone." Then he comprehended her meaning fully. " No," he said, " I am not so poor as that. I am not a poorer man than my father was, and I can do what he would have done had he lived. My mother will care for the girl, if that is what you wish." " What I wish ! " she echoed. " I wish for nothing but I must do something for her before before before " She broke off, but began again. " Yon are like your father. You make things seem simple. You speak as if you were undertaking nothing." " It is not much to do," he answered, " and we could not do less. I will go to my mother and tell her that she is needed here. She will come to you." She turned her eyes on him in terror. " You think," she whispered, " that I shall die soon soon ! " He did not answer her. He could not. She wrung her hands and dashed them open upon the bed, panting. " Oh," she cried, u my God ! It is over ! I have come to the end of it the end ! To have only one life and to have done with it and lie here ! To have lived and loved and triumphed, and to know it is over ! One may defy all the rest, the whole world, but not this. It is done!" Then she turned to him again, desperately. " Go to your mother," she said. " Tell her to come. I want some one 5u the room with me. I wont be left alone with her. 1 cannot bear it." On going out he found the girl sitting at the head of CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. 65 the stairs. She rose and stood aside to let him pass, look ing at him unflinchingly. " Are you coining back ? " she demanded. " Yes," he answered, " I am corning back." In half an hour he re-ascended the staircase, bringing his mother with him. When they entered the room in which the dying woman lay, Mrs. Murdoch went to the Led and bent over her. " My son has brought me to do what I can for you," she said, " and to tell you that he will keep his promise." The woman looked up. For a moment it seemed that she had forgotten. A change had come upon her even in the intervening half -hour. " His promise," she said. " Yes, he will keep it." At midnight she died. Mother and son were in the room, the girl sat in a chair at the bedside. Her hands were clasped upon her knee ; she sat without motion. At a few minutes before the stroke of twelve, the woman awoke from the heavy sleep in which she had lain. She awoke with a start and a cry, and lay staring at the girl, whose steady eyes were fixed upon her. Her lips moved, and at last she spoke. " Forgive me ! " she cried. " Forgive me ! " Murdoch and his mother rose, but the girl did not stir. " For what ? " she asked. " For " panted the woman, " for " But the sentence remained unfinished. The girl did not utter a word. She sat looking at the dying woman in silence only looking at her, not once moving her eyes from the face which, a moment later, was merely a mask of stone which lay upon the pillow, gazing back at her with a fixed stare. CHAPTER XI. MISS FFRENCH RETURNS. THEY took the girl home with them, and three days later the Ffrenchs returned. They came entirely un heralded, and it was Jauey who brought the news of their arrival to the Works. " They've coom," she said, in passing Murdoch on her way to her father. " Mester Ffrench an' her. They rode through th' town this mornin' i' a kerridge. Nobody knowed about it till they seed 'em." The news was the principal topic of conversation through the day, and the comments made were numerous and varied. The most general opinions were that Ffrench was in a " tight place," or had " getten some crank i' hond." " He's noan fond enow o' th' place to ha' coom back fur nowt," said Floxham. " He's a bit harder up than common, that's it." In the course of the morning Haworth came in. Mur doch was struck with his unsettled and restless air ; he came in awkwardly, and looking as if he had something to say, but though he loitered about some time, he did not say it. " Come up to the house to-night," he broke out at last. " I want company." It occurred to Murdoch that he wished to say more, MISS FFRENCH RETURNS. 67 but, after lingering for a few minutes, he went away. As he crossed the threshold, however, he paused un easily. " I say," he said, " Ffrench has come back." " So 1 heard," Murdoch answered. When he presented himself at the house in the even ing, Haworth was alone as usual. Wines were on the table, and he seemed to have drunk deeply. He was flushed, and showed still the touch of uneasiness and ex citement he had betrayed in the morning. "I'm glad you've come," he said. " I'm out of sorts or something." He ended with a short laugh, and turned about to pour out a glass of wine. In doing so his hand trembled so that a few drops fell upon it. He shook them off angrily. " What's up with me ? " he said. He drained the glass at a draught, and filled it again. " I saw Ffrench to-day," he said. " I saw them both." " Both ! " repeated Murdoch, wondering at him. " Yes. She is with him." " She ! " and then remembering the episode of the handkerchief, he added, rather slowly, " You mean Miss Ffrench ? " Haworth nodded. He was pushing his glass to and fro with shaking hands, his voice was hoarse and uncertain. " I passed the carriage on the road," he said, " and Ffrench stopped it to speak to me. He's not much al tered. I never saw her before. She's a woman now and a handsome woman, by George ! " The last words broke from him as if he could not con trol them. He looked up at Murdoch, and as their eyes met he seemed to let himself loose. 68 " HA WORTH'S." " I may as well make a clean breast of it," he said. " I'm I'm hard hit. I'm hard hit." Murdoch flinched. He would rather not have heard the rest. He had had emotion enough during the last few days, and this was of a kind so novel that he was overwhelmed by it. But Ilaworth went on. " It's a queer thing," he said. " I can't quite make it out. I I feel as if I must talk about it and yet there's naught to say. I've seen a woman that's that's taken hold on me." He passed his hands across his lips, which were parched and stiff. " You know the kind of a fellow I've been," he said. " I've known women enough, and too many ; but there's never been one like this. There's always been plenty like the rest. I sat and stared at this one like a block head. She set me trembling. It came over me all at once. I don't know what Ffrench thought. I said to myself, ' Here's the first woman that ever held me back.' She's one of your high kind, that's hard to get nigh. She's got a way to set a man mad. She'll be hard to got at, by George ! " Murdoch felt his pulse start. The man's emotion had communicated itself to him, so far at least. "I don't know much of women," he said. "I've not been thrown among them ; I "No," said Ha worth roughly, " they're not in your line, lad. If they were, happen I shouldn't be so ready to speak out." Then he began and told his story more minutely, relating how, as he drove to the Works, he had met the carriage, and Ffrench had caught sight of him and ordered the ser vant to stop j how he had presented his daughter, and MISS FFRENCH RETURNS. 69 spoken as if she had heard of him often before ; how she had smiled a little, but had said nothing. " She's got a way which makes a man feel as if she was keeping something back, and sets him to wondering what it is. Slie's not likely to be forgot soon ; she gives a chap something to think over." He talked fast and heatedly, and sometimes seemed to lose himself. Now and then he stopped, and sat brooding a moment in silence, and then roused himself with a start, and drank more wine and grew more flushed and excited. After one. of these fitful reveries, he broke out afresh. " I wonder what folk'll say to her of me. They wont give me an over good name, I'll warrant. What a fool I've been! What a d fool I've been all my life! Let them say what they like. They'll make me black enough ; but there is plenty would like to stand in Jem Haworth's shoes. I've never been beat yet. I've stood up and held my own, and women like that. And as to th' name," with rough banter, " it's not chaps like you they fancy, after all." " As to that," said Murdoch coldly, " I've told you I know nothing of women." He felt restive without knowing why. He was glad when he could free himself and get out into the fresh night air ; it seemed all the fresher after the atmosphere he had breathed in-doors. The night was bright and mild. After cold, un-spring- like weather had come an ephemeral balminess. The moon was at full, and he stepped across the threshold into a light as clear as day. He walked rapidly, scarcely noting the road he passed over until he had reached the house which stood alone among its trees, the house Haworth had pointed out a 70 " HA WOBTH'S." few months before. It was lighted now, and its lights attracted his attention. u It's a brighter-looking place than it was then," he said. He never afterward could exactly recall how it was that at this moment he started, turned, and for a breath's space came to a full stop. He had passed out of the shadow of the high boundary wall into the broad moonlight which flooded the gate-way. The iron gates were open, and a white figure stood in the light the figure of a tall young woman who did not move. He was so near that her dress almost touched him. In another moment he was hurrying along the road again, not having spoken, and scarcely understanding the mo mentary shock he had received. " That," he said to himself," that was she ! " When he reached home and opened the door of the lit tle parlor, Christian Murdoch was sitting alone by the dying fire in the grate. She turned and looked at him. " Something," she said, " has happened to you. What is it?" " I don't know," he answered, " that anything has hap pened to me anything of importance." She turned to the fire again and sat gazing at it, rubbing the back of one hand slowly with the palm of the other, as it lay on her knee. " Something has happened to me" she said. " To-day I have seen some one I know." " Some one you know 3 " he echoed. " Here ? " She nodded her head. " Some one I know," she repeated, " though I do not know her name.. I should like to know it." " Her name," he said. " Then it is a woman ? " MISS FFRENCI1 RETURNS. 71 " Yes, a woman a young woman. I saw her abroad four five times." She began to check off the number of times on her fin gers. " In Florence once," she said. " In Munich twice ; in Paris yes, in Paris twice again." " When and how ? " he asked. As he spoke, he thought of the unruffled serenity of the face he had just seen. " Years ago, the first time," she answered, without the least change of tone, " in a church in Florence. I went in because I .was wet and cold and hungry, and it was light and warm there. I was a little thing, and left to ramble in the streets. I liked the streets better than my mother's room. I was standing in the church, looking at the people and trying to feel warm, when a girl came in with a servant. She was handsome and well dressed, and looked almost like a woman. When she saw me, she laughed. I was such a little thing, and so draggled and forlorn. That was why she laughed. The next year I saw her again, at Munich. Her room was across the street and opposite mine, and she sat at the window, amus ing herself by playing with her dog and staring at me. She had forgotten me, but I had not forgotten her ; and she laughed at me again. In Paris it was the same thing. Our windows were opposite each other again. It was five years after, but that time she knew me, though she pre tended she did not. She drove past the house to-day, and I saw her. I should like to know her name." " I think I can tell you what it is," he said. " She is a Miss Ff rench. Her father is a Broxton man. They have a place here." " Have they 3 " she asked. " Will they live here ? " 72 " I believe so," he answered. She sat for a moment, rubbing her hand slowly as be fore, and then she spoke. " So much the worse," she said, " so much the worse for me." She went up to her room when she left him. It was a little room in the second story, and she had become fond of it. She often sat alone there. She had been sitting at its window when Rachel Ffrench had driven by in the afternoon. The window was still open she saw as she entered, and a gust of wind passing through it had scat tered several light articles about the floor. She went to pick them up. They were principally loose papers, and as she bent to raise the first one she discovered that it was yellow with age and covered with a rough drawing of some mechanical appliance. Another and another pre sented the same plan drawn again and again, elaborat3ly and with great pains at times, and then hastily as if some new thought had suggested itself. On several were writ ten dates, and on others a few words. She was endeavoring to decipher some of these faintly written words when a fresh gust of rising wind rushed past her as she stood, and immediately there fell upon her ear a slight ghostly rustle. Near her was a small unused closet whose door had been thrown open, and as she turned toward it there fluttered from one of the shelves a sheet of paper yellower than the rest. She picked it up and read the words written upon the back of the drawing. They had been written twenty-six years before. " To-day the child was born. It is a boy. By the time he is a year old my work will be done." The girl's heart began to beat quickly. The papers rustled again, and a kind of fear took possession of her. MISS FFRENCH RETURNS. 73 " He wrote it," she said aloud. " The man who is dead who is dead ; and it was not finished at all." She closed the window, eager to shut out the wind ; then she closed the door and went back to the papers. Her fancies concerning Stephen Murdoch had taken very definite shape from the first. She knew two things of him ; that he had been gentle and unworldly, and that he had cherished throughout his life a hope which had eluded him until death had come between him and his patient and unflagging labor. The sight of the yellow faded papers moved her to powerful feeling. She had never had a friend ; she had stood alone from her earliest childhood, and here was a creature who had been desolate too who must have been desolate, since he had been impelled to write the simple outcome of his thoughts again and again upon the paper he wrought on, as if no human being had been near to hear. It was this which touched her most of all. There was scarcely a sheet upon which some few words were not written. Each new plan bore its date, and some hopeful or weary thought. He had been tired often, but never faithless to his belief. The end was never very far off. A few days, one more touch, would bring it, and then he had forgotten all the past. " I can afford to forget it," he said once. " It only seems strange now that it should have lasted so long when so few steps remain to be taken." These words had been written on his leaving America. He was ready for his departure. They were the last record. When she had read them, Christian pushed the papers away and sat gazing into space with dilated eyes. "He died," she said. "He is dead. Nothing can bring him back ; and it is forgotten." 4 CHAPTER XII. GEANNY DIXON. THE next time Janey brought her fathers dinner to the Yard she sought out Murdoch in a dejected mood. She found him reading over his lunch in the sunshine, and she sat down opposite to him, folding her arms on her lap. " We're i' trouble again at our house," she said. " "We're allus i' trouble. If it is na one thing, it's an other." Murdoch shut his book and leaned back upon his pile of lumber to listen. He always listened. " What is it this time ? " " This toime ? " querulously. " This is th' worst o' th' lot Granny Dixon's come back." "Granny Dixon?" Janey shook her head. "Tha knows nowt about her," she said. "I nivvcr towd thee nowt. She's my feyther's grandmother an' she's ower ninety years owd, an' she's getten money. If it wur na fur that no one ud stond her, but" with a sigh " foak conna turn away brass." Having relieved herself of this sentiment she plunged into the subject with fresh asperity. " Theer's no knowin' how to tak' her," she said. " Yo' mun shout at th' top o' yore voice to mak' her hear. An' GRANNY DIXON. 75 she wunnot let nowt go by. She mun hear aw as is goin'. She's out \vi' Mester Ilixon at th' chapel because she says she conna hear him an' he does it a-purpose. When she wur out wi' ivverybody else she used to say she wur goiu' to leave her brass to him, an' she invited him to tea ivvery neet fur a week, an' had him set by her chair an' talk. It war summer toime an' I've seed him set an' shout wi' th' sweat a-pourin' down his face an' his neck tie aw o' one soide, an' at th' eend o' a week he had a quinsy, as wur nigh bein' th' eend o' him. An' she nivver forgive him. She said as lie wur an impident chap as thowt hissen too good fur his betters." Murdoch expressed his sympathy promptly. " I wish tha'd coom up an' talk to her some day thysen," said Janey. " It ud rest us a bit," candidly. " Yo'n get- ten th' kind o' voice to mak' folk hear, though yo' dunnot speak so loud, an' if yo' get close up to her ear an' say things slow, yo'd get used to it i' toime." " I'll come some day," answered Murdoch, speculating with some doubt as to the possible result of the visit. Her mind relieved, Janey rose to take her departure. Suddenly, however, a new idea presented itself to her active mind. " Has tha seen Miss Ff rench yet ? " she asked. " Yes," he answered. " What does tha think on her ? " lie picked up his book and re-opened it. " I only saw her for an instant," he said. " I hadn't time to think anything." On his way from his work a few days later, he stopped at the Briarley cottage. It was swept and garnished ; there were no traces of the children about. Before he reached the house, there had been borne to him the sound 76 " HA WORTH'S." of a voice reading at its highest and shrillest pitch, and he had recognized it as Janey 's. As he entered, that young person rose panting from her seat, in her eagerness almost dropping the graphically illustrated paper she held in her hand. " Eh ! " she exclaimed. " I am glad to see thec ! I could na ha' stood it mich longer. She would ha' me read the " To-be-continyerd ' one, an' I've bin at it nigh an hour." Granny Dixon turned on her sharply. " What art tha stoppin' fur ? " she demanded. " What's th' matter wi' thee ? " Murdoch gave a slight start. The sound was so tre mendous that it seemed almost impossible that it should proceed from the small and shriveled figure in the arm chair. " What art tha stoppin' fur ? " she repeated. " Get on wi' thee." Janey drew near and spoke in her ear. " It's Mester Murdoch," she proclaimed ; " him as I towd yo' on." The little bent figure turned slowly and Murdoch felt himself transfixed by the gaze of a pair of large keen eyes. They had been handsome eyes half a century be fore, and the wrinkled arid seamed face had had its come liness too. " Tha said he wur a work in' mon," she cried, after a pause. " What did tha tell me that theer fur ? " " He is a workin' mon," said Janey. " He's getten his work-cloas on now. Does na tha see 'em \ " " Cloas ! " announced the Voice again. " Cloas i'deed ! o A mon is na made out o' cloas. I've seed workin' men afore i' my day, an' I know 'em." GRANNY DIXON. 77 Then she extended her hand, crooking the forefinger like a claw, in a beckoning gesture. " Cooin tha here," she commanded, " an set thysen down to talk to me." She gave the order in the manner of a female potentate, and Murdoch obeyed her with a 'sense of overpowering fascination. " Wheer art tha fro' ? " she demanded. He made his reply, " From America," as distinct as possible, and was relieved to find that it reached her at once. " 'Merica ? " she repeated. " I've heerd o' 'Merica often enow. That's wheer th' blacks live, an' th' Indians. I knowed a young chap as went theer, an' th' Indians scalped him. lie went theer because I would na ha' him. It wnr when I wur a lass." She paused a moment and then said the last words over again, nodding her head with a touch of grim satisfac tion. " He went theer because I would na ha' him. It wur when I wur a lass." He was watching her so intently that he was quite startled a second time when she turned her eyes upon him and spoke again, still nodding. " I wur a han'some lass," she said. " I wur a han'some lass seventy year' ago." It was quite plain that she had been. The thing which was least pleasant about her now was a certain dead and withered suggestion of a beauty of a not altogether sinless order. The recollection of the fact seemed to enliven her so far that she was inspired to conducting the greater part of the conversation herself. Her voice grew louder and 78 "HAWORTWS." louder, a dull red began to show itself on her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. She had been " a han'some lass, seventy year' ago, an' had had her day as theer war dead folk could tell." " She'll go on i' that rood aw neet, if summat dunnot tak' her off it," said Janey. " She loikes to talk about that theer better than owt else." But something did happen " to tak' her off it." " Tha'st getten some reason i' thee," she announced. " Tha does na oppen tha mouth as if tha wanted to swally folk when tha says what tha'st getten to say. Theer's no workin' men's ways about thee cloas or no cloas." " That's th' way she goes on," said Janey. " She canna bide folk to look soft when they're shout in' to her. That was one o' th' things she had agen Mester Ilixon. She said he getten so red i' th' face it put her out o' pa tience." "I loike a mon as is na a foo'," proclaimed Granny Dixon. But there her voice changed and grew sharp and tremulous. " Wheer's that flower ? " she cried. " Who's getten it ? " Janey turned toward the door and uttered a shrill little cry of excitement. "It's Miss Ffrench," she said. "She's she's stondin' at th' door." It would have been impossible to judge from her ex pression how long she had been there. She stood upon the threshold with a faint smile on her lips, and spoke to Janey. " I want to see your mother," she said. "I'll I'll go and tell her," the child faltered. "Will yo' coom in ? " She hesitated a second and then came in. Murdoch GRANNY D1XON. 79 had arisen. She did not seem to see him as she passed before him to reach the chair in which she sat down. In fact she expressed scarcely a shadow of recognition of her surroundings. But upon Granny Dixon "had fallen a sud- , den feverish tremor. "Who did she say yo' wur?" she cried. "I did na hear her." The visitor turned and confronted her. " I am Rachel Ffrench," she answered in a clear, high voice. The dull red deepened upon the old woman's cheeks, and her eyes gained new fire. " Yo're a good un to mak' a body hear," she said. " An' I know yo'." Miss Ffrench made no reply. She smiled incredulously at the fire. The old woman moved restlessly. "Ay, but I do," she cried. "I know yo'. Yo're Ffrench fro' head to foot. "YVheer did yo' get that ? " She was pointing to a flower at Miss Ffrench's throat a white, strongly fragrant, hot house flower. Miss Ffrench cast a downward glance at it. " There are plenty to be had," she said. " I got it from home." " I've seen 'em before," said Granny Dixon. " He used to wear 'em i' his button -hole." Miss Ffrench made no reply and she went on, her tones increasing in volume with her excitement. " I'm talkin' o' Will Ffrench," she said. " He wur thy gran'feyther. He wur dead afore yo' wur born." Miss Ffrench seemed scarcely interested, but Granny Dixon had not finished. 80 "iiAWORTirs." " Ho wur a bad un ! " she cried. " He wur a devil ! Tie wur a devil out an' out. I knowed him an' he knowed me." Then she bent forward and touched Miss Ffrench's arm. " Theer wur na a worse un nor a bigger devil nowheer," she said. " An' yo're th' very moral on him." Miss Ffrench got up and turned toward the door to speak to Mrs. Briarley, who that moment arrived in great haste carrying the baby, out of breath, arid stumbling in her tremor at receiving gentle folk company. "Your visitor has been talking to me," she remarked, her little smile showing itself again. " She says my grand father was a devil." She answered all Mrs. Briarley's terrified apologies with the same little smile. She had been passing by arid had remembered that the housekeeper needed assistance in some matter and it had occurred to her to come in. That was all, and having explained herself, she went away as she had come. "Eh!" fretted Mrs. Briarley, "to think o' that theer owd besom talkin' i' that rood to a lady. That's allus th' way wi' her. She'd mak' trouble anywheer. She made trouble enow when she wur young. She wur na no better than she should be then, an' she's nowt so mich better now." "What's that tha'rt saying?" demanded the Voice. " A noice way that wur fur a lady to go out wi'out so mich as sayin' good-day to a body. She's as loike him as two peas an' he wur a devil. Here," to Murdoch, " pick up that theer flower she's dropped." Murdoch turned to the place she pointed out. The GRANNT DIXON. 81 white flower lay upon the flagged floor. He picked it up and handed it to her with a vague recognition of the pow- erfulness of its fragrance. She took it and sat mumbling over it. " It's th' very same," she muttered. " He used to wear 'em i' his button-hole when he cooni. An' she's th' very moral on him." 4* CHAPTER XIII. MR. FFRENCH VISITS THE WORKS. THERE were few men in Broxton or the country sur rounding it who were better known than Gerard Ffrench. In the first place, he belonged, as it were, to Broxton, and his family for several generations back had belonged to it. His great-grandfather had come to the place a rich man and had built a huge house outside the village, and as the village had become a town the Ffrenchs had held their heads high. They had confined themselves to Brox ton until Gerard Ffrench took his place. They had spent their lives there and their money. Those who lived to re member the youth and manhood of the present Ffrench's father had, like Granny Dixon, their stories to tell. His eon, however, was a man of a different mold. There were no evil stories of him. He was a well-bred and agreeable person and lived a refined life. But he was a man with tastes which scarcely belonged to his degree. " I ought to have been bom in the lower classes and have had my way to make," he had been heard to say. Unfortunately, however, he had been born a gentleman of leisure and educated as one. But this did not prevent him from indulging in his proclivities. He had made more than one wild business venture which had electri fied his neighbors. Once he had been on the verge of a great success and again he had overstepped the verge of a MR. FFRENCH VISITS THE WORKS. S3 great loss. lie had lost money, but he had never lost confidence in his business ability. " I have gained experience," he said. " I shall know better next time." His wife had died early and his daughter had spent her girlhood with a relative abroad. She had developed into beauty so faultless that it had been said that its order be longed rather to the world of pedestals and catalogues than to ordinary young womanhood. But the truth was that she was not an ordinary young woman at all. " I suppose," she said at dinner on the evening of her visit to the Briarley cottage, " I suppose these work people are very radical in their views." "Why?" asked her father. " I went into a cottage this afternoon and found a young workman there in his working clothes, and instead of leaving the room he remained in it as if that was the most natural thing to do. It struck me that he must be long to the class of people we read of." " I don't know much of the political state of affairs now," said Mr. Ffrench. " Some of these fellows are always bad enough, and this Haworth rose from the ranks. He was a foundry lad himself." " I met Mr. Ila worth, too," said Miss Ffrench. " He stopped in the street to stand looking after the carriage. He is a very big person." "He is a very successful fellow," with something like a sigh. " A man who has made of himself what he has through sheer power of will and business capacity is a genius." "What has he made of himself?" inquired Miss Ffrench. 84: " II A WORTH'S. ' ' ""Well," replied her father, "the man is actually a millionaire. lie is at the head of his branch of the trade ; he leads the other manufacturers ; he is a kind of king in the place. People may ignore him if they choose. He does not care, and there is no reason why he should." Mr. Ffrench became rather excited. He flushed and spoke uneasily. "There are plenty of gentlemen," he said. "We have gentlemen enough and to spare, but we have few men who can make a path through the world for themselves as he has done. For my part, I admire the man. He has the kind of force which moves me to admiration." "I dare say," said Miss Ffrench, slowly, "that you would have admired the young workman I saw. It struck me at the time that you would." " By the bye," her father asked with a new interest, "what kind of a young fellow was he? Perhaps it was the young fellow who is half American and " " He did not look like an Englishman," she interrupted. " He was too dark and tall and unconscious of himself, in spite of his awkwardness. He did not know that he was out of place." " I have no doubt it was this Murdoch. He is a pecu liar fellow, and I am as much interested in him as in lla- worth. His father was a Lancashire man, a half-crazy inventor who died leaving an unfinished model which was to have made his fortune. I have heard a great deal of the son. 1 wish 1 had seen him." Rachel Ffrench made no reply. She had heard this kind of thing before. There had been a young man from Cumberland who had been on the point of inventing a new propelling power, but had, somehow or other, not done it; there had been a machinist from Manchester ME. FFRENUH VISITS THE WORKS. 85 who had created an entirely new order of loom which had not worked ; and there had been half a dozen smaller lights whose inventions, though less involved, would still have made fortunes if they had been quite practical. But Mr. Ffrench had mounted his hobby, which always stood saddled and bridled. He talked of Haworth and Haworth's success, the Works and their machinery. He calculated the expenses and the returns of the business. He even took out his tablets to get at the profits more ac curately, and got down the possible cost of various im provements which had suggested themselves. " He has done so much," he said, " that it would be easy for him to do more. He could accomplish anything if he were a better educated man or had an educated man as partner. They say," he remarked afterward, " that this Murdoch is not an ignoramus by any means. I hear that he has a positive passion for books and that he has made several quite remarkable improvements and additions to the machinery at the Works. It would be an odd thing," biting the end of his pencil with a thoughtful air, " it would be a dramatic sort of thing if he 'should make a success of the idea the poor fellow, his father, left incom plete." Indeed Miss Ffrench was quite prepared for his after- statement that he intended to pay a visit to the Works and their owner the next morning, though she could not altogether account for the slight hint of secret embarrass ment which she fancied displayed itself when he made the announcement. " It's true the man is rough and high-handed enough," he said. " He has not been too civil in his behavior to me in times gone by, but I should like to know more of him in spite of it. He is worth cultivating." 86 " HA WORTH'S." Tie appeared at the "Works the following morning, awakening thereby some interest among the shrewder spirits who knew him of old. " What's he up to now ? " they said to each other. " He's getten some crank i' his yed or he would na be here." Not being at any time specially shrewd in the study of human nature, it must be confessed that Mr. Ffrench was not prepared for the reception he met with in the owner's room. In his previous rare interviews with Jem Ha worth he had been accorded but slight respect. His advances had been met in a manner savoring of rough contempt, his ephemeral hobbies disposed of with the amiable can dor of the practical and not too polished mind ; he knew he had been jeered at openly at times, and now the man who had regarded him lightly and as if he felt that he held the upper hand, received him almost with a confused, self-conscious air. He even flushed when he got up and awkwardly shook hands. "Perhaps," said his visitor to himself, " events have taught him to feel the lack in him self after all." " I looked forward, before my return, to calling upon you," he said aloud. " A.nd I am glad to have the oppor tunity at last." Ilaworth reseated himself after giving him a chair, and answered with a nod and a somewhat incoherent wel come. Ffrench settled himself with an agreeable consciousness of being less at a loss before the man than he had ever been in his life. " What I have seen abroad," he said, " has added to the interest I have always felt in our own manufactures. You know that is a thing I have always cared for most. Peo- MR. FFRENCH VISITS THE WORKS. 87 pie have called it my hobby, though I don't think that is quite the right name for it. You have done a great deal since I went away." " I shall do more yet," said Haworth with effort, " be fore I've done with the thing." " You've done a good deal for Broxton. The place has grown wonderfully. Those cottages of yours are good work." Haworth warmed up. His hand fell upon the table be fore him heavily. "It's no.t Broxton I'm aimin' at," he said. "Broxton's naught to me. I'll have good work or none. It's this place here I'm at work on. I've said I'd set ' Haworth's ' above 'em all, and I'll do it." " You've done it already," answered Ffrench. " Ay, but I tell you I'll set it higher yet. I've got the money and I've got the will. There's none on 'em can back down Jem Haworth " " No," said Ffrench, suddenly and unaccountably con scious of a weakness in himself and his position. He did not quite understand the man. His heat was a little con fusing. " This," he decided mentally, " is his hobby." He sat and listened with real excitement as Haworth launched out more freely and with a stronger touch of braggadocio. OO He had set out in his own line and he meant to follow it in spite of all the gentlemen manufacturers in England. He had asked help from none of them, and they had given him none. He'd brought up the trade and he'd made money. There wasn't a bigger place in the coun try than " Haworth's," nor a place that did the work it did. Ile'd have naught cheap and he'd have no fancy 88 "HAWORTII'S." prices. The chaps that worked for him knew their busi ness and knew they'd lose naught by sticking to it. They knew, too, they'd got a master who looked sharp after 'em and stood no cheek nor no slack dodges. "I've got the best lot in the trade under me," he said. D 7 " I've got a young chap in the engine-room as knows more about machinery than half the top-sawyers in Eng land. By George ! I wish I knew as much. He's a quiet chap and he's young ; but if he knew how to look a bit sharper after himself, he'd make his fortune. The trouble is he's too quiet and a bit too much of a gentle man without knowing it. By George ! he is a gentle^ man, if he is naught but Jem Haworth's engineer." " He is proud of the fellow," thought Ff reuch. " Proud of him, because he is a gentleman." "lie knows what's worth knowing," Ha worth went on. " And he keeps it to himself till the time comes to use it. He's a chap that keeps his mouth shut. He comes up to my house and reads my books. I've not been brought up to books myself, but there's none of 'em he can't tackle. He's welcome to use aught I've got. I'm not such a fool as to grudge him what all my brass won't buy me." " I think I've heard of him," said Ffrench. " You mean Murdoch." " Ay," Haworth answered, " 1 mean Murdoch ; and there's not many chaps like him. He's the only one of the sort I ever run up against." "I should like to see him," said Ffrench. "My daughter saw him yesterday in one of the workmen's cot tages and," with a faint smile, " he struck her as having rather the air of a radical. It was one of her feminine fancies." MR. FFRENCII VISITS THE WORKS. 89 There was a moment's halt and then Ilaworth. made his reply as forcibly as ever. " Radical be hanged," he said. " He's got work o' his own to attend to. lie's one of the kind as leaves th' radi cals alone. He's a straightforward chap that cares more for his books than aught else. I won't say," a trifle grudgingly, " that he's not a bit too straight in some things." There was a halt again here which Ff rench rather won dered at; then Ha worth spoke again, bluntly and yet lagging a little. " I I saw her, Miss Ffrench, myself yesterday. I was walking down the street when her carriage passed." Ffrench looked at him with an inward start. It was his turn to flush now. " I think," he said, " that she mentioned it to me." He appeared a trifle pre-occupied for some minutes afterward, and when he roused himself laughed and spoke nervously. The color did not die out of his face during the remainder of his visit ; even after he had made the tour of the Works and looked at the machinery and given a good deal of information concerning the manner in which things were done on the Continent, it was still there and perhaps it deepened slightly as he spoke his parting words. " Then," he said, " I we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at dinner to-morrow evening ? " " Yes," Haworth answered, " I'll be there." CHAPTER XIV. NEARLY AN ACCIDENT. IT was Rachel Ffrench who received her father's guest the following evening. Mr. Ffrench had been delayed in his return from town and was still in his dressing- room. Accordingly when Haworth was announced, the doors of the drawing-room being flung open revealed to him the figure of his host's daughter alone. The room was long and stately, and after she had risen from her seat it took Miss Ffrench some little time to make her way from one end to the other. Haworth had unconsciously halted after crossing the threshold, and it was not until she was half-way down the room that he bestirred himself to advance to meet her. He did not know why lie had paused at first, and his sudden knowl edge that he had done so roused him to a momentary sav age anger. " Dang it ! " he said to himself. " Why did I stand there like a fool?" The reason could not be explained briefly. His own house was a far more splendid affair than Ffrench's, and among his visitors from London and Manchester there were costumes far more gorgeous than that of Miss Ffrench. He was used to the flash of jewels and the gloss of brilliant colors. Miss Ffrench wore no orna ments at all, and her dark purple dress was simple and close-clinging. NEARLY AN ACCIDENT. 91 A couple of paces from him she stopped and held out her hand. " My father will be glad to see you," she said. " He was, unfortunately, detained this evening by business. He will be down stairs in a few moments." His sense of being at a disadvantage when, after she had led him back to the fire, they were seated, was over whelming. A great heat rushed over him ; the hush of the room, broken only by the light ticking of the clock, was misery. His eye traveled stealthily from the hem of her dark purple gown to the crowning waves of her fair hair, but he had liot a word to utter. It made him feel almost brutal. " But the day'll come yet" he protested inwardly, feel ing his weakness as he thought it, " when I'll hold my own. I've done it before, and I'll do it as-ain." 7 O Miss Ffrench regarded him with a clear and direct gaze. She did not look away from him at all ; she was not in the least embarrassed, and though she did not ' O smile, the calmness of her face was quite as perfect in expression. " My father told me of his visit to your place," she said. " He interested me very much. I should like to see the Works, if you admit visitors. I know nothing of such things." " Any time you choose to come," he answered, " I'll show you round and be glad to do it. It's a pretty big place of the kind." He was glad she had chosen this subject. If she would only go on, it would not be so bad. He would be in his own groove. And she did go on. " I've seen very little of Broxton," she proceeded. " I spent a few weeks here before going abroad again with 92 "HAWOKTII'S." my father, and I cannot say I have been very fond of it. I do not like England, and on the Continent one hears unpleasant things of English manufacturing towns. I think," smiling a little for the first time, " that one always associates them with ' strikes ' and squalid people." " There is not much danger of strikes here," he replied. " I give my chaps fair play and let 'em know who's master." " But they have radical clubs," she said, " and talk poli tics and get angry when they are not sober. I've heard that much already." " They don't talk 'em in my place," he answered, dog matically. He was not quite sure whether it relieved him or not when Ffrench entered at this moment and interrupted them. He was more at his ease with Ffrench, and yet he felt himself at a disadvantage still. He scarcely knew how the night passed. A feverish unrest was upon him. Sometimes he hardly heard what his entertainer said, and Mr. Ffreiich was in one of his most voluble and diffuse moods. He displayed his knowledge of trade and me chanics with gentlemanly ostentation ; he talked of " Trades' Unions " and the master's difficulties ; he in troduced manufacturer's politics and expatiated on Con tinental weaknesses. He weighed the question of demand and supply and touched on " protective tariff." " Blast him," said Ha worth, growing bitter mentally, " he thinks I'm up to naught else, and he's right." As her father talked Miss Ffrench joined in but seldom. She listened and looked on in a manner of which Haworth was conscious from first to last. The thought made its way into his mind, finally, that she looked on as if these matters did not touch her at all and she was only faintly NEARLY AN ACCIDENT. 93 curious about them. Her eyes rested on him with a secret air of watchful interest ; he met them more than once as lie looked up and she did not turn them away. He sat through it all, full of vengeful resentment, and was at once wretched and happy, in spite of it and himself. When, at her father's request, she played and sang, he sat apart moody and yet full of clumsy rapture. He knew nothing of the music, but his passion found a tongue in it, nevertheless. If she had played badly he would have taken the lack of harmony for granted, but as she played well he experienced a pleasure, while he did not comprehend. When it was all over and he found himself out alone in the road in the dark, he was feverish still. " I don't seem to have made naught at th' first sight," he said. Then he added with dogged exultation, " But I don't look for smooth sailing. 1 know enough for that. I've seen her and been nigh her, and that's worth setting down with a chap like me." At the end of the week a carriage drove up to the gate way of the Works, and Mr. Ffrench and his daughter de scended from it. Mr. Ffrench was in the best of humors ; he was in his element as he expatiated upon the size and appointments of the place. He had been expatiating upon them during the whole of the drive. On their being joined by Haworth himself, Miss Ffrench decided inwardly that here upon his own domain he was not so wholly objectionable as she had fancied at first even that he was deserving of a certain degree of approval. Despite the signs of elated excitement, her quick eye de tected at once that he was more at his ease. His big frame did not look out of place ; he moved as if he was at home, and upon the whole his rough air of authority 94: " HA WORTH'S." and the promptness with which his commands were obeyed did not displease her. " He is master," she said to herself. She was fond of power and liked the evidence of it in others. She did not object to the looks the men, who were at work, cast upon her as she went from one depart ment to another. Her beauty had never yet failed to command masculine homage from all ranks. The great black fellows at the furnaces exchanged comments as she passed. They would have paused in their work to look at her if they had dared. The object of their admira tion bore it calmly; it neither confounded nor touched her ; it did not move her at all. Mr. Ffrench commented, examined and explained with delightful eloquence. " We are fortunate in timing our visit so well," he said to his daughter. " They are filling an immense order for the most important railroad in the country. On my honor, I would rather be at the head of such a gigantic establish ment than sit on the throne of England ! But where is this protege of yours?" he said to Ha worth at last. "I should like above all things to see him." O " Murdoch ? " answered Ilaworth. " Oh, we're com in a: * O to him after a bit. He's in among the engines." When they reached the engine-rooms Ilaworth presented him with little ceremony, and explained the purpose of their visit. They wanted to see the engines and he was the man to make the most of them. Mr. Ffrench's interest was awakened readily. The mechanic from Cumberland had been a pretentious ignor amus ; the young man from Manchester had dropped his aspirates and worn loud plaids and flaming neck-ties, but this was a less objectionable form of genius. NEARLY AN ACCIDENT. 95 Mr. F French began to ask questions and make himself agreeable, arid in a short time was very well entertained indeed. Miss Ffrench listened with but slight demonstrations of interest. She did not understand the conversation which was being carried on between her father and Mur doch, and she made no pretense of doing so. " It is all very clear to them" she said to Haworth as they stood near each other. " It's all clear enough to him," said Haworth, signify ing Murdoch with a gesture. Upon which Miss Ffrench smiled a little. She was not sensitive upon the subject of her father's hobbies, and the coarse frankness of the remark amused her. But notwithstanding her lack of interest she drew nearer to the engine finally and stood looking at it, feel ing at once fascinated and unpleasantly overpowered by its heavy, invariable motion. It was as she stood in this way a little later that Mur doch's glance fell upon her. The next instant, with the simultaneous cry of terror which broke from the others, he had thrown himself forward and dragged her back by main force, and among the thunderous wheels and rods and shafts there was slowly twisted and torn and ground into shreds a fragment of the delicate fabric of her dress. It was scarcely the work of a second. Her father stag gered toward them white and trembling. " Good God ! " he cried. " Good God ! What " the words died upon his bloodless lips. She freed herself from Murdoch's grasp and stood up right. She did not look at him at all, she looked at her father and lightly brushed with her hand her sleeve at the wrist. Despite her pallor it was difficult to realize 96 " HA WORTH'S." that she only held herself erect by a terrible effort of self- control. " Why " she said " why did he touch me in that manner?" Ilaworth uttered a smothered oath; Murdoch turned about and strode out of the room. He did not care to remain to hear the explanation. As he went out into the open air a fellow-workman, passing by, stopped to stare at him. " What's up wi' thee ? " he asked. " Has tha been pun- sin Ilaworth o'er again ? " The incident referred to being always remembered as a savory and delectable piece of humor. Murdoch turned to him with a dazed look. " I " he stammered. " We have very nearly had an accident." And went on his way without further ex planation. CHAPTER XV. "IT WOULD BE A GOOD THING." EXCITING events were not so common in Broxton and its vicinity that this one could remain in the background. It furnished a topic of conversation for the dinner and tea-tables of every family within ten miles of the place. On Murdoch's next visit to the Briarleys', Granny Dixon insisted on having the matter explained for the fortieth time and was manifestly disgusted by the lack of dram atic incident connected with it. " Tha seed her dress catch i' th' wheel an' dragged her back," she shouted. " Was na theer nowt else ? Did na she swound away, nor nothin'?" " No," he answered. " She did not know what had happened at first." Granny Dixon gave him a shrewd glance of examina tion, and then favored him with a confidential remark, presented at the top of her voice. " I conna bide her," she said. "What did Mr. Ffrench say to thee?" asked Janey. " Does tha think he'll gie thee owt fur it ? " " No," answered Murdoch. " He won't do that." " He owt to," said Janey fretfully. " An' tha owt to tak' it, if he does. Tha does na think enow o' money an' th' loike. Yo'll nivver get on i' th' world if yo' niak' light o' money an' let it slip by yo'." 5 98 " HAWORTHW Floxham had told the story somewhat surlily to his friends, and his friends had retailed it over their beer, and the particulars had thus become common property. " What did she say ? " Floxham had remarked at the first relation. " She said nowt, that's what she said. She did na quoite mak' th' thing out at first, an' she stood theer brushm' th' black off her sleeve. Happen," sardon ically, " she did na loike th' notion o' a working chap catchin' howd on her wi'out apologiziu'." Haworth asked Murdoch to spend an evening with him, and sat moody and silent through the greater part of it. At last he said : " Yon think you've been devilish badly treated," he said. " But, by the Lord ! I wish I was in your place." " You wish," repeated Murdoch, " that you were in my place ? I don't know that it's a particularly pleasant place to be in." Haworth leaned forward upon the table and stared across at him gloomily. " Look here," he said. " You know naught about her. She's hard to get at ; but she'll remember what's happened ; cool as she took it, she'll remember it." " I don't want her to remember it," returned Murdoch. "Why should it matter? It's a thing of yesterday. It was nothing but chance. Let it go." *' Confound it ! " said Haworth, with a restive morose- ness. " I tell you I wish I'd been in your place at twice the risk." The same day Mr. Ffrench had made a visit to the Works for the purpose of setting his mind at rest and expressing his gratitude in a graceful manner. In fact he was rather glad of the opportunity to present himself upon the ground so soon again. But on confronting the "IT WOULD BE A GOOD THING." 99 hero of the hour, he found that somehow the affair dwin dled aiid assumed an altogether incidental and unheroic aspect. His rather high-flown phrases modified themselves and took a different tone. " He is either very reserved or very shy," he said after ward to his daughter. " It is not easy to reach him at the outset. There seems a lack of enthusiasm about him, so to speak." " Will he come to the house ? " asked Miss Ffrench. " Oh yes. I suppose he will come, but it was very plain that he would rather have stayed away. He had too much good taste to refuse point-blank to let you speak to him." " Good taste ! " repeated Miss Ffrench. Her father turned upon her with manifest irritation. " Good taste ! " he. repeated petulantly. " Cannot you see that the poor fellow is a gentleman? I wish you would show less of this nonsensical caste prejudice, Ra chel." " I suppose one necessarily dispenses with a good deal of it in a place like this," she answered. "In making friends with Mr. Ha worth, for instance " Mr. Ffrench drew nearer to her and rested his elbow upon the mantel with rather an embarrassed expression. " I wish you to to behave well to Haworth," he said faltering. "I a great deal may may depend upon, it." She looked up at him at once, lifting her eyes in a se rene glance. " Do you want to go into the iron trade ? " she asked re lentlessly. He blushed scarlet, but she did not move her eyes from, his face on that account. 100 "HA WORTH'S." " What what Ha worth needs," he stammered, " is a a man of education to to assist him. A man who had studied the scientific features of of things, might suggest valuable ideas to him. There is an an immense field open to a rich, enterprising fellow such as he is a man who is fearless and and who has the means to carry out his ventures. 1 ' " You mean a man who will try to do new things," she remarked. " Do you think he would ? " "The trouble has been," floundering more hopelessly than ever, " that his lack of cultivation has well, has forced him to act in a single groove. If if he had a a partner who knew the ropes, so to speak his business would be doubled trebled." She repeated aloud one of his words. " A partner," she said. He ran his hand through his hair and stared at her, wishing that he could think of something decided to say. " Does he know you would like to be his partner ? " she asked next " N no," he faltered, " not exactly." She sat a moment looking at the fire. "I do not believe he would do it," she said at last. "He is too proud of having done everything single- handed." Then she looked at her father again. " If he would," she said, " and there were no rash ven tures made, it would be a good thing." CHAPTER XVI. "A POOR CHAP AS 18 ALLU8 l' TROTTBLE." " IT was nothing but a chance, after all," Murdoch said to Miss Ffrench, just as he had said to Haworth. "It happened that I was the first to see the danger." She stood opposite to him upon the hearth in her fa ther's house. Neither of them had sat down. She rested her arm upon the low mantel and played with a flower she held in her hand. She looked at the flower as she made the reply. "You think of it very lightly," she said with rather cold deliberateness. He did not regard her furtively as Haworth had done. Raising her eyes suddenly, after she had said this, she met his, which were fixed upon her. "No," he answered. "Not lightly at all. It was a horrible thing. I shall never forget it." She shuddered. " Nor I," she said. Then she added, rather in the tone of one reluctantly making a confession : " I have not slept easily through one night since." " That is very natural," he returned ; " but the feeling will wear away." He would have left her then, but she stopped him with a gesture. 102 " HA WORTH'S." ""Wait a moment," she said. "There is something else." He paused as she bade him. A slight color rose to her cheek. " When I spoke," she said, " I did not understand at all what had happened not at all. I was stunned and an gry. I thought that if I was too near you, you might have spoken instead of doing as you did." Then with studied coldness and meeting his gaze fully, " It would have been a vile thing to have said if I had under stood." " Yes," he answered. " It would have been a vile thing, if you had understood ; but you did not, and I realized that when I had time to think over it coolly." "Then at first," she put it to him, "it made yon angry ? " " Yes. I had run some risk, you know, and had had the luck to save your life." The interview ended here, and it was some time before they met again. But Murdoch heard of her often ; so often indeed that she was kept pretty constantly before him. He heard of her from Haworth, from the Briarleys, from numberless sources indeed. It became her caprice to make a kind of study of the people around her and to find entertainment in it. When she drove through the streets of the little town, past the workmen's cottages, and the Works themselves, she was stared at and commented upon. Her beauty, her dress, her manners roused the beholders either to lavish or grudging acknowledgment. Dirty children sometimes followed her carriage, and on its stopping at any point a small crowd gathered about it. "A POOR CHAP AS 18 ALLUS r TROUBLE." 103 " She's been here again," shouted Granny Dixon one evening as Murdoch took a seat near her chair. " Who ? " he asked. " Her. That lass o' Ff rench's th' one I conna bide. She mak's out she's ta'en a fancy to our Janey. I dun- not believe her," at a louder pitch and with vigorous nods. " Tha nasty tempert owd body ! " cried Mrs. Briarley sotto voce. " Get out wi' thee ! " " What art tha sayin' ? " demanded her guest. " Dun- not tell me tha wur sayin' nowt. I saw thee." " I I wur sayin' it wur a bad day fur th' wash," fal tered the criminal, "an' fur them as had rheumatiz. How's how's thine, Misses?" " Tha'rt tellin' a lee," was the rejoinder. "Tha wert sa} 7 in' sum mat ill o' me. I caught thee at it." Then going back to the subject and turning to Mur doch : "Idunnot believe her! She cares nowt fur nowt at th' top o' th' earth but hersen. She set here to-day get- tin' em to mak' foo's o' theersens because it happen't to suit her. She's getten nowt better to do an' she wants to pass th' toirhe if theer's nowt else at th' back on it. She's Will Ffrench ower again. She conna mak' a foo' o' me." "He made foo' enow o' thee i' his day," commented Mrs. Briarley, cautiously. Granny Dixon favored her with a sharper glance than before. " Tha'rt sayin' summat ill again," she cried. " Howd thy tongue!" "Eh!" whimpered the poor woman. "A body dare na say theer soul's theerown when hoo's about hoo's that sharp an' ill-farrant." 104 "HAWORTHW A few minutes after, Briarley came in. Janey piloted him and he entered with a smile at once apologetic and encouraging. " He wur theer," said Janey. " But he had na had nowt." Briarley sidled forward and seated himself upon the edge of a chair ; his smile broadened steadily, but he was in a tremendous minority. Granny Dixon transfixed him with her baleful eye, and under its influence the smile was graduated from exhilarated friendliness to gravity, from gravity to gentle melancholy, from melancholy to deepest gloom. But at this stage a happy thought struck him and he beamed again. " How how art tha doin', Misses ? " he quavered. " I hope tha'rt makin' thysen comfortable." The reception this polite anxiety met with was not en couraging. Granny Dixon's eye assumed an expression still more baleful. "Tha'st been at it again," she shouted. " Tha'st been at it again. Tha'll neer git none o' my brass to spend at th' ale-house. Mak' sure o' that." Mr. Briarley turned his attention to the fire again. Melancholy was upon the point of marking him for her own, when the most delicate of tact came to his res cue. " It is na thy brass we want. Misses," he proclaimed. " It's it's thy comp'ny." And then clenched the matter by adding still more feebly, " Ay, to be sure it's thy com p'ny, is na it, Sararann ? " " Ay," faltered Mrs. Briarley, " to be sure." " It's nowt o' th' soart," answered Granny Dixon, in the tone of the last trump. " An' dunnot yo' threep me down as it is." " A POOR CHAP AS IS ALLUS P TROUBLE." 105 Mr. Briarley's countenance fell. Mrs. Briarley shed a few natural tears under cover of the baby ; discretion and delicacy forbade either to retort. Their venerable guest having badgered them into submission glared at the fire with the air of one who detected its feeble cunning and defied it. It was Mr. Briarley who first attempted to recover cheerfulness. " Tha'st had quality to see thee, Sararann," he ventured. " Our Jane towd me." " Ay," answered Mrs. Briarley, tearfully. Mr. Briarley fell into indiscreet reverie. " The chap as gets her," he said, " '11 get a han'some lass. I would na moind," modestly, " I would na moind bein' i' his shoes mysen." Mrs. Briarley's smothered wrongs broke forth. " Thee ! " she cried out. " Tha brazant nowt ! I won der tha'rt na sham't o' thy face talkin' i' that rood about a lady, an' afore thy own wife ! I wonder tha art na sham't." Mr. Briarley's courage forsook him. He sought refuge in submissive penitence almost lachrymose. " I did na mean nowt, Sararann," he protested meekly. " It wur a slip o' th' tongue, lass. I'm I'm not th' build as a young woman o' that soart ud be loike to tak' up wi'." " Yo' wur good enow fur me onct," replied Mrs. Briar- ley, sharply. " A noice un yo' are settin' yore wedded wife below other people as if she wur dirt." " Ay, Sararann," the criminal faltered, " I wur good enow fur yo' but but yo " But at this point he dropped his head upon his hand, shaking it in mournful contrition. 106 " HA WORTH'S." " I'm a poor chap," he said. " I'm nowt but a poor chap as is all us i' trouble. I'm not th' man yo' ought to ha' had, Sararann." " Nay," retorted Mrs. Briarley. " That tha'rt not, an' it's a pity tha did na foind that theer out thirteen year ago." Mr. Briarley shook his head with a still deeper depres sion." "Ay, Sararann," he answered, "seems loike it is." He did not recover himself until Murdoch took his de parture, and then he followed him deprecatingly to the door. " Does tha think," he asked, " as that theer's true ? " " That what is true ? " " That theer th' chaps has been talkin' ower." " I don't know," answered Murdoch, " what they have been talking over." " They're gettin' it goin' among 'em as Haworth's goin' to tak' Ffrench in partner." Murdoch looked up the road for a few seconds before he replied. He was thinking over the events of the past week. "I do not think it is true," he said, after this pause. "I don't think it can be. Haworth is not the man to d V o it." But the idea was such a startling one, presented in this form, that it gave him a kind of shock ; and as he went on his way naturally thinking over the matter, he derived some consolation from repeating aloud his last words : " No, it is not likely. Haworth is not the man to do it." CHAPTER XYIL A FLOWER. BUT at last it was evident that the acquaintance be tween Haworth and Ffrench had advanced with great rap idity. Ffrench appeared at the Works, on an average, three or four times a week, and it had become a common affair for Haworth to spend an evening with him and his daughter. He was more comfortable in his position of guest in these days. Custom had given him greater ease and self-possession. After two visits he had begun to give himself up to the feverish enjoyment of the hour. His glances were no longer furtive and embarrassed. At times he reached a desperate boldness. "There's something about her," he said to Murdoch, " that draws a fellow on and holds him off both at the same time. Sometimes I nigh lose my head when I'm with her." He was moody and resentful at times, but he went again and again, and held his own after a manner. On the occasion of the first dinner Mr. Ffrench gave to his old friends, no small excitement was created by Haworth's presence among the guests. The first man who, entering the room with his wife and daughters, caught sight of his brawny frame and rather dogged face, faltered and grew nervous, and would have turned back if he had possessed the courage to be the first to protest. Everybody else 108 "HAWORTH'S." lacked the same courage, it appeared, for nobody did pro test openly, though there were comments enough made in private, and as much coldness of manner as good breeding would allow. Miss Ffrench herself was neither depressed nor ill at ease. It was reluctantly admitted that she had never ap peared to a greater advantage nor in better spirits. Before the evening was half over it was evident to all that she was not resenting the presence of her father's new found friend. She listened to his attempts at con versation with an attentive and suave little smile. If she was amusing herself at his expense, she was at the same time amusing herself at the expense of those who looked on, and was delicately defying their opinion. Jem Haworth went home that night excited and exult ant. He lay awake through the night, and went down to the Works early. "1 didn't get the worst of it, after all," he said to Mur doch. "Let 'em grin and sert if they will ' them laughs that wins.' She she never was as handsome in her life as she was last night, and she never treated me as well. She never says much. She only lets a fellow come nigh and talk ; but she treated me well in her way." " I'm going to send for my mother," he said afterward, somewhat shamefacedly. " I'm goin' to begin a straight life ; I want naught to stand agin me. And if she's here * o o they'll come to see her. I want all the chances I can get." He wrote the letter to his mother the same day. " The old lady will be glad enough to come," he said, when he had finished it. "The finery about her will trouble her a bit at first, but she'll get over it." His day's work over, Murdoch did not return home at A FLOWER. 109 once. His restless habit of taking long rambles across the country had asserted itself with unusual strength, of late. He spent little time in the house. To-night he was later than usual. He came in fagged and mud- splashed. Christian was leaving the room as he entered it, but she stopped with her hand upon the door. " We have had visitors," she said. " Who ? " he asked. "Mr. Ffrench and his daughter. Mr. Ffrench wanted to see you. She did not come in, but sat in the carriage outside." She shut the door and came back to the hearth. " She despises us all ! " she said. " She despises us all ! " He had flung himself into a chair and lay back, clasp ing his hands behind his head and looking gloomily be fore him. " Sometimes I think she does," hs said. " But what of that ? " She answered without looking at him. " To be sure," she said. " What of that ? " After a little she spoke again. " There is something I have thought of saying to you," she said. " It is this. I am happier here than I ever was before." " I am very glad," he answered. " I never thought of being happy," she went on, " or like other women in anything. I I was different." She said the words with perfect coldness. " I was different." " Different ! " he echoed absently, and then checked himself. " Don't say that," he said. " Don't think it. It won't do. Why shouldn't you be as good and happy as any woman who ever lived ? " 110 " HA WORTH'S.'' She remained silent. But her silence only stirred him afresh. " It is a bad beginning," he said. " I know it is because I have tried it. I have said to myself that I was different from other men, too." He ended with an impatient movement and a sound half like a groan. " Here 1 am," he cried, " telling myself it is better to battle against the strongest feeling of my life because I am * different ' because there is a kind of taint in my blood. I don't begin as other men do by hoping. I be gin by despairing, and yet I can't give up. How it will end, God knows ! " " I understand you better than you think," she said. Something in her voice startled him. " What ! " he exclaimed. " Has my mother " He stopped and gazed at her, wondering. Some powerful emotion he could not comprehend expressed it self in her face. " She does not speak of it often," she said. " She thinks of it always." " Yes," he answered. " I know that. She is afraid. She is haunted by her dread of it and," his voice drop ping, " so am I." He felt it almost unnatural that he should speak so freely. Pie had found it rather difficult to accustom him self to her presence in the house, sometimes he had even been repelled by it, and yet, just at this moment, he felt somehow as if they stood upon the same platform and were near each other. " It will break loose some day," he cried. " And the day is not far off. I shall run the risk and either win or lose. I fight hard for every day of dull quiet I gain. A FLOWER. Ill When I look back over the past I feel that perhaps I am holding a chained devil ; but when 1 look forward I for get, and doubt seems folly." " In your place," she said, " I would risk my life upon it!" The passion in her voice amazed him. He compre hended even less clearly than before. " 1 know what it has cost," she said. "No one better. I am afraid to pass the door of the room where it lies, in the dark. It is like a dead thing, always there. Some times I fancy it is not alone and that the door might open and show me some one with it." " What do you mean ? " he said. " Yon speak as " You would not understand if I should tell you," she answered a little bitterly. " We are not very good friends perhaps we never shall be but I will tell you this again, that in your place I would never give it up never ! I would be true to him,, if all the world were against me ! " She went away and shortly afterward he left the room himself, intending to go upstairs. As he reached the bottom of the staircase, a light from above fell upon his face and caused him to raise it. The narrow passage itself was dark, but on the topmost stair his mother stood holding a lamp whose light struck upon him. She did not advance, but waited as he came up ward, looking down at him, not speaking. Then they passed each other, going their separate ways. The next day Ffrench appeared in the engine-room itself. He had come to see Murdoch, and having seen him went away in most excellent humor. 112 " HAWORT&S." " What's he after ? " inquired Floxham, when he was gone. "He wants me at his house," said Murdoch. "He says lie needs my opinion in some matter." He went to the house the same evening, and gave his opinion upon the matter in question, and upon several others also. In fact, Mr. Ffrench took possession of him as he had taken possession of the young man from Man chester, and the Cumberland mechanic, though in this case he had different metal to work upon. He was amia ble, generous and talkative. He exhibited his minerals, his plans for improved factories and workmen's dwelling- houses, his little collection of models which had proved impracticable, and his books on mechanics and manufac tures. He was as generous as Haworth himself in the matter of his library ; it was at his visitor's service when ever he chose. As they talked Rachel Ffrench remained in the room. During the evening she went to the piano and sitting down played and sung softly as if for no other ears than her own. Once, on her father's leaving the room, she turned and spoke to Murdoch. " You were right in saying I should outlive my terror of what happened to me," she said. " It has almost en tirely worn away." " I am glad," he answered. She held in her belt a flower like the one which had attracted Granny Dixon's attention. As she crossed the room shortly afterward it fell upon the floor. She picked it up but, instead of replacing it, laid it carelessly upon the table at Murdoch's side. After he had risen from his chair, when on the point of leaving, he stood near this table and almost uncon- A FLOWER. 113 sciously took the flower up, and when he went out of the house he held it in his fingers. The night was dark and his mood was preoccnpied. He scarcely thought of the path before him at all, and on passing through the gate he came, without any warning, upon a figure standing before it. He drew back and would have spoken had he been given the time. " Hush," said Haworth's voice. " It's me, lad." " What are you doing here ? " asked Murdoch. " Are you going in ? " " No," surlily, " I'm not." Murdoch said no more. Haworth turned with him and strode along by his side. But he got over his ill-temper sufficiently to speak after a few minutes. " It's the old tale," he said. " I'm making a fool of myself. I can't keep away. I was there last night, and to-night the fit came upon me so strong that I was bound to go. But when I got there I'd had time to think it over and I couldn't make up my rnind to go in. I knew I'd better give her a rest. What did Ffrench want of you?" Murdoch explained. " Did you see her ? " " Yes." " Well," restlessly, " have yon naught to say about her?" "No," coldly. "What should I have to say of her? It's no business of mine to talk her over." "You'd talk her over if you were in my place," said Haworth. " You'd be glad enow to do it. You'd think of her night and day, and grow hot and cold at the thought of her. You you don't know her as I do if you did " 114 "HAWORTH'8." They had reached the turn of the lane, and the light of the lamp which stood there fell upon them. Haworth broke off his words and stopped under the blaze. Mur doch saw his face darken with bitter passion. " Curse you ! " he said. " Where did you get it ? " Without comprehending him Murdoch looked down at his own hand at which the man was pointing, and saw in it the flower he had forgotten he held. " This ? " he said, and though he did not know why, the blood leaped to his face. " Ay," said Haworth. " You know well enow what I mean. Where did you get it ? Do you think I don't know the look on it ? " " You may, or you may not," answered Murdoch. " That is nothing to me. I took it up without thinking of it. If I had thought of it I should have left it where it was. I have no right to it nor you either." Haworth drew near to him. " Give it here ! " he demanded, hoarsely. They stood and looked each other in the eye. Exter nally Murdoch was the calmer of the two, but he held in check a fiercer heat than he had felt for many a day. " No," he answered. " Not I. Think over what you are doing. You will not like to remember it to-morrow. It is not mine to give nor yours to take. I have done with my share of it there it is." And he crushed it in his hand, and flung it, exhaling its fragrance, upon the ground ; then turned and went his way. He had not intended to glance backward, but he was not as strong as he thought. He did look backward before he had gone ten yards, and doing so saw Haworth bending down and gathering the bruised petals from the earth. CHAPTER XVIII. "HAWORTH & co." THE next day, when he descended from his gig at the gates, instead of going to his office, Haworth went to the engine-room. " Leave your work a bit and come into my place," he said to Murdoch. " I want you." His tone was off-hand but not ill-humored. There was a hint of embarrassment in it. Murdoch followed him without any words. Having led the way into his office, Haworth shut the door and faced him. " Can tha guess what I want ? " he demanded. " No," Murdoch answered. " Well, it's easy told. You said I'd be cooler to-day, and I am. A night gives a man time to face a thing straight. I'd been making a fool of myself before you came up, but I made a bigger fool of myself afterward. There's the end on it." " I suppose," said Murdoch, " that it was natural enough you should look at the thing differently just then. Perhaps I made a fool of myself too." " You ! " said Haworth, roughly. " You were cool enow." Later Ffrench came in, and spent an hour with him, and after his departure Haworth made the rounds of the place in one of the worst of his moods. 116 "HAWORTW8." " Aye," said Floxham to his companion, " that's allus th' road when he shows hissen." The same day Janey Briarley presented herself to Mr. French's housekeeper, with a message from her mother. Having delivered the message, she was on her way from the housekeepers room, when Miss Ffrench, who sat in the drawing-room, spoke through the open door to the servant. " If that is the child," she said, " bring her here to me." Janey entered the great room, awe-stricken and over powered by its grandeur. Miss Ffrench, who sat near the fire, addressed her, turning her head over her shoulder. " Come here," she commanded. Janey advanced with something approaching tremor. Miss Ffrench was awe-inspiring anywhere, but Miss Ffrench amid the marvels of her own drawing-room, lean ing back in her chair and regarding her confusion with a suggestion of friendly notice, was terrible. *' Sit down," she said, " and talk to me." But here the practical mind rebelled and asserted itself, in spite of abasement of spirit. " I haven't getten nowt to talk about," said Janey, stoutly. " What mun I say ? " " Anything you like," responded Miss Ffrench. " I am not particular. There's a chair." Janey seated herself in it. It was a large one, in which her small form was lost. Her parcel was a big one, but Miss Ffrench did not tell her to put it down, so she held it on her knee and was almost hidden behind it, present ing somewhat the appearance of a huge newspaper pack age, clasped by arms and surmounted by a small, sharp face and an immense bonnet, with a curious appendage of short legs and big shoes. " HA WORTH & GO:' 117 " 1 dunnot see," the girl was saying mentally, and with some distaste for her position, " what she wants wi j me." But as she stared over the top of her parcel, she gradu ally softened. The child found Miss Ffrench well worth looking at. " Eh ! " she announced, with admiring candor. " Eh ! but tha art hari'some ! " " Am I ? " said Bachel Ffrench. " Thank you." " Aye," answered Janey, " tha art. I nivver seed no lady loike thee afore, let alone a young woman. I've said so rnony a toime to Mester Murdoch." " Have you ? " " Aye, I'm allus talkin' to him about thee." " That's kind," said Rachel Ffrench. " I dare say he enjoys it. Who is he ? " " Him ! " exclaimed Janey. " Dost na tha know him ? Him as was at our house th' day yo' coom th' first toime. Him as dragged thee out o' th' engine." " Oh ! " said Miss Ffrench, " the engineer." " Aye," in a tone of some discomfiture. " He's a en gineer, but he is na th' common workin' soart. Granny Dixon says he's getten gentlefolks' ways." " I should think," remarked Miss Ffrench, " that Mrs. Dixon knew." " Aye, she's used to gentlefolk. They've takken notice on her i' her young days. She knowed thy grandf eyther." " She gave me to understand as much," responded Miss Ffrench, smiling at the recollection this brought to her mind. " Yo' see mother an' me thinks a deal o' Mester Mur doch, because he is na one o' th' drinkin' soart," proceeded Janey. " He's th' steady koind as is fond o' books an' th' 118 "HAWORTH'S." loike. He does na mak' much at his trade, but he knows more than yo'd think for, to look at him." " That is good news," said Miss Ff rench, cheerfully. Janey rested her chin upon her parcel, warming to the subject. " I should na wonder if he getten to be a rich mon some o' these days," she went on. " He's getten th' makin's on it in him, if he has th' luck an' looks sharp about him. I often tell him he mun look sharp." She became so communicative indeed, that Miss Ffrench found herself well entertained. She heard the details of Haworth's history, the reports of his prosperity and grow ing wealth, the comments his hands had made upon her self, and much interesting news concerning the religious condition of Broxton and " th' chapel." It was growing dusk when the interview ended, and when she went away Janey carried an additional bundle. " Does tha allus dress i' this road ? " she had asked her hostess, and the question suggested to Miss Ffrench a whimsical idea. She took the child upstairs and gave her maid orders to produce all the cast-off finery she could find, and then stood by and looked on as Janey made her choice. " She stood theer laughin' while I picked th' things out," said Janey afterward. " I dunnot know what she wur laughin' at. Yo' nivver know whether she's makin' game on you or not. 5> " I dunnot see as theer wur owt to laugh at," said Mrs. Briarley, indignantly. " Nay," said Janey, " nor me neyther, but she does na laugh when theer's owt to laugh at that's th' queer part o' it. She said as I could ha' more things when I cooin again. I would na go if it wur na fur that." " HA WORTH & CO" 119 Even his hands found out at this time that Haworth was ill at ease. His worst side showed itself in his intercourse with them. He was overbearing and difficult to please. He found fault and lost his temper over trifles, and showed a restless, angry desire to assert himself. " I'll show you who's master here, my lads," he would say. " I'll ha' no dodges. It's Haworth that's th' head o' this concern. Whoever comes in or out, this here's ' Ha- worth's.' Clap that i' your pipes and smoke it." " Suminat's up," said Floxham. " Summat's up. Mark yo' that." Murdoch looked on with no inconsiderable anxiety. The intercourse between himself and Haworth had been broken in upon. It had received its first check months before, and in these days neither was in the exact mood for a renewal of it. Haworth wore a forbidding air. His rougl^good-fellowship was a thing of the past. He made no more boisterous jokes, no more loud boasts. At times his silence was almost morose. He was not over civil even to Ff rench, who came of tener than ever, and whose manner was cheerful to buoyancy. Matters had remained in this condition for a couple of months, when, on his way home late one night, Murdoch's attention was arrested by a light burning in the room used by the master of the Works as his office. He stopped in the road to look up at it. He could scarcely, at first, believe the evidence of his senses. The place had been closed and locked hours before, when Haworth had left it with Ffrench, with whom he was to dine. It was nearly midnight, and certainly an unlawful hour for such a light to show itself, but there it burned steadily amid the darkness of the night. " It doesn't seem likely that those who had reason to 120 HA WOKTH'X." conceal themselves would set a light blazing," Murdoch thought. " But if there's mischief at work there's no time to waste." There was only one thing to do, and he did it, making the best of his way to the spot. / The gate was thrown open, and the door of entrance yielded to his hand. Inside, the darkness was profound, but when he found the passage leading to Ha worth's room he saw that the door was ajar and that the light still burned. On reaching this door he stopped short. There was no need to go in. It was Haworth himself who was in the room Haworth, who lay with arms folded on the table, and his head resting upon them. Murdoch turned away, and as he did so the man heard him for the first time. He lifted his head and looked round. " Who's there ? " he demanded. There was no help for it. Murdoch pushed the door open and stood before him. " Murdoch," he said. " I saw the light, and it brought me up." Haworth gave him a grudging look. " Come in," he said. " Do you want me ? " Murdoch asked. " Aye," he answered, dully, " 1 think I do." Murdoch stood and looked at him. He did not sit down. A mysterious sense of embarrassment held him in check. " What is wrong ? " he asked, in a lowered voice. He hardly knew it for his own. " Wrong ? " echoed Haworth. " Naught. I've been taking leave of the place. That's all." " You have been doing what f " said Murdoch. " HA WORTH & CO." 121 "Taking leave of the place. I've given it up." His visitor uttered a passionate ejaculation. " Yon are mad ! " he said. " Aye," bitterly. " Mad enow." The next instant a strange sound burst froii him, a terrible sound, forced back at its birth. His struggle to suppress it shook him from head to foot ; his hands clinched themselves as if each were a vise. Murdoch turned aside. When it was over, and the man raised his face, he was trembling still, and white with a kind of raging shame. " Blast you ! " he cried, " if there's ever aught in your face that minds me o' this, I'll I'll kill you ! " This Murdoch did not answer at al-i. There was enough to say. " You are going to share it with Ffrench ? " he said. " Aye, with that fool. He's been at me from the start. Naught would do him but he must have his try at it. Let him. He shall play second fiddle, by the Lord Harry ! " He began plucking at some torn scraps of paper, and did not let them rest while he spoke. " I've been over th' place from top to bottom," he said. "I held out until to-night. To-night I give in, and as soon as I left 'em I came here. Ten minutes after it was done I'd have undone it if I could I'd have undone it. But it's done, and there's an end on it." He threw the scraps of paper aside and clenched his hand, speaking through his teeth. " She's never given me a word to hang on," he said, "and I've done it for her. I've give up what I worked for and boasted on, just to be brought niglier to her. She 6 122 "HAWORTH'S." knows I've done it, she knows it, though she's never owned it by a look, and I'll make that enough." " If you make your way with her," said Murdoch, " you have earned all you won." " Aye," was the grim answer. " I've earned it." And soon after the light in the window went out, and they parted outside and went their separate ways in the dark. CHAPTER XIX. AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. BEFORE the week's end, all Broxton had heard the news. In the Works, before and after working hours, groups gath ered together to talk it over. Ha worth was going to ' tak' Ffrench in partner.' It was hard to believe it, and the general opinion expressed was neither favorable nor com plimentary. "Ha worth and Ffrench ! " said Floxharn, in sarcastic mood. " Haworth and Co., an' a noice chap Co. is to ha' i' a place. We'n ha' patent silver-mounted buck-action puddlin' -rakes afore long, lads, if Co. gets his way." Upon the occasion of the installation of the new part ner, however, there was a natural tendency to conviviality. Not that the ceremony in question was attended with any special manifestation on the part of the individuals most concerned. Ffrench's appearance at the Works was its chief feature, but, the day's labor being at an end, several gentlemen engaged in the various departments scorning to neglect an opportunity, retired to the " Who'd 'a' Thowt it," and promptly rendered themselves insensible through the medium of beer, assisted by patriotic and somewhat involved speeches. Mr. Briarley, returning to the bosom of his family at a late hour, sat down by his fireside and wept copiously. " I'm a poor chap, Sararann," he remarked. " I shall 124 "HAWORTWS." ne'er get took in partner by nobody. I'm not i' luck loike some an' I nivver wur, 'ceptin' when I getten thee." " If tha'd keep thy nose out o' th' beer-mug tha'd do well enow," said Mrs. Briarley. But this did not dispel Mr. Briarley's despondency. He only wept afresh. " Nay, Sararann," he said, " it is na beer, it's misfor- chin. I allus wur misforchnit 'ceptin' when I getten thee." " Things is i' a bad way," he proceeded, afterward. " Things is i' a bad way. I nivver seed 'em i' th' reet leet till I heerd Foxy Gibbs mak' his speech to-neet. Th' more beer he getten th' eleyqnenter he wur. Theer'll be trouble wi' th' backbone an' sinoo, if theer is na suminat done." " What art tha drivin' at ? " fretted his wife. " I canna mak' no sense out o' thee." " Canna tha ? " he responded. " Canna thee, Sararann ? Well, I dunnot wonder. It wur a good bit afore I straightened it out mysen. Happen I hannot getten things as they mout be yet. Theer wur a good deal o' talk an' a good deal o' beer, an' a man as has been mis forchnit is loike to be slow." After which he fell into a deep and untroubled slum ber, and it being found impossible to rouse him, he spent the remainder of the night in Granny Dixon's chair by the fire, occasionally startling the echoes of the silent room by a loud and encouraging " Eer-eer ! " During the following two weeks, Haworth did not go to the Ffrench's. He spent his nights at his own house in dull and sullen mood. At the Works, he kept his word as regarded Ffrench. That gentleman's lines had scarcely AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 125 fallen in pleasant places. His partner was grnff and authoritative, and not given to enthusiasm. There were times when only his good-breeding preserved the outward smoothness of affairs. "But," he said to his daughter, "one does not expect good manners of a man like that. They are not his fork? At the end of the two weeks there came one afternoon a message to Haworth in his room. Murdoch was with him when it arrived. He read it, and, crushing it in his hand, threw it into the fire. " They're a nice lot," he said with a short langh, "com ing down on a fellow Ijke that." And then an oath broke from him. "I've give up two or three things," he said, "and they're among 'em. It's th' last time, and " He took down his overcoat and began to put it on. " Tell 'em," he said to Murdoch as he went out," tell 'em I'm gone home, and sha'u't be back till morning. Keep the rest to yourself." He went out, shutting the door with a bang. Murdoch stood at the window and watched him drive away in his gig- He was scarcely out of sight before a carriage appeared ^ moving at a very moderate pace. It was a bright though cold day, and the top of the carriage was thrown back, giving the occupant the benefit of the sunshine. The occupant in question was llachel Ffrench, who looked up and bestowed upon the figure at the window a slight ges ture of recognition. Murdoch turned away with an impatient movement after she had passed. " Pooh ! " he said, angrily. " He's a fool." 126 " HAWORTH'S." By midnight of the same day Haworth had had time to half forget his scruples. He had said to his visitors what he had said to Murdoch, with his usual frankness. " It's the last time. We've done with each other after this, you know. It's the last time. Make the most on it." There was a kind of desperate exultation in his humor. If he had dared, he would have liked to fling aside every barrier of restraint and show himself at his worst, defying the world ; but fear held him in check, as nothing else would have done, an abject fear of consequences. By midnight the festivities were at their height. He himself was boisterous witli wine and excitement. He had stood up at the head of his table and made a blatant speech and roared a loud song, and had been laughed at and applauded. " Make the most on it," he kept saying. " It'll be over by cock-crow. It's a bit like a chap's funeral." He had just seated himself after this, and was pouring out a great glass of wine, when a servant entered the room and spoke to him in a low tone. " A lady, sir, as come in a cab, and " And then the door opened again, and every one turned to look at the woman who stood upon the threshold. She was a small woman, dressed in plain country fashion ; she had white hair, and a fresh bloom on her cheeks, and her eyes were bright with timorous excitement and joy. " Jem," she faltered, " it's me, my dear." Haworth stared at her as if stunned. At first his brain was not clear enough to take in the meaning of her pres ence, but as she approached him and laid her basket down and took his hand, the truth revealed itself to him. " It's me, my dear," she repeated, " accordin' to promise. I didn't know you had comp'ny." AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 127 She turned to those who sat about the table and made a little rustic courtesy. A dead calm seemed to take pos session of one and all. They did not glance at each other, but looked at her as she stood by Haworth, holding his hand, waiting for him to kiss her. " He's so took by surprise," she said, " he doesn't know what to say. He wasn't expecting me so soon," laughing proudly. " That's it. I'm his mother, ladies and gentle men." Haworth made a sign to the servant who waited. " Bring a plate here," he said. " She'll sit down with us." The order was obeyed, and she sat down at his right hand, fluttered and beaming. "You're very good not to mind me," she said. "I didn't think of there bein' comp'ny and gentry, too." She turned to a brightly dressed girl at her side and spoke to her. " He's my only son, Miss, and me a widder, an' he's allers been just what you see him now. He was good from the time he was a infant. He's been a pride an' a com fort to me since the day he were born." The girl stared at her with a look which was almost a look of fear. She answered her in a hushed voice. " Yes, ma'am/' she said. " Yes, Miss," happily. " There's not many mothers as can say what I can. He's never been ashamed of me, hasn't Jem. If I'd been a lady born, he couldn't have showed me more respect than he has, nor been more kinder." The girl did not answer this time. She looked down at her plate, and her hand trembled as she pretended to occupy herself with the fruit upon it. Then she stole a 128 "HA WORTH'S." glance at the rest, a glance at once guilty, and defiant of the smile she expected to see. But the smile was not there. The only smile to be seen was upon the face of the lit tle country woman who regarded them all with innocent reverence, and was in such bright good spirits that she did not even notice their silence. " I've had a long journey," she said, " an' I've been pretty flustered, through not bein' used to travel. I don't know how I'd have bore up at first bein' flustered so if it hadn't have been for everybody bein' so good to me. I'd mention my son when I had to ask anything, an' they'd smile as good-natured as could be, an' tell me in a minute." The multiplicity of new dishes and rare wine bewil dered her, but she sat through the repast simple and un abashed. " There's some as wouldn't like me bein' so ignorant," she said, " but Jem doesn't mind." The subject of her son's virtues was an inexhaustible one. The silence about her only gave her courage and eloquence. His childish strength and precocity, his bravery, his good temper, his generous ways, were her themes. " He come to me in time of trouble," she said, " an' he made it lighter an' he's been makin' it lighter ever since. Who'd have thought that a simple body like me would ever have a grand home like this and it earned and bought by my own son ? I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen," looking round with happy tears. u I didn't go to do it, an' there's no reason for it, except me bein' took a little by surprise through not bein' exactly prepared for such a grand place an' gentlefolk's comp'ny> as is so good an' understands a mother's feelin's." AN UNEXPECTED GUEST, 129 When the repast was at an end, she got up and made her little courtesy to them all again. If the gentlefolk would excuse her, she would bid them good-night. She was tired and not used to late hours. To the girl who had sat at her side she gave an admiring smile of farewell. " You're very pretty, my dear," she said, " if I may take the liberty, bein' a old woman. Good-night ! God bless you ! " When she was gone, the girl lay forward, her face hid den upon her arms on the table. For a few seconds no one spoke ; then Haworth looked up from his plate, on which he had kept his eyes fixed, and broke the stillness. " If there'd been a fellow among you that had dared to show his teeth," he said, " I'd have wrung his cursed neck ! " CHAPTER XX. MISS FFKENOH MAKES A CALL. THE following Sunday morning, the congregation of Broxton Chapel was thrown into a state of repressed ex citement. Haworth's carriage, with a couple of servants, brought his mother to enjoy Brother Hixon's eloquence. To the presence of the carriage and servants Ha worth had held firm. Upon the whole, he would have preferred that she should have presented herself at the door of Broxton Old Church, which was under the patronage of the county families and honored by their presence ; but the little woman had exhibited such uneasiness at the un folding of his plan of securing the largest and handsomest pew for her that he had yielded the point. "I've always been a chapel-goin' woman, Jem," she had said, " an' I wouldn't like to change. An' I should feel freer where there's not so many gentlefolk." The carriage and the attending servants she had sub mitted to with simple obedience. There were no rented pews in Broxton Chapel, and she took her seat among the rest, innocently unconscious of the sensation her appear ance created. Every matron of the place had had time to learn who she was, and to be filled with curiosity concern ing her. Janey Briarley, by whose side she chanced to sit, knew MISS FFRENCH MAKES A CALL. 131 more than all the rest, and took her under her protection at once. " Tha'st getten th' wrong hymn-book," she whispered audibly, having glanced at the volume the servant handed to her. " We dunnot use Wesley aw th' toitne. We use Hester Hixon's ' Songs o' Grace.' Tha can look on wi' me." Her delicate attentions and experience quite won Dame Ha worth's motherly heart. " I never see a sharper little thing," she said, admiringly, afterward, " nor a old-fashioneder. There wasn't a tex' as she didn't find immediate, nor yet a hymn." " Bless us ! " said Mrs. Briarley, laboriously lugging the baby homeward. " An' to think o' her beiri' th' mis tress o' that big house, wi' aw them chaps i' livery at her beck an' call. Why, she's nowtbut a common body, Jane Ann. She thanked thee as simple as ony other woman mouglit ha' done ! She's noan quality. She'd getten a silk gown on, but it wur a black un, an' not so mich as a feather i' her bonnet. I'd ha' had a feather, if I'd ha' been her a feather sets a body off. But that's allus th' road wi' folk as has brass they nivver know how to spend it." " Nay," said Janey, " she is na quality ; but she's getten a noice way wi' her. Ha worth is na quality hissen." " She wur a noice-spoken owd body," commented Mrs. Briarley. " Seemt loike she took a fancy to thee." Janey turned the matter over mentally, with serious thrift. " I should na moind it if she did," she replied. " She'll ha' plenty to gi' away." It was not long before they knew her well. She was a cheerful and neighborly little soul, and through the years 132 "HAWORTH'8." of her prosperity had been given to busy and kindly charities. In her steadfast and loving determination to -please her son, she gave up her rustic habit of waiting upon herself, and wore her best gown every day, in spite of pangs of conscience. She rode instead of walked, and made cour ageous efforts to become accustomed to the size and mag nificence of the big rooms, but, notwithstanding her faith fulness, she was a little restless. " Not bein' used to it," she said, " I get a little lonesome or so sometimes, though not often, my dear." She had plenty of time to feel at a loss. Her leisure was not occupied by visitors. Broxton discussed her and smiled at her, rather good-naturedly than otherwise. It was not possible to suspect her of any ill, but it was scarcely to be anticipated that people would go to see her. One person came, however, facing public opinion with her usual calmness, Rachel Ffrench, who presented herself one day and made her a rather long call. On hearing the name announced, the little woman rose tremulously. She was tremulous because she was afraid that she could not play her part as mistress of her son's household to his honor. When Miss Ffrench advanced, holding out her gloved hand, she gave her a startled up ward glance and dropped a little courtesy. For a moment, she forgot to ask her to be seated. When she recollected herself, and they sat down opposite to each other, she could at first only look at her visitor in silence. But Miss Ffrench was wholly at ease. She enjoyed the rapturous wonder she had excited with all her heart. She was very glad she had come. " It must be very pleasant for Mr. Ha worth to have you here," she said. MISS FFRENCH MAKES A CALL. 133 The woman started. A flush of joy rose upon her withered face. Her comprehension o her son's prosperity had been a limited one. Somehow she had never thought of this. Here was a beautiful, high-bred woman to whom he must be in a manner near, since she spoke of him in this way as if he had been a gentleman born. " Jem ? " she faltered, innocently. " Yes, ma'am. I hope so. He's he's told me so." Then she added, in some hurry : " Not that I can be much comp'ny to him it isn't that ; if he hadn't been what he is, and had the friends he has, I couldn't be much comp'ny for him. An' as it is, it's not likely 'he can need a old woman as much as his goodness makes him say he does." Rachel Ffrench regarded her with interest. " He is very good," she remarked, " and has a great many friends, I dare say. My father admires him gneatly." " Thank you, ma'am," brightly, " though there's no one could help it. His goodness to me is more than I can tell, an' it's no wonder that others sees it in him an' is fond of him accordin'." " No, it's no wonder," in a tone of gentle encourage ment. The flush upon the withered cheek deepened, and the old eyes lit up. " He's thirty-two year old, Miss," said the loving crea ture, " an' the time's to come yet when he's done a wrong or said a harsh word. He was honest an' good as a child, an' he's honest an' good as a man. His old mother can say it from the bottom of her full heart." " It's a very pleasant thing to be able to say," remarked her visitor. " It's the grateful pride of my life that I can say it," 134: n-A WORTH'S." J with fresh tenderness. " An' to think that prosperity goes with it too. I've said to myself that I wasn't worthy of it, because I couldn't never be grateful enough. He might have been prosperous, and not what he is. Many a better woman than me has had that grief to bear, an' I've been spared it. When Miss Ffrench returned to her carriage she wore a reflective look. When she had seated herself comfort ably, she spoke aloud : " No, there are ten chances to one that she will never see the other side at all. There is not a man or woman in JBroxton who would dare to tell her. I would not do it myself." When Haworth returned at night he heard the particu lars of the visit, as he had known he should when Ffrench told him that it was his daughter's intention to call that day. " The beautif ulest young lady my old eyes ever saw, my dear," his mother said again and again. " An' to think of her comin' to see me, as if I'd been a lady like herself." Haworth spoke but little. He seldom said much in these days. He sat at the table drinking his after-dinner wine, and putting a question now and then. " What did she say ? " he asked. She stopped to think. " P'raps it was me that said most," she answered, " though I didn't think so then. She asked a question or so an' seemed to like to listen. I was tellin' her what a son you'd been to me, an' how happy I was an' how thank ful I was." " She's not one that says much," he said, without look ing up from the glass on which his eyes had been fixed. " That's her way/' MISS FFRENCH MAKES A CALL. 135 She replied with a question, pnt timidly. " You've knowed her a good bit, I dare say, my dear?" " No," uneasily. " A six-month or so, that's all." " But it's been long enough for her to find out that what I said to her was true. I didn't tell her what was new to her, my dear. I see that by her smile, an' the kind way she listened. She's got a beautiful smile, Jem, an' a beautiful sweet face." When they parted for the night, he drew from hia pocket a bank-note and handed it to her. " I've been thinking," he said, awkwardly, " that it would be in your line to give snmmat now and then to some o' the poor lot that's so thick here. There's plenty on 'em, an' p'r'aps it wouldn't be a bad thing. There's not many that's fond of givin'. Let's set the gentry a fashion." " Jem ! " she said. " My dear ! there isn't nothin' that would make me no happier nothin' in the world." " It won't do overmuch good, may be," he returned. " More than half on 'em don't deserve it, but give it to 'em if you've a fancy for it. I don't grudge it." There were tears of joy in her eyes. She took his hand and held it, fondling it. "I might have knowed it," she said, "an' I don't de serve it for holdin' back an' feel in' a bit timid, as I have done. I've thought of it again and again, when I've been a trifle lonesome with you away. There's many a poor woman as is hard-worked that I might help, and children too, may be, me bein' so fond of 'em." She drew nearer still and laid her hand on his arm. " I always was fond of 'em," she said, " always an' I've thought that, sometimes, my dear, there might be little 136 "HA WORTH'S." things here as I might help to care for, an' as would be fond of me. " If there was children," she went on, " I should get used to it quick. They'd take away the the bigness, an' make me forget it." But he did not answer nor look at her, though she felt his arm tremble. " I think they'd be fond of me," she said, " them an' an' her too, whomsoever she might be. She'd be a lady, Jem, but she wouldn't mind my ways, I dare say, an' I'd do my best with all my heart. I'd welcome her, an' give up my place here to her, joyful. It's a place fitter for a lady such as she would be God bless her ! than for me." And she patted his sleeve and bent her face that she might kiss his hand. CHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH MRS. BRIARLEY'S POSITION is DELICATE. So the poor and hard-worked of the town came to know her well, and it must also be confessed that others less deserving learned to know her also, and proceeded, with much thrift and dexterity, to make hay while the sun shone. Ilaworth held to his bargain, even going to the length of lavishness. " Ilaworth gives it to her ? " was said with marked in credulity at the outset. " Nay, lad, tha canna mak' me believe that." , Mrs. Haworth's earliest visit was made to the Briarley cottage. She came attired in her simplest gown, the week after her appearance at the Chapel, and her en trance into the household created such an excitement as somewhat disturbed her. The children were scattered with wild hustling and scurry, while Janey dragged off her apron in the temporary seclusion offered by the door. Mrs. Briarley, wiping the soap-suds from her arms, hur ried forward with apologetic nervousness. She dropped a courtesy, scarcely knowing what words of welcome would be appropriate for the occasion, and secretly spec ulating on possible results. But her visitor's demeanor was not overpowering. She dropped a courtesy herself, a kindly and rustic obei sance. She even looked somewhat timid. 138 "HAWORTH'S." " I'm Mr. Haworth's mother, ma'am," she faltered, " an' an' thank you kindly." taking the seat offered. " Don't put yourself out, ma'am, for me. There wasn't no need to send the children away, not at all, me beiu' partial to 'em, an' also used." The next instant she gave a timid start. " Gi' me my best cap ! " cried a stentorian voice. " Gi' me my best cap ! Wheer is it ? Gi' me my best cap ! " Granny Dixon's high basket-backed chair had been placed in the shadow of the chimney-corner for the better enjoyment of her midday nap, and, suddenly aroused by some unknown cause, she had promptly become conscious of the presence of a visitor and the dire need of some addition to her toilet. She sat up, her small-boned figure trembling with wrath, her large eyes shining. " Gi' me my best cap ! " she demanded. " Gi' it me!" Mrs. Briarley disappeared into the adjacent room, and came out with the article required in her hand. It was a smart cap, with a lace border and blue bows on it. " Put it on ! " shouted Mrs. Dixon. " An' put it on straight ! " Mrs. Briarley obeyed nervously. " She's my mester's grandmother," she exclaimed, plaintively. " Yo' munnot moind her, missus." Granny Dixon fixed her eyes upon the stranger. " She getten it," she proclaimed. " I did na. I'd nivver ha' bowt th' thing i' th' world. Blue nivver wur becomin' to me. She gotten it. She nivver had no taste." " Aye," said Mrs. Briarley, " I did get it fur thee, tha nasty owd piece, but tha'lt nivver catch me at th' loike MES. BRIARLEY'S POSITION IS DELICATE. 139 again, givin' thee presents, when I hannot a bit o' finery to my name." " It allus set me off red did," cried Mrs. Dixon. " It wur my fav'rite color when I wur a lass, an' I wur a good-lookin' lass, too, seventy year ago." " I'm sure you was, ma'am," responded Mi's. Haworth. " I've no doubt on it." " She canna hear thee," said Mrs. Briarley. " She's as deaf as a post th' ill-tempert owd besom," and proceed ed to give a free translation at the top of her lungs. " She says tha mun ha' been han'some. She says ony- body could see that to look at thee." " Aye," sharply. " She's reet, too. I wur, seventy year ago. Who is she ? " " She's Mester Haworth's mother." " Mester Haworth's mother ? " promptly. " Did na tha tell me he wur a rich inon ? " " Aye, I did." "Well, then, what does she dress i' that road fur? She's noan quality. She does na look much better nor thee." " Eh ! bless us ! " protested Mrs. Briarley. " What's a body to do wi' her ? " " Don't mind her, rna'am," said Mrs. Haworth. " It don't do no harm. A old person's often sing'lar. It don't trouble me." Then Janey, issuing from her retirement in compara tively full dress, was presented with due ceremony. " It wur her as fun thy place i' th' hymn-book," said Mrs. Briarley. " She's a good bit o' help to me, is Jane Ann." It seemed an easy thing afterward to pour forth her troubles, and she found herslf so far encouraged by her 140 "HAWORTWS." visitor's nai've friendliness that she was even more elo quent than usual. " Theer's trouble ivvery wheer," she said, " an' I dare say tha has thy share, missus, fur aw thy brass." Politeness forbade a more definite reference to the " goin's-on " which had called forth so much virtuous in dignation on the part of the Broxton matrons. She felt it but hospitable to wait until her guest told her own story of tribulation. But Mrs. Haworth sat smiling placidly. " I've seen it in my day," she said ; " an' it were heavy enough too, my dear, an' seemed heavier than it were, p'r'aps, through me bein' a young thing an' helpless, but I should be a ungrateful woman if I didn't try to forget now as it had ever been. A woman as has such a son as I have one that's prospered an' lived a pure, good life an' never done a willful wrong, an' has won friends an' respect everywhere has enough happiness to help her forget troubles that's past an' gone." Mrs. Briarley stopped half-way to the ground in the act of picking up Granny Dixon's discarded head-gear. Her eyes were wide open, her jaw fell a little. But her visitor went on without noticing her. " Though, for the matter of that," she said, " I dare say there's not one on you as doesn't know his ways, an' couldn't tell me of some of his goodness as I should never find out from him." " Wheer art tha puttin' my cap ? " shouted Granny Dixon " What art tha doin' \v'i my cap ? Does tha think because I've got a bit o' brass, I can hot th' bake- oven wi' head-dresses ? " Mrs. Briarley had picked up the cap, and was only rescued by this timely warning from the fatal imprudence MRS. BRIARLEY'S POSITION IS DELICATE. of putting it in the fire and stirring it violently with the poker. " Art tha dazeder than common ? " shrieked the old woman. " Has tha gone daft ? What art tha stariu' at ? " "I am na starin' at nowt," said Mrs. Briarley, with a start. " 1 I wur hearkenin' to the lady here, an' I did na think o' what I wur doin'." She did riot fully recover herself during the whole of her visitor's stay, and, in fact, several times lapsed into the same meditative condition. When Haworth's charita ble intentions were made known to her, she stopped jolt ing the baby and sat in wild confusion. " Did tha say as he wur goin' to gi' thee money ? " she exclaimed, ; ' money to gi' away ? " " He said he'd give it without a grudge," said his mother, proudly. " Without a grudge, if it pleased me. That's his way, my dear. It were his way from the time he were a boy, an' worked so hard to give me a comforta ble home. He give it, he said, without a grudge." "Jane Ann," said Mrs. Briarley, standing at the door to watch her out of sight, " Jane Ann, what dost tha think o' that theer ? " She said it helplessly, clutching at the child on her hip with a despairing grasp. " Did tha hear her? " she demanded. " She wur talk- in' o' Haworth, an' she wur pridin' hersen on th' son he'd been to her, an' an' th' way he'd lived. Th' cold sweat broke out aw over me. No wonder I wur for puttin' th' cap i' th' fire. Lord ha' mercy on us ! " But Janey regarded the matter from a more practical stand-point " He has na treated her ill," she said. " Happen he is n a so bad after aw. Did tha hear what she said about th' money 1 " CHAPTER XXII. AGAIN. " THEEB'S a chap," it was said of Murdoch with some disdain . among the malcontents, " theer's a chap as coom here to work for his fifteen bob a week, an' now he's hand i' glove wi' th' rnesters an's getten a shop o' his own." The " shop " in question had, however, been only a very simple result of circumstances. In times of emergency it had been discovered that " th' 'Merican chap " was an in dividual of resources. Floxhara had discovered this early, and. afterward, the heads of other departments. If a ma chine or tool was out of order, " Tak' it to th' 'Merican chap an' he'll fettle it," said one or another. And the time had never been when the necessary "fettling" had not been accomplished. In his few leisure moments, Murdoch would go from room to room, asking questions or looking on in silence at the work being carried on. Often his apparently hap-hazard and desultory examina tions finally resulted in some suggestion which simplified things astonishingly. He had a fancy for simplifying and improving the appliances he saw in use, and this, too, with out any waste of words. But gradually rough models of these trifles and hastily made drawings collected in the corner of the common AGAIN. 143 work-room which had fallen to Murdoch, and Haworth's attention was drawn toward them. " What wi' moddles o' this an' moddles o' that," Flox ham remarked, "we'll ha' to mak' a flittin' afore long. Theer'll be no room fur us, nor th' engines neyther." Haworth turned to the things and looked them over one by one, touching some of them dubiously, some care lessly, some without much comprehension. "Look here," he said to Murdoch, "there's a room nigh mine that's not in use. I don't like to be at close quarters with every chap, but you can bring your traps up there. It'll be a place to stow 'em an' do your bits o' jobs when you're in the humor." The same day the change was made, and before leav ing the Works, Haworth came in to look around. Throw ing himself into a chair, he glanced about him with a touch of curiosity. " They're all your own notions, these ? " he said. Murdoch assented. "They are of not much consequence," he answered. "They are only odds and ends that fell into my hands somehow when they needed attention. I like that kind of work, you know." "Aye," responded Haworth, "I dare say. But most chaps would have had more to say about doin' 'em than you have." Not long after Ffrench's advent a change was made. "If you'll give up your old job, and take to looking sharp after the machinery and keeping the chaps that run it up to their work," said Haworth, " you can do it. It'll be a better shop than the other and give you more time. And it'll be a saving to the place in the end." So the small room containing his nondescript collection 144 "HAWORTH'S." became his headquarters, and Murdoch's position -was a more responsible one. He found plenty of work, but he had more time, as Ha worth had prophesied, and he had also more liberty. " Yo're getten on," said Janey Briarley. " Yo're getten more wage an' less work, an' yo're one o' th' mesters, i' a way. To' go wi' th' gentlefolk a good bit, too. Feyther says Ffrench mak's hissen as thick wi' yo' as if yo' wur a gentleman yorsen. Yo' had yore supper up theer last neet. Did she set i' th' room an' talk wi' yo' ? " " Yes," he answered. It was not necessary to explain who " she " was. " "Well," said Janey, " she would na do that if she did na think more o' yo' nor if yo' were a common chap. She's pretty grand i' her ways. What did yo' talk about " "It would be hard to tell now," he replied. ""We talked of several things." "Aye, but what I wanted to know wur whether she talked to thee loike she'd talk to a gentlemen, whether she made free wi' thee or not." "I have never seen her talk to a gentleman," he said. " How does she talk to Haworth ? " "I have never seen her talk to him either. "We have never been there at the same time." This was true. It had somehow chanced that they had never met at the house. Perhaps Rachel Ffrench knew why. She had found Broxton dull enough to give her an interest in any novelty of emotion or experience. She disliked the ugly town, with its population of hard- worked and unpicturesque people. She hated the quiet, well regulated, well-bred county families with candor and AGAIN. 145 vivacity. She had no hesitation in announcing her dis taste and wearinessl " I detest them all," she once said calmly to Murdoch. " I detest them." She made the best of the opportunities for enlivenment which lay within her grasp. She was not averse to Ha- worth's presenting himself again and again, sitting in rest less misery in the room with her, watching her every movement, drinking in her voice, struggling to hold him self in check, and failing and growing sullen and silent, and going away, carrying his wretchedness with him. She never encouraged him to advance by any word or look, but he always returned again, to go through the same self- torture and humiliation, and she always knew he would. She even derived some unexciting entertainment from her father's plans for the future. He had already new meth ods and processes to discuss. He had a fancy for estab lishing a bank in the town, and argued the advisability of the scheme with much fervor and brilliancy. Without a bank in which the " hands " could deposit their earnings, and which should make the town a sort of center, and add importance to its business ventures, Broxton was noth ing. The place was growing, and the people of the sur rounding villages were drawn toward it when they had business to transact. They were beginning to buy and sell in its market, and to look to its increasing population for support. The farmers would deposit their funds, the shop-keepers theirs, the " hands " would follow their ex ample, and in all likelihood it would prove, in the end, a gigantic success. Haworth met his enthusiasms with stolid indifference. Sometimes he did not listen at all, sometimes he laughed 7 14:6 " HA WORTH'S." a short, heavy laugh, sometimes he flung him off with a rough speech. But in spite of this, there were changes gradually made in the Works, trifling changes, of which Haworth was either not conscious, or which he disdained to notice. He lost something of his old masterful thor oughness ; he was less regular in his business habits ; he was prone to be tyrannical by fits and starts. " Go to Ff rench," he said, roughly, to one of the " hands," on one occasion : and though before he had reached the door he was called back, the man did not forget the incident. Miss Ffrench looked on at all of this with a great deal of interest. " He does not care for the place as he did," she said to Murdoch. " He does not like to share his power with another man. It is a nightmare to him." By this time, she had seen Murdoch the of tener of the two. Mr. Ffrench's fancy for him was more enthusiastic than his fancy for the young man from Manchester or the Cumberland mechanic. He also found him useful, and was not chary of utilizing him. In time, the servants of the house ceased to regard him as an outsider, and were surprised when he was absent for a few days. " We have a fellow at our place whom you will hear of some of these days," Ff rench said to his friends. u He spends his evenings with me often." "Ffrench has taken a great fancy to thee, lad," Ha worth said, drily. " He says you're goin' to astonish us some o' these days." " Does he ? " Murdoch answered. " Aye. He's got a notion that you're holding on to summat on the quiet, and that it'll come out when we're not expecting it." AGAIN. 147 They were in the little work-room together, and Mur doch, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, looked before him without replying, ex cept by a slight knitting of his brows. Ha worth laughed harshly. " Confound him for a fool ! " he said. " I'm sick of the chap, with his talk. He'll stir me up some o' these days." Then he looked up at his companion. "He has you up there every night or so," he said. " What does he want of you ? " " Never the same thing twice," said Murdoch. " Do you always see her 3 " " Yes." The man moved in his seat, a sullen red rising to his forehead. u What has she to say ? " he asked. Murdoch turned about to confront him. He spoke in a low voice, and slowly. " Do you want to know," he said, " whether she treats me as she would treat another man ? Is that it ? " " Aye," was the grim answer, " summat o' that sort, lad." Murdoch left his chair. He uttered half a dozen words hoarsely. "Come up to the house some night and judge for yourself," he said. He went out of the room without looking back. It was Saturday noon, and he had the half-day of leisure before him, but he did not turn homeward. He made his way to the high road and struck out upon it. He had no definite end in view, at first, except the working off of his passionate excitement, but when, after twenty minutes' 148 "HAWORTH'S." walk he came within sight of Broxton Chapel and its grave-yard his steps slackened, and when he reached the gate, he stopped a moment and pushed it open and turned in. It was a quiet little place, with an almost rustic air, of which even the small, ugly chapel could not rob it. The grass grew long upon the mounds of earth and swayed softly in the warm wind. Only common folk lay there, and there were no monuments and even few slabs. Mur doch glanced across the sun-lit space to the grass-covered mound of which he had thought when he stopped at the gateway. He had not thought of meeting any one, and at the first moment the sight of a figure standing at the grave-side in the sunshine was something of a shock to him. He went forward more slowly, even with some reluctance, though he had recognized at once that the figure was that of Christian Murdoch. She stood quite still, looking down, not hearing him until he was close upon her. She seemed startled when she saw him. " Why did you come here ? " she asked. " I don't know," he answered. " I needed quiet, I sup pose, and the place has a quiet look. Why did you come ? " " It is not the first time I have been," she said. " I come here often." " You !" he said. "Why?" She pointed to the mound at her feet. " Because he is here," she said, " and I have learned to care for him." She knelt down and laid her hand upon the grass, and he remembered her emotion in the strange scene which had occurred before." AGAIN. 149 "I know him very well," she said. " I knew him." "You told me that I would not understand," he said, " It is true that I don't yet- Suddenly there were tears in her eyes and in her voice. " He does not seem a dead man to me," she said. " He never will." " I do not think," he answered, heavily, " that his life seems at an end to any of us." " Not to me," she repeated. " I have thought of him until I have seemed to grow near to him, and to know what his biirden was, and how patiently he bore it. I have never been patient. I have rebelled always, and so it has gone to my heart all the more." Murdoch looked down upon the covering sod with a pang. " He did bear it patiently," he said, " at the bitterest and worst." " I know that," she replied. " I have been sure of it." " I found some papers in my room when I first came," she went on. " Some of them were plans he had drawn thirty years ago. He had been very patient and constant with them. He had drawn the same thing again and again. Often he had written a few words upon them, and they helped me to understand. After I had looked them over I could not forget. They haunted me and came back to me. I began to care for him, and put things together until all was real." Then she added, slowly and in a lowered voice : " I have even thought that if he had lived he would have been fond of me. 1 don't know why, but I have thought that perhaps he would." For the first time in his knowledge of her, Murdoch saw in her the youth he had always missed. Her dark and 150 "HAWORTH'S." bitter young face was softened; for the moment she seemed almost a child, even though a child whose life had been clouded by the shadow of sin and wrong. " I think he would," he said, slowly. " And I have got into the habit of coming here when I was lonely or at my worst." " You are lonely often, I dare say," he returned, weari ly. " I wish it could be helped." " It is nothing new," she replied, with something of her old manner, " and there is no help for it." But her touch upon the grass was a caress. She smoothed it softly, and moved with singular gentleness a few dead leaves which had dropped upon it. " When I come here I am better," she said, " and less hard. Things do not seem to matter so much or to look so shameful." A pause followed, which she herself broke in upon. " I have thought a great deal of what he left unfin ished," she said. " I have wished that I might see it. It would be almost as if I had seen him." " I can show it to you," Murdoch answered. " It is a little thing to have caused so great pain." They said but little else until they rose to go. As he sat watching the long grass wave under the warm wind, Murdoch felt that his excitement had calmed down. He was in a cooler mood when they got up at last. But before they turned away the girl lingered for a moment, as if she wished to speak. " Sometimes," she faltered, " sometimes I have thought you had half forgotten." " Nay," he answered, " never that, God knows ! " " I could not bear to believe it," she said, passionately. " It would make me hate you ! " AGAIN. 151 When they reached home he took her upstairs to his room. He had locked the door when he left it in the morning. He unlocked it, and they went in. A cloth covered something standing upon the table. He drew it aside with an unsteady hand. " Look at it," he said. " It has been there since last night. You see it haunts me too." " What ! " she said, " you brought it out yourself again ! " " Yes," he answered, " again." She drew nearer, and sat down in the chair before the table. " He used to sit here ? " she said. " Yes." " If it had been finished," she said, as if speaking to herself, "Death would have seemed a little thing to him. J O Even if it should be finished now, I think he would for get the rest." CHAPTER XXIII. "TEN SHILLINGS' WOKTH." THE same evening Mr. Briarley, having partaken of an early tea and some vigorous advice from his wife, had suddenly, during a lull in the storm, vanished from the domestic circle, possibly called therefrom by the recollec tion of a previous engagement. Mrs. Briarley had gone out to do her " Sunday shoppin'," the younger children had been put to bed, the older ones were disporting them selves in the streets and by-ways, and consequently Janey was left alone, uncheered save by the presence of Granny Dixon, who had fallen asleep in her chair with her cap unbecomingly disarranged. Janey sat down upon her stool at a discreet distance from the hearth. She had taken down from its place her last book of " memoirs," a volume of a more than usually orthodox and peppery flavor. She held it within range of the light of the fire and began to read in a subdued tone with much unction. But she had only mastered the interesting circumstance that "James Joseph William was born November 8th," when her attention was called to the fact that wheels had stopped before the gate and she paused to listen. " Bless us ! " she said. " Some un's cornin' in." The person in question was llaworth, who so far dLs- " TEN SHILLINGS' WORTH." 153 pensed with ceremony as to walk np to the firelight with out even knocking at the door, which stood open. " Where's your father ? " he demanded. " He's takken hissen off to th' beer-house," said Janey, " as he allus does o' Saturday neet, an' ivvery other neet too, as he gets th' chance." A chair stood near and Haworth took it. " I'll sit down and wait for him," he replied. " Tha'lt ha' to wait a good bit then," said Miss Briarley. " He'll noan be whoam till midneet." She stood in no awe of her visitor. She had heard him discussed too freely and too often. Of late years she had not unfrequently assisted in the discussions herself. She was familiar with his sins and short-comings and regarded him with due severity. " He'll noan be whoam till midneet," she repeated as she seated herself on her stool. But Haworth did not move. He was in a mysterious humor, it was plain. In a minute more his young com panion began to stare at him with open eyes. She saw something in his face which bewildered her. " He's getten more than's good fur him," she was about to decide shrewdly, when he leaned forward and touched her with the handle of the whip he held. " You're a sharp little lass, I warrant," he said. Janey regarded him with some impatience. He was flushed and somewhat disheveled and spoke awkwardly. " You're a sharp little lass, I'll warrant," he said again. " I ha' to be," she responded, tartly. " Tha'd be sharp thysen if tha had as mich to look after as I ha'." " I dare say," he answered. " I dare say." Then added even more awkwardly still, " I've heard Murdoch say you were Murdoch." 7* 154: " HA WOHT&&" The disfavor with which she had examined him began be to mingled with distrust. She hitched her stool a few inches backward. "Mester Murdoch!" she echoed. " Aye, I know him well enow." " He comes here every day or so? " " Aye, him an' me's good friends." " He's got a good many friends," he said. " Aye," she answered. " He's a noice chap. Most o' folk tak' to him. Theer's Mr. Ffrench now and her" " He goes there pretty often ? " "Aye, oftener than he goes any wheer else. They mak' as mich o' him as if he wur a gentleman." "Did he tell you that ?" " Nay," she answered. " He does na talk mich about it. I've fun it out fro' them as knows." Then a new idea presented itself to her. " What does tha want to know fur 2 " she demanded with unceremonious candor. He did not tell her why. He gave no notice to her question save by turning away from the fire suddenly and askinor her another. o " What does he say about her ? " He spoke in such a manner that she pushed her stool still farther back, and sat staring at him blankly and with some indignation. " He does na say tiowt about her," she exclaimed. " What's up wi' thee ? " The next moment she uttered an ejaculation and the book of memoirs fell upon the floor. A flame shot up from the fire and showed her his face. He drew forth his purse and, opening it, took out a coin. The light fell upon that too and showed her what it was. " TEN SHILLINGS 1 WORTH." 155 "Do you see that?" he asked. - " Aye," she answered, " it's a half-sov'rin." " I'll give it to you," he said, " if you'll tell me what he says and what he does. You're sharp enow to have seen stimmat, and I'll give it you if you'll tell me." He did not care what impression he made on her or how he entangled himself. He only thought of one thing. " Tell me what he says and what he does," he repeated, " and I'll give it to you." Janey rose from her stool in such a hurry that it lost its balance and fell over. " I I dunnot want it ! " she cried. " I dunnot want it. I can na mak' thee out ! " " You're not as sharp as I took you for, if you don't want it," he answered. " You'll not earn another as easy, my lass." Only stern common sense rescued her from the weak ness of backing out of the room into the next apartment. "I dunnot know what tha'rt drivin' at," she said. " I tell thee I dunnot know nowt." " Does he never say," he put it to her, " that he's been there and that he's seen her and that she's sat and talked and that he's looked at her and listened and thought over it afterward ? " This was the last straw. Bewilderment turned to con tempt. " That would na be worth ten shillin'," she said. " Tha knows he's been theer, an' tha knows he's seen her, an' tha knows he could na see her wi'out lookin' at her. I dun- not see as theer's owt i' lookin' at her, or i' listenin' ney- ther. Wheer's th' use o' givin ten shillin' to hear summat yo' know yo'rsen ? " There's nowt i' that ! " " Has he ever said it ? " he persisted. 156 " HA WORTH'S." " No," she answered, " he has na. He nivver wur much give ter talk, an' he says less than ivver i' these days." " Has he never said that she treated him well, and was easier to please than he'd thought ; has he never said nowt like that?" " Nay, that he has na ! " with vigor. " Nowt o' th' soart." He got up as unceremoniously and abruptly as he had sat down. " I was an accursed fool for coming," she heard him mutter. He threw the half-sovereign toward her, and it fell on the floor. " Art tha goin' to gi' it me ? " she asked. "Yes," he answered, and he strode through the door way into the darkness, leaving her staring at it. She went to the fire and, bending down, examined it closely and rubbed it with a corner of her apron. Then she tried its ring upon the flagged floor. " Aye," she said, " it's a good un, sure enow ! It's a good un ! " She had quite lost her breath. She sat down upon her stool again, forgetting the memoirs altogether. " I nivver heard so mich doment made over nowt i' aw my days," she said. " I conna see now what he wur up to, axin' questions as if he wur i' drink. He mun ha' been i' drink or he'd nivver ha' gi'en it to me." And on the mother's return she explained the affair to her upon this sound and common-sense basis. " Mester Haworth's been here," she said, " an' he wnr i' drink an' give me ten shillin'. I could na mak' out what he wur drivin' at. He wur askin' questions as put me out o' patience. Eh ! what foo's men is when they've getten too much." " TEN SHILLINGS 1 WORTH." 157 When he left the house, Haworth sprang into his gig with an oath. Since the morning he had had time to think over things slowly. He had worked himself up into a desperate, headlong mood. His blood burned in his veins, his pulses throbbed. He went home to his din ner, but ate nothing. He drank heavily, and sat at the table wearing such a look that his mother was stricken with wonder. " I'm out o' humor, old lady," he said to her. " Stick to your dinner, and don't mind me. A chap with a place like mine on his mind can't always be up to the mark." "If you ain't ill, Jem," she said, " it don't matter your not talkin'. You mustn't think o' me, my dear! I'm used to havin' lived alone so long." After dinner he went out again, but before he left the room he went to her and kissed her. " There's nowt wrong wi' me," he said. " You've no need to trouble yourself about that. I'm right enow, never fear." " There's nothin' else could trouble me," she said, "nothin', so long as you're well an' happy." " There's nowt to go agen me bein' happy," he said, a little grimly. " Not yet, as I know on. I don't let things go agen me easy." About half an hour later, he stood in the road before his partner's house. The night was warm, and the win dows of the drawing-room were thrown open. He stood and looked up at them for a minute and then spoke aloud. " Aye," he said, " he's there, by George ! " He could see inside plainly, and the things he saw best were Rachel Ffrench and Murdoch. Ffrench himself sat 158 "HAWORT&S." in a large chair, reading. Miss Ffrench stood upon the hearth. She rested an arm upon the low mantel, and talked to Murdoch, who stood opposite to her. The man who watched uttered an oath at the sight of her. " Him ! " he said. " Him damn him ! " and grew hot and cold by turns. He kept his stand for full ten minutes, and then crossed the road. The servant who answered his summons at the door re garded him with amazement. " I know they're in," he said, making his way past him. " I saw 'em through the window." o Those in the drawing-room heard his heavy feet as he mounted the staircase. It is possible that each recognized the eound. Ffrench rose hurriedly, and, it must be owned, with some slight trepidation. Rachel merely turned her face toward the door. She did not change her position otherwise at all. Murdoch did not move. " My dear fellow," said Ffrench, with misplaced enthu siasm. " I am glad to see yon." But Haworth passed him over with a nod. His eyes were fixed on Murdoch. He gave him a nod also and spoke to him. " What, you're here, are you 't " he said. " That's a good thing." "We think so," said Mr. Ffrench, with fresh fervor. " My dear fellow, sit down." He took the chair offered him, but still looked at Mur doch and spoke to him. "I've been to Briarley's," he said. "I've had a talk with that little lass of his. She gave me the notion you'd be here. She's a sharp little un, by George ! " " They're all sharp," said Mr. Ffrench. " The preco- "TEN SHILLINGS 1 WORTH." 159 city one finds in these manufacturing towns is something astonishing astonishing. " He launched at once into a dissertation upon the causes of precocity in a manufacturing town, and became so ab sorbed in his theme that it mattered very little that Ha- worth paid no attention to him. He was leaning back in his chair with his hands in his pockets, not moving his eyes from Murdoch. Mr. Ffrench was in the middle of his dissertation when, half an hour afterward, Ilaworth got up without cere mony. Murdoch was going. " I'll go with you," he said to him. They went out of the room and down the staircase to gether without speaking. They did not even look at each other. When they were fairly out of the room Mr. Ff rench glanced somewhat uneasily at his daughter. " Really," he said, " he is not always a pleasant fellow to deal with. One is never sure of reaching him." And then, as he received no answer, he returned in some em barrassment to his book. CHAPTER XXIV. AT AN END. WHEN they stood in the road, Haworth laid his hand upon his companion's shoulder heavily. " Come up to the Works, lad," he said, " and let's have a bit of a talk." His voice and his touch had something in common. Murdoch understood them both. There was no need for clearer speech. "Why there ? " he asked. " It's quiet there. I've a fancy for it." " I have no fancy against it. As well there as any where else." " Aye," said Haworth. " Not only as well, but better." He led the way into his own room and struck a light. He flung his keys upon the table ; they struck it with a heavy clang. Then he spoke his first words since they had turned from the gate- way. " Aye," he said, " not only as well, but better. I'm at home here, if I'm out everywhere else. The place knows me and I know it. I'm best man here, by ! if I'm out everywhere else." He sat down at the table and rested his chin upon his hand. His hand shook, and his forehead was clammy. AT AN END. 161 Murdoch threw himself into the chair opposite to him. "Go on," he said. " Say what you have to say." Haworth bent forward a little. " You've got on better than I'd have thought, lad," he said, " better than I'd have thought." " What ! " hoarsely. " Does she treat me as she treats other men ? " " Nay," said Haworth, " not as she treats me by the Lord Harry!" The deadly bitterness which possessed him was terri ble ; he was. livid with it. " I've thought of a good many," he said. " I've looked on at 'em as they stood round her chaps of her own sort, with money and the rest of it ; but I never thought of you not once." " No," said Murdoch, " I dare say not." " No not once," the man repeated. " Get up, and let's take a look at you," he said. " Happen I've not had the right notion on you." "Don't say anything you'll repent," said Murdoch. " It's bad enough as it is." But his words were like chaff before the wind. "You!" cried the man. "You were the chap that knew naught of women's ways. You'd scarce look one on 'em in the face. You're not the build I thought they took to." " You told me that once before," said Murdoch, with a bitter laugh. " I've not forgotten it." Ha worth's clenched fist fell upon the table with a force which made the keys ring. "Blast you!" he said. "You'ie nigher to her now than me now ! " " Then," Murdoch answered, " you may give up." 162 HA WORTH* S. n " Give np ! " was the reply. " Nay, not that, my lad. I've not come to that yet." Then his rage broke forth again. u You to be going there on the quiet ! " he cried. " You to be making way with her, and finding her easy to please, and priding yourself on it ! " " / please her ! " said Murdoch. " /pride myself ! " He got up and began to pace the floor. " You're mad ! " he said. " Mad ! " Ha worth checked himself to stare at him. " What did you go for," he asked, " if it wasn't for that?" Murdoch stopped in his walk. He turned himself about. "I don't know," he said, "I don't know." " Do you think," he said, in a hushed voice, after the pause which followed, "do yon think I expect any thing? Do you think I look forward or backward? Can you understand that it is enough as it stands enough ! " Haworth still stared at him dully. " Nay," he returned, " that I cannot." " / to stand before her as a man with a best side which might win her favor ! What is there in me, that she should give me a thought when I am not near her ? What have I done ? What has my life been worth ? It may be nothing in the end ! Good God ! nothing ! " He said it almost as if stunned. For the moment he was overwhelmed, and had forgotten. " You're nigher to her than I am," said Haworth. "You think because you're one o' the gentleman sort " " Gentleman ! " said Murdoch, speculatively. "la gentleman ? " AT AN END. 163 " Aye, damn you," said Haworth, bitterly, " and you know it." The very words seemed to rouse him. He shook his clenched hand. " That's it ! " he cried. " There's where it is. You've got it in you, and you know it and she knows it too ! " " I have never asked myself whether I was or not," said Murdoch. " I have not cared. What did it matter ? What you said just now was true, after all. I know noth ing of women. I know little enough of men. I have been a dull fellow, I think, and slow to learn. I can only take what comes." He came back to the table, and threw himself into his chair. " Does either of us know what we came here for ? " he asked. "We came to talk it x over," was Haworth's answer, " and we've done it." " Then, if we have done it, let us go our ways." " Nay, not yet. I've summat more to say." " Say it," Murdoch replied, " and let us have it over." " It's this," he returned. " You're a different chap from what I took you for a different chap. I never thought of you not once." " You've said that before." " Aye," grimly, " I've said it before. Like enough I shall say it again. It sticks to me. We've been good friends, after a manner, and that makes it stick to me. 1 don't say you're to blame. I haven't quite made the thing out yet. We're of a different build, and there's been times before when I haven't quite been up to you. But we've been friends, after a manner, and now th' time's come when we're done with that." 164: HA WORTH'S." " Done with it ! " repeated Murdoch, mechanically. " Aye," meeting his glance fully, " done with it ! , We'll begin fair and square, lad. It's done with. Do you think," with deadly coolness, " I'd stop at aught if th' time come ? " He rose a little from his seat, bending forward. " Naught's never come in my way, yet, that's stopped me," he said. " Things has gone agen me and I've got th' best on 'em in one way or another. I've not minded how. I've gone on till I've reached this. Naught's stopped me naught never shall ! " He fell back in his chair and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. " I wish," he said, " it had been another chap. I never thought of you not once." CHAPTER XXY. "l SHALL NOT TUEN BACK." MURDOCH went out into the night alone. When he found himself outside the iron gate he stood still for a moment. " I will not go home yet," he said ; " not yet." He knew this time where he was going when he turned his steps upon the road again. He had only left the place a few hours before. The moonlight gave it almost a desolate look, he thought, as he passed through the entrance. The wind still swayed the grass upon the mounds fitfully, and the headstones cast darker shadows upon them. There was no shadow upon the one under which Stephen Murdoch rested. It lay in the broad moonlight. Murdoch noticed this as he stopped beside it. He sat down upon the grass, just as he had done in the afternoon. " Better not go home, just yet," he said again. " There is time enough." Suddenly an almost unnatural calmness had fallen upon him. His passions and uncertainties of the past few months seemed small things. He had reached a climax and for a moment there seemed time enough. He thought of the past almost coldly going over the ground 166 "HAWORTH'S." mentally, step by step. It was as if he thought of the do ings of another man one who was younger and simpler and whose life was now over. " There are a good many things that are done with," he said mechanically, recalling Haworth's words. He thought of the model standing in its old place in the empty room. It was a living thing awaiting his coining. The end might be anything calamity, failure, death ! but to-night he had taken his first step toward that end. " To-night I shall begin as he began," he thought ; " to night." He threw himself full length upon the grass, clasping his hands beneath his head, his face- turned upward to the vast clearness and depth above him. He had known it would come some day, but he never thought of its com ing in this way. The man who slept under the earth at his side had begun with hope ; he began as one who neither hoped nor feared, yielding only to a force stronger than himself. He lay in this manner looking up for nearly an hour. Then he arose and stood with bared head in the white light and stillness. " I shall not turn back," he said aloud at last, as if to some presence near him. " I shall not turn back, at least. Do not fear it." And he turned away. It was his mother who opened the door for him when he reached home. " Come in," he said to her, with a gesture toward the inner room. " I have something to say to you." She followed him in silence. Her expression was cold "/ SHALL NOT TURN BACK." 167 and fixed. It struck him that she, too, had lived past hope and dread. She did not sit down when she had closed the door, but stood upright, facing him. He spoke hoarsely. " I am going upstairs," he said. " I told you once that some day it would see the light again in spite of us both. You can guess what work I shall do to-night." " Yes," she answered, " I can guess. I gave up long ago." She looked at him steadily ; her eyes dilated a little as if with slow-growing fear of him. "I knew it would end so," she went on. "I fought against my belief that it would, but it grew stronger every day every hour. There was no other way." " No," he replied, " there was no other way." " I have seen it in your face," she said. " I have heard it in your voice. It has never been absent from your thoughts a moment nor mine." He did not speak. " At first, when he died " Her voice faltered and broke, and then rose in a cry almost shrill. u He did not die ! " she cried. " He is not dead. He lives now here ! There is no death for him not even death until it is done." She panted for breath ; her thin chest rose and fell and yet suddenly she checked herself and stood before him with her first strained calm. " Go," she said. " I cannot hold you. If there is an end to be reached, reach it for God's sake and let him rest." 168 "HA WORTH'S." " "Wish me God-speed," he said. " I have more to bear than you think of." For answer she repeated steadily words which she had uttered before. " I do not believe in it ; I have never believed for one hour." CHAPTER XXYL A REVOLUTION. IN a month's time the Broxton Bank was an established fact. It had sprung into existence in a manner which astonished even its originator. Haworth had come to him in cold blood and talked the matter over. lie had listened to the expounding of his views, and without being apparently much moved by his eloquence, had still shown a disposition to weigh the plan, and having given a few days to deliberation, he had returned a favorable decision. " The thing sounds well," he said, " and it may be a sharp stroke that way. When the rest on 'em hear on it, it'll set 'em thinkin'. Blast 'em ! I like to astonish 'em, an' give 'em summat to chew." Mr. Ffrench could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. He had been secretly conscious of playing a minor part in all business transactions. His pet theories had been thrust aside as worthy of small notice. His continental experience had been openly set at naught. When he had gone to the trouble of explaining his ideas to the heads of the various departments, he had been con scious of illuminating smiles on the grimy countenances around him. His rather frail physique, his good breed ing, his well-modulated voice, had each been the subject of derisive comment. 8 170 "HAWORTII'S." " Gi' him a pnddlin' rake an' let him puddle a bit," he had heard a brawny fellow say, after one of his most practical dissertations. After his final interview with Uaworth, he went home j ubilant. At dinner he could speak of nothing else. Miss Ffrench heard the details from beginning to end, and en joyed them in a manner peculiarly her own. At the " Who'd ha Thowt it " no little excitement pre vailed when the movement was discussed. " A bank ! " said Foxy Gibbs. " An' wheer did he get th' money to set up a bank wi' ? Why, he getten it out o' th' workin' mon, an' th' sweat o' th' workin' mon's brow. If theer wur na no banks, theer'd be more money to put in 'em. I dunnot believe i' banks mysen. Let the brass corky late let it cerkylate." " Aye," said Mr. Briarley, who had reached his second quart, " let it cerkylate, an' he'll ha' more comfort, will th' workin' mon. Theer's too many on 'em," with natural emotion. " They're th' ruin o' th' country. Theer's summat wrong wi' 'em. If they'd gi' a chap summat to put i' 'em theer'd be some chance for him ; but that's al- lus th' way. He has na no chance, hasn't th' workin 1 mon he has na no " " Shut up ! " said Foxy Gibbs. " Eh ? " inquired the orator, weakly and uncertainly. " Shut up, till tha's getten less beer i' thee ! " " Shut " repeated Mr. Briarley, winking his eyes slowly, " up ? " lie seized his beer mug and gazed into its depths in some confusion. A deep sigh escaped him. " That's allus th' road," he faltered. " It's th' road wi' Sararann, an' it's th' road wi' aw on 'em. He has no chance, has na a mon as is misforchnit." And he happily A DEVOLUTION. 171 disposed of the beer before Janey opened the door and appeared to marshal him homeward. But the Broxton Bank was an established fact, and created no small sensation. " He is a bold fellow, this Haworth," it was said among his rivals, " but he will overstep himself one of these days." " He's set up a bank, has lie ? " shouted Granny Dixon, on Murdoch's first visit after she had heard the story. " Yes," Murdoch answered. She sat glowering at the fire a few moments almost bent double, and then, having deluded her audience into believing she had subsided, suddenly started and came to life again with increased vigor. " I've getten my brass i' th' Manchester Savin's," she cried, " an' I'll keep it theer." It seemed unnecessary to reply, and nobody made any remark upon this statement of facts. But the venerable matron had not concluded. " I'll keep it theer ! " she repeated " keep it theer ! I conna bide him, no more than I can bide her." And then she returned to her fire, fixing her great eyes upon it and mumbling with no small elation. "Th' thing'll break now, for sure," commented her much-tried hostess, sardonically. " It conna stand up agen that, i' reason. Ilaworth ud better sell th' Works at th' start afore it's too late." There had been some vague wonder in Murdoch's mind as to what the result of Haworth's outburst against him self would be. The first time he found himself confronting him as he O went to his work-room he spoke to him : " You said once," he remarked, " that you had kept 172 "HA WORTH'S." this room empty because you did not care to be at close quarters with every man. Now " " Get thee in, my lad," he interrupted, dryly. " It suits me well enow to ha' you nigh me. Never fear that." The only outward change made was in his manner. He went about his labor with a deadly persistence. He came early and went home late. The simplest " hand " saw that some powerful force was at work. He was silent and harder in his rule of those under him. He made closer bargains and more daring plans. Men who had been his rivals began to have a kind of fear of him. All lie took in hand throve. " He is a wonderful fellow," said Ff rench to his friends. " Wonderful wonderful ! " Even the friends in question who were, some of them, county magnates of great dignity, began to find their opinion of the man shaken. In these days there was actually nothing to complain of. The simple little coun try woman reigned in his household. She attended the Broxton Chapel and dispensed her innocent charities on all sides. Finally a dowager of high degree (the patron ess of a charitable society), made the bold move of calling upon her for a subscription. " It weren't as hard to talk to her, Jem, as I'd have thought," said Mrs. Haworth afterward. " She began to tell me about the poor women as suffers so, an' somehow I forgot about her bein' so grand. I couldn't think of nothin' but the poor creturs an' their pain, an' when I come to sign my name my 'and trembled so an' my eyes was that full I couldn't hardly tell what I'd put down. To think of them poor things " " How much did you give her ? " asked Haworth. " I give her ten pound, my dear, an' " A REVOLUTION. 173 He pulled out a bank-note and handed it to her. " Go to her to-morrow and give her that," he said. " Happen it '11 be sum mat new fur her to get fifty at a stroke." So it began to be understood that the master of " Ha- worth's " was a bugbear with redeeming points after all. The Broxton Bank had its weight too, and the new cot tages which it was necessary to build. " It is to Haworth after all that you owe the fact that the place is growing," said Ffrench. There came an evening, when on entering the drawing- room of a county potentate with whom she and her father were to dine, Rachel Ffrench found herself looking di rectly at Haworth, who stood in the center of a group of guests. They were talking to him with an air of great interest and listening to his off-hand replies with actual respect. Suddenly, the tide had turned. Before the evening had passed the man was a lion, and all the more a lion because he had been so long tabooed. He went in to dinner with the lady patroness, and she afterward an nounced her intention of calling upon his mother in state. " There is a rough candor about the man, my dear," she said, " which one must respect, and it appears that he has really reformed." There was no difficulty after this. Mrs. Haworth had visitors every day, who came and examined her and won dered, and, somehow, were never displeased by her tender credulity. She admired them all and believed in them, and Avas always ready with tears and relief for their pen sioners and charities. "Don't thank me, ma'am," she would say. "Don't never thank me, for it's not me that deserves it, but him that's so ready and generous to every one that suffers. 174 " HA WORTH'S." There never was such a kind heart before, it seems to me, ma'am, nor such a lovin' one." Haworth's wealth, his success, his open-handedness, his past sins, were the chief topics of conversation. To speak of Broxton was to speak of the man who had made it what it was by his daring and his power, and who was an absolute ruler over it and its inhabitants. Ffrench was a triumphant man. He was a potentate also ; he could ride his hobby to the sound of applause. When he expatiated upon " processes," he could gain an audience which was attentive and appreciative. He had not failed this time, at least, and was put down as a shrewd fellow after all. In the festivities which seemed, somehow, the result of this sudden revulsion of feeling, Rachel Ffrench was naturally a marked figure. Among the women, with whom she was not exactly a favorite, it was still conceded that she was not a young woman whom it was easy to ig nore. Her beauty of which it was impossible to say that she was conscious was of a type not to be rivaled. When she entered a room, glancing neither to right nor left, those who had seen her before unavoidably looked again, and those who had not were silent as she passed. There was a delicate suggestion of indifference in her manner, which might be real or might not. Her de meanor toward Haworth never altered, even to the extent of the finest shadow of change. When they were in a room together his eye followed her with stealthy vigilance, and her knowledge of the fact was not a disturbing one. The intensity of her con sciousness was her great strength. She was never unpre pared. When he approached her she met him with her little untranslatable smile. He might be bold, or awk- A DEVOLUTION. 175 ward, or desperate, but he never found her outwardly conscious or disturbed, or a shade colder or wanner. It was only natural that it should not be long before others saw what she, seeing, showed no knowledge of. It was easily seen that he made no effort at concealment; His passion revealed itself in every look and gesture. He could not have controlled it if he would, and would not if he could. " Let 'era see," he said to himself. " It's naught to them. It's betwixt her and me." He even bore himself with a sullen air of defiance at times, knowing that he had gained one thing at least. He was nearer to her in one way than any other man ; he might come and go as he chose, he saw her day after day, he knew her in goings and out-comings. The success which had restored her father's fortunes was his success. " I can make her like a queen among 'em," he said, "like a queen, by George, and I'll do it." Every triumph which fell to him he regarded only as it would have weight in her eyes. When society opened its doors to him, he said to himself, " Now she'll see that I can stand up with the best of 'em, gentlemen or no gen tlemen ! " When he suddenly found himself a prominent figure a man deferred to and talked of, he waited with secret feverishness to see what the effect upon her would be. " It's what women like," he said. " It's what she likes more than most on 'em. It'll be bound to tell in the end." He labored as he had never labored before; his ambi tions were boundless ; he strove and planned and ven tured, lying awake through long hours of the night, pon dering and building, his daring growing with his success. JT'J "HA WORTH'S." There occurred one thing, however, which he had not bargained for. In his laudable enthusiasm Mr. Ffrench could not resist the temptation to sound the praises of his protege. His belief in him had increased instead of diminished with time, as he had been forced regretfully to acknowledge had been the case during the eras of the young man from Manchester and his fellows. He had reason to suspect that a climax had been reached and that his hopes might be realized. It is not every man who keeps on hand a genius. Naturally his friends heard of Murdoch often. Those who came to the Works were taken to his work-room as to a point of interest. He be came in time a feature, and was spoken of with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment. To each visitor Ffrench told, in strict confidence, the story of his father with due effect. "And it's my impression," he always added, " that we shall hear more of this invention one of these days. He is a singular fellow reserved and not easy to read just the man to carry a purpose in his mind and say nothing of it, and in the end startle the world by accomplishing what he has held in view." Finally, upon one occasion, when his daughter was making her list of invitations for a dinner party they were to give, he turned to her suddenly, with some hesita tion in his manner. " Oh by the way," he said, " there's Murdoch, we've never had Murdoch." She wrote the name without comment. " Who next ? " she asked after having done it. " You see," he went on, waveringly, " there is really nothing which could be an obstacle in the way of our in viting him really nothing. He is he is all that we could wish." A REVOLUTION. 177 The reply he received staggered him. " It is nonsense," she said, looking up calmly, " to talk of obstacles. I should have invited him long ago." " You ! " he exclaimed. " Would you really I " " Yes," she answered. " Why not ? " " Why not ? " he repeated, feebly. " I don't know why not. I thought that perhaps " and then he broke off. " I wish I had known as much before," he added. When he received the invitation, Murdoch declined it. " I should only be out of place," he said, candidly to Miss Ffrench. "I should know nobody and nobody would know me. Why should I come ? " ' ' There is a very good reason why you should come," answered the young woman with perfect composure " / am the reason." There was no further discussion of the point. He was present and Haworth sat opposite to him at the table. " It's the first time for him f " said Haworth to Miss Ffrench afterward. " It is the first time he has dined here with other peo- pie," she answered. " Have you a reason for asking ? " He held his coffee-cup in his hand and glanced over it across the room. " He is not like the rest on 'em," he said, " but he stands it pretty well, by George ! " 8* CHAPTER XXVII. THE BEGINNING. FOB some time there had hung over the conduct of Mr. Briarley an air of deep mystery. The boon of his society had been granted to his family even less fre quently than ever. His habit of sudden and apparently unaccountable disappearance from the home circle after or even in the midst of an argument had become more than usually pronounced. He went out every night arid invariably returned under the influence of malt liquor. " Wheer he gets th' brass bangs me," said Mrs. Briarley. " He does na tak' it out o' his wage, that's certain, fur he has na been a ha'penny short fur three week, an' he does na get it o' tick, that I know. Bannett at th' ' Public ' is na a foo'. Wheer does he get th' brass fro' ? " But this was not easily explained. On being catechised Mr. Briarley either shed tears of penitence or shook his head with deep solemnity of meaning. At times when he began to shake it if the hour was late and his condition specially foggy he was with difficulty induced to stop shaking it, but frequently continued to do so with pro tracted fervor and significance gradually decreasing until he fell asleep. When he was sober he was timorous and abstracted. He started at the sound of the opening door, and apparently existed in a state of secret expectation and alarm. THE BEGINNING. 179 " I conna tell thee, Sararann," he would say. " At least," with some tremor, "I wnnnot tell thee just yet. Thou'lt know i' toime." He did not patronize the " Who'd ha' Thowt it " as much as formerly, in these days, Janey discovered. He evidently got the beer elsewhere, and at somebody's expense. His explanation of this was a brilliant and happy one, but it was only offered once, in consequence of the mode of its reception by his hearers. He presented it suddenly one night after some moments of silence and mental re search. " Theer's" a gentlemen as is a friend o' moine," he said, " as has had uncommon luck. His heirs has deed an' left him a forchin, an' he's come into it, an' he's very mich tuk wi' me. I dunnot know as I ivver seed ony one as mich tuk wi' me, Sararann an' his heirs deein' an' leavin' him a forchin that theer's how it is, Sararann, that theer's how it is." " Tha brazant leer ! " cried Mrs. Briarley, aghast. " Tha brazant leer ! Get out wi' thee ! " in an outburst of indignation. " Thee an' thy forchins an' heirs deein' as if it wur na bad enow at th' start. A noice chap tha art to set thy sen up to know gentlefolks wi' heirs to dee an' leave 'em brass. Eh ! Bless us ! what art tha comin' to? " The result was not satisfactory, as Mr. Briarley felt keenly. " Tha hast gotten no confydence i' me, Sararann," he said in weak protest. " Tha has.na no faith nor yet," fol lowing the train of thought with manifest uncertainty, " nor yet no works." The situation was so painful, however, that he made no further effort of the imagination to elucidate the matter, and it remained temporarily obscured in mystery. 180 " HA WORTH'S." Only temporarily, however. A few weeks afterward Ffrench came down to the Works in great excitement. He went to Haworth's room, and finding him there, shut the door and almost dropped into a chair. " What's up ? " demanded Haworth, with some impa tience. " What's up, man ? " " You haven't heard the report ? " Ffrench answered, 'tremulously. " It hasn't reached you yet ? " " I've heard nowt to upset me. Out with it ! What's up?" He was plainly startled, and lost a shade of color, but he held himself boldly. Ffrench explained himself with trepidation. " The hands in Marfort and Molton and Howton are on the strike, and those in Dillup and Burton are plainly about to follow suit. I've just got a Manchester paper, which says the lookout is bad all over the country. Meet ings have been going on in secret for some time." He stopped and sat staring at his partner. Haworth was deathly pale. He seemed, for a moment, to lack breath, and then suddenly the dark color rushed to his face again. " By " he began, and stopped with the oath upon his lips. "Don't swear, for pity's sake," broke forth Ffrench, finding courage for protest in his very desperation. " It's not the time for it. Let's look the thing in the face." " Look it in the face," Haworth repeated. " Aye, let's." He said the words with a fierce sneer. " Aye, look it in the face, man," he said again. " That's th' thing to do." O He bent forward, extending his hand across the table. THE BEGINNING. 181 " Let's see th' paper," he demanded. Ffrench gave it to him, and he read the paragraphs re ferred to in silence. When he had finished them, he folded the paper again mechanically. "They might have done it last year and welcome, blast 'em ! " he said. Ffrench began to tremble. " You've ventured a good deal of late, Haworth," he said, weakly. " You've done some pretty daring things, you know and " Haworth turned on him. " If I lose all I've made," he said, hoarsely, " shall I lose aught of yours, lad ? " Ffrench did not reply. He sat playing with his watch- chain nervously. He had cause for anxiousness on his own score, and his soul quaked within him. " What is to be done ? " he ventured at last. "There's only one thing to be done," Haworth an swered, pushing his chair back. " Stop it here at th' start." "Stop it?" Ffrench echoed, in amazement. "Aye, stop it." He got up and took his hat down and put it on. " I'm going round th' place and about th' yards and into th' town," he said. " There's naught for you to do but keep quiet. Th' quieter you keep th' better for us. Go on as if you'd heard naught. Stay here a bit, and then walk over to th' bank. Look alive, man ! " He went out and left Ffrench alone. In the passage he came upon a couple of men who were talking together in low voices. They started at sight of him and walked away slowly. He went first to the engine-room. There he found 182 HA WORTH' 8." Floxham and Murdoch talking also. The old engineer wore an irritable air, and was plainly in a testy mood. Murdoch looked fagged and pale. Of late he was often so. As Haworth entered he turned toward him, uttering an exclamation. " He is here now," he said. " That is well enough." Floxham gave him a glance from under his bent, bushy brows. " Aye," he answered. " We may as well out wi' it." He touched his cap clumsily. " Tell him," he said to Murdoch, "an' ha' it over." Murdoch spoke in a cool, low voice. " I have found out," he said, " that there is trouble on foot. I began to suspect it a week ago. Some rough fel lows from Manchester and Molton have been holding secret o meetings at a low place here. Some of the hands have been attending them. Last night a worse and larger gang came and remained in the town. They are here now. They mean mischief at least, and there are reports afloat that strikes are breaking out on all sides." Haworth .turned abruptly to Floxham. " Where do you stand ? " he asked roughly. The old fellow laid his grimy hand upon his engine. " I stand here, my lad," he answered. " That's wheer an' I'll stick to it, unions or no unions." " That's the worst side of the trouble," said Murdoch. " Those who would hold themselves aloof from the rest will be afraid of the trades unions. If worst comes to worst, their very lives will be in danger. They know that, and so do we." "Aye, lad," said Floxham, "an' tha'rt reet theer." Haworth ground his teeth and swore under his breath. Then he spoke to Murdoch. THE BEGINNING. 183 " How is it going on here ? " he asked. " Badly enough, in a quiet way. You had better go and -see for yourself." He went out, walking from room to room, through the yards and wherever men were at work. Here and there a place was vacant. Where the work went on, it went on dully ; he saw dogged faces and subdued ones ; those who looked up as he passed wore an almost deprecatory air; those who did not look up at all, bent over their tasks with an expression which was at least negatively defiant. His keen eye discovered favorable symptoms, however ; those who were in evil mood were his worst workmen men who had their off days of drunken stupor and idleness, and the heads of departments were plainly making an effort to stir briskly and ignore the presence of any cloud upon their labor. By the time he had made the rounds he 1 had grasped the situation fully. The strait was desperate, but not as bad as it might have been. " I may hold 'em," he said to himself, between his teeth. " And by the Lord Harry I'll try hard for it." He went over to the bank and found Ffreneh in his private room, pale and out of all courage. " There will be a run on us by this time to-morrow," he said. " I see signs of it already." " Will there ? " said Haworth. " We'll see about that. Wait a bit, my lad ! " He went into the town and spent an hour or so taking a sharp lookout. Nothing escaped him. There were more idlers than usual about the ale houses, and more than once he passed two or three women talking together with anxious faces and in undertones. As he was passing one such group one of the women saw him and started. 184 "HAWORTH'S." "Theer he is!" she said, and her companion turned with her arid they both stopped talking to look after him. Before returning he went up to his partner's house. He asked for Miss Ffrench and was shown into the room where she sat writing letters. She neither looked pleased nor displeased when she saw him, but rose to greet him at once. She gave him a rather long look. " What is the matter ? " she asked. Suddenly he felt less bold. The heat of his excitement failed to sustain him. He was all unstrung. " I've come to tell you not to go out," he said. " There's trouble afoot in the trade. There's no knowing how it'll turn out. There's a lot of chaps in th' town who are not in th' mood to see aught that'll fret 'em. They're ready for mischief, and have got drink in 'em. Stay you here until we see which way th' thing's going." " Do you mean," she demanded, " that there are signs of a strike ? " " There's more than signs of it," he answered, sullenly. " Before night the whole place will be astir." She moved across the room and pulled the bell. A ser vant answered the summons instantly. , " I want the carriage," she said. Then she turned to Haworth with a smile of actual triumph. , ,.'. " Nothing would keep me at home," she said. " I shall drive through the town and back again. Do you think I will let them fancy that / am afraid of them ? " " You're not afraid ? " he said, almost in a whisper. " I afraid ? " she answered, " // " " Wait here," she added. She left the room, and in less than teii minutes returned. He had never before THE BEGINNING. 185 seen in her the fire he saw then. There was a spark of light in her eyes, a color on her cheek. She had chosen her dress with distinct care for its luxurious richness. His exclamation, as she entered buttoning her long, deli cate glove, was a repressed oath. He exulted in her. His fear for her was gone, and only this exultation re mained. " You've made up your mind to that ? " he said. He wanted to make her say more. " I am going to see your mother," she answered. " That will take me outside of the town, then I shall drive back again slowly. They shall understand me at least." She let him lead her out to the carriage, which by this time was waiting. After she was seated in it, she bent fonvard and spoke to him. " Tell my father where I am going and why," she said. CHAPTER XXYI1I. A SPEECH. WHEN he returned to the Works the noon-bell was ringing, and the hands were crowding through the gates on their way to their midday meal. Among those going out he met Floxham, who spoke to him as he passed. " Theer's some o' them chaps," he said, " as wunnot show their faces again." " Aye," said Haworth, " I see that." Ffrench had left the bank and was pacing up and down his room panic-stricken. "What have you heard?" he exclaimed, turning as Haworth entered. " Is it is it as bad as you expected ? " " Aye," said Haworth, " worse and better too." " Better ? " he faltered. Haworth flung himself into a chair. He wore a look of dogged triumph. " Leave 'em to me," he answered. " I'm in th' mood fur 'em now" But it was not until some time afterward that he deliv ered the message Rachel Ffrench had intrusted to him. On hearing it her father appeared to rally a little. " It seems a rather dangerous thing to do," he said, "but it is like her. And perhaps, after all, there is something in in showing no fear." And for a few moments after having thought the inci- A SPEECH. 187 dent over he became comparatively sanguine and cheer ful. As Floxham had predicted, when the work-bell called the hands together again there were still other places vacant. Mr. Briarley, it may be observed, had been ab sent all day, and by this time was listening with affection ate interest and spasmodic attacks of inopportune enthu siasm to various inflammatory speeches which were being made at a beer house. Toward evening the work lagged so that the over-look ers could no longer keep up the semblance of ignorance. A kind of gloom settled upon them also, and they went about with depressed faces. " It'll be all up to-morrow," said one, " if there's noth ing done." But something was done. Suddenly just before time for the last bell to ring Haworth appeared at the door of the principal room. " Lads ! " he shouted, " them on you as wants a speech from Jem Haworth gather in th' yard in five minutes from now." There was no more work done. The bell began to ring ; implements were thrown down and a shout went up from the crowd. Then there was a rush into the yard, and in less than the five minutes the out-pouring of the place thronged about its chief doorway where Jem Ha worth stood on the topmost step, looking down, facing them all, boldly with the air of a man who felt his vic tory more than half won." " Let's hear what tha'st getten to say," cried some one well hidden by the crowd. " Out wi' it." " It's not much," Haworth shouted back. " It's this to Btart with. I'm here to find out where you chaps stand." 188 "HA WORTH'S." But there was no answer to this. He knew there would be none and went on. " I've been through th' place this morning," he said, " and through th' town, and I know how th' wind blows as well as any on you. Th' lads at Marfort and Molton and Dillup are on th' strike. There's a bad lookout in many a place besides them. There's a lot of fools laying in beer and making speeches down in Broxton ; there were some here this morning as didn't show this afternoon. How many on you's going to follow them ? " Then there was a murmur which was not easy to un derstand. It was a mixture of sounds defiant and con ciliatory. Haworth moved forward. He knew them bet ter than they knew him. " Pm not one o' the model soart," he called out. " I've not set up soup kitchens nor given you flannel petticoats. I've looked sharp after you, and I should have been a fool if I hadn't. I've let you alone out of work hours, and I've not grudged you your sprees, when they didn't stand in my way. I've done the square thing by you, and I've done it by myself. Th' places I've built let no water in, and I let 'em to you as easy as I could and make no loss. I didn't build 'em for benevolent purposes, but I've not heard one of you chaps complain of 'era yet. I've given you your dues and stood by you and I'll do it again, by " There was a silence a significant breathless one. " Have I done it," he said, " or haven't I ? " Suddenly the silence was broken. " Aye," there was a shout, " aye, lad, yo' ha'." " Then," he shouted, " them as Jem Haworth has stood by, let 'em stand by Jem Haworth ! " A SPEECH. 189 And he struck his big fist upon his open palm with a fierce blow, and stood before them breathing hard. He had the best metal on his side somehow, and the best metal carried the day. The boldness of his move, the fact that he had not waited, but had taken the lead, were things all for him. Even those who wavered toward the enemy were stirred to something like admira tion. " But what about th' Union ? " said a timorous voice in the rear. " Theer'll be trouble with th' Unions as sure as we stand out, Mester." Havvorth made a movement none of them understood. He put his hand behind him and drew from his hip- pocket an object which caused every man of them to give a little start and gasp. They were used to simple and always convenient modes of defense. The little object he produced would not have startled an American, but it startled a Lancashire, audience. It was of shining steel and rose-wood, and its bright barrels glittered significant ly. He held it out and patted it lightly. " That's for the Union, lads," he said. " And more like it," A few of the black sheep moved restlessly and with manifest tremor. This was a new aspect of affairs. One of them suddenly cried out with much feebleness : " Th three cheers for Haworth." " Let the chaps as are on the other side go to their lot now," said Haworth. But no one moved. " There's some here that'll go when th' time comes," he announced. "Let 'em tell what they've heard. Now lads, the rest on you up with your hands." The whole place was in a tumult. They held up their 190 HA WORTH'S." hands and clenched and shook them and shouted, and here and there swore with fluency and enthusiasm. There were not six among them who were not fired with the general friendly excitement. " To-morrow morning there'll be papers posted up, writ in Jem Haworth's hand and signed with his name," cried Haworth. " Read 'em as you come along, lads, and when you reach here I'll be ready for you." " Is it about th' pistols ? " faltered the timorous voice. " Aye," Haworth answered, " about th' pistols. Now go home." He turned to mount the step, flushed and breathing fast and with high-beating pulses, when suddenly he stopped. Before the iron gate a carriage had stopped. A servant in livery got down and opened the door, and Rachel Ffrench stepped out. The hands checked their shouting to look at her. She came up the yard slowly and with the setting sun shining upon her. It was natu ral that they should gaze at her as she approached, though she did not look at any of them only at Haworth, who waited. They made a pathway for her and she passed through it and went up the step. Her rich dress touched more than one man as she swept by. " I thought," they heard her say, " that I would call for my father." Then for the first time she looked at the men. She turned at the top of the step and looked down the sun on her dress and face. There was not a man among them who did not feel the look. At first a murmur arose and then an incoherent cry and then a shout, and they threw up their caps and shouted until they were hoarse. A SPEECH. 191 In the midst of it she turned aside and went in with a smile on her lips. In Ilaworth's room they found her father standing be hind the door with a startled air. ' What are they shouting for?" he asked. "What is the matter now ? " " I think I am the matter," Miss Ffrench answered, " though I scarcely know why. Ah," giving him a quiet glance, " you are afraid ! " CHAPTER XXIX. " SAEAEANN." THE next morning there was an uproar in the town. The strikers from Moltoii and Marfort no longer remained in the shade. They presented themselves openly to the community in their true characters. At first they lounged about in groups at the corners and before the ale-houses, smoking, talking, gesticulating, or wearing sullen faces. But this negative state of affairs did not last long. By eight o'clock the discovery was made that something had happened in the night. In a score of prominent places, on walls and posts, there appeared papers upon which was written, in a large, bold hand, the following announcement : " Haworth's lads will stand by him. The chaps that have aught to say against this, let them remember that to every man there's six bar rels well loaded, and to Jem Haworth twelve. Those that want their brass out of Broxton Bank, let them come and get it. "Writ and signed by " JEM HAWORTH." The first man who saw it swore aloud and ran to call others. Soon a select party stood before the place on which the card was posted, confronting it in different moods. Some were scientifically profane, some raged loudly, some were silent, one or two grinned. " 8ARARANN." 193 " He staid up aw neet to do that theer," remarked one of these. " He's getten a gizzard o' his own, has Haworth. He's done it wi' his own hands." One gentleman neither grinned nor swore. His coun tenance fell with singular rapidity. This was Mr. Briar- ley, who had come up in the rear. He held in one hand a pewter pot which was half empty. He had caught it up in the heat of the moment, from the table at which he had been sitting when the news came. " What's in th' barrils ? " he inquired. The man he spoke to turned to him roughly. " Powder," he answered, " an' lead, tha domned foo'!" Mr. Briarley looked at his mug regretfully. " I thowt," he said, " as happen it mought ha' bin beer." Having reflected a moment, he was on the point of raising the mug to his lips when a thought struck him. He stopped short. " What's he goin' to do wi' em ? " he quavered. " Ax him," was the grim answer. " Ax him, lad. He dunnbt say." " He is na " in manifest trepidation, " he is na goin' to to fire 'em off ! " " He'll fire 'em off, if he comes across thee," was the reply. " Mak' sure o' that. An' I should na blame him, neyther." Mr. Briarley reflected again for a few seconds re flected deeply. Then he moved aside a little. "I hannot seen Sararann sin' yesterday," he said, softly, " nor yet Janey, nor yet th' o\vd missus. I I mun go and see 'em." Haworth kept his word. The next day there was not a 9 194 " HAWORT&S." man who went to and from the Works who could not have defended himself if he had been attacked. But no one was attacked. His course was one so unheard of. so unexpected, that it produced a shock. There was a lull in the movement, at least. The number of his enemies increased and were more violent, but they were forced to content themselves with violence of speech. Somehow, it scarcely seemed safe to use ordinary measures against Jem Haworth. He slept in his room at the Works, and shared watches with the force he had on guard. He drove through the town boldly, and carried a grim, alert face. He was here, and there, and everywhere ; in the Works, going from room to room ; at the bank, ready for emergencies. " When this here's over," he said, "I'll give you chaps a spree you won't get over in a bit, by George ! " Those who presented themselves at the bank the morn ing the placards were to be seen got their money. By noon the number arriving diminished perceptibly. In a day or two a few came back, and would have handed over their savings again willingly, but the bank refused to take them. "Carry it to Manchester," were Haworth's words. " They'll take it there I won't." Those of his hands who had deserted him came out of their respective "sprees" in a week's time, with chop- fallen countenances. They had not gained anything, and were somehow not in great favor among the outside strikers. In their most pronounced moods, they had been neither useful nor ornamental to their party. They were not eloquent, nor even violent ; they were simply idle vagabonds, who were no great loss to Haworth and no great gain to his enemies. In their own families they "SARARANN" 195 were in deep and dire disgrace, and loud were the ratings they received from their feminine relatives. The lot of Mr. Briarley was melancholy indeed. Among the malcontents his portion was derision and contumely ; at home he was received with bewailings and scathing severity. " An' that theer was what tha wur up to, was it ? " cried Mrs. Briarley, the day he found himself compelled by circumstances to reveal the true state of affairs. " Tha'st j'ined th' strikers, has tha ? " " Aye, Sararann, I've j'ined 'em an' an' we're go r n' to set things straight, bless yo' that's what we're goin' to do. We we're goin' to bring the mesters down a bit, an' an' get our dues. That's what we're goin' to do, Sararann." It was dinner-time, and in the yard and about the street at the front the young members of the family disported themselves with vigor. Without Janey and the baby, who were in the house, there were ten of them. Mrs. Briarley went to the door and called them. Housed to frantic demonstrations of joy by the immediate prospect of dinner, they appeared in a body, tumbling over one another, shrieking, filling the room to overflowing. Generally they were disposed of in relays, for conve nience' sake. It was some time since Mr. Briarley had beheld the whole array. He sat upright and stared at them. Mrs. Briarley sat down confronting him. " What art tha goin' to do wi' them while tha bring th' mesters down ? " she inquired. Mr. Briarley regarded the assembly with naive bewil derment. A natural depression of spirit set in. " Theer theer seems a good many on 'em, Sararann," 196 "HAWORTH'S." he said, with an air of meek protestation. " They seem to ha' to ha' cnmylated ! " "Theer's twelve on 'em," answered Mrs. Briarley, dryly, " an' they've aw getten mouths, as tha sees. An' their feyther's goin' to bring th' mesters down a bit ! " Twelve pairs of eyes stolidly regarded their immediate progenitor, as if desirous of discovering his intentions. Mr. Briarley was embarrassed. " Sararann," he faltered, "send 'em out to play 'em. Send 'em out into th' open air. It's good fur 'em, th' open air is, an' they set a mon back." Mrs. Briarley burst into lamentations, covering her face with her apron and rocking to and fro. " Aye," cried she, " send 'em out in th' air happen they'll fatten on it. It's aw they'll get, poor childer. Let 'em mak' th' most on it." In these days Haworth was more of a lion than ever. He might have dined in state with a social potentate each day if he had been so minded. The bolder spirits visited him at the Works, and would have had him talk the mat ter over. But he was in the humor for neither festivities nor talk. He knew what foundation his safety rested upon, and spent many a sleepless and feverish night. He was bitter enough at heart against those he had tempo rarily baffled. " Wait till tha'rt out o' th' woods," he said to Ff rench, when he was betrayed into expressing his sense of relief. Oddly enough, the feeling against Ffrench was dispro portionately violent. He was regarded as an alien and a usurper of the rights of others. There existed a large "SABARANN." 197 disgust for his gentle birth and breeding, and a sardonic coiitempt for his incapacity and lack of experience. He had no prestige of success and daring, he had not shown himself in the hour of danger, he took all and gave noth ing. " I should not be surprised," said Miss Ffrench to Mur doch, " if we have trouble yet." CHAPTER XXX. MRS. HA WORTH AND GRANNY DIXON. ABOUT this time a change appeared in little Mrs. Ha- worth. Sometimes when they sat together, Haworth found himself looking up suddenly and feeling that her eyes were fixed upon him, and at such times she invariably met his glance with a timid, startled expression, and re leased herself from it as soon as she had the power. She had never been so tender and lavish with her inno cent caresses, but there was continuously a tremulous watchfulness in her manner, which was almost sugges tive of fear. It was not fear of him, however. She clung to him with all the strength of her love. At night when he returned home, however late, he was sure of finding her waiting patiently for him, and in the morning when he left the house he was never so early that she was not at his service. The man began to quail before her, and grow restless in secret, and be haunted, when he awakened in the night, by his remembrance of her. " She is on the lookout for something," he said to him self, fearfully. " "What have they been saying to her ? " On her part, when she sat alone, she used to try and think the matter out, and set it straight and account for it. " It's the strikes," she said, " as has set them agen him MRS. EAWORTH AND GRANNY DIXON. 199 and made 'em hard an' forgetful of all he's done. They'd never have spoke so if they'd been theirselves." She could scarcely have told what she had heard, or how the first blow had struck home. She only knew that here and there she had heard at first a rough jeer and then a terrible outspoken story, which, in spite of her disbelief, filled her with dread. The man who first flung the ill- favored story at her stopped half-way through it, the words dying on his lips at the sight of her face. It happened in one of her pensioners' cottages, and she rose from her chair trembling. " I didn't think," she said, with unconscious pathos, "as the world could be so ignorant and wicked." Bntas the ill-feeling became more violent, she met with the same story again and again, and often with new and worse versions in forms she could not combat. She be gan to be haunted by vague memories of things she had not comprehended. A sense of pain followed her. She was afraid, at times, to go to the cottages, lest she should be confronted with something which would overwhelm her. Then she began to search her son's face with a sense of finding some strangeness in it. She watched him wistfully when he had so far forgotten her presence as to be almost unaware of it. One night, having thrown himself upon a sofa and fallen into a weary sleep, he sud denly started up from it to find her standing close by him, looking down, her face pale, her locked fingers mov ing nervously. " What is it ? " he exclaimed. " What ails you ? " He was startled by her falling upon her knees at his side, crying, and laying her shaking hand upon his shoul der. "You was having a bad dream, my dear," she said, 200 " HAWO&TH'S." " a bad dream. I I scarcely knowed your face, Jem it was so altered." He sank back upon his cushions and stared at her. He knew he had been having no bad dream. His dreams were not half so evil and bitter when he slept as they were in these days when he wakened. " You always had such a good face, Jem," she said, " and such a kind one. When you was a boy " He stopped her almost sullenly. " I'm not a boy now," he said. " That's put away and done with." " No," she answered, " that's true, my dear ; but you've lived an innocent life, an' an' never done no wrong no more than you did when you was one. And your face was so altered." Her voice died away into a silence which, somehow, neither of them could break. It was Granny Dixon who revealed the truth in its barest 'form. Perhaps no man nor woman in Broxton knew more of it than this respectable ancient matron. Haworth and his iniquities had been the spice of her later life. The fact that his name was being mentioned in a conversation never escaped her ; she discovered it as if by magic and invariably commanded that the incident under discussion be repeated at the top of the reciter's voice for her benefit, occasionally somewhat to the confusion of the honest matron in question. How it had happened that she had not betrayed all to Mrs. Haworth at once was a mystery to remain unsolved. During the little woman's visits to the cottage, Mrs. Briar- ley existed in a chronic condition of fear and trem bling. " She'll be out wi' it some o' these days, mark me," she MRS. HA WORTH AND GRANNY DIXON. 201 would quaver to Janey. " An' th' Lord knows, I would na' be theer fur nowt when she does." But she did not do it at first. Mrs. Briarley had a secret conviction that the fact that she did not do so was due entirely to iniquity. She had seen her sit peering from under her brows at their guest as the simple crea ture poured forth her loving praise of her son, and at such times it was always Mrs. Briarley's province to repeat the conversation for her benefit. " Aye," Mi*s. Dixon would comment with an evil smile, " that's him ! That's Ilaworth ! He's a noice chap is Haworth. / know him." Mrs. Haworth learned in time to fear her and to speak timidly in her presence, rarely referring to the subject of her boy's benefactions. " Only as it wouldn't be nat'ral," she said once to Mrs. Briarley, " I should think she was set agen him." " Eh ! bless us," was Mrs. Briarley's answer. " Yo' need na moind her. She's set agen ivverybody. She's th' nowtest owd piece i' Christendom." A few days after Haworth had awakened to find his mother standing near him, Mrs. Haworth paid a visit to the Briarleys. She took with her a basket, which the poor of Broxton had long since learned to know. In this case it contained stockings for the little Briarleys and a dress or so for the baby. When she had bestowed her gifts and seated herself, she turned to Granny Dixon with some tremor of manner. " I hope you're well, ma'am," she said. Granny Dixon made no reply. She sat bent over in her chair, regarding her for a few seconds with unblink ing gaze. Then she slowly pointed with her thin, crooked finger to the little presents. 9* 202 "HAWORTH'S." " He sent 'em, did he ? " she trumpeted forth. " Ha- worth ? " Mrs. Ha worth quailed before her. " Yes, ma'am," she answered, " leastways " Granny Dixon stopped her. "He did nowt o' th' soart," she cried. "Tha'rt leein' ! " The little woman made an effort to rise, turned pale, and sat down again. " Ma'am " she began. Granny Dixon's eyes sparkled. " Tha'rt leein'," she repeated. " He's th' worst chap i' England, and aw JBroxton knows it." Her victim uttered a low cry of pain. Mrs. Briarley had left the room, and there was no one to help her. All the hints and jeers she had heard rushed back to her, but she struggled to stand up against them. " It ain't true," she said.' " It ain't true." Granny Dixon was just beginning to enjoy herself. A difference of opinion with Mrs. Briarley, which had oc curred a short time before, had prepared her for the occa sion. She knew that nothing would so much demoralize her relative and hostess as this iniquitous outbreak. " They've been warniu' me to keep quiet an' not tell thee," she answered, " but I towd 'em I'd tell thee when I wur i' th' hurnor, an' I'm i' th' humor now. Will Ffrench wur a devil, but he's a bigger one yet. He kep' thee away because he did na want thee to know. He set aw th' place by th' ears. A decent woman would na cross his door-step, nor a decent mon, fur aw his brass afore tha coom. Th' lot as he used to ha' down fro' Lunnon an' Manchester wur a shame to th' town. Fve seed 'em women in paint an' feathers, an' men as decent lasses MRS. HA WORTH AND GRANNY D1XON. 203 hide fro'. A good un, war he ? Aye, he wur a good un, for sure." She sat and chuckled a moment, thinking of Sararann's coming terror and confusion. She had no objection to Haworth's moral lapses, herself, but she meant to make the most of them while she was at it. She saw nothing of the anguish in the face from which all the fresh, almost girlish color had faded. " An' yo' did na know as they wur na gentlefolk," she proclaimed again. " Tha thowt they wur ladies an' gen tlemen when tha coom in on 'em th' fust night tha set foot i' th' house. A noice batch o' ladies they wur ! An he passed 'em off on thee ! He wur sharp enow fur that, trust him. Ladies, bless us ! I heard tell on it an' so did aw Broxton ! " The wounded creature gathered all her strength to rise from her chair. She stood pressing her hands against her heart, swaying and deadly pale. " He has been a good son to me," she said. " A good son an' I can't believe it. You wouldn't yourself if you was his mother, an' knew him as as I do." She made her way to the door just as Mrs. Briarley came in. One glance told that excellent matron that the long-dreaded calamity had arrived. " What's she been up to? " she demanded. " Lord ha' mercy ! what's she been up to now ? " "She's been tellin' me," faltered the departing guest, " that my son's a bad man an' a shame to me. Let me go, ma'am for I've never heard talk like this before an' it's made me a bit weak an' queer." And she slipped past and was gone. Mrs. Briarley 's patience deserted her. A full sense of what Granny Dixon's worst might be burst in upon her; 204 HAWORTH'S." a remembrance of her own manifold wrongs and humil iations added itself to this sense ; for the moment, discre tion ceased to appear the better part of valor. " What has tha been sayin' ? " she cried. " What has tha been sayin' ? Out wi' it." " I've been telling her what tha wur afeared to tell her," chuckled Mrs. Dixon with exultation. "I towd thee I would an' I've done it." Mrs. Briarley made no more ado. She set the baby down upon an adjacent chair with a resonant sound, and then fell upon the miserable old woman and seizing her by the shoulders shook her until her cap flew off and danced upon her back and her mouth opened and shut as if worked by a spring. " Tha brazen t, hard-hearted besom, tha ! " she cried as she shook. " Tha ill-farrant nowt, tha ! as nivver did no good i' thy days an canna bear as no one else should. I dunnot care if I nivver see thy brass as long as I live. If tha wur noine i'stead o' ninety-five I'd give thee a hidin', tha brazent, hard-hearted owd piece ! " Her strength failed her and she loosened her hold and sat down and wept aloud behind the baby, and Mrs. Dixon fell back in her chair, an unpleasant heap, without breath to speak a word or strength to do anything but clutch wildly at her cap, and so remained shrunken and staring. CHAPTER XXXI. HA WORTH'S DEFENDER. MRS. HAWORTH made her way along the streets with weak and lagging steps. She had been a brisk walker in the days of her country life, and even now was fonder of going here and there on foot than of riding in state, as her son would have preferred. But now the way before her seemed long. She knew where she was going. " There's one of 'em as knows an' will tell me," she said to herself. " She can't have no cruel feeling against him, bein' a lady, an' knowin' him so well. An' if it's true not as I believe it, Jem, my dear, for I don't she'll break it to me gentle." " Not as I believe, Jem, my dear, for I don't," she said to herself again and again. Her mind went back to the first hour of his life, when he lay, a strong-limbed child, on her weak arm, the one comfort given to her out of her wretched marriage. She thought of him again as a lad, growing and thriving in spite of hunger and cold, growing and thriving in spite of cruelty and wrong which broke her health and threw her helpless upon charity. He had been sharper and bolder than other boys, and always steadfast to his deter mination. " He was always good to me," she said. " Child an' man he's never forgot me. or been unmindful. If there'd 206 "HAWORT&S." have been wrong in his life, who'd have been liker to see it than me ? " It was to Rachel Ffrench she was going, and when at last she reached the end of her journey, and was walking up the pathway to the house, Rachel Ffrench, who stood at the window, saw her, and was moved to wonder by her pallor and feebleness. The spring sunshine was so bright outside that the room seemed quite dark when she came into it, and even after she had seated herself the only light in it seemed to ema nate from the figure of Miss Ffrench herself, who stood opposite her in a dress of some thin white stuff and with strongly fragrant yellow hyacinths at her neck and in her hand. " Yon are tired," she said. " You should not have walked." The woman looked up at her timidly. " It isn't that," she answered. " it's sornethin' else." She suddenly stretched forth her hands into the light. " I've come here to hear about my boy," she said. " I want to hear from one as knows the truth, an' will tell me." Miss French was not of a sympathetic nature. Few young women possessed more nerve and self-poise at try ing times, and she had not at any previous period been specially touched by Mrs. Haworth ; but just now she was singularly distressed. " What do you want to know," she asked, " that I can tell you?" She was not prepared for what happened next, and lost a little placidity through it. The simple, loving creature fell at her feet and caught hold of her dress, sobbing. " He's thirty-three years old," she cried, " an' I've never HA WORTH'S DEFENDER. 207 seen the day when he's give me a hurt. He's been the pride of my life an' the hope of it. I've looked up to him and prayed for him an' believed in him an' they say he's black with shameful sin an' I don't know him, nor never did, for he's deceived me from first to last." The yellow hyacinths fell from Miss Ffrench's hand on the carpet, and she looked down at them instead of at the upturned face. " Who said it ? " she asked. But she was not answered. " If it's true not that I believe it, for I don't if it's true, what is there left for me, as loved and honored him where's my son I thanked God for day an' night? Where's my boy as paid me for all I bore ? He's never been he's never been at all. I've never been his mother nor he's never been my son. If it's true not as I believe it, for I don't where is he ? " Miss Ffrench bent down and picked up her hyacinths. She wondered, as she bent down, what her reply would be. " Will you believe me f " she asked, as she rose up again. " Yes, ma'am," she was answered, " I know I may do it thank God ! " " Yes, you may," said Miss Ffrench, without flinching in the least. " I can have no feeling for or against him. I can have no end to serve, one way or the other. It is not true. It is a lie. He is all you have believed." She helped her to rise, and made her sit down again in an easy-chair, and then herself withdrew a little, and stood leaning against the window looking at her. " He has done more good in Broxton than any other man who lives," she said. " He has made it what it is. The people who hate him and speak ill of him are those 208 "HA WORTH'S." he has benefited most. It is the way of their class, I have heard before, and now I believe it to be true. They have said worse things of men who deserve them as little as he does. He has enemies whom he has conquered, and they will never forgive him." She discovered a good many things to say, having once begun, and she actually found a kind of epicurean enjoy ment in saying them in a manner the most telling. She always liked to do a thing very well. But, notwithstanding this, the time seemed rather long before she was left alone to think the matter over. Before she had said many Avords her visitor was another woman. Life's color came back to her, and she sat crying softly, tears of sheer joy and relief. u J knowed it couldn't be true," she said. " 1 knowed it, au' oh ! thank you, ma'am, with all a mother's heart ! " To think," she said, smiling and sobbing, "as I should have been so wicked as to let it weigh on me, when I knowed so well as it couldn't never be. I should be almost 'shamed to look him in the face if I didn't know how good he was, an' how ready he'd be to forgive me." When at last she was gone, Miss Ffrench threw herself into the chair she had left, rather languidly. She was positively tired. As she did so she heard a sound. She rose hastily and turned toward the folding-doors leading into the adjoining room. They had been partially closed, and as she turned they were pushed aside and some one came through them. It was Jem Haworth. He was haggard and disheveled, and as he approached her he walked unsteadily. " I was in there through it all," he said, " and I heard every word." HAWORTH'S DEFENDER. 209 She was herself again, at once. She knew she had not been herself ten minutes before. "Well," she said. He came up and stood near her and almost abject tremor upon him. " Will you listen to what I have got to say ? " he said. She made a cold gesture of assent. " If she'd gone to some and heard what they had to tell," he said, " it would have killed her. It's well she came here." She saw the dark color rush to his face and knew what was coming. " It's all true, "by " he burst out, " every word of it ! " " When I was in there," he went on, with a gesture to ward the other room, " I swore I'd tell you. Make the best and the worst of it. It's all true that and more." He sat down in a chair and rested his forehead on his hands. " Things has begun to go agen me," lie said. " They never did before. I've been used to tell myself there was a kind of luck in keeping it hid from her. Th' day it comes on her, full force, I'm done for. I said in there you should know, at least. It's all true." " I knew it was true," remarked Miss Ffrench, " all the time." " You knew ! " he cried out. " You ! " " I have known it from the first," she answered. " Did you think it was a secret ? " " 347 " Get thee a pen an' an' write summat," she ordered. "Get it quickly," said Kachel Ffrench, "and let me humor her and go." She noticed the little gap between the words herself, and the next instant saw a faint gray pallor spread itself over the old woman's face. " Get the pen and paper," she repeated, " and call in the woman." They brought her the pen and paper and called the woman, who came in stolidly, ready for any emergency. Then they waited for commands, but for several seconds there was a dead pause, and Granny Dixon lay back, star ing straight before her. "Quick I" said Kachel Ffrench. "What do you want ? " Granny Dixon rose by a great effort upright from her pillows. She pointed to Mrs. Briarley with the sharp, bony fore-finger. " 1 leave it aw to her" she proclaimed, " ivvery penny ! She's th' ony one among 'em as is na a foo' ! " And then she fell back, and panted and stared again. Mrs. Briarley lifted her apron and burst into tears. " She means th' brass," she wailed. " Eh ! Poor owd lass, who'd ha' thowt it ! " " Do you mean," asked Rachel Ffrench, " that you wish her to have your money ? " A nod was the answer, and Mrs. Briarley shed sympa thetic tears again. Here was a reward for her labors in deed. What she wrote Miss Ffrench scarcely knew. In the end there was her own name signed below, and a black, scrawling mark from Granny Dixon's hand. The woman who had come in made her mark also. 34:8 "HAWORTH'S." "Mak' a black un," said the testatrix. "Let's ha' it plain." Then, turning to Rachel : "Does ta want to know wheer th' money come fro'? Fro' Will Ffrench fro' him. He wur one o' th' gentry when aw wur said an' done an' I wur a han'some lass." When it was done they all stood and looked at each other. Granny Dixon lay back upon her pillows, drawing sharp breaths. She was looking only at Rachel Ffrench. She seemed to have forgotten all the rest of them, and what she had been doing. All that was left of the Yoice was a loud, halting whisper. " Wheer's th' flower ? " she said. " I conna smell it." It was in her hand. Rachel Ffrench drew back. " Let me go," she said to Mrs. Briarley. "I cannot stay here." "He used to wear 'em i' his button-hole," she heard, " seventy year ago an' she's th' very moral on him." And scarcely knowing how, she made her way past the women, and out of the house and into the fresh air and sunshine. " Drive home," she said to the coachman, " as quickly as possible." She leaned back in a corner of the carriage shuddering. Suddenly she burst into wild tears. But there were no traces of her excitement when she reached home. She descended from the carriage looking quite herself, and after dismissing it went up to her own room. About half an hour later she came down and went into the library. Her father was not there, and on inquiring " TH 1 ON'Y ONE AS 18 NA A FOO' f " 319 as to his whereabouts from a servant passing the open door, she was told that he had gone out. He had been writing letters, it was evident. His chair stood before his desk, and there was an addressed envelope lying upon it. She went to the desk and glanced at it without any spe cial motive for doing so. It was addressed to herself. She opened and read it. " My dear Rachel," it ran. " In all probability we shall not meet again for some time. I find myself utterly un able to remain to meet the blow which must inevitably fall before many days are over. The anxiety of the past year has made me a coward. I ask your forgiveness for what you may call my desertion of you. We have never relied upon each other much, and you at least are not in cluded in my rain. You will not be called upon to share my poverty. You had better return to Paris at once. With a faint hope that you will at least pity me, I remain, Your affectionate father, Gerard Ffrench." CHAPTER LIL "HA WORTH'S is DONE WITH." ALMOST at the same moment, Haworth was reading, in his room at the Works, the letter which had been left for himself. " I have borne as much as I can bear," it ended. "My punishment for my folly is that I am a ruined man and a fugitive. My presence upon the scene, when the climax comes, would be of no benefit to either of us. Pardon me, if you can, for the wrong I have unintentionally done you. My ill-luck was sheerly the result of circumstances. Even yet, I cannot help thinking that there were great possibilities in my plans. But you will not believe this and I will say no more. In haste, Ffrench." When Rachel Ffrench finished reading her note she 1 lighted a taper and held the paper to it until it was re duced to ashes, and afterward turned away merely a shade paler and colder than before. Haworth having finished the reading of Ffrench's letter, sat for a few seconds star ing down at it as it lay before him on the table. Then he burst into a brutal laugh. After that, he sat stupefied his elbows on the table, his head on his hands. He did not move for half an hour. " HA WORTH'S IS DONE WITH." 35 1 The "Works saw very little of him during the day. He remained alone in his room, not showing himself, and one of the head clerks, coining in from the Bank on business, went back mystified, and remarked in confidence to a companion that " things had a queer look." He did not leave the Works until late, and then went home. All through the evening his mother watched him in her old tender way. She tried to interest him with her history of the Briarley's bereavement and unexpected good fortune. She shed tears over her recital. " So old, my dear," she said. " Old enough to have outlived her own, an' her ways a little hard," wiping her eyes. " I'd like to be grieved for more, Jem though perhaps it's only nat'ral as it should be so. She hadn't no son to miss her as you'll miss me. 7 shouldn't like to be the last, Jem." He had been listening mechanically and he started and turned to her. " The last ? " he said. " Aye, it's a bit hard." It was as if she had sugo-ested a new thought to him of oo c? which he could not rid himself at once. He kept looking at her, his eyes wandering over her frail little figure and innocent old face, restlessly. "But I haven't no fear," she went on, "though we never know what's to come. But you're a strong man, and there's not like to be many more years for me though I'm so well an' happy." " You might live a score," he answered in an abstracted way, his eyes still fixed on her. " Not without you," she returned. " It's you that's life to me an' strength an' peace." The innocent tears were in her voice again, and her eyes were bright with them. 352 "HAWORTWS." He lay down awhile but could not lie still. He got up and came and stood near her and talked and then moved here and there, picking up one thing and another, holding them idly for a few seconds and then setting them aside. At last she was going to bed and came to bid him good night. He laid his hand on her shoulder caressingly. " There's never been aught like trouble between us two," he said. " I've been a quiet enough chap, and dif ferent somehow when I've been nigh you. What I've done, I've done for your sake and for the best." In the morning the Works were closed, the doors of the Bank remained unopened, and the news spread like wild fire from house to house and from street to street and be yond the limits of the town until before noon it was known through the whole country side that Ffrench had fled and Jem Haworth was a ruined man. It reached the public ear in the first instance in the ordinary commonplace manner through the individuals who had suddenly descended upon the place to take pos session. A great crowd gathered about the closed gates and murmured and stared and anathematized. " Theer's been summat up for mony a month," said one sage. " I've seed it. He wur na hissen, wur na Ha worth." " Nay," said another, " that he wur na. Th' chap has na been o' a decent spree sin' Ffrench coom." " Happen," added a third, " that wur what started him on th' road downhill. A chap is na good fur much as has na reg'lar habits." l " Aye, an' Haworth wur reg'lar enow when he set up. Good Lord ! who'd ha' thowt o' that chap i' bankrup'cy ! " At the outset the feeling manifested was not unamiable " HA WORTH'S IS DONE WITH." 353 to Haworth, but it was not very long before the closing of the Bank dawned upon the public in a new light. It meant loss and ruin. The first man who roused the tumult was a burly farmer who dashed into the town on a sweating horse, spurring it as he rode and wearing a red and furious face. He left his horse at an inn and came down to the Bank, booted and spurred and whip in hand. " Wheer's Ffrench ? " he shouted to the smaller crowd attracted there, and whose views as to the ultimate settle ment of things were extremely vague. " Wheer's Ffrench an' wheer's Haworth ? " Half a dozen voices volunteered information regarding Ffrench, but no one knew anything of Haworth. He might be in a dozen places, but no one had yet seen him or heard of his whereabouts. The man began to push his way toward the building, swearing hotly. He mounted the steps and struck violently on the door with his whip. " I'll mak' him hear if he's shut hissen i' here," he cried. "Th' shifty villain's got ivvery shillin' o' brass I've been savin' for my little wench for th' last ten year. I'll ha' it back, if it's to be gotten." " Tha'lt ne'er see it again," shouted a voice in the crowd. " Tha'dst better ha' stuck to th' owd stockin', lad." Then the uproar began. One luckless depositor after another was added to the crowd. They might easily be known among the rest by their pale faces. Some of them were stunned into silence, but the greater portion of them were loud and passionate in their outcry. A few women hung on the outskirts, wiping their eyes every now and then with their aprons, and sometimes bursting into audi ble tits of weeping. " I've been goin' out charrin' for four year," said one, 354 "HAWORTH'S." " to buy silks an' satins fur th' gentry. Yo' nivver seed her i' owt else." And all knew whom she meant, and joined in shouts of rage. Sometimes it was Ffrench against whom their anger was most violent Ffrench, who had been born among ' O them a gentleman, and who should have been gentleman enough not to plunder and deceive them. And again it was Haworth Haworth, who had lived as hard as any of them and knew what their poverty was, and should have done fairly by them, if ever man should. In the course of the afternoon Murdoch, gathering no news of Haworth elsewhere, went to his house. A panic- stricken servant let him in and led him into the great room where he had spent his first evening, long ago. Despite its splendor, it looked empty and lifeless, but when he entered, there rose from a carved and satin up holstered chair in one corner a little old figure in a black dress Jem Haworth's mother, who came to him with a white but calm face. " Sir," were her greeting words, " where is he ? " " I came to see him," he answered, " I thought " " No," she interrupted, " he is not here. He has not been here since morning." She began to tremble, but she shed no tears. " There's been a good many to ask for him," she went on. " Gentlemen, an' them as was rough, an' didn't mind me bein' a woman an' old. They were harder than you'd think, an' troubled as I've been, I was glad he was not here to see 'em. But I'd be more comfortable if I could rightly understand." " I can only tell you what I know," he said. " It isn't much. I have only gathered it from people on the streets." " HA WORTH'S IS DONE WITH." 355 He led her back to her chair, and did not loosen his light grasp on her hand while he told her the story as he had heard it. His own mood was so subdued that it was easier than he had thought to use words which would lighten the first weight of the blow. She asked no questions after his explanation was over. " He's a poor man," she said at last, " a poor man, but we was poor before." Suddenly her tears burst forth. " They've said hard things to me to-day," she cried. " I don't believe 'em, Jem, my dear now less than ever." He comforted her as best he could. He could easily understand what they had told her, how much of the truth and how much of angry falsehood. " When he comes back," she said, " I shall be here to meet him. Wherever he is, an' however much he's broke down with trouble, he knows that. He'll come here to-night, an' I shall be here." Before he went away he asked if he might send Chris tian or his mother to her. But though she thanked him, she refused. " I know how good they'd be," she said, " an' what a comfort in the lonesomeness, but when he comes he'll want to be alone, an' a unfamiliar face might trouble him." But he did not come back. The day went on, and the excitement increased and waned by turns. The crowd grew and surged about the Bank and shouted itself hoarse, and would have broken a few windows if it had not been restrained - by the police force, who appeared upon the field ; and there were yells for Haworth and for Ffrench, but by this time Mr. Ffrench had reached Rot terdam and Haworth was no one knew where, since he 356 HA WORTH'S." had not been seen at all. And when at length dnsk fell upon the town, the crowd had dwindled away and gone home by ones and twos, and in Jem Haworth's house sat his mother, watching and waiting, and straining her ears to catch every passing sound. She had kept up her courage bravely through the first part of the day, but the strangers who came one after the other, and sometimes even two or three together, to de mand her son with loud words and denunciations and even threats, were a sore trial to her. Some of them flung their evil stories at her without remorse, taking it for granted that they were nothing new to her ears, and even those who had some compunction muttered among themselves and hinted angrily at what the others spoke outright. Her strength began to give way, and she quailed and trembled before them, but she never let their words pass without a desperate effort to defend her boy. Then they stared or laughed at her, or went away in sullen silence, and she was left to struggle with her grief and terror alone until some new call was made upon her, and she must bear all again. When the twilight came she was still alone, and sat in the darkened room battling against a dread which had crept slowly upon her. Of all those who had come none had known where he was. They did not know in the town, and he had not come back. " He might go," she whispered, " but he'd not go with out me. He's been true and fond of his mother, let them say what they will. He'd never leave me here alone." Her thoughts went back over the long years from his birth to the day of his highest success. She remembered how he had fought with fate, and made his way and re fused to be conquered. She thought of the wealth he " HA WORTH'S 18 DONE WITH" 357 had won, the power, the popularity, and of his boast that he had never been beaten, and she began to sob in the shadow of her corner. " He's lost it all," she cried. " An' he won it with his own hands an' worked for it an' bore np agen a world ! An' it's gone ! " It was when she came to this point that her terror seized on her as it had never done before. She got up, shaking in every limb. " I'll go to him myself," she said. " Who should go to him but his mother ? Who should find him an' be a help to him if I can't ? Jem Jem, my dear, it's me that's comin' to you me ! " He had been sitting in a small back office in the Bank all through the day when they had been calling and searching for him. lie had got in early and locked the door and waited, knowing well enough all that was to come. It was no feeling of fear that made him keep hid den ; he had done with fear if, indeed, he had ever felt it in his life. He knew what he was going to do and he laid his plans coolly. He was to stay here and do the work that lay before him and leave things as straight as he could, and then at night when all was quiet he would make his way out in the dark and go to the Works. It was only a fancy, this, of going to the Works, but he clung to it persistently. He had never been clearer-headed in his life only, sometimes as he was making a calculation or writing a letter he would dash down his work and fall to. cursing. "There's not another chap in England that had done it," he would say. " And it's gone ! it's gone ! it's gone ! " 358 " HA WORTH'S." Then again he would break into a short laugh, remem- O O 7 bering the M. P. and his speech and poor Ffrench's stumbling, overwhelmed reply to it. When he heard the crowd shouting and hooting at the front, he went into a room facing the street and watched them through a chink in the shutter. He heard the red -faced farmer's anathe mas, and swore a little himself, knowing his story was true. " Tha shalt have all Ha worth can give, chaps," he mut tered, " an' welcome. He'll tak' nowt with him." He laughed again but suddenly stopped, and walked back into the little office silently, and waited there. At nightfall he went out of a back door and slipped through unfrequented by-ways, feeling his heart beat with heavy thuds as he went. Nothing stood in his way and he got in, as he believed he should. The instant his foot crossed the threshold a change came upon him. He for got all else but what lay before him. He was less calm, and in some little hurry. He reached his room and lighted the gas dimly only so that he could see to move about. Then he went to his desk and opened it and took out one of a pair of pistols, speaking aloud as he did so. " Here," he said, " is the end of Jem Haworth." He knew where to aim, the heavy thuds marked the spot for him. " I'll count three," he said, " and then - He began slowly, steadily, but in a voice that fell with a hollow sound upon the dead stillness. " One," he said. " Two ! " and his hand dropped at his side with his weapon in it, for at the door stood his mother. In an instant she had fallen upon her knees and dragged herself toward him and was clinging to his hand. " HA WORTH'S IS DONE WITH." 359 " No Jem ! " she panted. " No, not that, my dear God forbid ! " He staggered back though she still clung to him. " How," lie faltered, " how did you come here ? " " The Lord led me," she sobbed. " He put it into my heart and showed me the way, an' you had forgot the door, Jem thank God ! " " You saw what I was going to do ? " " What you was goin' to do, but what you'll never do, Jem, an' me to live an' suffer when it's done me as you've been so good an' such a comfort to." In the dim light she knelt sobbing at his feet " Let me sit down," he said. " And sit down nigh me. I've summat to tell you." But though he sank into the chair she would not get up, but kept her place in spite of him and went on. " To-day there have been black tales told you ? " he said. " Yes," she cried, " but " " They're true," he said, " th' worst on 'em." "No no!" He stopped her by going on monotonously as if she had not spoken. "Think of the worst you've ever known you've not known much and then say to yourself, ' He's worse a hundred times'; think of the blackest you have ever known to be done, and then say to yourself, ' What he's done 's blacker yet.' If any chap has told you I've stood at naught until there was next to naught I'd left undone, he spoke true. If there was any one told you I set th' de cent ones by the ears and langhed 'em in the face, he spoke true. If any o' 'em said I was a dread and a by word, they spoke true, too. The night you came there 360 "HAWORTH'S." were men and women in th' liouse that couldn't look you in th' face, and that felt shame for th' first time in their lives mayhap because you didn't know what they were, an' took 'em to be as innocent as yourself. There's not a sin I haven't tasted, nor a wrong I've not done. I've had murder in my mind, an' planned it. I've been mad for a woman not worth even what Jem Haworth had to give her and I've won all I'd swore I'd win an' lost it ! Now tell me if there's aught else to do but what I've set my mind on ? " She clung to his heavy hand as she had not clung to it before, and laid her withered cheek upon it and kissed it. Bruised and crushed as she was with the blows he had dealt, she would not let it go free yet. Her words came from her lips a broken cry, with piteous sobs be tween them. But she had her answer ready. " That as I've thanked God for all my life," she said, " He'll surely give me in the end. He couldn't hold it back I've so believed an' been grateful to Him. If there hadn't been in you what would make a good man, my dear, I couldn't have been so deceived an' so happy. No not deceived that aint the word, Jem the good was there. You've lived two lives, may be, but one was good, thank God ! You've been a good son to me. You've never hurt me, an' it was your love as hid from me the wrong you did. You did love me, Jem I won't o * give that up never. There's nothing you've done as can stand agen that, with her as is your mother. You loved me an' was my own son my boy as was a comfort an' a pride to me from the first." He watched her with a stunned look. " You didn't believe them" he said hoarsely, "and you don't believe me ? " "HAWORTH'S 18 DONE WITH." 301 She put her hand to her heart and almost smiled. " It hasn't come home to me yet," she said. " I don't think it ever will." He looked helplessly toward the pistol on the table. He knew it. was all over and he should not use it. "What must I do?" he said, in the same hoarse i voice. " Get up," she said, " an' come with me. I'm a old woman but my heart's strong, an' we've been poor before. "We'll go away together an' leave it all behind all the sorrow of it an' the sin an' the shame. The life \thought you lived, my dear, is to be lived yet. Theer's places where they wont know us an' where we can begin again. Get up and come with me." He scarcely grasped what she meant. " With you ! " he repeated. " You want me to go now ? " " Yes," she answered, " for Christ's sake, my dear, now." He began to see trie meaning and possibility of her simple, woman's plan, and got up, ready to follow her. And then he found that the want of food and the long day had w T orn upon him so that he was weak. She put her arm beneath his and tried to. support him. " Lean on me, my dear," she said. " I'm stronger than you think." They went out, leaving the empty room and the pistol on the table and the dim light burning. And then they had locked the gate and were outside with the few stars shining above and the great black Works looming up be fore them. He stopped a moment to look back and up and remem bered the key. Suddenly he raised it iu his hand and 16 362 "HAWOBTH'S." flung it across the top of the locked gate ; they heard it fall inside upon the pavement with a clang. " They'll wonder how it came there," he said. " They'll take down the name to-morrow. ' Ha worth's ' is done with ! " He turned to her and said, " Come." His voice was a little stronger. They went down the lane together, and were lost in the darkness. CHAPTER LIII. " A BIT O' GOOD BLACK." GRANNY DIXON was interred with pomp and ceremony, or, at least, with what appeared pomp and ceremony in the eyes of the lower social stratum of Broxton. Mrs. Briarley's idea concerning the legacy left her had been of the vaguest. Her revered relative had shrewdly kept the amount of her possessions strictly to herself, if indeed, she knew definitely what they were. She had spent but little, discreetly living upon ihe expectations of her kindred. She had never been known to give anybody anything, and had dealt out the money to be expended upon her own wants with a close hand. Consequently, the principal, which had been a mystery from the first, had accumulated in an agreeably steady manner. Between her periodic fits of weeping in her character of sole legatee, Mrs. Briarley speculated with matronly prudence upon the possibility of the interest even amount ing to " a matter o' ten or fifteen shillin' a week," and found the pangs of bereavement materially softened thereby. There was a great deal of consolation to be de rived from " ten or fifteen shillin' a week." " I'll ha' a bit o' good black," she said, " an' we'll gi' her a noice buryin'." Only a severe sense of duty to the deceased rescued her from tempering her mournfulness with an air of modest cheer. 364: "HAWORTWS." The "bit o* good black" was the first investment. There was a gown remarkable for such stiffness of lining and a tendency to crackle upon every movement of the wearer, and there was a shawl of great weight and size, and a bonnet which was a marvel of unmitigated affliction as expressed by floral decorations of black crape and beads. " Have thee beads i' thy bonnet an' a pair o' black gloves, mother," said Janey, " an' tha'lt be dressed up for onct i' thy loife. Eh ! but I'd loike to go i' mournin' my- sen." "Aye, and so tha should, Jane Ann, if I could afford it," replied Mrs. Briarley. "Theer's nowt loike a bit o' black fur makkin foak look dressed. Theer's summat cheerful about it, i' a quoiet way. But nivver thee moind, tha'lt get these here things o' nioiue when I'm done wi' 'em, an' happen tha'lt ha' growed up to fit th' bonnet by then." The occasion of the putting on of the festive garb was Mrs. Briarley's visit to Manchester to examine into the state of her relative's affairs, and such was the effect pro duced upon the mind of Mr. Briarley by the air of high life surrounding him that he retired into the late Mrs. Dixon's chair and wept copiously. " I nivver thowt to see thee dressed up i' so much lux- shury, Sararann," he said, "an' it sets me back. Tha does na look loike thysen. Tha looks as though tha moight be oneo' th' nobility, goin' to th' Duke o' Welling ton's funeral to ride behoind th' hearse. I'm not worthy o' thee. I've nivver browt thee luck. I'm a misforchnit cha " " If tha'd shut thy mouth an' keep it shut till some one axes thee to oppen it, tha'd do well enow," interposed " A BIT 0' GOOD BLACK." 365 Mrs. Briarley, with a manifest weakening toward the cul prit even in the midst of her sternness. " He is na so bad," she used to say, leniently, " if he hadna been born a foo'." But this recalled to Mr. Briarley such memories as only plunged him into deeper depression. " Theer is na many as axes me to oppen it i' these days, Sararann," he said, with mournfulness. "It has na oppen't to mich purpose for mony a day. Even th' hos- pitty blest on 'em gets toired o' a chap as sees nowt but misforchin. I mowtas well turn teetotal an' git th' credit on it. Happen theer's a bit o' pleasure to be getten out o' staggerin' through th' streets wi' a banner i' th' Whit- week possession. I dunnot know. I've thowt mysen as happen th' tea a chap has to drink when th' excitement's ower, an' th' speeches ud a'most be a drorback even to that. But 1 mun say I've thowt o' tryin'." It may be here remarked that since Mrs. Briarley's sudden accession to fortune, Mr. Briarley's manner had been that of an humble and sincere penitent whose sym pathies were slowly but surely verging toward the noble cause of temperance. He had repeatedly deplored his wanderings from the path of sobriety and rectitude with tearful though subdued eloquence, and frequently inti mated a mournful inclination to "jine th' teetotals." Though, strange to say, the effect of these sincere mani festations had not been such as to restore in the partner of his joys and sorrows that unlimited confidence which would allow of her confiding to his care the small amount lie had once or twice feebly suggested her favoring him with, " to settle wi' " a violent and not-to-be-pacified cred itor of whom he stated he stood in bodily fear. 366 "HA WORTH'S." " I dunnot know as I ivver seed a chap as were as des- p'rit ower a little," he remarked. " It is na but eighteen pence, an' he ses he'll ha' it, or or see about it. He stands at th' street corner near th' ' Who'd ha' Thowt it,' an' he will na listen to owt. He says a chap as has coom i' to property can pay eighteen pence. He wunuot believe me," he added weakly, " when 1 say as it is na me as has getten th' brass, but yo'. It mak's him worse to try to mak' him understand. He will na believe me, an' he's a chap as would na stand back at owt. Theer wur a man i' Marfort as owed him thrippence as he he mashed i'to a jelly, Sararann an' it wur fur thrippence." " Aye," said Mrs. Briarley, dryly, " an' theer's no knowin' what he'd do fur eighteen pence. Theer's a bad lookout fur thee, sure enow ! " Mr. Briarley paused and surveyed her for a few seconds in painful silence. Then he looked at the floor, as if ap pealing to it for assistance, but even here he met with in difference, and his wounded spirit sought relief in meek protestations. " Tha has na no confydence in me, Sararann," he said. "Happen th' teetotals would na ha' neyther, happen they wouldn't, an' wheer's th' use o' a chap thinkin' o' jinin' 'em when they mowt ha' no confydence i' him. When a mon's fam'ly mistrusts him, an' has na no belief in what he says, he canna help feelin' as he is na incouraged. Tha is na incouragin', Sararann theer's wheer it is." But when, after her visit to Manchester, Mrs. Briarley returned, even Mr. Briarley's spirits rose, though under stress of circumstances and in private. On entering the house Mrs. Briarley sank into a chair, breathless and overawed. "A BIT 0' GOOD BLACK." 367 " It's two pound ten a week, Janey ! " she announced in a hysterical voice. " An' tha can ha' thy black as soon as tha wants it." And Mrs. Briarley burst at once into luxurious weeping. Janey dropped on to a stool, rolled her arms under her apron and sat gasping. " Two pound ten a week ! " she exclaimed. " I dunnot believe it ! " But she was persuaded to believe by means of sound proof and solid argument, and even the proprieties were scarcely sufficient to tone down the prevailing emo tion. " Theer's a good deal to be getten wi' two pound ten a week," soliloquized Mr. Briarley in his corner. "I've heerd o' heads o' fam'lies as wur 'lowanced. Summat could be done wi' three shillin' a week. Wi' four shillin' a chap could be i' parydise." But this, be it observed, was merely soliloquy, timor ously ventured upon in the temporary security afforded by the prevailing excitement. At the funeral the whole family appeared clothed in new garments of the most somber description. There were three black coaches and Mrs. Briarley was supported by numerous friends who alternately cheered and con doled with her. " Tha mun remember," they said, " as she's better off, poor thing." Mr. Briarley, who had been adorned with a hat-band of appalling width and length, and had been furthermore inserted into a pair of gloves some inches too long in the fingers, overcame his emotion at this juncture sufficiently to make an endeavor to ingratiate himself. He withdrew "HAWORTH'S." his handkerchief from his face and addressed Mrs Briar ley. " Aye he said, tha mun bear up, Sararann. She i, better off happen an' so are we." And l)e glanced round with a faint smile which, how ever, faded out with singular rapidity, and left him look ing somewhat aghast. CHAPTER LIY. "iT WILL BE TO YOU." THEY found the key lying within the locked gate, and the dim light burning and the pistol loaded upon the table. The great house stood empty with all its grandeur intact. The servants had been paid their wages a few days before the crash and had gone away. Nothing had been moved, nothing taken. The creditors, who found to their amazement that all was left in their hands to dispose of as they chose, agreed that this was not an orthodox case of absconding. Ilaworth was a more eccentric fel low than they had thought. One man alone understood. This was Murdoch, who, amid all the buzz of excited amazement, said nothing even to those in his own house. "When he heard the story of the pistol and the key, his first thought was of the silence of the great place at night the deadness of it and the sense of desolation it brought. It was a terrible thing to remember this and then picture a ruined man standing alone in the midst of it, a pistol in his hand and only the low light burning. "We did not understand each other very well," he said, drearily, " but we were friends in our way." And the man's farewell as he stood at the carriage door in the shadow, came back to him again and again like an echo repeating itself : " If 16* 370 "HAWORTWS." there's aught in what's gone by that's for me remember it!" Even before his return home, Murdoch had made up his mind as to what his course for the next few years was to be. His future was assured and he might follow his idlest fancy. But his fancies were not idle. They reached forward to freedom and new labors when the time came. He wanted to be alone for a while, at least, and he was to return to America. His plan was to travel with a purpose in view, and to fill his life with work which would leave him little leisure. Rachel Ffrench had not yet left her father's house. Saint Meran had gone away with some suddenness imme diately after the dinner party at which the political econo mist had reigned. Various comments had been made on his departure, but it was not easy to arrive at anything like a definite conclusion. Miss Ffrench was seen no more in the town. Only a few servants remained with her in the house, and these maintained that she was going to Paris to her father's sister, with whom she had lived before her return from abroad. They added that there was no change in her demeanor, that she had dismissed their companions without any explanation. One, it is true, thought she was rather thin and had "gone off her looks," but this version was not popular and was consid ered out of accordance with the ideal of her character held in the public mind. " She does na care," it was said. " She is na hurt. Her brass is safe enow, an' that's aw as ud be loike to trouble her. Pale i'deed ! She's too high an' moighty." Murdoch made his preparations for departure as rapidly as possible. They were rather for his mother and Chris tian than for himself. They were to leave Broxton also 11 IT WILL BE TO YOU." 371 and he had found a home for them elsewhere. One day, as they sat in the little parlor, he rose hurriedly and went to Christian and took both her hands. " Try to be happy," he said. " Try to be happy." He spared no effort to make the future bright for them. He gave no thought to himself, his every hour was spent in thinking for and devising new comfort for them. But at last all was ready, and there was but one day left to them. The Works were still closed, and would not be re opened for some weeks, but he had obtained permission to go down to his room, and remove his possessions if he chose. So on the morning of this last day he let himself into his " den," and shut himself up in it. Once behind the closed doors, he began a strange labor. He emptied draw ers and desk, and burnt every scrap of paper to ashes drawings, letters, all ! Then he destroyed the delicate mod els and every other remnant of his past labors. There was not so much as an envelope or blotting-pad remaining. When he had done he had made a clean sweep. The room was empty, cold, and bare. He sat down, at last, in the midst of its desolate orderliness. At that moment a hand was laid upon the door-handle and the door opened ; there was a rustle of a woman's dress and Eachel Ffrench stood before him. " What are you doing here, in Heaven's name ? " he said, rising slowly to meet her. She cast one glance around the bare room. " It is true ! You are going away ! " "Yes," he answered, "I am going. I have done my last work here to-day. " She made a step forward and stood looking at him. She spoke under her breath. 372 " HA WORTH'S." " Every one is going. My father has left me I " A scarlet spot came out on her cheek, but she did not withdraw her eyes. " Saint Meran has gone also." Gradually, as she looked at him, the blood receded from her face and left it like a mask of stone. " I " she began, in a sharp whisper, " do you not see ? Do you not understand ! Ah my God ! " There was a chair near her and she fell into it, burying her face in the crushed velvet of her mantle as she bowed herself upon the table near. "Hush!" she cried, "do not speak to me! That it should be I who stooped, and for this for this ! That having battled against my folly so long, I should have let it drag me to the dust at last ! " Her passionate sobs suffocated her. She could not check or control them. Her slender fingers writhed in their clasp upon each other. " I never thought of this, God knows ! " he said, hoarsely, " though there have been hours when I could have sworn that you had loved me once. I have thought of all things, but never of this never that you could re pent." She lifted her head. " That / should repent ! " she cried. " Repent ! Like this!" " No," he returned, " I never thought of that, I swear! " "And it is you," she cried, with scorn, "you who stand there and look at me and tell me that it is all over!" "Is it my fault that it is all over?" he demanded. "Is it?" " No," she answered, " that is my consolation." "IT WILL BE TO 70U." 373 He drew nearer to her. " You left me nothing," he said, " nothing. God knows what saved me I do not. You loved me ? You battled against your love ? " He langhed aloud. " I was a madman under your window night after night. Forget it, if you can. I cannot. 'Oh! that I should have stooped for this,' you say. No, it is that I who have loved you should stand here with empty hands ! " She had bowed her face and was sobbing again. But suddenly she rose. " If I did not know you better," she said, " I should say this was revenge." " It would be but a poor one," he answered her coldly. She supported herself with one hand on the chair. " I have fallen very low," she said, " so low that I was weaker than 1 thought. And now, as you say, 'it is over.' Your hands are empty ! Oh ! it was a poor pas sion, and this is the fitting end for it ! " She moved a little toward the door and stopped. " Good-bye," she said. In a moment more all that was left was a subtle breath of flower-like fragrance in the atmosphere of the bare room. It was an hour before he passed through the iron gates, though there had been nothing left to be done inside. He came out slowly, and having locked the gate, turned toward the Broxton road. He was going to the little graveyard. It had been a dull grav day, but by the time he reached the place, the sun had crept through the clouds and brightened them, and noting it he felt some vagne comfort. It was a deso late place when there was no sun. 374: "HA WORTH'S." "When he reached the mound he stood looking down. o Since the night he had lain by it looking up at the sky and had made his resolve, the grass had grown longer and thicker and turned from green to brown. He spoke aloud, just as he had done before. " It is done," he said. " Your thought was what you dreamed it would be. I have kept my word." He stopped as if for an answer. But it was very still so still that the silence was like a Presence. And the mound at his feet lay golden brown in the sunlight, even its long grass unstirred. They left Broxton the next day and in a week he set sail. As the ship moved away he stood leaning upon the taffrail watching a figure on the shore. It was a girl in a long cloak of gray' almost the color of the mist in which she stood a slender motionless figure the dark young face turned seaward. He watched her until he could see her face no longer, but still she had not stirred. " When I return," he said, scarcely conscious that he spoke, " when I return it will be to you." Then the grayness closed about her and she faded slowly from his sight. 7>/ best original novel that hat appeared in fkn mtilry for ftmrt." PHIL. PRESS. THAT LASS 0' LOWRIE'S. BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. PRESS N OTICES "The publication of a story like 'That Lass o' Lowrie'*' is a red-letter day m Ihe world of literature.''^. Y. Herald. " We know of no more powerful work from a woman's hand in tin English language, not even excepting the best of George Eliot's." Boston TratuTiJt. " It creates a sensation among book readers." Hartford Timet. "The novel is one of the very best of recent fictions, and the novelist is here after a person of rank and consideration in letter*." Hartford Courant. "The author might have named her book 'Joan Lowrie, Lady,' and it if worthy a place in the family library beside Miss Muloch's ' John Hall- fax, Gentleman,' and George Eliot's 'Adam Bede.'" Boston Watchman, "The story is one of mark, and let none of our readers who enjoy the truest artistic work overlook it." Congregatienalist. " Is written with great dramatic power." If. Y. Observer. " Of absorbing interest, and is as unique in Its style and its incidents as h U entertaining." Worcester Sfy. " It '.? a tale of English pit life, and graphic, absorbing, irresistible, from first page to last" Boston Commonwealth, " It is a healthy, vigorous story, such as would find a warm welcome in any household." Baltimore Bulletin. "Unlike most of the current works of fiction, this novel is a study. It cannot U sifted at a glance, nor fully understood at a single reading, so fruitful and com prehensive is its word and character painting." Boston Past. Price, Paper Covers, 90 cents; or $1.50 Extra Cloth. CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 1743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. A 3STETW BOOK Hy the Author of " That L,as o' Lowrie'n." SURLY TIM AND OTHER STORIES. BY MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, Author of " That Lais J Loivrit's." One volume, small lamo. Cloth extra, $1.25. The volume includes eight of Mrs. Burnett's shorter stories which IVAV* appeared in the magazines during the last few years. It is needless to say that these have been among the most popular tales that have lately been written. Surly THr/i (told in Lancashire dialect), which gives the title to the book, is perhaps better known than any short story yet published in SCRIBNER'S. The present collection, including Esmeralda, Lodusky, Le Monsieur de la Petite Dame, etc., shows that the author can be successful in other scenes than those, the treatment of which has gained her so much critical praise and such wide popularity. CRITICAL NOTICES. "They are powerful and pathetic stories, ano will touch the sympathies of all readers." The Commonwealth, Boston. " A good service has been rendered to all lovers of good fiction by the publication of these stories in this permanent form." The Evening Mail. Mrs. Burnett has made for herself a reputation which places her in the front rank of female novelists." The Baptist Weekly. "The authoress has taken her place as one of the best novelists of our time, and these stories are interesting as showing the steps up which she has ascended to her acknow ledged eminence." The Advance. Each of these narratives have a distinct spirit, and can be profitably read by all classes of people. They are told not only with true art but with deep pathos." Boston Pott. " The stories collected in the present volume are uncommonly vigorous and truthful toriesof human nature." Chicago Tribune. " Each story is very readable, and the whole volume will be well received a* it well deserves." The Chi. Instructor, Phila, ** The above booh for tale by all booksellers, or mill be sent, post or expreu Marges paid, uttn receipt of the price by the publishers, CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. By the author of " That Lass o' Lowrie's." ' MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETTS EARLIER STORIES. Each i Vol. i6mo, paper. Lindsay's Luck, ... 30 Kathleen, 40 Pretty Polly Pemberton, 40 Theo, 30 Miss Crespigny, 30 Cents. "If these are youthful stories, we will vouch for it that the public would enjoy a few more examples of such precocious, but at the same time exquibite talent." Boston Courier. " Mrs. Burnett's earlier stories are fresh and charming and well worth this more convenient and permanent shape." Chicago Interior. ' k The stories are altogether too good to be lost, and as amended, have a peculiar charm blending the freshness of early work with the skill and nicety of work matured." Philadelphia Times. " These earlier works have a peculiar charm as indications of the genius that has come to so excellent a fruition." N. Y. Express. %* The above books for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent, post or express charges paid, upon receipt of price by the publishers, CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. DR EGGLESTON'S NEW STORY. "One of the ablest of recent American novels, and indeed of all recent works of fiction." LONDON SPECTATOR. O X Y BY EDWARD EGGLESTON, Author of "The Hoosier Schoolmaster." "Circuit Rider," Etc. One volume, 12mo, cloth, -with Twelve full-page Illustrations from original designs by Mr. Walter Shirlaw. Price, . . . $1.8O. CRITICAL NOTICES. " 'Roxy' may be accepted as the latest example of a purely American novel, and to say the least, one of the very best." New York Tribune. "In this novel Mr. Eggleston's powers appear at their best and amplest, and he has accomplished the by no means easy task of excelling himself." Boston Journal. "There can be no doubt whatever that ' Roxy' is the best product of Dr. Eggleston's activity in the field of fiction." New York E-ve. Post. "As a pure, but vigorous American romance, Mr. Eggleston's new work is better even than his 'Hoosier Schoolmaster' and 'Circuit Rider.' " Pkila. Eve. Bulletin. " It strengthens the author's position as a writer who has brought new life and a decided manliness into our native fiction." Boston Courier. " ' Roxy,' a story whose purport and power are much deeper than the author has before reached." Springfield Republican, "The story is powerfully told, and if Mr. Eggleston had written nothing else, 'Roxy* would place him in a foremost position among American authors." A''. Y. Commercial Advertiser. " Its pictures of Western life are vivid, and throughout betray the hand of a master in literature and fiction." Episcopal Register. " As a faithful picture of American life, it ranks far above any novel published in the United States during the past twenty years." Brooklyn Times. "We advise our readers to buy and read 'Roxy. 1 They will find the plot deeply interesting, and will gather from it not only transient pleasure, but permanent good." Louisvitle Post. "The story of ' Roxy' is Dr. Eggleston's best work. It attains a higher merit than his other works in epic purpose as well as a dramatic form." The Methodist. " Buy the book and read it, as it is well worth the time spent to do it." Washington Chronicle. %* The above book for sale by all booksellers^ or ivill be sent, post or express charges paid ^ upon receipt of the price by the publishers, CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. OLD CREOLE DAYS. BY GEORGE W. CABLE. One Volume, 16mo, extra cloth, ... $l.oo. Mr. Cable's sketches of life in the old French quarter of New Orleans display a freshness and originality, an insight into the character of the mixed races there, and a faculty of seizing on the picturesque phases of life among these oddly contrasted people, that give them an importance far above their value as a mere collection of clever stories. ' ' Sieur George," " Madame Delicieuse," " Jean-ah Poquelin," and "The Belles Demoiselles' Plantation," are some of the stories included carrying even in their titles 'some of their quaint attractiveness. CRITICAL NOTICES. "It is very seldom indeed that we meet with a book so distinctly marking the advent of a writer of high artistic power and fresh observation, as this of Mr. Cable's. After re-reading carefully, and with the keenest enjoyment, the stories now collected under one heading, we not only have no hesitation in pronouncing their author a genius with special and captivating endowments, but we feel it an imperative critical duty to so declare him." Boston Courier, " Mr. Cable has the rare gift of keen observation united to great descriptive power. . . . He has portrayed the character of the remnant of France stranded on a foreign shore, in so many aspects, that the reader gains a most perfect idea of the strange com pound of courtesy and selfishness, of grace and untruthfumess, of bravery and cunning, which that character presents. . . The stories, themselves, display an inventive genius which ranks the author among the best of our modern writers." Christian Inttlligencer. "These charming stories attract attention and commendation by their quaint delicacy of style, their faithful delineation of Creole character, and a marked originality. The carelul rendering of the dialect reveals patient study of living models ; and to any reader whose ear is accustomed to the broken English, as heard in the parts of our city every day, its truth to nature is striking." New Orleans Picayune. " Here is true art work. Here is poetry, pathos, tragedy, humor. Here is an entranc ing style. Here is a new field, one full of passion and beauty. Here is local color with strong drawing. Here, in this little volume, is life, breath, and blood. The author ol this book is an artist, and over such a revelation one may be permitted strong words." Cincinnati Times "To a keen zest for what is antique and picturesque, Mr. Cable adds a surprising skill, for so young, a writer, in conceiving and developing a plot. . . . He has ren dered very finely the attractive childlike quality so often seen among men of Latin races, and as to his women, they are as delightful as the scent of the flowers which he mentions every now and then." N. Y. Times. " The seven sketches which compose this bright little volume are full of a delicate pathetic humor which has rarely been equaled in American Literature." Detroit Free Press. " These half-pathetic, half-humorous, and altogether delicate sketches, constitute extremely good literature. . . . There is the touch of a true artist in them." Ev. Post. "These stories contain a most attractive blending of vivid descriptions of local scenery with admirable delineations of personal character." Congregationalist. The above book for tale by all booksellers, or will be sent, prepaid, upon of price, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, PUBLISHERS, 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK, LIFE AND LETTERS OF MADAME BONAPARTE. BY E. L. DIDIER. I Volume, I2tno, Cloth. With Portrait, - $1.50. The remarkable career of Madame Bonaparte, which ended at Balti more, in April of this year, possessed features which make it as interesting as a romance. Few of the present generation, when they read in the daily papers the notice of the death, at the great age of ninety-four, of this brilliant, fascinating, and once dazzlingly beautiful woman, realized what a long and varied series of events had been comprised in her life. The account of Elizabeth Patterson's marriage, at eighteen, to Jerome Bona parte, the brother of Napoleon ; of her desertion by her husband at Napoleon's order, and of the ambitious woman's long and determined struggle for her rights, make up a sufficiently eventful story. But the wonderfully full and varied character of Madame Bonaparte's life is only fully appreciated when it is remembered that aU this had hap pened before she was thirty ; that after the Restoration she was still to spend years of brilliant social success, in different parts of Europe, among the most prominent people of the time. A great number of her letters, covering portions of her life as fully as a diary, have come into the hands of Mr. Eugene L. Didier, who has been for several years a special student of everything bearing upon Madame Bonaparte's career, and" has had every advantage for making a thorough biographical study. In her correspondence her opinions are expressed with a peculiar candor ; and the cynical frankness with which she avows her ambitions and motives, the pungency o her comments upon the people about her, and the accuracy of her judgments, as they are found in these pages, show clearly the sharp outlines of her singular character. The publishers have had the privilege of consulting Mr. Charles Bonaparte, of Baltimore, in regard to the publication of the volume, and, while he is in no sense responsible for any portion of the book, they are indebted to him for very valuable suggestions and criticisms. The biography will be illustrated with a copy of Gilbert Stuart's beautiful portrait of Madame Bonaparte at the time of her marriage, giving three different views of the face on the same canvas. %* TTit abovt book for tale by all booksellers, or mill it text, pott or ejcfreu karees paid, vpon. receift of Jrice, by tke fuilisker*, CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. "Two as Interesting and valuable books of travel as have been published in this country." NEW YORK EXPRESS. DR. FIELD'S TRAVELS ROUND THE WORLD. i. FROM THE LAKES OF KILLARNEY TO THE GOLDEN HORN. II. FROM EGYPT TO JAPAN. By KENRY M. FIELD, D.D., Editor of the N. Y. Evangelist, Each I vol. 12mo. Cloth, gilt top, uniform in sty'e, $2. CRITICAL NOTICES. By George Ripley, L.L.D., in the New York Tribune. Few recent travellers combine so many qualities that are adapted to command the interest and sympathy of the public. While he indulges, to its fullest extent, the charac teristic American curiosity with regard to foreign lands, insisting on seeing every object of interest with his own eyes, shrinking from no peril or difficulty in pursuit of infor mation climbing mountains, descending mines, exploring pyramids, with no sense of satiety or weariness, he has also made a faithful study of the highest authorities on the different subjects of his narrative, thus giving solidity and depth to his descriptions, without sacrificing their facility or grace. From the New York Observer. The present volume comprises by far the most novel, romantic, and interesting part of the Journey [Round the World], and the story of it is told and the scenes are painted by the hand of a master of the pen. Dr. Field is a veteran traveller ; he knows well what to see. and (which is still more important to the reader) he knows well what to describe and how to do it. By Chas. Dudley Warner, in the Hartford Courant. It is thoroughly entertaining; the reader's interest is never allowed to flag; the author carries us forward from land to land with uncommon vivacity, enlivens the way with a good humor, a careful observation, and treats all peoples with a refreshing liberality. From Rev. Dr. R. S. Storrs. It is indeed a charming book full of fresh information, picturesque description, and thoughtful studies of men, countries, and civilizations. From. Prof. Roswell D. Hitchcock, D.D. In this second volume* Dr. Field, I think, has surpassed himself in the first, and this is saying a good deal. In both volumes the editorial instinct and habit are conspic uous. Dr. Prime has said that an editor should have six senses, the sixth being " a sense of the interesting." Dr. Field has this to perfection. * From the New York Herald. It would be impossible by extracts to convey an adequate idea of the variety, abundance, or picturesque freshness of these sketches of travel, without copying a great part of the book. Rev. Wm. M. Taylor, D.D., in the Christian at Work. Dr. Field has an eye, if we may use a photographic illustration, with a great deal of collodion in it, so that he sees very clearly. He knows also how to describe just those things in the different places visited by him which an intelligent man wants to know about. %* The above books for sale by all booksellers, or -will be sent, fast or express charges J>aid^ vpon receipt of the price by the publishers. CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. A. NEW VOLTJMiK In the "Common Sense in the Household" Series. THE DINNER YEAR-BOOK. By MARION HARLAND, Author of " COMMON SENSE IN THE HOUSEHOLD," " BREAKFAST, LUNCHEON, AND TEA," etc., etc. WITH SIX ORIGINAL FULL-PAGE COLORED PLATES. One vol. 12mo, 72O pages, beautifully bound In cloth. Price $2.25. KITCHEN EDITION IN OIL-CLOTH COVERS AT SAME PRICE. THE DINNER YEAR-BOOK is, in its name, happily descriptive of its purposes and char acter. It occupies a place which, amid all the publications upon cookery and their name is Legion has never yet been occupied. The author truly says that there have been dinner-giving books published, that is, books of menus for company dinings, " Little Dinners," for especial occasions, etc., etc. ; but that she has never yet met with a practical directory of this important meal for every day in the year, In this volume she has furnished the programme in all its details, and has superintended the preparation of each dish, proceeding even to the proper manner of serving it at table. The book has been prepared for the family, for the home of ordinary means, and it has hit the happy line where elegance and economy meet. The most numerous testimonials to the value of Marion Harland's " Common Sense " books which the publishers have received, both in newspaper notices and in private communications, are to the effect always expressed with some astonishment that the directions of these receipts, actually followed, produce the prom ised result. We can prophesy the same for the new volume. The purchaser will find that he has bought what the name purports The Dinner Year-Book a practical guide for the purchase of the material and preparation, serving, etc.. of the ordinary home dinner for every day of the year. To these are added twelve company dinners, one for each month, from which a selection can be made according to the time of the year equal to any occasion which wfll be presented to the housekeeper. This book, however, is not valuable merely as a directory for dinners appropriate to various seasons. It contains the largest number of receipts for soups, fish, meat, vegetables, entrees of all descriptions, and desserts, ever offered to the American public. The material for this work has been collected with great care both at home and abroad, representing the diligent labor of many months. A very marked feature of the new volume, and distinguishing it from any other in the American market, is its series of beautiful colored plates, the entire preparatitui oi which has been the work of the author's own hand. %* The above booto for tale by all booksellers, or will be sent, post or txp~~t\ iutrgtt fa id, upon receipt of the price by the publishers, CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 743 A.ND 745 BROAD WA\ NEW YORK The charm of these nearly perfect stories lies In their xquisite simplicity and most tender humor." PHILADELPHIA Tuu RUDDER GRANGE. By FRANK R. STOCKTON. One Volume, 16mo, Extra Cloth, attractive bindings, $1.2S. " Humor like this is perennial." Washington Post. " Mr. Stockton has rare gifts for this style of writing, and has developed in these papers remarkable genius." Pittsburgh Gazette. " A certain humorous seriousness over matters that are not serious surrounds the story, even in its most indifferent parts, with an atmosphere, an aroma of very quaint and delightful humor." N. Y. Evening Post. "Mr. Stockton's vein of humor is a fresh and rich one, that affords pleasure to mature people as well as to young ones. Thus far, ' Rudder Grange ' is his best effort." Philadelphia Bulletin. Rudder Grange is an ideal book to take into the country for summer reading." Portland Press. " Rudder Grange is really a very delightful piece of fooling, but, like all fooling that is worth the while, it has point and purpose." Phil. Telegraph. "The odd conceit of making his young couple try their hands at house-keeping first in an old canal boat, suggests many droll situations, which the author improves with a frolicsome humor that is all his own." Worcester Spy. " There is in these chapters a rare and captivating drollery. ... We have had more pleasure in reading them over again than we had when they first appeared in the magazine." Congregationalist. %* The above book for salt by all booksellers, or will be sent, frefaid, itfo* rt it iff of frice, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, PUBLISHERS, 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. DR. J. G. HOLLAND'S POPULAR NOVELS. Each one vol., i2mo, cloth, - .... $1.75. NICHOLAS MINTURN: A Study in a Story. Illustrated. "It is unquestionably DR. HOLLAND'S ablest production. The characters are sketched by a master hand, the incidents are realistic, the progress of events rapid, and the tone pure and healthy. The book is superbly illustrated." Rock Island Union. " Nicholas Minturn is the most real novel, or rather life-story, yet produced by any American writer. " Philadelphia Press. SEYENOAKS: A Story of To- Day. Illustrated. " DR. HOLLAND has added a leaf to his laurels. In Sevenoaks, he has given us a thoroughly good novel, with the distinctive qualities of a work of literary art. As a story, it is thoroughly readable; the action is rapid, but not hurried; there is no flagging, and no dullness." Christian Union. ARTHUR BONNICASTLE: A Story of American Life. Illustrated. " The narrative is pervaded by a fine poetical spirit that is alive to the subtle graces of character, as well as to the tender influences of natural scenes. ... Its chief merits must be placed in its graphic and expressive portraitures of character, its tenderness and delicacy of sentiment, its touches of heartfelt pathos, and the admirable wisdom and soundness of its ethical suggestions." N. Y. Tribune. %* The above books for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent, post or express charges paid, upon receipt of the price, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, PUBLISHERS, 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YOR.K. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. ^ HP: REMINGTON RAND INC. 2O 213 (533) A 001 372 653 4 3 1158 00296 5829